tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65724075348291338672024-03-05T17:40:12.255-08:00Tales from the RiftWhere territories, traditions and tectonic plates collide...Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-35280982472713778572023-11-20T08:16:00.000-08:002023-11-20T08:17:13.450-08:00Gorilla Tactics: How to Save a Species<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gorilla-Tactics-How-Save-Species/dp/0897330315" rel="nofollow" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2700" data-original-width="1800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXfuZwYnkFBCjcXkFP5TZyiwdrBWJEbATg2CbLGglSpodmsCd4edwZllDiBOHgyVJpaCU5whnVQgmwuHWts_abgwE5N6aeu50wa9HaKxX0DpGft3IXegViLQugGqFMwGyA5jbIArKtrxILRYsCFApqI4vdbEl05m6RaoWP4j-wcGbzB9VXaaAU5zLQ0Ts/w427-h640/Cover%20(large)%20-%201.jpeg" width="427" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-52509262410819422282022-11-10T22:20:00.005-08:002023-11-08T08:02:39.588-08:00A Hidden Battlefield<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='630' height='359' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwLkBc7IwW2YF_25uus6QzlXkqHCoLhY5eS3XQR1qETHIqEYhYy2brFe-6OKLYKEtpELjvsijBN_RxMgZM71A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Trumpeting Dixie on their musical horns, a parade of vintage Italian compacts cars drove down Corso Umberto I in Leonforte. People scrambled to the sidewalk to avoid the fun-sized motorcade. My wife and I were surprised to find the town bustling with so many people on the first Sunday of October. Its cobblestone streets were lined with food stalls. Billows of smoke brightened by the morning sunshine rose from sizzling grills and infused the brisk autumn air with intoxicating aromas. We had stumbled on the Sagra della Pesca, an annual food fair. Celebrating their recent harvest, farmers had come from far and wide to display the region’s cornucopia of delicacies — cured meat, wine and cheese — and each one had to be sampled. A busking teenager played an upbeat tarantella on his accordion. “Isn’t that from ‘The Godfather’?” I asked.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“No,” said Roberta, “that’s ‘C'è la luna mezzo mare’, a traditional Sicilian song.” She sampled a local cheese and smacked her lips. “They have all the ingredients we need for a fantastic picnic,” she said. Being Sicilian, and my wife, she knew what to choose.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRqYtzmYBTXo_cB-1tg96jpL_dxWvC15w2N_Mad3911YDHiTxv2qlVir8_LGZSc8VEmBnTP2cMXEtPCXOYYTrRGbxSp2gCc86JvByPYfni-PL5oiei_FRZJcmqKSIwhbLjoGdxfH-9X6ff25KWIqOJI2zE2W74jLElCv29BJjqqChjk0ozfs07OCP/s4032/Leonforte%20-%202.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRqYtzmYBTXo_cB-1tg96jpL_dxWvC15w2N_Mad3911YDHiTxv2qlVir8_LGZSc8VEmBnTP2cMXEtPCXOYYTrRGbxSp2gCc86JvByPYfni-PL5oiei_FRZJcmqKSIwhbLjoGdxfH-9X6ff25KWIqOJI2zE2W74jLElCv29BJjqqChjk0ozfs07OCP/s320/Leonforte%20-%202.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">Sagra della Pesca</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">“Looking around at today’s lively, kid-friendly harvest fest,” I said, as I bit into a slice of capocollo dolce, a salami that a vendor with a weather-beaten face had offered me, “it’s hard to reconcile what happened here 80 years ago.” Evidence of the violence was all but gone, buried deep below cobblestones and hidden behind walls, but Leonforte was once the site of a fierce World War II battle between invading Canadian forces and defending German and Italian forces. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am Canadian and Roberta and I live on Vancouver Island. Since marrying five years ago, she and I have visited Sicily on four occasions together. Based in Messina, her hometown, we usually stay for a month so she can take care of her aging parents, restore familial ties, and look up old friends. Each time, we explore somewhere new. My interest in history has taken us to a few hidden wonders of Sicilian antiquity that not even Roberta had seen before. Previously, we toured the ancient Greek temples and theatres in the coastal cities, explored Norman cathedrals and spent time on the Aeolian Islands, but this was our first time travelling away from the coast.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaihzNjbRYJcDYTm970NMbxeJt8JXemGsK_vHCeXf8MYpRGopz64Svuco_15gHifYig0WYJcQP9dRPZnuwNUYZz8F4wZUxhLA3GanDye6F7FgEVyRj9n9ZTnH5hnHSUwOODOcc7sn-OPN9zoclgai8J_ncB-ppqSMTtx6bJTViVmE9JZgjo37kElqn/s4032/Leonforte%20-%201.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaihzNjbRYJcDYTm970NMbxeJt8JXemGsK_vHCeXf8MYpRGopz64Svuco_15gHifYig0WYJcQP9dRPZnuwNUYZz8F4wZUxhLA3GanDye6F7FgEVyRj9n9ZTnH5hnHSUwOODOcc7sn-OPN9zoclgai8J_ncB-ppqSMTtx6bJTViVmE9JZgjo37kElqn/s320/Leonforte%20-%201.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mt. Etna</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />As we drove inland from the Ionian sea, away from Mount Etna’s ever-watchful cyclopian eye, Sicily became more arid and the countryside unfolded like ripples of roasted ricotta. The roads were in good nick, there were few cars, and the view transformed with every mile, winding over a wheaten, sun-dried land — the grain fields that once fed an ambivalent Rome. There has been a human presence here for 16,000 years. Before that, giant swans and Pygmy elephants ranged. When the Greeks arrived in the 8th Century BC they found remains of a creature that had a massive skull with a large cavity in the centre of its forehead, and naturally assumed the island was inhabited by cyclopses, rather than small elephants. Persephone, the mythological embodiment of Spring and fertility, is said to have been gathering flowers with nymphs in a field near here when Hades blasted through a fissure in the earth and dragged her into the underworld. The result was famine and drought. I suggested to Roberta that we make a diversion to Leonforte as part of the research I needed to do for a book I am writing.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Like a lion surveying the savannah, the town stood high on the terrain. During Sicily’s Byzantine period, and later under the Muslim Emirate of Sicily, it was fortified. In 1610 Nicolò Placido Branciforti founded a city here, naming it Leonforte in tribute to his family's coat of arms. And in the summer of 1943, Leonforte was a large, modern town by Sicilian standards, with around 20,000 natives living alongside Germany’s 104th Panzer Grenadier Regiment. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Tuqs4P4gptc2LrtpJhF2lDzO-FauWw1z7uUEEuV8mgqkUXENlrhj7t6vt6FQ6FjeHFNixlfy2Tn4CMj1ahzi4eQucI4wxlDP7RoubeX7VUo0ORpTXFiD4MuIyru1xHju14NVHE0dWES9B1eCYa0km-60fqwgerXeoVkcswCDbnZc40TotY2WIgCm/s4032/Leonforte%20-%205.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Tuqs4P4gptc2LrtpJhF2lDzO-FauWw1z7uUEEuV8mgqkUXENlrhj7t6vt6FQ6FjeHFNixlfy2Tn4CMj1ahzi4eQucI4wxlDP7RoubeX7VUo0ORpTXFiD4MuIyru1xHju14NVHE0dWES9B1eCYa0km-60fqwgerXeoVkcswCDbnZc40TotY2WIgCm/w640-h480/Leonforte%20-%205.jpeg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Leonforte, Sicily</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />In July 1943, the 1st Canadian Division participated in the Allied invasion of Sicily, the first major pushback against the fascists in the Second World War. After landing on the beaches in the southeast of the island, they had advanced with little resistance against Sicilian and Italian forces. Still, communications, bridges, and culverts had been systematically destroyed by the retreating Germans, who then scattered mines everywhere. Because of its high iron content, the lava soil made it harder to detect mines in Sicily which caused the Allies long and serious delays. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Drive the Canadians hard,” ordered General Montgomery, and hard they were driven, over steep sun-caked hills and through fiery valleys and across the barren Sicilian countryside. It was so hot that medical orderlies could not get accurate readings because their thermometers would not drop below the 102-degree mark. July is not among the months recommended for tourist travel in Sicily. But no one had told the men of the 1st Division that, eh.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2zKebp7qht2L1B3dtN9Z5qYeihxf2KOy21Zt2aZMeJmACjSdzRRifbSaFjy3W7T1qt7XUnl1XmLePXviw9KajwmiIdgqGQiQ7iPfpoA152ErnDy2_8BWksm0wJyz8KAZX_DMil2BC-HvDWvpyQB-7ovONZEhsuPXcVkKWJxEJPw8NijElU4YgZ2m/s960/Montgomery.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="960" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2zKebp7qht2L1B3dtN9Z5qYeihxf2KOy21Zt2aZMeJmACjSdzRRifbSaFjy3W7T1qt7XUnl1XmLePXviw9KajwmiIdgqGQiQ7iPfpoA152ErnDy2_8BWksm0wJyz8KAZX_DMil2BC-HvDWvpyQB-7ovONZEhsuPXcVkKWJxEJPw8NijElU4YgZ2m/w400-h225/Montgomery.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Montgomery addressing Canadian troops in Sicily</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />In late July, the Canadians were given the unenviable task of taking Leonforte from the Germans. The approach to the town was a steep ravine, spanned by a long bridge that German engineers had destroyed before the Canadians arrived. While under heavy fire, four of the Loyal Edmonton Regiment’s rifle units managed to negotiate the ravine and enter Leonforte at midday. German and Italian defenders, now reinforced by tanks, launched a furious counterattack. As the sun set, the Loyal Edmonton Regiment was surrounded by enemy forces and completely cut off in the medieval town’s centre. But as the enemy closed in, they held their position. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“We were in the northeast corner of the town,” wrote Major Henry Bell-Irving. “My idea at the time was that we're here, and we'd better stay. I thought we might find something relatively strong that we could hold, and stay there until somebody caught up. There were German tanks in the street, and I can remember lying in the ditch with a tank right alongside me, and another firing along the ditch with tracer. There was tracer all over the place. We tried to throw grenades into the tanks, but it was quite hopeless.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">During the night, a Sicilian boy with a note addressed to "any Canadian or British Officer" managed to slip through German lines and deliver the message to the commander of the 2nd Brigade. That brave ragazzo had thrown the encircled Canadians a life line. The next morning, crossing a bridge that had been hastily erected before dawn across the ravine by Canadian engineers, tanks and anti-tank guns arrived and attacked the town. German troops attempted to counter the assault, and vicious house-to-house fighting ensued. By noon, however, Leonforte was entirely in Allied hands and Canadian pipes and drums played in the town square.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Canuks aren’t known for their imperial aspirations. Canada was colonized but not a colonizer. And yet, for a brief spell in history, we occupied this part of Sicily. I wish that made me proud, but the battle has a darker side. In their book, The Battle of Sicily: How the Allies Lost Their Chance for Total Victory, Samuel W. Mitcham and Stephen Von Stauffenberg allege that Canadian soldiers shot dead unarmed German prisoners in full view of their comrades who were still fighting. Canadian Armed Forces have never acknowledged that war crimes were committed here. But the Germans claim it is the reason the fighting was so fierce. “This occurrence soon became known throughout the division and heightened its determination to resist,” said General Eberhard Rodt, commander of the 15th Panzer Grenadier Division. The occurrence is impossible to verify as most of those who survived have since passed on. Google “war crimes by the Loyal Edmonton Regiment in Sicily” and nothing comes up. Another Sicilian mystery goes unsolved.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Roberta and I found an idyllic spot in an olive grove surrounded by cedars overlooking Leonforte, and tucked into our picnic of delicacies. At midday, the town’s terracotta and mustard-walled buildings glowed like a beacon. Our picnic owed much to the sacrifices made here on this now comely and peaceful battleground. We raised a glass of rustic wine for the fallen, friend and foe, the many young Canadians, Italians and Germans who gave their lives here. And unlike most of the many wars fought over Sicily since time immemorial, this one was for a good cause. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='661' height='430' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwPtCh-ab4wiwJPqEfrr-pz6D5rZhSIIWOB8rPA7ygnf6ciBfpvgQLX8kwpbhtOqRzQPbmlE4Mn6gCKkE2ocQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p></p>Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com2Via della Libertà, 11B, 94013 Leonforte EN, Italy37.6441415 14.405530637.535422466290129 14.2682014984375 37.752860533709878 14.5428597015625tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-75807535441900908222021-05-21T08:15:00.031-07:002021-05-23T17:03:26.550-07:00What the Funk's Happening?<div class="separator"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2B5exVJSJ-AeoiKTUTc_RpzquASafPA2nN01zFMnV2LygwLXLpu-hrfdlWeiP5tmPcyRNDktrlwQf87EvJw_q2IdMKjsiNRgCbh96bNUXMr0r1OvF0In4Jiu411Xj90vf4OBObjoTow/w640-h480/2016.jpeg" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>When I was young I caught a dose of the Funk. I was eight. It was 1970, a year when you could look up at the Moon and say, “there are people up there.” We were living in Ibadan, Nigeria. James Brown was coming to town. In the aftermath of a brutal civil war, Nigerians were ready to get a brand new bag on. All day long Alfred, my Yoruba friend and mentor, played ’Sex Machine’, and danced to and/or sang along with, “<i>Stay on the scene, (get on up), like a sex machine, (get on up)</i>”. In my teens, the Funk would strike again and again, like a persistent boyhood fever. “<i>Ow!</i>”<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> <span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLwht9iGb1y9SjZfGpmAMHFg1iP3Vknmj9Umn_XfpcuyKYpE6pjhQayHTSBvgubdMkaumdoSN0LkJKLLr3ktRFs9BzD31vR3Op-lRSs5M9j16yQdFZRRNZ6r97XjKuI6ygXbJckRwafNA/s1482/Screen+Shot+2021-05-21+at+7.53.51+AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1482" data-original-width="1471" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLwht9iGb1y9SjZfGpmAMHFg1iP3Vknmj9Umn_XfpcuyKYpE6pjhQayHTSBvgubdMkaumdoSN0LkJKLLr3ktRFs9BzD31vR3Op-lRSs5M9j16yQdFZRRNZ6r97XjKuI6ygXbJckRwafNA/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-05-21+at+7.53.51+AM.png" /></a></div><br /> <span> </span></span>The next time I was living in Dar-es-salaam, Tanzania. Aged 13, I’d already had my first puff of marijuana so why not resample the Funk. At the International School of Tanganyika, Kevin, a black American student hit me up with a triple whammy: Stevie Wonder’s <i>Innervisions</i>, Earth, Wind and Fire’s <i>Gratitude</i>, and the Jackson 5’s <i>Dancing Machine</i>. Sure, this was mainstream black music, tamed by white sensitivities, but it had something of the Funk to it, and a whole lotta soul. Kool and the Gang’s ‘Spirit of the Boogie’, mind you, was pure Funk. I felt it in my groin. <i>“Cause when the boogie come to get you / You ain't got nowhere to go“</i>. From then on I couldn’t control my dancing feet. The best discos at the Yacht Club were the ones where the Funk got top billing. I’d hear Van McCoy’s ‘The Hustle’, War’s ‘Low Rider’, George McCrea’s ‘I Get Lifted’, or David Bowie’s ‘Fame’ and get all loose and funky like a bowlegged monkey to the beats. White boys <i>can</i> dance.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span> <span> </span></span>In 1978 the fullness of the Funk finally found its way into my ear. Trapped in Tananarive, the capital of Madagascar, for a week on my way home from boarding school in Fort Dauphin, I hung out at a clubhouse run by the Marines who guarded the US Embassy. It had a bar, a pool table, and a high-end stereo. Marines are dedicated followers of the Funk, I’d soon find out. I heard Parliament, Bootsy Collins, and Funkadelic, whose song 'Maggot Brain' was a trip, perfectly in sync with a marijuana joint. One Marine could twirl a pool cue in time to ‘One Nation Under A Groove’. <br /><span> <span> </span></span>Talking Heads’ <i>Remain In Light</i>, released the year I repatriated, was a turning point in the Funk, and in my own musical journey. My family record collection included <i>Shakara</i>, an album by Fela Kuti that is credited with being an essential influence on <i>Remain in Light</i>. Raised on African polyrhythms, I could relate to that ethno-funk more than I could my home and native land. When I heard to the album’s hit song, ‘Once In A Lifetime’ for the first time, I was surprised, elated and grateful. It was as if Talking Heads had heard the quarrel between my heart and head and turned it into music. <br /><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2W-9KQVFR1ubgDe2CZA2BCi_Ckjmth907FOzAHjdiI3z44jYjB7CI_kjyAlWF00mLAwsTJHzBGkrkPfSstksYk7Qy7uyeCNVG604g2npzaGZT0DguSpGGpieVG5FUJVhxaH2gyrQECQ/s600/talking+heads_remain+in+light.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2W-9KQVFR1ubgDe2CZA2BCi_Ckjmth907FOzAHjdiI3z44jYjB7CI_kjyAlWF00mLAwsTJHzBGkrkPfSstksYk7Qy7uyeCNVG604g2npzaGZT0DguSpGGpieVG5FUJVhxaH2gyrQECQ/s320/talking+heads_remain+in+light.jpeg" /></a></div><br /> <span> </span></span>It begins with a sonic boom, a blow to the solar plexus — drum, bass, and synth fused into one explosive note — then takes off on a fiery trajectory, driven by looping grooves, an odd time signature, and a myriad of instruments, arranged by producer Brian Eno into an exquisite confusion, like an open market in Ibadan. <br /><span> <span> </span></span>‘Once In A Lifetime’ confronted me. “And you may ask yourself, "Well... how did I get here?” sings David Byrne, who later said the song was about the unconscious: "We operate half-awake or on autopilot and end up, whatever, with a house and family and job and everything else, and we haven't really stopped to ask ourselves, 'How did I get here?'" That certainly was the burning question in my mind at the time. How the funk did I end up feeling like a foreigner in my own country, searching for an identity? Living in the gloomy metropolis of Toronto only intensified that culture shock. But my dissonance could always be soothed by the Funk. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="504" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5IsSpAOD6K8" width="675" youtube-src-id="5IsSpAOD6K8"></iframe></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span><div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /><span> <span> </span></span>Not until it all got rolled into one delicious funk-cicle did I stand up and finally pay full attention to the Funk, tho. The year was 1985. I'd just dropped out of university and was on a year-long westward trek from British Columbia to England (though, at the time, I was oblivious to my journey's end). As</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> before, I hung out at the Marine House. One night a funk-loving Grunt put on Prince’s <i>Purple Rain</i>. Raised on a diet of rock and soul, I immediately recognized the bold and brilliant act of crossover that this new, fresh funk-rock signified, and I danced my ass off to that jam. The Funk would never be the same again.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxXlT_NmlLETSopLfqFcCSNQuYNU8yXvZclwYDEhLOWGTxmedQIzCkRB3vf196P7XkEjXYflhdXvXlWLJSif1kJm7tn1ZV3nrmM7YIdGXOk8Cnnm1pso3L9iCHURPqoMZ-CDcwQdVrnsI/w640-h360/maxresdefault.jpeg" /></a></span><br /></div></div></div>Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-83465388692999728642021-04-03T12:19:00.008-07:002021-12-17T10:42:59.781-08:00Cross Culture Odyssey: Memoir of a Repat - Prelude<p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39JNn-bheLrRfvG_HzYJcFM0JO4yR6toTxshq6uz0TuIL-PcG_VM2hd_w8LYTnkEil6Wd2Xn_8kU-AWv6qUDkWe93A5Ljht5fdNINXPUEXFsqAP3QM2vHmObmiMR1AFMPh2kLjAw4hlU/s2000/Book+Cover.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="2000" height="405" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39JNn-bheLrRfvG_HzYJcFM0JO4yR6toTxshq6uz0TuIL-PcG_VM2hd_w8LYTnkEil6Wd2Xn_8kU-AWv6qUDkWe93A5Ljht5fdNINXPUEXFsqAP3QM2vHmObmiMR1AFMPh2kLjAw4hlU/w640-h405/Book+Cover.jpeg" width="640" /></a></i></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br />“Do you suppose that you alone have had this experience? Are you surprised, as if it were a novelty, that after such long travel and so many changes of scene you have not been able to shake off the gloom and heaviness of your mind? You need a change of soul rather than a change of climate.”</i> — Seneca</span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My passport is my most valued possession. I keep it close to hand, like a sidearm or a manifesto for a revolution that I have sworn to bring about. It is packed with security features: holograms, complex graphics and indecipherable cryptograms. It bears some clues to my identity, not just my identifying features but my actual identity. Imprinted into the pages of that thin book, in faded ink, are all the dates and places that pinpoint my life story. It has been scrutinized, and sometimes confiscated by corrupt border officials. Oddly, I identify more with failed states than I do my own passport country, whose good standing in the international community has eased my passage across the globe. I could not care less about citizenship and nationalism. First and foremost I am an Earthling. Second, I am a global nomad. Freedom of movement across the planet is what I care most about, it is the most precious thing we can have as human beings.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They did not stamp my passport when I arrived. It seems they no longer stamp passports upon reentry. Entry stamps used to be an art form. Travellers in the 1970s were subjected to an array of clever acronyms. Best known is the SHIT stamp: Suspected Hippie In Transit. Scruffy undesirables that trailed across Southeast Asian borders would have ‘SHIT” stamped in their passports. They never stamped it in mine. While I was travelling solo through the region in the mid 1980s, two of my passports were stolen in six weeks. The authorities suspected I was selling them and put me on a watch list. I imagine they still have a dossier with my name on it. In Kampala, after drinking one too many Extra Strong Brew’s, I lost a third passport to stupidity. And on a wild and windy night on the Kenyan coast —while I slept in a four poster bed on the second floor of my friend’s ocean-front villa with the bedroom’s beveled glass doors wide open to the elements, as waves crashed against coral cliffs with a steady, fat beat, and palm fronds danced like ravers in the wind, and all that aural delirium was reverberating through my unconscious mind — a stealthy band of thieves snuck into my bedroom and made off with my MacBook Pro, my portable speaker, and a travel wallet containing US dollars and my passport. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When I discovered the theft, I called the police. Two hours later, a pot-bellied officer and his hijab-wearing adjutant showed up to launch an investigation. They took my statement and particulars and inspected my room. They quickly deduced that the thieves had climbed up the outside wall of the house and entered from the terrace. Searching the grounds for any clues the robbers may have left behind, we followed a set of footprints to an adjacent beach. There, laying face down on the soft white sand a few feet from the surf, like a drowned migrant, was my passport. For all I knew, the cops were in on the crime and had simply dropped it there while I was not looking. Sykes monkeys might have taken it. Who cares? I had my damn passport back. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Big boots. Small planet. Once I collected all the expired passports still in my possession and made a spreadsheet from the dates and places. By the age of 21, I had lived in seven countries on three continents and travelled more than 100,000 miles, circling the globe thrice.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Not everyone wants to travel. Some people never leave the town they were born in. Some only travel within countries that resonated with their own beliefs. These days people avoid travelling by air because of terrorism, viruses or climate change, and will travel as far as they can by rail, road, and sea instead. Psychonauts travel in their own minds. Refugees travel through no choice of their own. Migrants choose to travel and arrive just as weary. Stoics like Seneca shunned travel as a distraction from one’s self, fleeing the life one has created. Travel is not for everyone. But like it or not, we all travel. Even if we stay put, we travel. Because as it moves through space, the Earth is always in motion: rotating, wobbling, and orbiting the Sun. Your position on Earth creates a pattern in space, what I call your chrono-spatial trajectory. Even if you stay put, the planet’s motions ensure you will have a chrono-spatial trajectory, one that resembles one of those coiled telephone cords from 30 years ago. Remember when one of those got so tangled it was impossible to restore it to its original shape? That is my chrono-spatial trajectory.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My whole life I have been in orbit, spinning around the planet, unable to return home. I am like a forgotten ape aboard a rusty space capsule launched in the early years of the Rocket Age. I have been falling to Earth ever since. But every time I get close to reentry, a solar flare, or a piece of space junk, or that bone that the man-ape hurls in 2001: A Space Odyssey pushes me back up into orbit again. I may never return to Earth. Growing up in Africa and Asia during the 1960s and 70s turned me into a terminal global nomad. They say variety is the spice of life, but I have yet to find a recipe that palatably blends the disparate cultural ingredients to which I have been exposed. I am my own melting pot. And I have a backstage pass to the world.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Like my father, I am not a joiner. My allegiances are few, except to the causes of rationality, enlightenment, and truth. I have lived all over the world. Those experiences have given me rare insight into the workings of our planet. I cannot be swayed by the knee-jerk polemics of myopic people who see less than I do. I am not into alternative lifestyles. Green tea, yoga, and veganism are not going to fix my life. I am. I do not need help. I eat healthily, make ethical consumer choices, and try to keep my carbon footprint small. Globetrotting is incompatible with finicky dietary needs. Nothing offends a host like turning your nose up at their fare. Otherwise, I make my own decisions and do not allow those who I do not love to interfere.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I do not believe the planet needs me. But I need the planet, like a junky needs smack. As someone who has dropped out of three universities, lived on four continents, and had five careers, I do not fit any social profile. I once believed there would be an end to this nomadic life, that I would one day repatriate to my home and native land and be sedentarily content. Usually I am quick to adapt to a new surrounding and can fit in anywhere. So why not Canada? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It may sound ungracious of me to bellyache about an upbringing as rich, diverse and exotic as mine. It shaped my worldview, made me a world citizen. Sure, I bounced from school to school but I still got an exceptional education. And if I could go back in time, I would not change a bit of it. OK, maybe a bit. Knowing what I know today, I might try to harbour less grief, not rebel when it serves no purpose, and stay in touch with my passport country, maintain better ties with my kin. Being a global nomad, a Cross Culture Kid, a hidden immigrant is a double-edged sword. Nothing good comes without a price. Mine is homelessness. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This book is about my struggles with repatriation, with making a home in my homeland. It is a memoir about the uneasy transition I have faced, again and again, in returning to my passport country, and the reasons why global nomads find it so damn hard to repatriate. In transitioning to repat, after a lifetime as expat, I confront some of my poor choices, understand the reasons for them, and try to discover who I really am. My hope is that, as I begin to take some agency in my life, I will get over myself, regain my integrity and become a better man.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Download a copy of the <a href="https://bluegorillagiving.ca/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/Book-Proposal-CCO.pdf" target="_blank">Book Proposal</a></i></span></p>Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-24454780160613754362018-02-09T13:19:00.000-08:002018-02-09T13:19:02.106-08:00Billfish Fever in Malindi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-42164310619547400312017-10-20T13:09:00.001-07:002018-03-11T10:53:32.433-07:00One More Spin Around the Sun<div class="p1">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another year, another chronospatial trajectory: 24,000 miles.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">A year ago, I flew from Los Cabos to Ottawa, saw in Halloween at Liam’s house (one helluva party, nephew), then took a bus to New York City. A fortnight later, I returned to Kenya for an indefinite stay, or as long as I could get away with it. I ran a backpackers hostel out of Joe Bennie’s oceanfront villa and spent the rest of my time either at Driftwood or Fishing Club, getting tanked with the locals. I wrote a lot, too, in this drinking village with a fishing problem.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The emotional journey was a roller coaster. When I left Cabo at the end of October I believed I was saying farewell to my father for the very last time. He’d suffered a stroke and an infection. “It’s probably the last time you’ll see me,” he said when I hugged and kissed him goodbye. “I sure as hell hope so!” he added.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">A month later, I was eating focaccia at Rosada restaurant in Malindi when in walked Roberta Romeo, a Sicilian goddess of rare charm and beauty. It all happened so quickly, like Appalonia and Michael in <i>The Godfather:</i> “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday; Michael, andiamo... <i>BOOM</i>!”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Careful,” said Barry, when he saw the two of us together at Driftwood, “she’s Sicilian, she’ll cut your throat.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“No,” said Roberta, flashing me a gap-toothed smile, “I smash on your face.” And so began our whirlwind romance, which lasted through the New Year until the money ran out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Roberta returned to Sicily while I stayed on in Kenya for a bit, prevaricating about my future. But we couldn’t bear being apart and six weeks later we were reunited on Vancouver Island. We’ve been there ever since, putting down roots and building a future. Last month we got married.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I now understand how Fifties Cinema let curvy Italian brunettes like Lollobrigida and Loren steal the limelight from curvy American blondes like Munro and Mansfield. It’s all in their attitude. When my mambo-Italiano bombshell wife spouts forth her hilarious one-liners peppered with pithy Sicilian maledictions, it can sometimes feel like I’m living in a hit sitcom. Pass the pasta!</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Then, in April, the money ran out. So, I decided to return to Canada.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve grown up fast. I did not expect to start a whole new life in my fifties. Repatriating to my home and native land after thirty three years an émigré was in itself a stretch. It helped that just six weeks later I landed such a sweet job: fundraising for Providence Farm. It's been a while since I had a steady job. And now to start the blindingly bureaucratic procedure of sponsoring Roberta so she can freely live and work in Canada, too. <i>Vaffanqulo</i>!</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Am I glad to see you,” said my dad, when Roberta and I stopped by his care home on the way in from the airport. We had just arrived in Los Cabos. Though still bedridden, he’s in pretty good health. And his mind is sound. “Welcome to the family,” he told Roberta.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s a year to the day since I left Los Cabos. So, in a manner of speaking, I’ve made ends meet, book-ended my chronospatial trajectory. Wonder where serendipity will take me next? Hold on!</span></span></div>
Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-8313827840021170412016-10-14T08:01:00.002-07:002016-10-17T18:05:31.343-07:00Lost At Sea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">At daybreak on 4 November 1587 the King of Spain’s great Manila galleon, the <i>Santa Ana </i>was in sight of Isla de California. It was a crisp, clear day, without a single cloud in the sky. Tomás de Alzola stood on the prow of his command searching for signs of life on the desert hills. He knew the place was inhabited by Pericú indians. But they were peaceful and kept a low profile. Pirates were his main concern.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The nabobs of the South Sea Admiralty, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to remove his cannons before he left Acapulco in April, and use them to protect the port against pirate raids. "That way you’ll have more room for cargo" they said. Now all he had to protect his ship was blunderbusses and stones.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Alzola took a deep breath. The air, though dry, was saturated with warm fragrances from the coast: mimosa, prickly pear, and sun dried coral. “I can already smell the fresh water of Aguarda Segura,” he sighed, putting a hand on his first mate’s shoulder, “and we’re not even past the cape yet.” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The arced promontory of Cabo San Lucas was a welcome sight. Awash with surf and sunlight it looked like the hand of Neptune fumbling in the shallows for errant mermaids. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LDOBuNCLscLmXKv803O9traWmyCWLIjuKfDlEnrl4gXcCHNFLX4CSgKkuD0H-lzFDUHdUSIfalKT-8_CRRHOxv2bcs2wYD0mttOhi2i0O_APX2JCSW9Hn3eMoWxbz8e4b0VcpVhQJWY/s1600/Astrolabe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LDOBuNCLscLmXKv803O9traWmyCWLIjuKfDlEnrl4gXcCHNFLX4CSgKkuD0H-lzFDUHdUSIfalKT-8_CRRHOxv2bcs2wYD0mttOhi2i0O_APX2JCSW9Hn3eMoWxbz8e4b0VcpVhQJWY/s320/Astrolabe.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He reached into his jacket pocket and took out an antique brass navigational instrument, an astrolabe that was a gift from the Archbishop of Seville, Cristóbal Rojas Sandoval, who had died the very same day that he had given it to him. Along with his spyglass, it was one of the captain’s few keepsakes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">"Another 700 miles of this wretched 9,000-mile journey to go," thought Alzola. "After watering at Aguada Segura we should reach Acapulco in ten days." He was delighted to have crossed in such good time, just four months from Manila. For the first time since setting sail, he was happy. </span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">A turkey vulture circled overhead. The pallor of corpses yet clung to the decks. Nearly half of those who had boarded the <i>Santa Ana</i> in Manila Bay had perished at sea. “<i>La muerte en el mar debe ser esperada, cotidiano incluso</i>, <i>solamente nunca es aceptable,</i>” the captain often said. “Death at sea is to be expected, quotidian even, but it is never acceptable.” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Sea lions on the cape were barking. “They sound more like sea donkeys,” he laughed. Just then a sailor in the crow’s nest cried, “<i>Vela</i>! <i>Vela</i>!” Alzola raised his telescope and spotted two small ships on the horizon. “English pirates!<i>” </i> he cursed. “<i>Pinche cabrón, pendejo!</i>”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">At Sampeguita, the gated community where my parents live on San Jose del Cabo Bay, every unit has a second-storey master bedroom. The old man hasn’t climbed those stairs in years, but my mother usually sleeps up there. The room has a spectacular view of the bay. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Lately, when I’ve come to visit, she’s given me this room and moved into the garage. My sister gets the same treatment. We’re spoilt, for sure, but what can we do, she insists. Besides, the garage is where she keeps her workstation and all of her bits and bobs, and it’s air conditioned. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This past week Cabo has experienced apocalyptic levels of humidity. A new air conditioner was installed in the master bedroom. No wonder I’m spending more time upstairs, sitting at the wooden writing desk, which looks like the poop deck on a Spanish galleon and has multiple hidden drawers and secret compartments. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In 2012, I wrote the first few chapters of my second novel <i>Pirates</i> at this desk<i>. </i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Then, as now, staying focused was difficult. Sliding glass doors open onto a terra-cotta balcony with a vista that stretches across the bay, from Palmilla to Punta Gorda. Occasionally I go out for a smoke. One hit of that Acapulco Gold and I am spellbound, my face a wide open, pie-eyed target for well placed cannon shot. Mercifully, pirate ships no longer bedevil the Sea of Cortez.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I once saw a killer whale hunting in the littoral waters, a joy to watch through binoculars. But my greatest WTF moment came the morning I stepped out on the balcony to blaze and found a </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">futuristic </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">naval warship cruising up and down the bay, like a dark and menacing cyber-kraken from the future, the most badass ocean craft I’d ever seen. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Turned out to be <i>USS Independence</i>, a high-speed “littoral combat ship” from the naval base in San Diego. With her trimaran hull she specialized in operations close to shore, and had sailed into Mexican waters to provide extra security for Secretary Clinton’s visit to Cabo; she was attending the first ever meeting of the G-20’s foreign ministers, at Barceló Grand Faro, 250 yards up the beach from where my parents live. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For the native Pericú indians watching from shore that November day in 1587, the kerfuffle off Cabo must have been quite the WTF moment. Three galleons flying two different colors were sizing each other up. Two ships had cannons, the other blunderbusses and stones. They hurled insults, too, at each other, in Spanish (“<i>Pinche cabrón, pendejo! No sea gorgojos idos!</i>”) and in English (“God’s teeth, I bite my thumb at you, you half-faced, onion-eyed, huggermugger!”). </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span class="s1">These were not the first galleons the Pericú had seen sailing their waters. Elaborate boats helmed by elaborate boatmen had been dropping anchor off Cabo for fifty years. They came for what the Pericú called </span><span class="s2"><i>Añuiti</i></span><span class="s1"> (place full of reeds) and the Spanish <i>Aguada Segura </i>(safe spring), the only reliable source of fresh water within hundreds of miles. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Being one of a few tribes on the California coasts to have mastered watercraft, the Pericú were open-minded to the arrival of big boats from across the sea. But seeing them engage in hostilities was a first, indeed terrifying for those out fishing at the time.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The Spanish galleon was nearly four times the size of the two English galleons put together, yet she had no cannons to fire back at them. After one of the English ships came alongside, sailors began boarding but were quickly driven back, some into the sea. The English then pulled back, to pursue their prize with the full force of their guns, firing everything they had at her. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">After the Spanish galleon began to sink the raiders again boarded, were again met with dogged resistance by her crew, but finally took control of the ship. They sailed her to a bay enclosing the mouth of the freshwater river so prized by the Spanish, where they anchored, removed the surviving crew and passengers to shore, then started pumping out seawater. They needed to keep her afloat long enough to unload her cargo.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The Pericú indians, who by then had gathered in large numbers on the beach to watch the spectacle offshore, could not have known that this single act of piracy would spell their doom.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Writing pirate yarns distracts me from the phantasmagoric image of my old man laying on his everlasting death bed. I feel guilty for not spending more time at his bedside, for not being able to do much for him, and for ignoring him. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“What’s that brownie got in it?” he asks, as chocolate crumbs tumble down his chest. He’s noticed something different in the mix. “Marijuana?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“That’s right, dad. Remember, we talked about this. Gerry got the weed, mom paid for it, and Bobby cooked it up in a batch of chocolate brownies.” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Oh,” he says. Later he complains of a belly ache. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“So you don’t like the brownies?” I ask.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“No,” he says, “I like the brownies. The brownies don’t like me.”</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">"Did it have any effect on you?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">"What?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">"DID IT HAVE ANY EFFECT ON YOU?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">"Yeah, I was dancing with the fairies." </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Trudging back upstairs to my cave I take refuge behind a thicket of words. It’s my very own stairway to heaven. Dad, I think, needs a stairlift. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>We departed out of Plymouth on Thursday, the 21 of July, 1586, with 3 sails, to wit, the Desire, a ship of 120 tons, the Content, of 60 tons, and the Hugh Gallant, a bark of 40 tons: in which small fleet were 123 persons of all sorts, with all kind of furniture and victuals sufficient for the space of two years.”- </i>Francis Pretty, man-at-arms on the <i>Desire</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The circumstances surrounding the sacking of the <i>Santa Ana</i> were serendipitous. The Manila galleon just happened to be carrying more than the usual rewards on that particular sea voyage. England was at war with Spain. And Thomas “The Navigator” Cavendish, an English privateer who had been given license by Elizabeth I to lay to waste every beslubbering Spanish outpost and galleon he found on his sea voyages, just happened to be in the neighborhood.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For six months he had been sailing up the South Sea, raiding ports, sinking ships, and burning churches in the Americas. He then heard from a Spaniard he had captured that the <i>Santa Ana,</i> a 700 ton galleon stripped of her cannons was sailing solo from Manila to Acupulco with a large cargo worth hundreds of thousands of pesos, and was due to arrive soon at <i>Aguada Segura.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Cavendish knew that after a such a long sea voyage crew and passengers would be gagging for fresh water, and in no condition to resist an attack, especially without proper weapons.<i> </i>He must have been smiling to himself as they set sail for Cabo, swaggering on the sun bleached poop deck of his beloved <i>Desire</i>, gob smackingly amazed by the cunningness of own brilliant plan. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br />Francis Pretty, his man-at-arms, describes the bay they sailed into:</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The 14 of October we fell with the Cape of St Lucar, which cape is very like the Needles at the Isle of Wight ; and within the said cape is a great bay called by the Spaniards Aguada Segura: into which bay falleth a fair fresh river, about which many Indians use to keep. We watered in the river, and lay off and on from the said Cape of St Lucar until the fourth of November, and had the winds hanging still westerly.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /><br />From my writing desk I can see the same “great bay” where the privateers dropped anchor four centuries ago. Now there’s a highway through it and piles of waterfront condos, but essentially it’s still the same desert oasis on the bay: Añuiti, Aguada Segura, San Jose del Cabo.<br /><br />For three weeks they waited, foraying onto shore from time to time to barter with the Pericú for fresh water. Anything metal was of great value to them. A soup ladle fetched six barrels of water. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The natives, who had never known galleons to stay for so long, had no idea what they were up to nor did they make any trouble for them. Too busy gathering roots and shoots for the next shamanistic ritual, which they hoped would keep the danger they could smell at bay, they paid them no mind.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Without so much as a breath, Pretty recounts the events as they unfolded from the moment the <i>Santa Ana</i> rounded the cape:</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="color: yellow; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The 4 of November the Desire and the Content, wherein were the number of Englishmen only living, beating up and down upon the headland of California, which standeth in 23 degrees and face to the northward, between seven and 8 of the clock in the morning one of the company of our Admiral, which was the trumpeter of the ship, going up into the top, espied a sail bearing in from the sea with the cape. Whereupon he cried out, with no small joy to himself and the whole company, "A sail ! a sail !" With which cheerful word the master of the ship and divers others of the company went also up into the maintop. Who, perceiving the speech to be very true, gave information unto our General of these happy news, who was no less glad than the cause required : whereupon he gave in charge presently unto the whole company to put all things in readiness. Which being performed we gave them chase some 3 or 4 hours, standing with our best advantage and working for the wind. In the afternoon we gat up unto them, giving them the broadside with our great ordnance and a volley of small shot, and presently laid the ship aboard, whereof the king of Spain was owner, which was Admiral of the South Sea, called the St Anna, and thought to be 700 tons in burthen. Now, as we were ready on their ship's side to enter her, being not past 50 or 60 men at the uttermost in our ship, we perceived that the captain of the said ship had made fights fore and after, and laid their sails close on their poop, their midship, with their forecastle, and having not one man to be seen, stood close under their fights, with lances, javelins, rapiers, and targets, and an innumerable sort of great stones, which they threw overboard upon our heads and into our ship so fast, and being so many of them, that they put us off the ship again, with the loss of 2 of our men which were slain, and with the hurting of 4 or 5. But for all this we new trimmed our sails, and fitted every.man his furniture, and gave them a fresh encounter with our great ordnance and also with our small shot, raking them through and through, to the killing and maiming of many of their men. Their captain still, like a valiant man, with his company, stood very stoutly unto his close fights, not yielding as yet. Our General, encouraging his men afresh with the whole noise of trumpets, gave them the third encounter with our great ordnance and all our small shot, to the great discomforting of our enemies, raking them through in divers places, killing and spoiling many of their men. They being thus discomforted and spoiled, and their ship being in hazard of sinking by reason of the great shot which were made, whereof some were under water, within 5 or 6 hours' fight set out a flag of truce and parleyed for mercy, desiring our General to save their lives and to take their goods, and that they would presently yield. Our General of his goodness promised them mercy, and willed them to strike their sails, and to hoise out their boat and to come aboard. Which news they were full glad to hear of, and presently struck their sails, hoised their boat out, and one of their chief merchants came aboard unto our General, and falling down upon his knees, offered to have kissed our General's feet, and craved mercy. Our General most graciously pardoned both him and the rest upon promise of their true dealing with him and his company concerning such riches as were in the ship : and sent for the captain and their pilot, who at their coming used the hke duty and reverence as the former did. The General, of his great mercy and humanity, promised their lives and good usage. The said captain and pilot presently certified the General what goods they had within board, to wit, an hundred and 22 thousand pesos of gold : and the rest of the riches that the ship was laden with, was in silks, satins, damasks, with musk and divers other merchandise, and great store of all manner of victuals, with the choice of many conserves of all sorts for to eat, and of sundry sorts of very good wines. These things being made known to the General by the aforesaid captain and pilot, they were commanded to stay aboard the Desire, and on the 6 day of November following we went into a harbour which is called by the Spaniards Aguada Segura, or Puerto Seguro. </span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /><br />A fortnight passed. As a full moon rose up from the sea, every person of importance in the Pericú community was seated around the sacred fire. From atop their desert hill they had a favorable view of the valley where Añuiti flowed into the bay, and where the three ships that had been there since the half moon were now floating in moonbeams.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The light hanging over the hills behind them, against which the souls of their ancestors were silhouetted, was the color of a prickly pear. Scattered around them were the tools of the tribe: stone grinding basins, spears, lark's-head netting, and coiled basketry.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">A shaman singing incantations, his face painted red with ochre, passed around a palm-bark vessel containing a liquid that had been simmering on the fire. Each person respectfully drank from it. An hour passed, taken up only by incantations. The sky was full of stars. Then the red-faced shaman climbed to the top of a sacred rock above them to call down supernatural forces.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For a moment the sky was empty. Suddenly, from the heavens above the bay came a flaming dragon that lit up the ships below with the glow of its tongue. The Pericú gasped, threw up their hands. Then came another fire demon over the bay, this one shaped like a palm tree, then more palm trees, a hefty flaming forest of palm trees. Never before had the shaman conjured up such mind-blowing sorcery. It helped that the psychoactive drugs were just kicking in. Still, WTF…</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Three hundred and forty five years and a day later my father was born.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>“Oh, Edmund, it's wonderful! But what about Melchy and Raleigh? You must have brought something for them as well. [Edmund clears his throat trying to think of something] - Nursie's got her beard, I've got my stick; what about the two boys?” </i>- Queen, <i>Blackadder II ‘The Potato’</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“God bless the Queen,” roared Thomas “The Navigator” Cavendish, raising a glass to England’s sovereign of 30 years, “and long may she reign.” The Spanish captain also raised a glass, though not in triumph. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It was the night of 17 November, Coronation Day and Tomás de Alzola and a handful more people from the <i>Santa Ana </i>had been invited on board the <i>Desire </i>to celebrate with the English. It was as bizarre a situation as he had ever been in, toasting his enemy's monarch while his own king's property lay run-aground in the bay, looted of all her riches. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br />The English captain’s toast was the cue for the master gunner to start the fireworks display. The <i>Desire</i> and the <i>Content</i> also made their salutes by firing fireworks from their cannons. They lit up the bay with a pyrotechnic spectacle the likes of which Alzola and his men had never seen before. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Impressive, hey?” said Cavendish putting an arm around the Spaniard who stood awestruck, his eyes fixed to the sky. “I was given a dozen barrels of water just for telling the native warlock we’d be having a firework display this evensong. Ha ha…” He then reached into his coat and produced a brass instrument, the very same one the Spanish captain had been holding when he was captured. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br />“An ancient astrolabe?” said Cavendish, brandishing the object so the others could see it. “Were you planning on traveling back in time?” His officers roared with laughter. </span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“May I have it back,” asked Alzola, reaching out. “It was a gift from…” He stopped short, knowing how Cavendish felt about Catholics. The week before The Navigator had had a friar hung by the neck from the <i>Santa Ana</i>’s yardarm just for making the sign of the cross.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“No, you may not,” snapped Cavendish, who then threw the object into the sea. “By the way, could I get you to sign this bill of sale for the cargo we’re purloining?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It took the privateers two weeks to offload the Manila galleon of her most precious cargoes. For want of stowage on their own two small vessels, they were forced to leave a few things behind, much of which had already been tossed overboard into the sea. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Before departing, in an uncharacteristic show of empathy, Cavendish gave weapons, provisions, and the <i>Santa Ana</i>’s sails for shelter to the seafarers marooned in the bay. He then set fire to their ship. She was still ablaze when <i>Desire</i> and <i>Content</i> set a course for the Philippines, with the booty split between the two sails. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The 19 day of November aforesaid, about 3 of the clock in the afternoon, our General caused the king's ship to be set on fire, which, having to the quantity of 500 tons of goods in her, we saw burnt unto the water, and then gave them a piece of ordnance and set sail joyfully homewards towards England with a fair wind, which by this time was come about to east-north-east. And night growing near, we left the Content astern of us, which was not as yet come out of the road. And here, thinking she would have overtaken us, we lost her company and never saw her after. </span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Two years and fifty days after his departure from Plymouth, Thomas Cavendish sailed back into the same harbour. The <i>Desire</i> was only the third ship to circumnavigate the globe, after the <i>Victoria</i> of Ferdinand Magellan (journey completed by Juan Sebastián Elcano) and the <i>Golden Hind</i> of Francis Drake. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Cavendish invited Queen Elizabeth to a dinner aboard the <i>Desire</i>. She was suitably impressed by his haul of gold, silver, silks, ivory, spices, and porcelain. Thereafter he was knighted and joyfully celebrated across the realm. He was 28.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Although a scoundrel and a scalawag, he does deserve kudos for his audacity. In the 250 years that Manila galleons sailed the trade route between the Philippines and Mexico, no greater prize was ever looted from a “nao de China” than Cavendish's haul from the <i>Santa Ana</i>. Three years later he had already squandered his fortune. He died at sea at the age of 31.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">By the time I was 21 I had circumnavigated the globe five times. I have my parents to thank for that fanfaronade. They took me everywhere, from continent to continent, ocean to ocean. In time, like a satellite that’s reached critical orbit, I could not be stopped. The world is a blur to me now. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">At 54 I move continents on average every six and a half years. That’s a pirate’s life for me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Can’t say the same for my parents. Retiring to Cabo twenty five years ago was meant to ensure the good times never ended, that they could both continue to enjoy their singular lifestyles up until the day they each shook off that mortal coil.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But my father is trapped in a body that will neither let him rise from his deathbed nor let him die in it. And my mother is trapped in a situation that requires more strength and presence of mind than an octogenarian can always muster. Sadly, there’s no way around it.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The saddest thing is how little my dad remembers of his own accomplishments: building 'comfort stations' in the slums of Ibadan, revitalizing the safari circuit in northern Tanzania, overhauling Air Lanka in Sri Lanka, finding a million jobs for Indonesians, and advising the Singapore government on how not to be dicks. Even the highlights are gone, no longer there to comfort him in his moment of reflection: scuba diving in the Maldives, skiing in Syria, building a waterfront dream home in San Jose del Cabo.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">These days, the English and Spanish no longer visit Cabo, nor does Hillary Clinton. The Pericú indians are no longer here either. Two hundred years ago, war and disease carried over by conquistadors and missionaries, who had been sent by Spain to secure the California coast against future pirate raids, killed off the Pericú indians. Nothing of their culture and language remains. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Occasionally there’ll be a firework display in San Jose del Cabo Bay, over near Palmilla, or out in front of Barceló Grand Faro, but no one’s quite sure why. You can take a cruise aboard an authentic galleon, sail around Cabo San Lucas on a “family-friendly pirate-themed adventure” while drinking tequila and keeping a bleary eye out for whales. Yup, the pirate theme prevails, in a plethora of colourful tourist attractions. True pirates, though, are lost at sea.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Tomás de Alzola is the hero of this pirate yarn. His heroism emerges in the final chapter. For as soon as those privateers had sailed over the horizon, leaving the Spanish galleon ablaze, Alzola and his seafarers swam out to the ship and put out the fire. They then set about rebuilding her, fixing her hull, raising her sails, and setting her adrift again on the Sea of Cortez. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">On 6 January 1588, seven months after leaving the Philippines, the Santa Ana limped into Acapulco, minus her cargo. On board, as well as Captain Alzola and the survivors, were two Pericú indians, husband and wife. </span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I have a recurring dream about my father struggling out of his bed and into his wheelchair, wheeling himself out onto the beach, and then down to the edge of the surf where a boat is waiting. He drags himself onto the boat, then pushes off and drifts out into the bay. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The sea, mirroring a billion brilliant stars under a moonless sky, is as calm as a millpond, not a ripple. Leaning over the bow he sees his reflection in the water. “There,” he whispers, “what’s that?” A league beneath the surface, glimmering in the starlight is an object resting in the sand, a brass instrument. “It’s an astrolabe,” dad says, then closes his eyes and passes away.</span></span></div>
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-51030258298035027072016-09-30T12:32:00.000-07:002016-09-30T12:51:39.397-07:00Cortez the Killer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">This morning I woke up to a strange sound, like a miniature helicopter. A black witch moth the size of a bat was thumping against my bathroom window. A window below was open but the moth had no plan B. I grabbed it and chucked it out the open window. It flew away.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Here in Mexico they call the black witch moth ‘Mariposa de la muerte’, meaning butterfly of death. If one enters a house where there is sickness, it is believed the sick person will die. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Ever since we brought dad home from hospital our house has been infested with black witch moths. Every day I rescue one, help it circumvent a closed window or a screen door. But they just keep coming back. Even now, as I write this, there’s one on the wall above my desk. From the white V mark across its wings, I know that it’s a female. She hasn’t moved since morning.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Caring for dad at home has thrown up a plethora of new challenges. There’s no pattern to his needs, and he has no sense of time. Often he’ll come up with a whole new hair brained plan about what needs to be done, in the middle of the night. Still, he’s never short of praise, thinks mom and I are consummate caregivers that should be in business together. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Rectal cleaning service, mom and son business,” he quips, “$60 a crack. All repeat business - people need to shit every day. Discount for a month’s coverage. Market to Gringo retirees and seniors living in the South. No competition…Who the hell wants to clean assholes? No one!” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">He likes his wit like he likes his martinis, dry.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s hopeful and heartwarming to see him laugh heartily, but those moments are the exception not the rule. My time with him is mostly spent watching him sleep or just lie there, mouth agape, staring at the ceiling. Occasionally he looks up at me, but without his glasses I’m just a blur. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">What’s he thinking? Does he want to die? He hasn’t said as much lately. “I’m helpless,” he said last night, with a voice laden with confusion and remorse. “What can I do?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Not much.” I replied.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Something has to happen…and I can’t do it from here.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“What?” I asked.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t know…Do you?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“No.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Can we let it happen tomorrow?” he asked.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“What?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Whatever…Will you come and look in on me from time to time?” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Of course.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It took some effort and we shopped around a bit but we’ve finally got dad the home care he needs. Ernesto, a nurse who speaks fluent English, comes to bathe him on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and Rossio, a physiotherapist, comes to help him with his muscle work on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She’s hopeful he will eventually stand on his own two feet.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">As many people have been coming to fix the air conditioning. Like my father, it’s been working on and off lately. The situation is more bearable now that the temperature in Los Cabos has dropped a few degrees. But the workmen are unreliable, say they’re coming and never show up.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Gerry knows a guy who can fix air conditioners, and thinks we need a third opinion. “You don’t have to tear up the tiles to replace those air-con pipes,” he says, with an accent that sounds like both Cheech and Chong. “You can just put a little box against the skirting like this…” He bends down and runs his hand along the crease of the wall of my father’s room. “That way they don’t have to disturb Ian.” My mother frowns at this suggestion.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Considering our failing air, there sure is a lot of thin ice in this house. Caring for the old man is stressful. Sometimes we crack. Yet despite my mother’s anxieties regarding methodology, she is highly resourceful and practical. I admire her more than I let on; she thinks I talk down to her, regard her as intellectually inferior. But I don’t. She’s proved to me time and time again that she knows things beyond my scope, that subtle intuition trumps hubris, and that she has extra sensory sleuthing powers (she missed her calling as a private detective).</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">She keeps both husband and home functioning, has done for six decades. Her ultimate home, here in Los Cabos, was woven from the fabric of the more than two dozen rental homes all over the world that she made cozy for us to live in. Every new city to which we got posted involved my father flying out ahead of time and finding adequate digs. A month later the rest of us would follow. My mother would then correct his poor choices and find us somewhere magical to live. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">For me, home was never truly home until the shipment arrived. Therein lay my richest treasures, trapped for months on the high seas, possessions that grew more mysterious with the passage of time: Frogman Action Man and his blow-up Zodiac boat, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, and Black Sabbath LPs, and my six-inch reflector telescope. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Toys and records aside, the family keepsakes too were a comforting continuum from one place to the next, the string that held together the bead of one posting to the bead of another. Now when I visit the house in Baja I see some of those totems on the walls and shelves, juju that triggers time machines, opens portals that I easily fall into.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Cortez is an angry sea. At night its waves strike the beach with an asymmetrical beat. For days now it’s been pounding the Baja coastline with massive swells, the consequence of a hurricane passing north west of the peninsula. Today, however, it’s calm.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Sitting on the beach, gazing at the salubriously tranquil water, and rubbing my injured shoulder, I think, “I could do with the hydrotherapy.” I stand up and stride into the surfy soup. Froth lashes at my shins. The currents are stronger than I had anticipated, but I continue wading out regardless. Once I clear the small stuff, I begin swimming breaststroke. It’s so refreshing.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly a swell rises up before me, much larger than anything I’d seen from the beach. Looking over my shoulder, I can see that returning to shore is no longer an option, and ahead, I cannot swim fast enough. All at once the wave brakes, thunderously avalanching a ton of brilliant white froth towards me. I dive underwater and swim beneath the surf. It sounds like exploding ordinance, like the beach is being bombed.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">After surfacing, I barely have time to catch my breath when another massive roller, larger than the last, begins to rise up before me. “This one’s a killer,” I whisper. Hyperventilating to give myself more time underwater, I wait until the very last moment. On the face of it, time appears to stand still. Three pelicans skim across the crest of the wave, hunting for fish trapped in its pellucid sea wall. I dive under, and just in the nick of time, taking the brunt of force on my legs.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Resurfacing, I now fear for my life. The period between waves is insufficient to recover. Another comes at me, and then another, every time a bigger one. And I dive under them all, swimming longer and farther each time. Finally I get beyond the swell, and there are no more waves on my horizon. But I am some three hundred yards from shore and drained of all my might.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Under an azure sky, treading water just enough to keep my chin above the sea’s deceptively calm undulations, I think of Neil Young’s ‘Cortez the Killer’. “He came dancing across the water / With his galleons and guns / Looking for the new world / In that palace in the sun.” The song is about Hernán Cortés, a conquistador who conquered the Aztecs and colonized Mexico for the Spanish, and the eponym of this sea on which I am floating. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">With a slow butterfly stroke, or moth stroke, I carefully swim back to shore, occasionally looking over my shoulder to see what might be coming up behind me. Sure enough a whole new set of waves is on my tail. Swimming side-stroke now, with an eye on the breakers, I take a chance on riding them. Every wave, as mighty as it seems, simply picks me up and gently plants me closer to the shore, before breaking just beyond me. I can’t believe my luck. In due course, and much to the surprise of the Mexicans who have been watching me all along, I step out of the surf and calmly walk back up onto the beach.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad is sitting on the porch in his rocking chair, comfortably surveying the view. Rossio, his physio, got him to stand momentarily while she shifted him from his wheelchair to the rocking chair. Progress! Soon he’ll be back on the dry martinis as well.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking around I notice something is missing. The black witch moths have all gone. </span></span></div>
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-31077531780963530712016-09-13T22:12:00.008-07:002016-09-14T20:08:31.185-07:00The Old Man Staring At The Sea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdcU0Lnbcjzsflh7D42FudOGvQ1cyM5qQlKgXF8CcuGv2vhWccVWFy9ZJ9AcG9wheo6HowZtO3gbrId3FhTM08PbAfutZXgFOe7BTBCqzwFNL7IAVfchslwCN7i5cbEd5iqeSDSQBM1c/s1600/P1160147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdcU0Lnbcjzsflh7D42FudOGvQ1cyM5qQlKgXF8CcuGv2vhWccVWFy9ZJ9AcG9wheo6HowZtO3gbrId3FhTM08PbAfutZXgFOe7BTBCqzwFNL7IAVfchslwCN7i5cbEd5iqeSDSQBM1c/s640/P1160147.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>“Old age is like a plane flying through a storm. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Once you're aboard, there's nothing you can do.” </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">- Golda Meir</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My dad’s eyes twinkle, a glimmer of triumph spreads across his grey bristly face. He has just had a sip of Scotch whiskey, his first in six weeks. My mother and I smuggled it into his ward at the Clinica San Jose. Seems to have done the trick. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">For a while there he thought he was in Singapore, in our old apartment on Mount Elizabeth Drive, and that our Scottish neighbors the Reeves were having a party upstairs. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s a storm, dad,” I tell him.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Did you say storm?” he asks. I nod. “Oh Christ!” he moans.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Lets spare him the details,” my mother says quietly. Hurricane Newton, with wind speeds of up to 95 miles an hour, is due to make landfall in Los Cabos during the early hours of the morning. “You’ll be safe here,” she says, propping </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">up </span><span style="font-size: large;">dad with extra pillows.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">She has spent countless hours since he was hospitalized propping up his pillows, and at times thinking about putting one over his face. Now she would rather he was at home, with all the challenges that entails, than confused and alone in this hospital room, staring at the walls. “At home he can stare at the sea.” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday I bathed him. Getting an uncooperative octogenarian into the shower, even with a rolling commode chair and my gorilla tracking skills, was no easy task. The ordeal seriously tested my commitment to be his caregiver. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Earlier this evening his doctor dropped by, having been away for a week in Mexico City. “He is strong,” he said, “my best patient.” He agrees that the old man should return home soon. “But not until the day after tomorrow, because things will surely be chaotic after this hurricane.” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Six weeks ago </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">when I got the call</span><span style="font-size: large;"> I was thousands of miles away on the Kenya coast. My mother phoned to tell me my father had suffered a stroke and a bout of infections, and was critically ill in hospital. His doctor didn’t think he’d make it through that night.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Unable to change my air ticket, dazed and confused by the distance, and not knowing his condition from one day to the next, I was sure I’d never see my dad again. How does one prepare for the death of a loved one?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I took comfort in knowing that earlier this year he and my mother had visited me in Kenya, a journey halfway round the world that others thought they were mad to make. Returning to where they first expatriated 50 years ago, the fountainhead of all our peripatetic lives, completed a circle for me, if not for my parents. They stayed for 6 weeks.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">When I finally reached his bedside, I was surprised by how healthy he looked. His breathing was labored and he was suffering from a bundle of aches and pains, but as far as I could see there was not much else wrong with him. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">These days he’s more <i>compos mantis,</i> if not always sure of his whereabouts. And because he is one of only two patients, both of whom are men, in a maternity hospital run by nurses and nuns, he is going a bit stir crazy. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">A nurse steps into the room, says in Spanish that the rain has started to fall quite heavily and whomever is going home should probably do so now. My mother promptly leaves.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Now it’s just me and my dad in the hospital ward, listening to Ella Fitzgerald, Artie Shaw, and Frank Sinatra, a few of his favorites. “It’s not unpleasant,” he says, drifting off to sleep. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My father, my captain, architect of my life, how could I not care for you in your dotage? I am a creature of your design, the product of a lifetime spent moving from one Third World posting to another. For better or worse, you made me the Third Culture vulture I am today. I owe you.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Things are starting to go bump in the night. While my father sleeps soundly, I worry about my mother all alone in her home. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Home is a boutique, beach-front villa on an estate called Sampaguita, one of fourteen semi-detached, two-storey units shaped into a horseshoe around a palm-shaded desert scape with a pool and jacuzzi. For all it claims to be a “secure gated community”, my parents’ home abuts a beach-front wall that’s barely a meter high. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Despite the fearsome clangor outside, the Sea of Cortez rising up to reclaim its shoreline, I lay down on the cot next to my father’s hospital bed and fall into a deep sleep.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It’s 8:30 am and he’s still sleeping. I step outside to observe mother nature in action.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Since daybreak the wind has died down a bit, though gale-force gusts still batter the barrios. Tin roofs and door frames rattle, and palm trees oscillate like VU metres in a Thrash metal studio. Still, from where I am standing, on the front steps of the clinic, the damage does not look too bad. But where is mom? The networks are down.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Back in the ward, my dad is awake. “I need to get out of the market,” he says. “I made a big mistake, fell asleep after it dropped. I may have lost over $10,000, which was a lot money back then, though not for the big players.” He’s lost in time and space.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My dad has dementia, a persistent disorder of the mental processes marked by memory disorders, personality changes, and impaired reasoning. Gorillas, those hairy mountain cousins I've dedicated a lifelong career to saving, don’t suffer from dementia, even though they share 97 percent of our genetic makeup. Research into the great ape genome has revealed that the gene which causes dementia is common in gorillas but does not cause them ill-health. When they discover <i>why</i>, it will probably be too late for my dad.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Is the hurricane still blowing?” he asks. Alas, he’s back in the moment.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Gusty but not so bad,” I reply. “Doesn’t seem to have done much damage.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Christ, I hope not,” he sighs. Two years ago Hurricane Odile devastated the Baja peninsula. In the aftermath there was no water, no electricity, and many hundreds of Gringos had to be evacuated, he and my mother included.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My mother steps into the room. “Damn, am I glad to see you,” I sigh. “How’s the house?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Flooded,” she smiles. “I’ve spent the last hour mopping up. Still, it could have been worse. At least the electricity’s back on. How’s he been?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Slept soundly through most of the night.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Leaving my dad in his hospital bed, we drive home. Although nothing major has been toppled by the hurricane, the town looks like it’s been dunked in the sea a few times. The streets are littered with palm fronds, highway signs, cacti, and a few fallen palm trees, and none of the stop lights work. Meantime the downpour continues unabated.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Closer to the beach the streets are cluttered with a lot more detritus, and everything is coated in drifts of wet sand and mud. At the entrance to Sampaguita, my mother taps in the entry code. The gates open jerkingly, grinding against a sand encrusted mechanism.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Outside the house is coated with sand and inside flooded with seawater. After a slap-up breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, and toast, we begin a marathon mop up. Then the electricity cuts out. Now we’re trapped on an estate where the electrically-powered security gates no longer function. The only solution is beer. I drink half a dozen before tackling the sand caked patio, shoveling it up bit by bit with a dust pan. Late in the afternoon the power kicks back in. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Remarkably by nightfall, while storm swells continue to pound the beach, the sky is almost clear. My mother and I sit on the patio, drink Don Pedro brandy, and watch Mars and a half Moon descend beneath the arches. The coastline is unevenly lighted. Many homes have yet to see their power return. We are the lucky ones.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">She tells me how after Hurricane Odile she got the barbecue going and cooked up all the fish, beef, pork, and chicken she had in her freezer. “There was no electricity, so it was all going to go to waste anyway. I cooked and Gerry distributed the food to the local community. It went down well.” (Gerry’s good people, brought me some weed today without me even asking.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My mother is sitting at the dining room table, sifting through bits of paper. “I wish your father had half a brain,” she says, grimacing at the pile of paperwork, “so he could help me understand what some of these things are for.” Overwhelmed by the full magnitude of managing both</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> of</span><span style="font-size: large;"> their affairs, she is prone to panic at times. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My sister and her husband are helping her sort it all out. After my father fell ill, they made staggered visits to Cabo to offer their support. My brother came too, despite a flight cancellation that reduced his visit to less than two days. They’ve all since returned to Canada. I arrived late but I’m here for six weeks, until my mother’s 81st birthday.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">She’s quite dynamic for her age. I cannot believe how much energy she has. Half the time she can’t find what she’s looking for because she put it somewhere unknown to her now. Consequently, she’s kept busy by an endless treasure hunt of her own making. She is also a control freak. It’s not enough to try and help her, if you don’t do it her way you’re not helping at all. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">And yet, we've always been close. I was her willing accomplice when she searched for Yoruba wood carvers in the backstreets of Ibadan, or master painters in Colombo. And she was my mine when, with just three months left in my senior year, I got expelled from boarding school in Fort Dauphin, Madagascar, for smoking marijuana. She subsequently convinced the faculty to allow me to graduate, which they agreed to only if I lived off campus with her.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad is home from hospital. We parked his wheelchair out on the patio then let him stare at the Sea of Cortez. Maybe now that he's back home, in the comfortable surroundings that he worked so hard to acquire, he'll find pause to die peacefully. His quality of life only gets progressively worse. I think it would be a blessing if he passed sooner rather than later. I am not comfortable about praying for my old man’s death, but there you have it… </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s four days later, and he’s staring at the same scene. “Take me back to bed,” he moans.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Already?” I ask. The strain of lifting him in and out of his wheelchair is starting to take its toll. “But you’ve barely been up ten minutes.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“I want to go back to bed.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“I only got you out here because you asked me what the hell you were doing in bed at ten to twelve. Now you want to go back in again..? Okay, no problema.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I’d be lying if I said me and my old man don’t still got beef. Nothing I did </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">ever</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">warranted his admiration. He couldn't find it in himself to forgive me for getting expelled from boarding school, spiriting his wife away to some godforsaken island for 3 months, all because of pot. Consequently, we were at loggerheads when I needed him most. Pooh-poohing my ambition to be a writer (not cool), he railroaded me into engineering instead. In due course, I dropped out of three universities.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Three strokes and you’re out,” he says, lying in bed in the adumbrated light of his bedroom. “I’ve already had two, so one more and I’m gone.” He’s surprisingly lucid, waxing lyrical on the subject of his impending death. It’s official, at 5pm today he says he’s going to pass. “An hour earlier and you get minus points. An hour later and you get plus points.” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">He wants to know that the booze he bought - a bottle of Black Label, bottle of gin, bottle of vodka, and the brand of beer that Peter Hatton likes (Modelo) - is in the fridge. He expects a bibulous wake. He never bought nothing.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Are we in Singapore, Thailand, or where?” he asks.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Mexico,” I say.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Mexico? How…” He stares into the nothingness for a moment, searching for the portal which opens the corresponding memory. “Los Cabos?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“That’s right.” I turn up the music on my Beats Pill, a silky smooth crooning diva of the Golden Age who's seducing the spirits. “Who’s this we’re listening to, dad?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">He concentrates on the music, closes his eyes for a bit. “Sarah Vaughan,” he says. I nod </span><span style="font-size: large;">satisfactorily</span><span style="font-size: large;">, then wonder.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Last night he almost turned down a glass of Black Label. The effort needed for twisting his wrist and tilting </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">back </span><span style="font-size: large;">his head was just too great. He shook his head in despair. We wondered if this was it… But in the end he used a straw to finish his whiskey. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Keep on keeping on, <i>mzee</i>.</span></span></div>
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-74815378279943097002015-11-30T21:04:00.000-08:002015-12-01T17:38:33.678-08:00Loving The Repat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">“<i>Now I'm going back to Canada / On a journey through the past / And I won't be back till February comes / I will stay with you if you'll stay with me</i>.” - Neil Young, <i>Journey Through The Past</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Just chill, uncle,” says Liam. “You’ve done so much with your life already.” </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It is after midnight and, too drunk to drive, we are slumped in the back seat of a Tesla electric car hired from Uber, an online taxi service. The ride across town is smooth and hushed, and the abundant window space provides us with dramatic views of the streets. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“I know I haven’t been much of an inspiration lately,” I say, slurring my words, “moping around the house in my pajamas, smoking blunts, listening to tunes with the volume cranked up…”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">He puts a hand on my shoulder then smiles. “You’re always an inspiration to me, uncle.” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I am blessed. After decades of wandering aimlessly in a cloud, I have returned home to a mother lode of kindred hospitality. My sister Andrea and her husband Dara have given me work, and their son Liam has put a roof over my head. How can I ever repay them?</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The Tesla drops us off at a club in The Glebe. Inside, Liam bumps into an attractive young woman who, it turns out, once had a crush on him in high school. “I’m on a Tinder date with another guy,” she says, “but I’ll come over and dance with you later.” That never happens. The next morning he fervently scans Facebook, looking through friends of his school friends, in a vane effort to try and spot among the multitude of profiles the pretty face he saw in The Glebe last night. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Charge your glasses, I am now the proud owner of a Purple Card, consequently a fully fledged repat. All that remains is for me to fill out a stack of forms and wait in line at a bunch of government offices…The immigration lawyer did warn me that life would have to get a lot more boring before it got exciting again. Jet-setting is anathema to customs officers. Put simply, I need to repatriate gracefully. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I never intended to repatriate. I know from experience the locals think “repats" are off-topic. That thousand yard stare is fixed on shit way beyond their comfort zones, and they do not want to hear about it. “The fuck cares that you’ve been anywhere?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">A repat is the opposite of a refugee. Canadians love refugees. Our new prime minister promised to take in 25,000 Syrian refugees by the end of the year. After the recent attacks in Paris, however, that number got reduced to 10,000, of which most will be privately sponsored. Still, following a more rigorous screening, the remaining 15,000 are due by the end of March.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The talk in my sister’s house is about taking in even more. Neither she nor Dara, her husband, believe refugees pose a serious threat as potential agents of jihad, nor do they care that when the time comes many will not want to repatriate. Just throw open the damn doors, they say.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">As a self-made man of Irish origins, Dara fully appreciates what the chance of a new life in a new world can mean to someone. Last week on Facebook he posted this: </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-size: large;">“Mums, dads, kids, friends, brothers, sisters, aunties and uncles - all welcome to come to my Canada from any refugee place on earth. If you are suffering or fleeing the horrors of wars or such you are very very welcome here at my dinner table.”</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Christmas decorations are going up early in our house, a reflection of the residents’ good cheer. Eric is stringing lights up on the front porch. Erin, his girlfriend, is standing by the door watching. Liam’s tenants, a handsome couple in their late twenties, have been remarkably obliging about uncle gorilla man living in their basement, rent-free.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Do you hate Christmas?” Erin asks me, scrunching up her elfin features. It seems an odd question to ask. Perhaps she wrongly detects I am having some yuletide doubts. “Not at all,” I say, “I fucking love Christmas. The tinsel may go up late in Africa but it stays up until March.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The house on Bell Street seems an unusually large residence for unmarried hipsters. But my housemates are exemplary of Canada’s bright future. Ambitious, driven, with decent jobs and cars, they work hard, go to bed early during the week, and play hard on the weekend. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Pastimes revolve around the large TV screen in the living room: watching series and movies on Netflix, YouTube fail videos of people harming themselves, and Super Mario Racing, a game Liam and Eric seem to have mastered.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I see in them an alternative life-path for myself, how I might have turned out had I stayed put. And they have helped me dispel a few misconceptions about my fellow countrymen. Turns out they are not all outdoorsy, passive aggressive, browbeating social engineers. Some could actually care less if their neighbor has the music up too loud, lets the dog off its leash, or drives around without wearing a seatbelt. Live and let live, they say.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Lately I have been listening to a lot of Neil Young and Joni Mitchell, eating poutine, and drinking craft beer, but I have yet to find my inner Canuck. I am certainly not built for this weather.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">We live close to the action. Little Italy, a hub of trendy restaurants and bars, is just a short walk away, or the time it takes to listen to Led Zeppelin’s <i>Stairway To Heaven</i>. At the end of the day, if it is not too cold out, I like to wander over for a relaxing beverage. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Wrapped up against the elements, I skulk past my neighbors’ doorsteps. Even in icy conditions they gather outside on their porches to smoke. Brrr! A wolf, or a coyote, or even a ‘coywolf' would be less out of place. I am a leopard, uneasy in a tropical town, maybe, but completely at ease in jungles and savannas. Here in the Great White North, however, I stand out a mile.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It is too early for regulars at the Moon Room. The music is up loud but the bar stools remain empty. Like a mine shaft, the only source of light is a dozen mason jars laid out around the bar with candles inside. Stare at one long enough and the rest of the place fades to black. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Moon Room has hit on a winning formula: bijou, intimate, and quirky, with high standards and a visible pride among its staff. The bar is known for its all-female cocktail bartenders who also prepare the food, an eclectic menu of expensive but funky bar snacks. Watching young women prepare ‘Sexy Grilled Cheese’ in front of me as I drink my St Amboise beer is more than a thrill.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">As a third culture vulture I came home to scavenge my heritage, and can serve no other purpose except to add a bit of contrast to the local color. Maybe my purpose is to be a guiding light.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Liam is a man with many solutions and few problems. Charming, smart, and with an upbeat disposition, he has what it takes to get by in life. At work he is a star, racking up mountains of cash for his employers. They call him the wizard. “Give it to the wizard, he’ll know what to do.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">He insists that the abundant hospitality he has shown me since my homecoming in September is simply good karma for when I welcomed him into my home in London ten years ago. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I have mellowed in the intervening years. Dug in deep in Uganda, hammering out the dents in my soul, I found a more sympathetic voice for inward dialogue, and stopped beating myself up about my mistakes. The conversation continues.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">He and I share an impulsive gene. We can change directions on a dime. So far his horizons have been limited. I aim to change that. As a global nomad my legacy is simple yet intangible: an atlas of unrelated events, places, and people. For all I have tried to write about this journey, it has to be seen to be believed. I want my nephew to get a taste of that world.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Malindi on the Kenyan coast, where the wind cries, “Salaama”, is a good place to start. Aesthetically pleasing in the Moorish tradition, uncluttered and ancient - Vasco de Gama stayed for a fortnight in 1498 - the town is one of East Africa’s best kept secrets. A dose of whispering palms, coral cliffs, and dhows catching the trade winds on the up tide should cure all that ails him. I spent six weeks there last summer, in an ocean-front villa belonging to a good friend of mine, and did not want to ever leave.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-size: large;">The wind and the surf are quarreling. A coconut falls, tries to settle the argument. Then, one by one, from a large overhanging tree thick with wandering branches, a troop of Sykes monkeys descends onto the roof and begins foraging for windfall on the terra-cotta shingles. </span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-size: large;">The sound awakens you. With one eye half-opened you see the tropical sunrise. You are lying in a four poster bed in the centre of a second storey bedroom sparsely decorated with antique wooden furniture, and surrounded by levered glass doors. They’re all open, allowing the fragrance of seaweed, salt water, and frangipani to waft in to your room.</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Without leaving your bed, you part the mosquito netting to gaze upon a broad swathe of ocean, sapphire in the distance and mottled emerald and turquoise over the reef. A string of white-capped breakers stretches from horizon to horizon. Six dhows are sailing past, their progress marked by a grove of crooked palms on your property. You can see they’re moving fast, helped on by a brisk morning northerly. At this point you may struggle to recall how you came to be sleeping in a paradisiacal villa on the Swahili coast. Maybe this is a dream…</span></i></span></div>
Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-14882008929906853082015-11-13T13:30:00.003-08:002015-11-13T16:03:17.448-08:00Man Without Country<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Hey uncle,” says Liam. “Hey nephew,” I reply. We press knuckles. Reunited after many years apart, uncle and nephew are seated by a roaring campfire next to a pond in a forest. It is not quite the wilderness, only an hour and a half drive north of Ottawa, but refreshing and inspiring. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We are not alone. Thirty to forty others have gathered for Mocktoberfest, a weekend festival of live music and unlimited beer drinking. It is the dream-child of MaYo and his band of merry carpenters. They have erected a hamlet in the forest, a hodgepodge of tree houses and living pods strung together by ladders and wooden walkways. Basically, it is camp for grown ups.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For me, recently arrived from Kenya, it is a rare opportunity to observe the locals up close, jot down a few notes. “<i>They drink like Africans</i>,” I write. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Liam sees me scribbling in my notebook, then says, with a goofy voice, “Dear World, this is my story. <i>I hope you like it…</i>” He never fails to make me laugh and is not afraid to take the piss out of me. We are wired the same way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Spending time with kith and kin is good for the psyche and helps me adjust. My sister Andrea and her family have opened their hearts and homes to me. Nephew Liam has given me a place to live. Brother-in-law Dara, always an enabler, is helping me trawl through the paperwork. And Andrea’s cooking and knitting keeps me fat and warm. Bless them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Why is it,” I ask Liam, “that in every other country I’m like a chameleon, blending in nicely with the locals, but back here, no matter how hard I try, I stand out?” </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“They know, man,” says Liam, “they can smell an outsider.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Right,” I say, taking a sip of <i>reposado</i> tequila. “Watch how quickly the crowd becomes a mob when the outsider refuses to conform.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“What the fuck you talking about, uncle. These people think you’re way cool.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t mean <i>these</i> people. These are good people, my kind of people. Any one who enjoys psychoactive drugs is alright by me. I’m talking about regular Canadian folk.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">O Canada, my home and native land… Viewed from afar in the 1970s, your freedoms, tolerance, and uniquely progressive leader, Pierre Trudeau, looked mighty appealing to me. Growing up overseas, all I ever dreamed about was my next homecoming. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was born in Montreal, started out life in a two storey cedar-paneled riverside home on Green Island that once featured in <i>Better Homes and Gardens</i>, the kind of suburban utopia that people in far off dusty lands dream about. Then in 1967 my family expatriated to Kenya. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">While we were away, the radically francophone Parti Québécois rose to power in Quebec. After Bill 101 got introduced, defining French as the only official language, Mom and Dad decided to sell the house on ‘Île Verte' and transfer our home base to Ottawa, in anglophone Ontario. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My first summer here was in 1978. I was planning to repatriate then, attend Woodroffe High School, and live in my parents’ new high-rise condominium. But as the summer wore on and I began to discover Ottawa on my bike, my outlook changed. I decided to return to the Tropics. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Over the next two years I would be arrested in The Seychelles, get expelled from boarding school in Madagascar, go on safari in Tanzania, learn to dive with Arthur C. Clarke in Sri Lanka, celebrate my eighteenth birthday in Malaysia, have my appendix removed in Singapore, and barge up the River Thames to Oxford with the lovely Caroline Bull, object of my unrequited love.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I did finally repatriate in 1980, Trudeau was still prime minister, re-elected after a brief hiatus, but I failed to fit in. To regular folk I was little more than an exotic freak. Strange talk of peculiar customs in distant lands caused them to roll their eyes and sneer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thanks to binge drinking and substance abuse, I did eventually find some common ground. And I could dance. But all I ever dreamed about was getting the fuck out. After Trudeau left office and I dropped out of university for a third time, I got my chance. But that’s another story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Leaping ahead 30 years, due to circumstances beyond my control, I am again repatriating. Not much has changed. As before, a Trudeau is in charge; Justin, son of the late Pierre, was elected prime minister shortly after I returned. And I am still an exotic freak.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“When was the last time you filed a tax return?” asks Dara. He is treating me to lunch in Rockin’ Johnny’s Diner in Westgate Mall.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“One thing at a time, man,” I laugh. “First I need to find a job.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“You’re a man of many talents,” he says, with a hint of old country in his accent. “I’m sure you’ll find something.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m not holding out too much hope,” I sigh. “As a fundraiser I raised over $10 million for good causes. That’s a wealth of experience you’d think was worth tapping, And yet I haven’t had a single goddamn reply to the dozens of applications I sent out for fundraising positions.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Why do you think that is?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Probably because I don’t have a bachelors degree,” I say, tucking into my bacon Swiss burger. “Apparently, decades at the industry’s cutting edge doesn’t make up for dropping out of college.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t give up on that front,” smiles Dara. He is nothing if not quietly tenacious.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another option is to look for bar work. I have got mad mixology skills, cut my teeth as a bartender in London’s wild West End. Not so straightforward. They told me I would first have to earn a Smart Serve qualification; Ontario’s weird liquor laws require special knowledge. That I did, leaned a few things along the way. But no one wants to hire a smooth-talking bar steward in his mid fifties who lacks the proper paperwork.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So I applied for an Ontario Photo Card, also known as a purple card. Having never learned to drive (yes, that’s right) I do not have a driver’s license, ergo no second form of photo ID. The purple card will allow me to get the citizenship certificate that I need to get the social insurance number that I need to be allowed to work here. After that it is all uphill.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Part of me just wants to get the fuck out of Dodge and go back to doing what I know best. Plan B is a business proposal for a backpacker’s hostel in Malindi, Kenya. I’ve been trying to draw others into the scheme. Who wouldn’t want to live on a paradisiacal ocean-front villa, eat paw paw and mango for breakfast, wet their toes in the Indian Ocean? Slaves to the treadmill, that’s who. Africa’s not for sissies. Anyway, Plan B would just put me right back where I started. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Along the vacant tree-lined shore of Dow’s Lake, dead leaves cover the ground, stark boughs and branches claw at an overcast sky, and a chill wind encircles me: the ghosts of my ancestors. They are questioning the choices I made that led to this awkward situation: man without country. Never before have the consequences been so apparent to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Still, it has been a fun ride, seeking out adventure, living life imaginatively, and moving continents every six years or so. There is a movie of it in my head that I play over and over. None of it makes any sense but at least there aren’t too many scenes where I am unhappy. I have few regrets. One planet, one life - no rehearsal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Repatriating, regularizing my citizenship status, trying to find work in Canada as an unskilled, middle-aged, third culture dropout: these are all big challenges. Over the next few months I will be blogging about my experiences of trying to fit in. I hope my insights help other people like me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Who am I kidding, there are no other people like me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-60312664857430692202014-10-16T16:39:00.000-07:002014-10-16T19:19:49.355-07:00Resurfacing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s a scorching, dry Saturday morning in California. Another rainless summer has turned the hills above San Leandro yellowish-gray. My taxi turns off a serpentine drive into an empty parking lot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Embedded in the hillside, the Alameda Juvenile Justice Center is a vast, rectangular three-story construction, built with beige cinder blocks that blend in well with its surroundings. There’s no one in sight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After instructing my taxi driver to return in 90 minutes, I activate the intercom next to the weekend entrance. “Who is it?” asks a female voice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Greg Cummings. I’m the author giving a talk to Unit 4 today.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Who?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Greg Cummings. Amy Cheney arranged my visit…”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Hang on a minute hun.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">While I wait for clearance into the prison, Mountain Mike’s escape story comes to mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When Mountain Mike escaped a minimum-security federal correctional facility called William Head on Vancouver Island, he fashioned a raft from a coffin used in the prison’s amateur theatre production of <i>Dracula</i>, then paddled out across the Juan de Fuca Straits towards the Canadian mainland.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The coffin disintegrated and Mike sank to the bottom of the cold straights. “I was sure I was a goner,” he recalled, “but a divine light beaconed me upward again. And then I found the strength to resurface and swim ashore.” He had a couple of weeks of freedom before the Mounties caught up with him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I heard about Mountain Mike from one of his fellow inmates. It was October 1983, and I had just watched a performance of Ken Kesey’s <i>One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest</i> by <a href="http://whonstage.weebly.com/" target="_blank">William Head on Stage</a> (WHoS), an inmate-run prison theatre company – the only one in Canada that invites the public into the prison to see their shows. I was struck by the force of the cast’s performances, playing to a packed house, unbound by their incarceration. I had never seen such savage intensity in the eyes of actors.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">____________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Amy Cheney and I connected by chance, in July 2013, while I was googling mentions of my novel. In a piece titled ‘<a href="http://www.thechildrensbookreview.com/weblog/2013/05/on-the-shelf-with-amy-cheney.html" target="_blank">On the Shelf with Amy Cheney</a>’ that was posted on the Children’s Book Review blog, Cheney is asked which books are most frequently checked out of her library. “Right now it’s <i>War Brothers</i> by Sharon McKay—anything about child soldiers my kids can relate to. <i>Gorillaland</i> by Greg Cummings is also doing well. Everyone has read Coe Booth, Simone Elkeles, Alexander Gordon Smith and Ishmael Beah. Action, relevance and overall great stuff.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Her love of literature, and a tearaway nature led her to a career in the California correctional system, turning young minds on to books. “One of my students who never read before said when she heard me talk about books it sounded like candy, and she wanted some.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yesterday, pushing a cartload of my novels through the corridors of the Juvenile Hall, zig-zagging between cell units and the library, she seemed protected by a forcefield of persuasive intent, like a Jedi knight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I was supposed to arrive in time to give three talks on Friday, but a mega-storm over Texas delayed my appearance by twelve hours, so I was only able to give one. Hence a second visit has been arranged. It being a Saturday, I’m now flying solo.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Every door has a buzzer and an overhead camera. I press the button. After a moment the door unlocks and I’m able to turn the handle. I pass through several empty rooms and corridors, repeating the process again and again. The final door slides open on its own. A guard in a darkened control room peers through the reinforced glass at the contents of my rucksack, takes my Canadian passport via a drawer in the wall, and then asks me to sign the register. I’m in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Notwithstanding the two nights I spent locked up in British holding cells – for separate offenses – and the previous afternoon, this is my first time entering a correctional facility since <i>One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the belly of the facility six windowless units house dozens of young offenders whose ages range from nine to seventeen. Most are serving long sentences. They’re all locked up when I enter Unit 4, a sky-lit two-story common room surrounded on two levels by cells. I introduce myself to a woman in uniform seated behind a raised console. She smiles, shakes my hand. She is expecting me and directs me to an adjacent classroom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">With a mix of anxiety and enthusiasm, I scan the colorful displays pinned to the classroom walls. The vibe is encouraging without being too condescending. Then, one by one, a coterie of teenage boys saunters in, comprising a range of heights, builds, ethnicities, and attitudes. Each one introduces himself, shakes my hand, then finds a seat. It’s like an episode of <i>Welcome Back, Kotter</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I’m here to talk about gorillas,” I holler, hoping the resonance of my voice will calm the room. “The band or the ape?” asks a round-faced Latino kid. He is a picture of candidness. On the faces of the others I see genuine interest, though many appear ambivalent, and a couple have only come to socialize. “The ape,” I smile.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">During a gorilla slide show, I tell them how a silverback gets his name, the politics of gorilla groups, and their similarity to humans – that we share 97 per cent of our genetic makeup with gorillas. A wiry black kid at the back of the classroom raises his hand. “Is it true that you can get a blood transfusion from a gorilla and survive?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Good question,” I reply, surprised by his grasp of the subject. “Yes, you could potentially survive one transfusion from a great ape, providing the blood type matched.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I do my impression of a charging silverback. Starting from a squat position, I utter a series of hoot sounds, rapidly slapping my chest in quick succession, and with a loud bark I leap forward, to uproarious laughter from the kids. “And what do you do if a silverback charges?” I ask, catching my breath.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Bounce! Bail ass out of there…”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No. If you run you are sure to die. You must stand perfectly still and act submissively, avoiding all eye contact with the charging silverback.” Incredulous laughter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I read <a href="http://talesfromtherift.blogspot.com/2014/10/gorillaland-chapter-three.html" target="_blank">a chapter of <i>Gorillaland</i></a>, the story of Dieudonné, a child soldier who, after years in the service of the rebel warlord General Cosmo Zomba wa Zomba, is forced to witness the execution of his parents. In the aftermath of an earthquake he takes flight with the general’s diamonds, his heart set on freedom, and runs all the way to Uganda, only to have it all tragically end in the jaws of two hungry lions. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Aw what? No way! The kid gets eaten by lions? What happened to the diamonds?” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But my hour is up. As they leave the classroom some of the kids give me a ‘bro hug’ and thank me warmly. I am touched.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Life is about choices and prospects. Young people make mistakes and face tough challenges as they try to revive their prospects in life. It’s the same for every one, whether or not you are imprisoned for your mistakes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The difference with inmates is that they are given few choices after incarceration. Punishment is king. This absence of volition is an obstacle to inspiring them. On the other hand, they are a captive audience. Turn these young minds on and I <i>know</i> they will read my novels, and maybe one day write their own.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Come Spring 1984, five months after I saw <i>One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest</i>, I was working for Stage II, a theatre group established for, and by, ex-offenders, after their release from William Head. We were staging <i>One For The Road</i>, Harold Pinter’s bleak one-act play set in a prison in a fictitious totalitarian country, which had premiered in London and New York in the two months previous. Ours was the world’s first amateur production, and the company was excited about blazing such a trail in stagecraft.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Stage II faced unique challenges, like keeping the actors in one place. A month before opening night one of our principles went AWOL, hitting the road for greater freedom, and in total violation of his parole. No one in the company harbored any ill will towards the guy. He did what he had to do. We found someone to replace him and hoped the new guy would last. He stole the show.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Working in the theatre with ex-offenders I watched men struggle to temper their emotional intensity through artistic expression. Often the roles were reversed: the tenderhearted newspaper salesman on stage was once an armed robber. Having the freedom to express oneself is not the same as freedom itself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the eyes of the young men that came to hear me talk at the Alameda Juvenile Justice Center I saw souls that were drowning. I think I understand. I hope my talk and reading, a career milestone, provided some resuscitation, however briefly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Also posted on <a href="http://writetoreadbooks.wordpress.com/2014/10/16/resurfacing-by-greg-cummings/" target="_blank">Reaching Reluctant Readers</a></span></div>
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-51665644064653506982014-10-15T13:28:00.003-07:002014-10-16T07:45:00.623-07:00Gorillaland - Chapter Three<div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When the earthquake struck, Dieudonné Batinde was already half way up the road to Goma. The first chance he got, he ran, and he had not stopped running since. Even when the road shook violently beneath him, and the lake overflowed, he did not stop running. He had Godspeed. He knew it was God’s will that he make it to freedom that day. He would keep on running until his feet, bound and bloodied, had carried him there. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He hated the general with all his heart and soul. Five years he had been in his army. Those five years were the worst that any a boy could ever endure. He was made to do things no dog of war would ever do. How many people had he been forced to kill? How many had he killed willingly? How many had he raped, mutilated, tortured? He knew exactly how many as well as the exact nature of every one of his crimes. They remained clear in his mind, just as vivid as the moment they happened. No amount of ganja, pussy or Kahuzi whisky could ever erase those memories. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">They called them the Lost Boys, because that’s what they were, lost: lost from their childhoods, their siblings, their parents, schools, societies, lost in the jungle. Dieudonné had been lost for some time. He found his way again, through the Lord. He learned to take comfort in his nightmares. In a strange kind of way, they reaffirmed his faith in God. For he knew there was no way a just God would fix in his mind such horrifying memories, if he had not already forgiven him and, indeed, had a much better life planned for him elsewhere. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dieudonné had no idea how much the diamonds were worth but he knew they’d fetch a good price in a neighbouring country. He considered taking them to Rwanda, which was just across the lake. Both his mother and father were Rwandese. <i>God rest their tortured souls. </i>Taking into account his war crimes and the many battles he’d fought against their army, he did not believe he would get a fair hearing in that country. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">As the bird flies, Uganda was about two hundred and thirty kilometres north of his present location. He’d heard that they knew how to mend child soldiers up there. He would have to keep running at twenty kilometres an hour to reach the border before dawn. There was no doubt in his mind that he could make it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">His prayers had been answered that very morning when he was chosen from all the other boys to accompany General Zomba on a trip to Bukavu. He should have killed him while he walked along the mountain road with him and a satchel full of deadly weapons. Foolishly, the general had made no effort to hide the fact that he was carrying his precious diamonds. Dieudonné knew how important those stones were to him, and how it would destroy all his plans if he were to lose them. He knew he <i>must </i>steal them. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Miraculously, the opportunity presented itself just outside Bukavu when UN soldiers stopped them. It was while the general was busy looking in Dieudonné’s satchel for his weapons that he daringly reached back and, with the agility of a seasoned pickpocket, carefully removed the diamonds. He expected to be caught that very moment, but the general was too concerned about being unmasked by the United Nations to notice. An hour later, after the general had sped away on his speedboat, Dieudonné wrapped the diamonds in the cellophane he’d saved from his cake, and swallowed them. Then he began to run. He was a good runner, as fast as an impala. God had given him the gift of savage speed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">With the wind behind him, he kept up his pace. He stuck to the road that followed the western lakeshore north. The lake of fire. One day God would throw the general and Duke into that lake, and they would burn for all eternity.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He reached Goma just before midnight. He knew the general probably had a search party already out looking for him, so he skulked through the centre of town, trying not to attract the attention of the Goma police. At least they were easy to spot in their bright yellow helmets, even at night on dimly lit streets. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Once on the outskirts of town he started sprinting again. The road north from Goma would take him the final hundred and thirty kilometres to Uganda – west of the Virunga volcanoes, through Rutshuru, and Rwindi, and finally to the border. It was also the most dangerous road in Africa, and he knew it. Many had lost their lives on that road. He risked being shot by snipers, ambushed by thieves, knocked down by sleeping truck drivers, or even mauled by a wild animal. In any event, nothing could stop his headlong dash. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He had not eaten anything since the half-cake the general had bought him in Bukavu, but he was nonetheless full of energy. Mount Nyrangongo’s red glow guided his way up the road, even through the gathering clouds. <i>Respect to the mountain god, stirring your pot of molten rocks.</i> The road had recently been graded, which made it easier to run on. It began to rain, then it began to rain harder, then harder still, but he was undeterred. <i>It is God’s will that I make it to freedom this day.</i> With every stride he grew increasingly filled with divine purpose, as though he was splashing through puddles of it in his Sunday best. The more the heavens opened up the more righteous he became. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When he reached the deserted village of Kibumba, he found cause to reflect on his short, unhappy life. Though there was no longer any trace of it, Kibumba had once been a vast refugee camp. It was in that camp, back in 1996, when this country was still called Zaire, that his mother fell pregnant with him. His parents were Hutu refugees, who had fled from the invading Tutsi army in Rwanda. By the time she was due to give birth, the Tutsis had invaded again. Kibumba, along with all the other refugee camps, was raised to the ground. They were forced to move westward through the dense Congo jungle to Tingi-Tingi. It was in that unlucky place that Dieudonné was born.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dieudonné had been running for twelve hours nonstop. He was beginning to see visions, but that was to be expected on such a rapturous marathon. He saw one that stirred him to his very soul. Floating blissfully heavenward like sleeping angels were all of his victims, all the people he had killed, all the innocents of Kivu, rising up from the jungle floor where they had been slain.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">By now the clouds had scattered, and against the starry sky he could clearly make out the outline of the Virunga range of volcanoes. Mount Sabinyo, old man’s teeth, laughing like a mad witch doctor. <i>The lair of the gorillas.</i> He liked gorillas, more than chimpanzees. In all the monster fables he’d heard growing up, children captured by gorillas always fared better than those captured by chimpanzees. On occasion he’d even found cause to eat them, despite a tribal taboo, and gorilla definitely tasted better than chimpanzee. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was getting nearer to the Ugandan border now. How would the Ugandan authorities greet him? No doubt they would understand why he had to slip across their frontier unannounced. He was a refugee, a runaway child soldier. They would embrace him and then they would help mend him. A new abundant life was waiting for him just across that border. With the diamonds he would start a mission for former <i>pikis</i> like himself. Yes, that was his calling. He would use the general’s diamonds to do God’s work. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was in the final hour of darkness that Dieudonné at last reached Uganda. He recognised it by where the road descends into a flatter landscape, and the vegetation changes from forest to savannah, which also marked the start of lion country, though he worried no more about lions than he did about gorillas. He didn’t believe God would allow him to be eaten by lions after such a dash to freedom. By this time he was so filled with the Holy Spirit that he was utterly invincible. He continued to stride across the prickly savannah.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">First light was appearing on the horizon. How appropriate that the sun should start to rise at that moment. Dieudonné’s visions were everywhere: burning bushes, talking serpents, laughing genies, dancing rods and staffs. But he was undaunted by Satan, and began to sing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The commotion did not go unnoticed by a pair of male lions who had been roaming the grassy plains for days, searching for food. The rains had driven all the antelope away and there was very little to sustain them in this valley. They were growing hungrier and hungrier with each passing hour. Soon it would be daybreak, when they would stand a better chance of at least catching a hare or a lizard. Now it would seem their search was over. They stood for a moment, panting through hungry jaws, twitching their keen circular ears for some clue in the darkness. Then they began to creep through the tall grass. Once they were close enough to see their prey they stopped. He did not look like much, but a lean meal was better than no meal, and he was coming towards them. They crouched down and waited.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dieudonné stopped in his tracks. He thought he heard something. It was the first time during his entire day-long journey that he stopped. <i>Who’s there? Is that you, Lord?</i> He waited and then, as expected, out of the darkness, walking towards him, and wearing sackcloth and a seraphim smile, came the Lord Jesus Christ. His hair was golden and flowing, and he was surrounded by heavenly light. As the Lord opened his mouth to speak to him, he saw that the Lord had very sharp teeth. <i>Why is that? </i>The next thing he felt was a searing bolt of pain flash through his stomach. By the time Dieudonné realised what was happening to him it was too late: the two gigantic lions were tearing apart his abdomen, with stabbing, searing, excruciating blows. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Gorillaland</i> by Greg Cummings, available on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gorillaland-Greg-Cummings/dp/1908122307" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-69049254757056979042014-09-17T15:45:00.000-07:002014-09-30T20:12:52.862-07:00Meet Me in San Diego<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'll be appearing at <a href="http://www.mystgalaxy.com/event/Greg-Cummings-Signs-SD-100614" target="_blank">Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore</a> in San Diego, CA, Monday, October 6, at 7:30 PM, signing and reading from my new novel <i><a href="http://www.mystgalaxy.com/book/9781908122629" target="_blank">Pirates</a></i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mysterious Galaxy is an independent genre bookstore that is passionate about creating and maintaining a community of readers, authors, and booksellers. I am honored to be offered this opportunity to interact with my readers at such a respected and appreciated independent bookstore. Here's how they are promoting me:</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>"Greg Cummings is an award-winning wildlife conservationist who achieved remarkable success protecting gorilla populations in the wild through community-based initiatives in East and Central Africa. He introduced safari tour company runner Derek Strangely, in Gorillaland, an adventure of crime, civil war, and ecological catastrophe set deep in the Congolese jungle. Strangely survives to return in Pirates; he has relocated to Kampala, Uganda, when he is contacted by a friend whose past is entangled with pirates from the Federal Republic of Somalia. </i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>"Greg will discuss the challenge of incorporating global conflicts into fictional adventure." </i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bring your family</span><span style="font-size: large;"> and</span><span style="font-size: large;"> friends. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.mystgalaxy.com/" target="_blank">Mysterious Galaxy</a></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">7051 Clairemont Mesa Blvd</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">San Diego CA 92111</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">(858) 268 4747</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Pirates</i> is available in store and at the Mysterious Galaxy <a href="http://www.mystgalaxy.com/book/9781908122629" target="_blank">website</a></span></b></div>
Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-8823586248729969122014-08-27T08:27:00.001-07:002014-08-27T09:45:55.603-07:00The Dancing Stones of Namoratunga<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Excerpt from </i>Pirates<i> by Greg Cummings:</i></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Night had fallen and they needed to find somewhere to camp. The lakeshore was still a way off, yet the smell of sulphur blowing across the flats from Lake Turkana was overwhelming. Their surroundings were astonishingly serene, and there was not a wisp of cloud anywhere in the sky. Billions of stars were scattered across it, of such magnitudes they lit up the earth more vividly than a full moon. It was as though the universe had flipped and they were standing upside down in a stellar millpond. Although sodden, their clothes were quickly drying in the warm, parched air. “There’s definitely an otherworldly quality to this place,” said Derek, wringing the water from his scarf. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I know,” said Abdulmajid. “It scares me.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Somewhere near here is where they found Nariokotome: Turkana boy, a one-and-a-half-million-year-old hominid.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Who?” asked Abdulmajid.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“<i>Homo ergaster, o</i>ne of your earliest ancestors.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Your ancestor, maybe,” laughed Abdulmajid.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m telling you,” insisted Derek, “this is one ape you’d be proud to call Grandpa. He was an incredibly fast runner, and the stone tools he used were far more advanced than anyone expected to find from that far back in time.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I guess Nariokotome liked his high-tech gadgets just as much as the next guy,” grinned Abdulmajid.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You could be kicking some of Nariokotome’s bones around as you walk.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It certainly feels like a graveyard.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What the hell’s this?” gasped Derek, stopping suddenly. Spread out before them, across an area ten by twenty metres in size, was an array of stone pillars averaging a metre in height and protruding at different angles from a layer of smaller stones. “Sure is one incredible sight out in the middle of nowhere,” he whispered, touching the tops of the shiny basalt monoliths as he walked between them. Some had pebbles on top of them, laid out in figures of eight. “I would say this place definitely serves some sort of scholarly purpose,” he added. “Look at the way they’re all arranged. It’s like a miniature Stonehenge.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Abdulmajid wasn’t as keen to go wandering through them. “</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">Could these be the Dancing Stones of Namaratunga</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">?” he asked, scratching his chin. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The dancing stones of what?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;">Just then a voice spoke </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">from the darkness beyond the pillars.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“The Turkana believe they were dancers who were turned to stone after they mocked a malevolent spirit.” Derek and Abdulmajid both looked up in amazement. Making his way</span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">towards them was a slender old man dressed in an orange and blue tartan fabric tied around one shoulder, and carrying a stick and a small wooden neck-rest-cum-stool in his hand. “Hello. How do you do? My name is Gabriel Lokonyi,” he said, extending a lithe hand. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Derek hesitated, then reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Derek Strangely.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You speak like an Englishman,” said Abdulmajid, coming as close as he dared. “Are you a guide here?” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You could say that,” chuckled Gabriel, grinning toothlessly at the two of them while puffing on a clove cigarette. “I’m a palaeontologist. As for my accent, I got that serving in the King’s African Rifles during World War Two.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Ah, a war veteran. You have my greatest respect. Abdulmajid is my name.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Thank you,” replied Gabriel. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m curious to know the story behind these stones,” said Derek.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“It’s an observatory,”</span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;"> he replied.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You see,” laughed Derek. “I knew they served a purpose.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Each stone corresponds to a different point on the horizon where seven star clusters rise,” he continued. “Or, should I say, used to rise, in 300 BC.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Wow! A two-thousand-year-old observatory…out here in the middle of nowhere. I had no idea such a place existed.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Was it the Turkana who made this?” asked Abdulmajid.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No,” said Gabriel, raising his eyebrows. “They were here when the Turkana arrived. We don’t know much about who made them. Maybe Borana cattle herders from Ethiopia, as they were noted astronomers.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Which selected stars do they correspond to?” asked Derek.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Ah, a fellow astronomer, I see,” said Gabriel, reaching into his tartan and removing a card to show to Derek. It was a simple diagram showing the positions of the pillars transected by long arrows, delineating lines of sight to the points on the horizon where each star rose. “The seven harvest stars from the Borana calendar,” said Gabriel, who then proceeded to point to each object in the sky as he read its name on the card: “Bellatrix, the belt of Orion, Saiph, Sirius, Aldebaran, Pleiades and Triangulum.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“I can see why they would build an observatory here,” breathed Derek. “There is just so much horizon, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;">bound to an almost perfect semi-sphere of celestial night sky</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;">”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“And plenty of fish in the lake,” added Abdulmajid.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Nile perch, crocodile, hippo, soft-shelled turtles,” laughed Gabriel. “Who wouldn’t want to settle here?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“There’s something of the supernatural about this lake,” whispered Derek. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">“Anam is a sacred spring,” said Gabriel, seating himself on his little stool, with his back against a pillar, </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">the beginning and the end of all rivers.” </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He gazed out across the flats to the lake, a distant placid sheet that mirrored the sky in every detail.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"> “It was</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> once a vast oasis, you know, a much wider lake that drained into the River Nile. Eight thousand years ago it would have been lapping at our feet.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“</span><span style="font-family: Arial; letter-spacing: 0px;">Why does it all seem so strangely familiar?”</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> sighed Derek, sitting down beside him. Abdulmajid remained standing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">“All human beings possess a memory of this place,” continued Gabriel. “It’s</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> midpoint on the path our gracile ancestors took out of the heart of Africa. </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">From here you can see everything, both in time and space, and in any direction.”</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Derek glanced at Gabriel. The twinkle in the old Turkana’s eye suggested a fondness for riddles, and did much to compensate for his complete lack of teeth. “Come,” the old man laughed, “let us make a fire to dry your damp clothes. Are you hungry?”</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>Pirates</i> is available on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pirates-Somali-Adventure-Greg-Cummings-ebook/dp/B00JD01KJI/" target="_blank">Amazon</a></b></span></span></div>
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-76972970523277000702014-08-13T13:48:00.001-07:002014-08-14T16:24:28.342-07:00"That's Right, She's In The Boat, Only The Boat Is Gone..."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">While web surfing for lost gems by Lauren Bacall (may she rest in peace), I stumbled on this review, from a 1951 newspaper, of Bogie and Bacall's </span><span style="font-size: large;">performances</span><span style="font-size: large;"> in <i>Bold Venture</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The couple transcribed the radio series before leaving for the Congo jungle to shoot <i>The African Queen</i>. In that movie, Bogart's portrayal of the rough-and-ready Canadian boat captain Charlie Allnut, for which he won his only Academy Award, is my favorite.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Listening to <a href="https://archive.org/details/OTRR_Bold_Venture_Singles" target="_blank">back-to-back episodes</a> of <i>Bold Venture</i>'s raunchy tales of mystery and intrigue, one can hear him developing the character of Allnut.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://www.digitaldeliftp.com/DigitalDeliToo/Images/Bold-Venture-Article-51-05-03.pdf" target="_blank">Radio In Review</a></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">By John Crosby</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Sex, Vioence, And The Bogarts</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">WHEN LAST heard from, Humphrey Bogart and his wife, Lauren Bacall, accompanied by Katherine Hepburn, were plunging through Africa, making a picture. This must be easily the most picturesque and altogether startling safari on the Dark Continent since David Livingston. I can just see Miss Bacall being established as the white goddess of the lower Congo, Miss Hepburn teaching the natives the proper Hartford (Conn.) accent and Bogie swindling the headhunters out of their firewater.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> They <a href="http://www.vintag.es/2014/08/rare-photos-from-filming-of-african.html" target="_blank">ought to make a film out of the expedition itself</a>, which, I'm sure, would be more interesting than what ever dark purpose Mr. Bogart has in mind. I for one would like to see the expression on a zebra's face when it catches its first glimpse of Miss Hepburn. I'd like to hear Miss Bacall's famous line: "I'm hard to get. Just ask me," rendered in Swahili. Ah well, stop dreaming, Crosby.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">BEFORE THEY took off for Africa, the Bogarts transcribed an adventure radio series Bold Venture, which is now on the air in about 150 cities.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> The network have been trying to entice the Bogarts, whose joint sex appeal could probably sell boxcars on the air for years. They turned down the networks in favor of a transcribed series which offers much less prestige, but on the other hand gives the Bogarts far greater freedom. Freedom, for example, to go off to Africa and make pictures while the radio show puts money in the bank over here.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Bold Venture is not anything that hews out new territory in radio fiction or any other kind of fiction. In fact, if you have ever seen the Bogarts in a picture, you will be pretty well briefed as to their radio show.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> The title stems from the name of Mr. Bogart's boat, which he sails all over the Caribbean getting into one scrape after another. Mr. Bogart, thinly disguised under the name of Slate Shannon, is a rough and tough adventurer open for hire to anyone who has sunken gold or other larceny on his mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Miss Bacall, known on this show as Sailor Duval, occupies the position - now hold on to your chairs here - of Mr. Bogart's "ward and love interest", it says here in a press release. This is the most dubious relationship to be permitted on the air in my memory and I think "ward and love interest" is the most entertaining euphemism to come along in some time.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Bold Venture opens to the accompaniment of a lot of exotic music which has beads of equatorial sweat all over it. This is to put you in the proper mood for the sex and violence which are to follow.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> A fairly recent and typical program involved a search for sunken gold on an island in Flamingo Cay. During this hunt, Miss Bacall got kidnapped by a trigger-happy, sex-mad college boy whose intentions were strictly dishonorable. This left Mr. Bogart in the clutches of a faithless wife whose feelings toward him were hardly maternal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">BEFORE Mr. Bogart's "ward and love interest" got back into the proper arms, the script had been littered with a couple of corpses, one brutal beating administered by Mr. Bogart and a hurricane. All that and buried gold too. What else can you ask?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Miss Bacall's sultry, vibrant voice is as effective on radio as it is on the screen. In fact, if it were any more supercharged than it is, it would blow out a couple of tubes. As to Mr. Bogart's sex appeal, you'll have to check with your wife. He and I are on different wave lengths.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> The dialogue employed by these two and by everyone else in the cast is so confoundedly cryptic that you may fall to wondering just who is committing mayhem on whom and why.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> I yearn for the restoration of the simple, decorative sentence which tells the audience who, where, when and why but I don't expect it to return in my lifetime. Bold Venture, in short, is a lot of malarkey, but it is fairly restful malarkey, and it contains the Bogarts, who are about as expert as they come to concealing the deficiencies of a script.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Have a good time in Africa, Bogarts, and, if you find some time pick me up a stuffed hippopotamus.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">© New York Tribune, 1951</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Listen online to</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><i style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://archive.org/download/OTRR_Bold_Venture_Singles/Bold_Venture_5x-xx-xx_ep05_Treasure_on_Flamingo_Cay.mp3" target="_blank">Treasure on Flamingo Cay</a></i><span style="font-size: large;">.</span><br />
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-19285836458257606562014-06-17T18:32:00.002-07:002014-06-18T19:04:47.634-07:00The Return of King Kong<div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">“What is the purpose of your visit to the United States?“ asked the immigration officer at Newark Airport. “I’m a gorilla man,” I proudly replied. Without batting an eyelid she stamped my passport with a B1 business visa, valid for six months. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I grabbed my bag from the turnstile, stepped on to a fume-choked loading zone, and lit a cigarette. I’d flown thousands of miles from one of the planet’s most remote locations, and was about to enter its most central. I needed a minute to adjust.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Pirates</i>, my second novel, had just been released in the US. Both my editor and agent thought it was a remarkable improvement on my first novel<i>.</i> But the book had yet to inspire more than a handful of reviews. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large;">Though fun, guiding gorilla safaris</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large;">in Uganda</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;"> these past five years had proved </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large;">counterproductive</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;"> to generating a readership. Social networks aside, selling books </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large;">requires</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;"> an active participation in the marketplace. I needed to personally reach out to my audience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">My publisher wasn't against the idea of a two-month press tour of the United States. He sent me the money for an air ticket. But he refused to commit to anything more. Boarding my flight in Entebbe, I trusted his support would grow once I sold a few books.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“<i>Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike / They’ve all come to look for America</i>.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As my cab climbs an elevated overpass on Interstate 78, Gotham’s full commercial might comes into view: the jagged gleaming skyline, vast industrial complexes, and an endless stream of planes, trains, and automobiles. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Traffic slows as we approach the Lincoln tunnel. My heart begins to race. Fearing I am about to get crushed in a giant metal compactor, I'm having second thoughts about making my mark here. <i>Driver, turn this taxi around!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">How could I possibly have any impact on such a monumental marketplace, amid the pandemonium of all those well-oiled voices vying to be heard? I am punching way above my weight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We exit the tunnel on 39th Street. Helicopters are hovering overhead, sirens wailing, and the sound of humanity is turned up all the way to eleven. Welcome to anxiety central! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As we turn north on 10th Avenue, I catch a glimpse of a giant limestone edifice piercing the urban haze behind us. Even today, 83 years after it first opened, the Empire State Building stands head and shoulders above the rest of Midtown’s skyscrapers, and never fails to inspire. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It's time to unshackle myself from all this self-doubt, seize the moment, ascend to the highest apex, and swat a few preconceived notions out of the sky; I’ll show them what a 21st century gorilla man can achieve in New York City.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.”</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">I’m not a stranger to this town. I was six years old when I first visited in 1969 with my family, en route to our new home in Nigeria. My mother's brother </span><span style="font-size: large;">Bob </span><span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">was a banker in lower Manhattan, so it served as a convenient stop-over on the many journeys my family would make between Montreal and Africa during the 1970s. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On Independence Day 1976, standing next to the corner window of Uncle Bob’s 45th-floor office, I watched in awe as a dozen tall ships from all over the world sailed into New York harbor to mark America’s Bicentennial.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">One time I came down by road from Toronto, in a car full of drunken reprobates. The last of the campus bars had closed so we set out on a 440 mile </span>road trip<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> to New York City, picking up a Balinese dancer along the way. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As we drove through the night, radio broadcasts began reporting that a freak snow blizzard was hitting the Big Apple hard. Should we turn back? No fucking way, we’re Canadian. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When the sun came up that April morning in 1982, New York had been magically transformed into a glittering </span><span style="font-size: large;">wonderland of </span><span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">crystal-white snow. Eight to twelve inches had fallen during the night but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. From the Verrazano Narrows bridge, the city looked like one enormous ice sculpture, still steaming from the artist’s blood, sweat and tears.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">That weekend, claiming to be experts from north of the border, we made a small fortune digging New Yorkers’ cars out from under the snow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Between 1994 and 2006 I often visited to raise money for gorillas in the wild. And in late 2009 I spent two months living on the Upper West Side, working on the manuscript for my debut novel, <i>Gorillaland</i>. Since then I’ve published two books. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So what? <i>Tell someone who gives a shit! </i>That’s what it comes down to in this town. When in New York, ape the natives. Every one of them is struggling to rise up through, or maintain their status in a city that never sleeps. It’s a nightmare. But then I’m a night dancer. Gorilla man will succeed in the concrete jungle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s 7 pm, and the sun is still shining brightly on the Upper West Side, searching for gaps in the money trees that line the back lots of West 77th Street. I’ve been here a month and, as far as book selling is concerned, still not made the slightest dent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">But I’ve learnt a hell of a lot. No </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large;">doubt N</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">ew Yorkers are avid readers, and many of the countless </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large;">independent</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;"> bookstores in Manhattan and Brooklyn are up for hosting readings by unknown authors, just not at such short notice. Also literary publicist are paid more than lawyers in this town.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As it turns out, my circumstances and reason for returning to Uganda in July have since evaporated so I will now </span><span style="font-size: large;">remain in the US for the duration of my visa</span><span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">, ride down the opposite slope of that steep learning curve I just scaled. Take two...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Hopefully, what happens next will be beyond all expectations.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Greg Cummings is the author of <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gorillaland-Greg-Cummings/dp/1908122307/" target="_blank">Gorillaland</a> </i>and <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pirates-Somali-Adventure-Greg-Cummings/dp/1908122625" target="_blank">Pirates</a></i>, published by Cutting Edge Press, London.</span></div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-jv1bv_6pgUM%2FU6DryG8ufxI%2FAAAAAAAAEFg%2F5X8rGgw6Cko%2Fs1600%2FP1010122.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUfLGyb9dTqGNMA13RaNSZo4FMQVOTYJ1IMvR1y9XXJsF5Fo4VijoWl3HHR-6V27a7ULPASLX7WpNGj8k_FPzYNTdydy5n3cGLvaLay6AGzi0MVkn95JNEQ-izc10RWAY3x6a1T3txgf0/s1600/P1010122.jpg" -->Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-25434583286481490552013-11-29T01:14:00.005-08:002014-09-17T19:59:58.017-07:00Five Hours GMT: World Events That Helped Shape Pirates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">It was shortly after 11 pm on 11</span><span class="s2"><sup> </sup></span><span class="s1">July 2010, and thousands of Ugandan football fans had crowded into Kampala’s bars to watch the last ten minutes of the World Cup finals on TV. Not being a footy fan, I had purposely stayed away from the melee, and was at home watching <i>Discovery</i>. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I did not hear the first attack. The Ethiopian restaurant in Kabalagala was out of audible range, but the large outdoor screen at Kyadondo Rugby Club, where the second attack took place was less than three kilometres from my apartment. I heard a dull thud immediately followed by a terrible scraping noise, the sound of countless steel ball-bearings ripping through plastic chairs, flesh and bone. Moments later, another explosion. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The death toll from the suicide attacks totalled 74 people, and 70 more were injured. I later learned that a friend had been badly injured in the rugby club attack. She has since made a remarkable recovery. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Notwithstanding the real human tragedies involved, the news, while getting closer to home, was proving a source of inspiration as I attempted to write compelling adventure stories set within real life events. And a miasmal alphabet soup of headlines about human wickedness had been floating around my subconscious since childhood.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Listening to BBC World Service each week day morning over breakfast - two fried eggs, two beef sausages, and a mug of strong, black Nile coffee - is a tradition I’d be loathed to give up. The Beeb, like the African dawn chorus, is deeply embedded in my memory. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">When I lived in Dar-es-salaam in the early 1970s, every school morning began with the chimes of Big Ben phasing in and out as my father tuned his Grundig Yacht Boy to the World Service. The scholarly voice of an Oxbridge announcer, bouncing off the ionosphere to reach me snug in my bed blended nicely with the pulse of the Indian Ocean outside my window. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">But the awakening was frequently rude, alarming headlines that wormed their way into my young mind. Living two time zones ahead of London, we were often the first in the Anglophone world to hear the news. “<i>Palestinian terrorists, the so-called Black September group, have killed all the Israeli athletes they were holding hostage at the Munich Olympic games…</i>” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Harris" target="_blank">Thomas Harris</a> (<i>Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal</i>) began writing his debut novel <i>Black Sunday</i> after watching television coverage of the hostage crisis in Munich. A disgruntled Vietnam veteran, who pilots blimps over NFL games, conspires with a Black September terrorist to launch a suicide attack in the United States. With a bomb</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> made of plastique and a quarter of a million steel darts,</span><span style="font-size: large;"> he aims to detonate the explosive during the half time celebrations at the Super Bowl in New Orleans. It was the first modern adventure story I read as teenager.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/10602791" target="_blank">BBC news headline</a>:<i> </i>“<i>The Somali Islamist group al-Shabab has said it was behind twin blasts which hit the Ugandan capital Kampala on Sunday, killing 74 people.</i>” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I was half-way through writing the manuscript for my <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gorillaland-ebook/dp/B00757ICAG/" target="_blank">first novel</a>, a thriller set in the Congo, and not yet thinking about a second. But the attack in Kampala brought the conflict in Somalia to my doorstep. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni called the terrorists “backward and cowardly” and vowed to deal with the authors of this crime. “It will have to be peace enforcement to bring peace to Somalia.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My girlfriend Sandra and I ventured into Kabalagala to witness the aftermath of the horror inflicted by jihadist. And as we sat down for lunch across the street from the Ethiopian restaurant where the first attack occurred, our waiter told of coming to work and finding a human limb in the gutter. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Another deadly menace dominating the headlines at the time, also emanating from the Horn of Africa, was Somali pirates. They had attacked hundreds of ships passing through the Gulf of Aden, hijacked dozens, collected hundreds of millions in ransom money, and it seemed nothing was being done to stop “the pirate kings of Puntland,” as one <a href="http://www.aljazeera.com/news/africa/2009/06/2009614125245860630.html" target="_blank">alJazeera headline</a> described them. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">When pirates hijacked the Maersk Alabama taking Captain Phillips hostage, <a href="http://harpers.org/blog/2009/04/pirates-and-the-cia-what-would-thomas-jefferson-have-done/" target="_blank">a former CIA agent asked</a>, “Where is the CIA? Where is the humint effort in Somalia? Where is the covert action capability of the CIA that should be on the ground in Somalia, collecting, pressuring, attacking, and destroying pirate infrastructure?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">But there are two sides to the story. While fishing in Kenya in October 2010 I learned tuna stocks had recently bounced back, because the threat of piracy had effectively deterred all foreign trawlers from coming anywhere near the western shores of the Indian Ocean. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It occurred to me that although unscrupulous and lawless, compared to the jihadists the pirates were in many ways the good guys. Yet the international community was using the same blunt instrument to deal with them both: <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/drone-operations-over-somalia-pose-danger-to-air-traffic-un-report-says/2012/07/24/gJQALvnf7W_story.html" target="_blank">Reaper drones</a>. I wanted to write a story that showed how these two groups were diametrically opposed, and decided on a plot that pitted pirate against jihadist.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Research confirmed that since the 1980s European and Asian trawlers had been illegally fishing in Somali waters, drastically depleting tuna stocks, and off the shore of Puntland at the tip of the Horn of Africa the Italian mafia had <a href="http://seeker401.wordpress.com/2009/04/10/somalia-the-mafia-the-nuclear-waste-dump-zone/" target="_blank">dumped tonnes of toxic waste</a>. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Grave injustices had been committed against Somalia, in particular against the good people of Puntland. Yet, despite decades of illegal plundering of Somali coastal waters, the international maritime community only started paying attention after fishermen took up piracy. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">There was one notable exception. In 2000, with the help of British company Hart Security Maritime Services, the <a href="http://www.idaratmaritime.com/wordpress/?p=14" target="_blank">Puntland coast guard</a> was established. Some twelve-hundred fisherman were trained in maritime security tactics: how to track illegal fishing trawlers, approach vessels undetected, board without ladders. But shortly after they began patrolling their waters, the Puntland government tore up Hart’s contract in favour of a Dubai-based operation, which eventually ran the service into the ground. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Soon there were hundreds of highly-trained coast guardsmen out of work, loitering in coves along the coast of the Horn of Africa, watching their fish stocks continue to plummet, and waters get polluted, for which no one was being held accountable. No wonder they turned to piracy. (And no wonder <a href="http://www.hartsecurity.com/" target="_blank">Hart Security</a> today provides much of the maritime security for ships passing through the Gulf of Aden.) </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile, a much darker story was unfolding on the Horn of Africa. Without significant rainfall in four years, Somalia was quickly becoming gripped by famine. Al-shabaab-held territories were worst hit, as the Islamists refused to accept foreign aid and the United States refused to provide it. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">In August 2010, <a href="http://www.cfr.org/somalia/al-shabaab-somalias-spreading-famine/p25630?cid=nlc-public-the_world_this_week-link17-20110812" target="_blank">the United Nations estimated</a> twenty-nine thousand children under the age of five had died in southern Somalia and 3.7 million people were in need of humanitarian assistance across the country. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;"> “The scale of the crisis is unprecedented in many ways,” said Rashid Abdi, an analyst for the International Crisis Group. “The closest example you have is the 1984 famine in Ethiopia.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I had spent five months in Ethiopia during the latter half 1985, and witnessed first-hand the effects of famine. While working as a press officer for Catholic Relief Services, I visited one refugee camp in the Afar region where I met a woman whose task it was to weigh babies to determine if they were too far gone for supplemental feeding. I remember thinking at the time that there could be no more distressing a job in the entire world. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1">In 2011, as hundreds of thousands of Somalis fled the famine in Lower Shabelle, Kakuma refugee camp in northern Kenya swelled beyond capacity. I decided </span>Kakuma, which meant “nowhere” in Swahili, would be the setting for my early chapters. Unable to visit in person, I researched everything I could about the camp online, accounts by refugees who’d been trapped there for over a decade, day-in-the-life videos made with funding from well-meaning aid agencies, and countless articles in the <i><a href="http://kanere.org/" target="_blank">Kakuma News Reflector</a></i>, “a refugee free press.” </span><br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://www.dailymotion.com/embed/video/xhs7re" width="480"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xhs7re_pirates-haven-aljazeera-english-on-somalia-1of3_news" target="_blank">Pirates' haven - AlJazeera English on SOMALIA 1of3</a> <i>by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/afrikanews" target="_blank">afrikanews</a></i>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I made two road trips that greatly influenced my story line. The first was to the Kenyan capital for the Easter long-weekend. Sandra and I checked into the <a href="http://www.fairviewkenya.com/" target="_blank">Fairview</a> on Nairobi Hill, owned by my friend Charles Szlapak, and spent hours lounging under giant jacaranda trees on the hotel’s luxuriantly shady grounds, sipping Tusker beer while carefully observing how Mossad agents from the Israeli embassy across the road maintained security. I subsequently used it as the backdrop for a pivotal scene in <i>Pirates </i>in which I try to demonstrate the ruthlessness of al-Shabaab<i>.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Next stop Kidepo Valley in northern Uganda, an otherworldly place that has to be seen to be believed. We arrived just in time to witness July’s lunar eclipse at <a href="http://www.ngamoru.com/" target="_blank">N’ga Moru lodge</a> on the edge of the national park, a superb spot run by Lyn Jordaan and Patrick Devy. By 10 pm the event had begun. Sitting by the fire, Lyn, Patrick, our driver Sam, Sandra, and I watched the heavens transform as the Moon, like a Hobnob dipped in coffee, turned umber then faded to black. It was the darkest night in a hundred years, but I’d never seen so many stars.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">While stargazing, it occurred to me - as it does in <i>Pirates</i> to Derek Strangely - that Kakuma refugee camp is located just across the border barely a hundred kilometres away. I asked Patrick if it was possible to walk the distance. “Not without getting shot by a Turkana,” he laughed. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“Nothing Strangely couldn’t handle,” I thought. But I was wrong. My safari guide would be incapable of making such a journey without a good deal of cajoling and a cash incentive. Enter Johnny Oceans, a name I’d first heard mentioned while <a href="http://talesfromtherift.blogspot.com/2013/11/forgedaboudit-how-i-came-to-write.html" target="_blank">tuna fishing off the coast of Kenya</a> the year before.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Derek and Johnny were seated beside an excellent fire at the base of a small granite kopje overlooking Kidepo Valley National Park, in northeastern Uganda. They’d flown up on a private single-engine that Johnny Oceans had chartered, which landed them in Kidepo Airfield, where they were met by park staff who chauffeured them to a camping site at the foot of a kopje. </span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-size: large;">“I’ve been to some spectacular places in my lifetime,” sighed Johnny, “but this is the shit!” Derek just nodded. Words could not express the way he felt about this particular East African wilderness. The sun was setting and the fiery light of dusk had transformed the valley into a son et lumière, recalling the time millions of years ago when it was a cataclysmic inferno, venting the planet’s burning mantle through a cluster of volcanoes.</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>“Except in the far reaches of the imagination,” said Derek, “no one would ever believe this place existed. It’s as if those volcanoes got up and danced around until they all keeled over with exhaustion. And this is how they were found: burnt out and contorted on the Mesozoic dance floor.” He poured himself a double shot of Wild Turkey into a cut-glass tumbler filled with ice, and then said, “Right, Johnny Oceans. You owe me an epic, and it better be a good one.” - Pirates</i> by Greg Cummings</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">With Johnny Oceans I had a strong, enigmatic hero, seemingly capable of standing up to the threat of radical Islamism in Puntland and cattle raiders in northern Kenya. But <i>Pirates</i> needed a heroine to speak out against the nihilism in Somalia. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Khadija Abdul Rahman was a challenging character to write. Named after an impressive matriarch I’d met, the mother of Sandra’s best friend Fatuma, I knew she had to be inspirational. Social networks provided ample evidence of single-minded Somali women who were fed up with the state of affairs in their country. And I found inspiration in the outspoken Dutch-Somali activist Ayaan Hirsi Ali. More importantly I was surrounded by strong women, and across the Arab world they were also <a href="http://lightbox.time.com/2012/07/09/after-the-spring-women-of-the-revolution/#1" target="_blank">making themselves known</a>. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">In <i>Pirates </i>Khadija walks a fine line between her religion and culture as she tries to quash the brutal, clannish behaviour of her country men. She is forced to act after jihadists attempt to recruit her teenage son Nadif in his madrasa. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">To understand how her boy could be attracted to radical Islam, I researched the Salafs perspective on everything, including fishing. This led to a chapter in which Nadif and his pirate uncle Maxamid fish together off the tip of the Horn of Africa. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It was hard to get my hands on suitable books. But I managed to reread Ernest Hemingway’s <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2165.The_Old_Man_and_the_Sea?ac=1" target="_blank">The Old Man and the Sea</a>, </i>studying his legendary pelagic battle in fine detail. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6729638-the-somali-pirate" target="_blank">The Somali Pirate</a>, </i>a autobiographical tale by Noor Fayrus of the Darod clan, was a surprise discovery. It is a delicate, heartbreaking story, told from the heart by a thoughtful writer, a fisherman who had personally experienced the grief and revenge. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">When it came to shaping Omar and al-Rubaysh, <i>Pirates</i>’s <a href="http://www.bartamaha.com/the-missing-link-al-qaeda-in-somalia-33569/" target="_blank">conspiring antagonists</a>, by far my most useful reference was <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2716661-the-african-jihad" target="_blank">The African Jihad</a>: Bin Laden’s Quest for the Horn of Africa</i> by Gregory Alonso Pirio, which I found in a Nairobi bookstore. Much of the background information I needed for these unseemly characters was in that book: Bin Laden's power brokering in Khartoum, the events leading up to Black Hawk Down, and how the Islamic Courts, the only authority that had managed to restore any semblance of law and order in Somalia, was forced to relinquish power under pressure from the US and Ethiopia. Its demise resulted in the formation of al-Shabaab.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">By the end of September 2011, as Kenya prepared to invade Somalia, I had written the first two chapters, and a seven thousand word synopsis that I scarcely altered while writing the manuscript. On the strength of this, Cutting Edge Press offered me a publishing contract for <i>Pirates</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">But there were still two further news stories to come that would prove most pivotal to the plot: in February “<a href="http://www.aljazeera.com/news/africa/2012/02/201221054649118317.html" target="_blank">Al-Shabab 'join ranks' with al-Qaeda</a>” and in April “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-17674996" target="_blank">Somalia's al-Shabab Islamists move north into Puntland</a>”. Still, these stories did not necessitate any changes to my novel, as I had already seen them coming.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“<i>We will part the sea as Musa did with his mighty staff, for the glory of Allah, reestablish the bond between our great continents in the name of global jihad.</i>” - <i>Pirates</i> by Greg Cummings.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Available as an ebook on Amazon: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pirates-ebook/dp/B00G3DC5RO/">http://www.amazon.com/Pirates-ebook/dp/B00G3DC5RO/</a></span></div>
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-30232297485674001232013-11-24T04:27:00.003-08:002013-11-25T05:43:24.530-08:00Forgedaboudit!: How I Came To Write Pirates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">It’s ten o’clock at night. Unseen in the viridescent shadows, half a dozen Masai <i>askaris</i> and two Rottweiler are patrolling the grounds of Bobby Cellini’s Malindi home. The two-storey rococo mansion is lit up by coloured spotlights that cast ferny shadows across its rustic ochre walls. Palm fronds nudge up against the terra-cotta roof tiles, rustling in a warm Swahili breeze that blows up from the coast.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Seated at a long glass dining table in a outdoor gazebo by his swimming pool,</span><span style="font-size: large;"> the seventy year-old American patriarch is holding court with his daughter Daniela Cellini, her artist friend Alexandra, nephew Jody Baker, and me. We’ve just eaten an exquisite meal of Wahoo steaks brushed with rosemary branches dipped in olive oil and tied together with a clove of garlic in between. Now comes dessert. “Greg, when was the last time you had Key lime pie?” asks Bobby, as a slice is placed in front of me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Way too long,” I sigh pushing my fork through its firm meringue mantle, soft creamy centre and crispy biscuit crust. After tasting a morsel I gasp. “Damn, that’s the best Key lime pie I’ve ever tasted.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Bobby smiles at me, nods, then shuts his eyes. I want to ask him about incorporating my gorilla safaris into junkets for his casino clients but the opportunity has passed. Jody, who suggested I pitch the idea, senses my disappointment, leans in closer and says, “<i>Forgedaboudit</i>.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">I first met Jody Baker </span><span style="font-size: large;">in the highlands of Rwanda </span><span style="font-size: large;">one chilly September morning in 2009. He and his wife Renata, who was seven-and-a-half months pregnant and about to trek mountain gorillas, were standing outside the headquarters of Volcanoes national park, observing the chaos created by half a dozen inflexible park rangers trying to organise four dozen foreigners. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Among the high-paying <i>mzungus</i> eager to start trekking, three stood out: a middle-aged man and his two teenage boys. Outfitted to the teeth in elaborate and expensive khaki safari gear - two hiking poles each, knee-high black gators, and mosquito-net hats - my clients were impossible to miss.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">As Jody recalls, “They wore pith helmets equipped with solar panels to power their attached forehead fans. I made eye contact with their <i>mzungu</i> guide, another sideline observer. He had a look I recognised: one who is well Africanized, knows the ropes, and can afford to pull some strings. He had already</span><span style="font-size: large;"> made</span><span style="font-size: large;"> h</span><span style="font-size: large;">is moves</span><span style="font-size: large;">, like me he was just waiting for the confusion to die down.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have only ever met a handful of kindred spirits in my life. Each time we instantly hit it off, shared a mutual acceptance of each other that transcended all other aspects our lives, except maybe a common appreciation of cannabis. That’s how it was with Jody and me. Within minutes of our meeting we were lamenting the dearth of a decent smoke in East Africa, and both somehow knew we’d end up being life-long friends.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Three days later I ran into him again in a hotel lobby near Kigali airport. He and his very expectant wife were about to fly to home to Miami to prepare for their baby’s birth. My clients had just departed, and I was planning to drive back to Kampala the next day. After exchanging emails, we promised we'd stay in touch.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">In the year that followed each of our lives got seriously revised. Jody became a father for the first time. “My little boy is awesome,” he said in a Facebook chat with me, “the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. Childbirth is nasty but amazing!”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I met Sandra Richardson, </span><span style="font-size: large;">the love of my life</span><span style="font-size: large;">. “An amazing woman,” I told Jody, “We’re putting all we got into this relationship.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sandra moved into my apartment in Kampala and, after reading the manuscript I’d been working on for three years, pointed out several worthwhile ways it could be polished up. Her suggestions vastly improved the story arc and made the characters much more believable. I realised I’d met my muse, and over the next few months, with her help, struggled to complete my debut novel, <i>Gorillaland</i>. At the end of August 2010, on the strength of the first ten chapters, Martin Hay of Cutting Edge Press called me from London with the offer of a publishing deal. "<i>Bo yakka!"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">In the euphoria that followed, I wrote to Jody. “When are you back in East Africa? When can we get this groove on? Sandra and I need a break from Uganga! The Swahili Coast has all that spicy, salty, seductive, smiling, fruit-fried, frangipani, sweet mimosa, underwater turquoise style going on...”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Great timing, younger brother!” he wrote back. “I sold a property and am supposed to be in Malindi in October. I am making arrangements now. I'll probably stay there a week or so. You're very welcome!”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">We’re sailing 17 miles off the Kenyan Coast aboard Albatross, Jody’s 33 foot Black Fin Express, fishing over a canyon in the Malindi-Watamu bank with a spread of nine lines trailing from her stern. The sun is pegging and all around us fish are jumping: wahoo, swordfish, tuna.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly a line screams off its reel. “You’ve got a strike!” snaps Jody, handing me the rod. I struggle to take control, grappling with the method and muscle required. All the while I’m being hurled instructions from above and behind: “Feed the line!” “Let the pole do the work!” “Don’t let your line touch the boat!” “<i>You can’t take a break now</i>!” Eventually I get the hang of it and am rocking and reeling like a pro, dragging a monster up from the deep.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">It feels like I’ve been fighting for hours, though it can only have been 20 minutes, and I want to give up for the ache in my left arm, but I know I have to see this through to completion. Finally I spot him, shimmering below the ocean surface, a sizeable tuna fish, still fighting hard. I put all my strength into reeling it in those last five meters. When the fish is at last close enough, the boatman leans over the edge and hooks it with a gaffer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“<i>Boo yakka</i>!” I shout, staggering back from the gunwale in sheer delight, breathless, bone-tired, and dripping in sweat from the fight. The boatman hauls my yellowfin</span><span style="font-size: large;"> aboard and</span><span style="font-size: large;"> immediately bleeds it with a long knife.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />With its vivid silver and black markings, a turquoise stripe down its side, and bright yellow fins and finlets, it’s a beautiful creature to behold - weighing at least 25 kilogrammes. And despite my role in its brutal demise, nothing can contain my excitement at seeing this yellowfin at my feet. “You can’t be a Tuna Murdra without getting blood on the decks, <i>mon</i>!” laughs Jody. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Who’s the daddy?” asks Jody, triumphantly reeling in another mighty yellowfin, our fifth of the day. He’s an experienced angler and it shows; it takes him less than 10 minutes to bring in his tunny.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Incredible,” I laugh, shaking my head. “So many fish!”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“You can thank the Somali pirates for that,” he says over his shoulder. “Since they started attacking ships around the Horn of Africa, tuna stocks on the Kenyan coast have shot up.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">BOOM! I did not realise it at the time, but right then a lure was dropped for my second novel. Another year would pass before I finally got a strike, figured out a suitable plot, but that was the moment the story began to develop, emerge from the deep.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“It doesn’t really say anything,except flat bottomed boats at posh universities!” said my agent Maggie Phillips. She was reacting to my title, <i>Puntland</i>. “If you are writing about Somali pirates – always in the news, apparently unstoppable – then you need to flag this up in the title. Baddies like this are fascinating, people want to read about them, so give them a chance to realise what your book is about!”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">World events were influencing my storyline: the Arab Spring, the death of Osama bin Laden, the alliance of al-Shabaab and al-Qaeda in the Arab Peninsula, and the crack down by the maritime community on Somali pirates. Adding to that, I had visited Kidepo Valley in northern Uganda and found the ideal </span><span style="font-size: large;">setting </span><span style="font-size: large;">for the opening chapters.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The strike came during one of Kampala’s regular power cuts. Sandra and I were sitting under a starflower tree, discussing the plot, what motivates Somali pirates, and batting around real current affairs, when she came up with a plot twist that I knew would grab every reader by the short and curlies. "<i>Bo Yakka!</i>"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />With a worthy plot, in-depth storyline, and cast of intriguing characters, I wrote a detailed outline, chapter-by-chapter - the synopsis for<i> Pirates</i>, sent it off to Maggie and Martin, and thereafter secured my second publishing contract, with a deadline to complete the manuscript by April 2012.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Johnny Oceans, <i>Pirates</i>’s enigmatic hero, is a maverick Italian-American from South Florida with a background in dope smuggling. In 1998 while working on the Kenyan coast in the family’s gaming business he was abducted by pirates. Eventually he settled in Somalia, converted to Islam, changed his name to Mehmet Abdul Rachman, and married a beautiful Darod woman. But nothing is what it seems.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The novel’s indomitable heroine is a chain-smoking, skinny-jeans wearing, forty-something Somali woman who happens to be the hero’s wife. Inspired by the women of the Arab Spring, Khadija Abdul Rachman urges her fellow Somalians, through Twitter and Facebook, to put aside their clannish ways and stand up against the rising tide of Islamic jihad in Somalia.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Enter the reluctant protagonist, safari guide Derek Strangely who crosses over from my first novel <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gorillaland-ebook/dp/B00757ICAG/"><i>Gorillaland</i></a>. After a perilous journey into Puntland, he comes up against Khadija’s mercurial brother Maxamid, a Somali pirate who dislikes foreigners. Meanwhile, behind the scenes Ali al-Rubaysh, a veteran jihadist now commander in al-Qaeda on the Arab Peninsula, plots a terror attack on America more devastating than 9/11.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">In a barren province of a troubled desert land deemed a failed state, <i>Pirates </i>pits pirate against jihadist. While the outside world believes the situation as hopeless, brave men and women strive to solve the Gordian knot that is the Horn of Africa.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“How goes Johnny O?” asked Jody. “You inspired? I'm headed to Kenya around the 20th for about a month, Diani - Malindi. Chillin'. Hugs.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Been writing like a whirling dervish,” I replied. “Long hours, and I’m not paying much attention to anything else. When you heading down this way? My folks would love to do a trade - their place in Cabo in exchange for your place in Malindi.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“I just spent $18,000 on the place in Malindi, paint, pool, everything - I'll get pictures soon. They are welcome to my house anytime. Trade or no trade ;) <i>Fuhgetaboutid</i>…”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Jody kept me on point, suggesting weapons and equipment Johnny Oceans might use. By way of our regular conversations, he also gave me the correct vernacular for my hero. I wrote the majority of the manuscript in San Jose del Cabo, Baja, Mexico. Working in a desert environment with waves constantly pounding the shore was a boon to the story (and considerably safer than visiting Somalia). And the support of my parents, in particular my mother, provided me with all the encouragement I needed to get the job done in time.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile my muse was back in Uganda, trying to make ends meet on $100 a week. It’s only now, after living through comparably lean times that I understand how much she suffered to ensure there was a home waiting for me back in Africa. I love you Kigongo.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">It’s December 2012, eight months past my deadline. I’m on a leaky ship, struggling to put the finishing touches on my manuscript before I sink. World events are getting ahead of me. Kenya has invaded Somalia, al-Shabaab is in retreat, Egypt is in turmoil, the Arab Spring has turned cold, and piracy has been effectively vanquished from the Horn of Africa.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Penniless, shackled to my writing desk in a remote, dusty neighbourhood of Kampala, I have nothing to distract me from the task at hand. I’m working day and night. And no matter how bare the cupboard, at least once a day Sandra puts a square meal in front of me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Two final hurdles remain: a convincing climax and Johnny Oceans</span><span style="font-size: large;">’</span><span style="font-size: large;"> backstory. I’ve modelled him on a living person and wonder how best I can reconcile that in a work of fiction. I voice my concerns to Jody.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Greg Cummings: “I haven't yet figured on where Oceans is from. At the moment I'm using his <a href="http://theflamingosun.blogspot.com/"><i>actual</i> back story</a>, with a twist. But I think I will change that. Don't need them getting pissed with me…”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Jody Baker: “Not to worry, they'd call me ;)”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Greg Cummings: “If you say so…”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Jody Baker: “In Godfather II, when Hyman Roth (Meyer Lansky) is discussing the split up of Havana, he gives the casino to the ‘Levini brothers, Eddie and Dino’. Watch that part of the movie where he is talking to Michael Corleone on the rooftop of a Havana hotel…” </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Subsequently Jody sent a chapter to his uncle in Malindi.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Jody Baker: “I don't think Uncle Bobby is happy about what I forwarded him but you know what… all that shit is already on the internet and the rest is fiction.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Greg Cummings: “Should I worry?”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Jody Baker: “No - it's a work of fiction, artistic license and all that... It's funny, a black comedy. Good publicity.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The trouble with writing action adventure stories that are set in the present day is that the latitudes keep moving. At some point the author must decide what makes a gripping yarn and disregard the rest, but a well-told story that cuts closer to the facts is undoubtedly more riveting. Writing <i>Pirates</i> on three continents in as many years was almost as much a roller coaster ride as the story itself. I believe it’s an audacious tale. Inspired by the oceans, I hope it will appeal to as wide an audience.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">See for yourself. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pirates-ebook/dp/B00G3DC5RO/">Read the book</a>. Enjoy the adventure! </span><span style="font-size: large;">It's at least as good </span><span style="font-size: large;">as Uncle Bobby's Key lime pie.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">"I owe you a debt of gratitude, older brother."</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Nah, younger brah, you owe me nothing. But if this book's a bestseller I want a '58 Cadillac ragtop...Capisce?"</span></i><br />
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-45406084234744827632013-11-11T09:14:00.003-08:002013-11-15T07:45:02.975-08:00Hang In there Phil...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Last Saturday night, my friend Phil was on his way back home from Minister's Village in north Kampala, riding on the back of a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) when Roge, the boda driver, swerved to avoid a dog, which sent the bike off the road, throwing Phil off the back. He was then run over by another boda driver. Roge sustained minor injuries, but Phil is in intensive care on a life support system. (Hang in there, mate!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Phillip Barnard, a soft-spoken, middle-aged Englishman with a full head of grey hair and an engaging smile (looks a bit like comedian Eric Sykes but without the glasses) is an old Africa hand who's been doing various jobs on the continent since the 1970s. Unlike most <i>mzungus</i> (white people) in Uganda, Phil socialises with all races and has many friends, evident in the outpouring of sympathy today on Facebook. He has enriched our lives.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Trouble in Paradise</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Last week I was drinking in Corner Bar, a local <i>kafunda </i>(small beer joint) in Minister's Village, when Phil arrived wearing his signature Formula One jacket (in dire need of a dry clean). "All right Greg?" he asked, offering me a cigarette as is cockney custom. He then ordered a round of beers (a half-litre bottle costs $1.40 or 87p) and over the next hour we compared African bush stories and laughed at the anarchic way things are run in deepest darkest. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">One thing Phil and I have always agreed upon was that the anathema of African corruption, lawlessness, and lack of opportunity was simply the flip side to a warm and pleasant land where things are cheap and no one can find us. "It's a low-key, hassle-free existence," said Phil, "accentuated by small pleasures." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In time we were joined by other friends, Rastafarians from the neighbourhood, and as spliffs began to blaze, the conversation spun off into many new threads, like the flight paths of a swarm of weaver birds.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At sunset, when a warm evening breeze blew through the bar</span><span style="font-size: large;">, drunk on cheap liquor and weed (though Phil never touched the stuff)</span><span style="font-size: large;">, we wallowed in our self-satisfaction but none of us dared face up to the cold truth, the horrible price paid by innocents. Rather we each chose to turn a blind eye to the unpleasantness: the mentally ill roaming the streets of Kampala, hit-and-run drivers never brought to justice, vigilantes setting upon suspected thieves and burning them alive, and hawk-eyed homophobes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like Phil, I live here in exile from a previous life, and I'm struggling to build a new one, putting down new roots. There are real hardships to endure: regular power cuts, poorly maintained roads, and a lack of safe public transport. But even if I did possess a car, the traffic is so dire that I would spend half my time in gridlock. Hence I move around town on the back of motorcycles, write about it in my novels. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Friends who own cars think I'm insane to do so, and I'm regularly lectured about the dangers. But at rush hour I can shift from my home to my local <i>kafunda</i> in a matter of minutes, and for the price of a beer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Riding on the back of boda's, drinking in local <i>kafunda'</i>s, this is the lifestyle of a 'flip-flop <i>mzungu</i>', two steps down from the 'contract <i>mzungu</i>' who pub-crawls every night of the week, bingeing in one expensive establishment after another before finally going home cockeyed at the wheel a 4x4, and three steps down from the 'cocktail <i>mzungu'</i> who only socialises in Kololo's leafy, palatial residences with corporate types, politicians and diplomats. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I first arrived in Uganda, I had the lifestyle of an 'NGO <i>mzungu</i>', living off donor money and travelling everywhere in the staff car. Now I'm soon to become a 'lost <i>mzungu</i>', one who's never seen in public and only drinks at home alone. Staying home is not easy to endure, especially during power cuts. And for all their faults Ugandans are a highly gregarious people, I share their need to connect. Phil's the same. That's why I usually found him at Corner Bar when I dropped in for 'one-one'.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He'd recently pulled himself out of a financial debacle by running events for Formula One motor racing - promotional drinking sessions in swanky Kampala venues that could showcase the races on a bank of widescreen TVs - and chose not to squander his earnings on trying to step back up again in Uganda's <i>mzungu </i>community. Tonight he's paying a heavy price.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Phil's wife and two small children are at his bedside and his only son in the UK has been informed of his accident. The neurosurgeon on duty in the ICU has declared him brain dead with virtually no hope of recovery. But the hospital doesn't want to make that call, and is waiting for two more neurosurgeons to arrive from the city's main hospital this evening. (<i>Hang in there mate!</i>). </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">What the fuck?</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Earlier this year </span><span style="font-size: large;">I lost Alison, another friend, in a boda boda accident. I attended her sombre memorial, a large gathering of stunned friends at Fas Fas bar where they put up some of her paintings and projected slide after slide of a young, happy, gorgeous Mexican woman. "How could the life of such a vibrant person be cut so short?" was the thought on everyone's minds. "It's God's will," said one man. "No it's fucking not," I snapped, "it's the total lack of road safety in this country!" An argument then ensued and I walked away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know where I got off being so righteous. It's not as though I stopped riding on the back of boda's after Alison's death. I <i>must</i> be insane. I used to believe the convenience outweighed the danger. Besides, I'll be safe with my regular driver Bozak, who's road-alert, never over speeds, and is a conscientious driver. (He's just heard about the accident, and called to make sure it wasn't me.) Time to make a change.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Living on the edge is one thing, senselessly risking one's life is quite another. There's no safety net in deepest darkest. If you fail, you're on your own. Friends and family in outside countries can only do so much. But like getting caught in a desert sand trap, it's punishing work trying to get out of that hole. One thing I'm learning is to not buck the trends. If there be dragons, take a different route. I'm old enough now to realise that there's no real currency in risky business.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tonight I'm praying for a miracle, not because I believe it was ever God's will Phil be fighting for his life in a Kampala hospital ICU, but because every one else who knows him is praying. There's comfort in numbers... He's a good man, and the world is a better place for him being alive in it. God's will can only be that such a man survive, recover, live to hug his children again, and share another one-one with me and the Rastas at Corner Bar. </span><br />
<br />Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-19610363490673147612013-08-27T22:10:00.002-07:002013-08-28T01:16:09.828-07:00Jonny Gibbings' review of PIRATES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not sure where to start with Greg Cummings 'Pirates', what I will say though, is it is a wonderful book. If you, like me, started out reading popular books that had a romping pace, the stuff like Robert Ludlum and Wilbur Smith and you loved the roller coaster plot, but soon got bored of them because they quickly lacked substance. So you started reading novels with more bite. Pirates has every bit the plot and pace of epic yarns but also has a unique depth and integrity, effortlessly weaving around serious issues and the politics of deepest Africa.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Pirates is the tale of a Safari guide and who happens upon his believed to be dead friend Jonny Oceans, who recruits him to help him re-enter Somalia. However things are not what they seem. The reader is taken through the Gulf of Aden, facing jihadists from Al-Qaeda and al-Shabaab, a different understanding of Somali pirates and Somalia itself. I imagine many base their view on Somalia as I do on films such as Black Hawk Down and on news footage of AK-47 toting pirates. Greg shows us proud people fighting to keep Puntland independent in the face of growing pressure from Muslim extremists, through beautiful, tight t-shirt wearing, skinny jeans loving matriarch Kahdija. Where Pirates excels is that it uses real issues as plot points, not the plot itself. Greg has so many plot points that fragment, leaving you in suspense as you just know they are in a funnel and will all meet at a singular event. While there is real tension, and real issues, the story is all adventure and drama with some brilliantly funny parts. There are some far-fetched elements that are Indiana Jones over the top, such as the Vulture/drone bit, but you don't mind, simply as it is infused with such reality and drama that it balances it out. The story builds and builds to such a fantastic end once you have read through twist after twist. With US Navy drones, CIA Spy's, treasure, kidnap gunfights and romance. This is a brave book and Greg pulls it off, the result is simply staggering and a truly epic read.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Follow the buzz at Pirate Yarns: <a href="http://pirateyarns.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">http://pirateyarns.blogspot.com</a></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Jonny Gibbings is the author of 'Malice in Blunderland' (Cutting Edge Press) and you can follow his blog <a href="http://jonnygibbings.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></b>Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-73355860692225086112013-07-16T05:46:00.002-07:002016-09-02T12:37:51.209-07:00The Dark Side of the Earth <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;">As the high-fidelity stereo arm gently touched down on the turntable, a diamond needle began tracking across a mint vinyl pressing. Wearing a pair of headphones bigger than my head, I heard a warmly pleasing sound: flawless, crystalline, entirely new to my ears. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At first there was only a heartbeat, which I mistook to be my own it was so clear, then a voice followed by more voices, reverberating machinery, and a screaming that rose to a crescendo until suddenly one goodly chord rang out. And a young man sang, “<i>Breathe, breathe in the air. Don’t be afraid to care…”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The record sleeve didn’t say much. Apart from a few liner notes, there wasn’t anything to look at, no photograph of the band, just a beam of light shining through a prism set against a plain black background. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I couldn’t put it down. And over the next three quarters of an hour a medley of clever, bluesy tunes, each one about the lack of empathy in the modern world, kept me entranced. I was fourteen years old.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Of minor significance was the simple, elegant layout against black. Standard textbook illustrations did not do this. Of greater significance was the art direction, or rather the fortuitous decision to listen to Rick Wright, who suggested we do something clean, elegant and graphic, not photographic - not a figurative picture. And then to connect this idea to their live show, which was famous for its lighting, and subsequently to connect it to ambition and madness, themes Roger was exploring in the lyrics...hence the prism, the triangle and the pyramids. It all connects, somehow, somewhere.”</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Storm Thorgerson on the design of<i> The Dark Side Of The Moon</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On April 18</span><span style="font: 8.0px Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">, after a long struggle with cancer, British graphic designer Storm Thorgerson died. He was 69. With his passing the world lost one of it’s most creative artists, the music business lost its best album designer, and I lost a friend. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In a career spanning five decades he created over 300 album covers and imagined the dreams of a generation. He plumbed the psychic depths of rock and roll with weird runic pictographs and montages, images that became animated in our minds. He left a legacy we can pour over in solitude, two dimensional sculptures to hold and admire while the music they interpret fills our ears. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">His work with Pink Floyd, for which he’ll likely be best remembered, often involved conceiving and photographing elaborate ‘events’ that had been extrapolated from a single lyric on the record. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Among his best work by his own reckoning is the design for <i>Wish You Were Here</i>, shot on location in California. It explores the abstraction of absence, a concept he returned to again in later designs. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But now as I study his art I see <i>only</i> absence, of the extraordinary person with whom I had the good fortune of collaborating and forging an enduring friendship, and the artist who blew all our minds with graphic designs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Don’t Walk Away Rene</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Album artwork opened a door to great music for me. As a teenager growing up in Africa during the 1970s, I largely missed out on popular culture. LPs were hard to come by in socialist Dar-es-Salaam. There was just one record shop, a dusty, desolate downtown establishment owned by a wiry Indian merchant who stocked only Bollywood soundtracks. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Occasionally he’d stock Top of the Pops compilations. These turned out to be fraudulent. The scantily-clad dolly-bird </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">on the cover</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">, done up like a bag of chips, should have been warning enough. Inside was collection of songs by anonymous acts that mimicked the original hits. So instead of ‘Ballroom Blitz’ by The Sweet or ‘Son of My Father’ by Chicory Tip you got an imitation of a song that was not particularly good to begin with. This was teenage hell.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Not before I returned </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">to Montreal </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">on home leave did I get to hear the greats as they were meant to be heard, on my cousin’s high-end stereo. He had converted his basement into a progressive rock cave, painting the walls black and plastering them with dark posters of long-haired brooding rock bands. “Here, check this out,” he said, placing a pair of headphones on my head. And so it began.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">That’s how I discovered Hipgnosis, who were credited with designing most of the albums I liked. Accordingly I picked up a copy of <i>‘Walk Away René’: The Work of Hipgnosis </i>(Paper Tiger, 1978), an illustrated coffee-table book of their creations from the previous decade. The company</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> was a collaboration between art school film graduates Aubrey ‘Po’ Powell, Peter Christopherson, and Storm Thorgerson. Before you knew it I was a Hipgnosis groupie.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Eye of the Storm</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>“When asked what I personally do I reply in a variety of ways. For Her Majesty’s Customs I am a photographer. For the music press - a graphic designer. For film people I’m a director. For my mother an artist! For my loved ones, a pain in the butt. Sarcastic musicians see me as an organising ponce who doesn’t do much actual work. True believers, i.e. employees, however, know I make images. I think of ideas, often in collaboration, and turn them into tangible visuals, be they still photographs or movies.”</i> </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Storm Thorgerson, <i>Mind Over Matter</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After Hipgnosis disbanded, Storm Thorgerson continued working solo from a studio in Belsize Park. With the advent of the compact disc the music business had gone through a dramatic transformation. The switch from vinyl required a shrinkage in packaging. Record companies were no longer prepared to throw money at an album’s design and gone were the days of expensive location shoots in Morocco and doing things by hand. Still, there were plenty of back catalogues that needed repackaging.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Pink Floyd remained Storm’s main client, though they hadn’t given him any new work in a decade. What reason did they have to record anything new with the royalties they were earning? <i>The Dark Side of the Moon</i> had become a ‘platinum monster’ spending over 700 weeks at the top of the Billboard charts. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Thereafter the Floyd entered a super league. But with success behind them, the band members soon lost sight of why they had started playing tunes in the first place. This darkened their outlook and contributed to the bitter departure of bassist Roger Waters in 1986, as prophesied in his lyric fourteen years earlier: “A<i>nd if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes, I’ll see you on the dark side of the Moon.</i>”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Such was their inertia that whole generations passed between the Floyd’s trips to the studio. All those connected to the band, the so-called Cambridge Mafia who had been caught up in the eye of this phenomenal rock and roll storm since school days, soon starved. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Although his designs contributed in no small way to the Floyd’s success, Storm was only ever paid a fee for his work on their albums. This caused some resentment, which he cheerily alludes to in his book <i>Mind Over Matter </i>(Sanctuary Publishing, 1997): </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><i>“</i></b><i>Back in the mists of time, shortly after the release of </i>The Dark Side of the Moon<i>, Steve O’Rourke, fabled Floyd manager and Clark Kent lookalike, was walking down London’s fashionable Bond Street in a cheery mood. He put his arm around my shoulder and pointed out an expensive looking sports car and asked me why didn’t I have one of those. He knew of designers in LA who did, he added. I answered that I didn’t earn enough money. Come off it, he said. I might, I ventured tentatively, if the Floyd would pay me more - not that I’m complaining. He withdrew his arm. Not a chance, he said, and changed the subject. Bye bye sports car.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Between Apes and Angels</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I don’t know many Hipgnosis groupies,” said Storm Thorgerson, tucking into his lamb shank. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“You opened the door,” I said. “Back when I was building my record collection ‘Designed by Hipgnosis’ was my only hallmark.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"You're too kind," said Storm. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was a sunny October afternoon in 1994 and I was lunching at Primates restaurant in Chalk Farm with my childhood hero. Our meeting was as a result of</span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">a science documentary </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Storm had produced </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">for Equinox,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>The Rubber Universe, </i>examining the Hubble constant</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">. After watching it</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I'd contacted the production company who then put me in touch with him. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I don’t believe in charity,” said Storm. He wore a fixed expression of disinterest, which I soon discovered concealed a well of humanity. “If the gorillas need saving then it’s up to governments to pay for it. That’s why I pay taxes. Still, I am intrigued. Tell me more about this film you want me to make.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The year had begun well for the gorillas. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Three years into a dazzling new career as executive director of the Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund, where my wife Jillian was also a director, I was optimistic. We had started from scratch, promoting an obscure cause in a far-flung place, but the future looked bright. Our positions opened many doors, and we took advantage of every chance we got to promote the gorillas.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">NASA, the American space agency, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">having reneged on an earlier agreement, had just </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">confirmed <a href="http://talesfromtherift.blogspot.com/2011/11/bold-endeavour.html" target="_blank">it was reinstating us</a> to its Mission to Planet Earth. Two flights of the space shuttle Endeavour, STS-59 and STS-64 scheduled for April and August were to use a highly sophisticated spacebourne imaging radar to obtain data of the planet’s environmental hot spots, including the gorilla habitat in central Africa. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Then one night i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">n January</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">, as the lights came up in Ronnie Scott’s jazz club, I spotted ape actor Peter Elliot in the audience and went over to say hello. Peter was the first to hear about any ape movies in the studio pipelines. “Just the man I want to see,” he said, with a high-pitched, gravelly cockney lilt. “Paramount Pictures is making a movie of Michael Crichton’s book <i>Congo</i>. You need to get in touch with Sam Mercer.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The next day I bought a copy of<i> Congo</i> and started reading it. I couldn’t believe the serendipity. Crichton’s story incorporated high-tech space imagery of central Africa’s gorilla habitats. Wasting no time, I let Paramount know about the planned shuttle missions. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“The studio executives love the idea of using your radar images in their movie,” said Mercer when he called back the next day, “because they want authentic and are willing to pay your organisation $10,000 for the privilege.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By Hollywood standards this was chump change, but considering NASA’s images would end up in the public domain, it seemed a pretty good offer at the time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At the end of March, just days before STS-59 was due to launch, Jillian and I flew from London to New Jersey to meet Scott Madry, head of the Remote Sensing Centre at Rutgers University, who had first thought of using spacebourne radar to penetrate misty gorilla habitats. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Hollywood's </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mike Backes, a <i>Congo</i> producer, flew in solely to join our meeting, as did the heads of our conservation project in Africa. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Each of us was keen to capitalize on the publicity that two space shuttle missions and a new feature-length movie<i> </i>would bring to the gorillas. We had no idea about what was about to go down, in a ball of flames.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKGrOnCbq4v7EQf63B9ttwGBtKfrgVNQYd1TohdNVwNVdF3kf588EjvY2VuP2_N6JZxEGZF5oeOCcFAnFBTTRFyYykpEjxN-H45lKbWXx-qnnXjVKZAnUfbeKEQSOnlu_ufdPAKzHEQU/s1600/Rwanda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKGrOnCbq4v7EQf63B9ttwGBtKfrgVNQYd1TohdNVwNVdF3kf588EjvY2VuP2_N6JZxEGZF5oeOCcFAnFBTTRFyYykpEjxN-H45lKbWXx-qnnXjVKZAnUfbeKEQSOnlu_ufdPAKzHEQU/s400/Rwanda.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At the time few people had even heard of the green and hilly landlocked nation wherein we carried out our work protecting mountain gorillas. Even I’d seldom heard the place mentioned while growing up in Africa. Cartographers were never sure how to spell it. ‘Ruanda-Urundi’ as it was known during German colonial rule would sometimes turn up on modern maps. That it was the setting for <i>Gorillas in the Mist</i> was the extent of most people’s knowledge of Rwanda<i>.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">All that changed on April 6</span><span style="font: 8.0px Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> 1994 after the Rwandan president’s plane got shot down and the country quickly descended into bloody anarchy. In an effort to wipe out an entire ethnic group, for the next hundred days bloodthirsty vigilante groups hacked to death hundreds of thousands of innocent men, women and children, in what became known as the Rwandan Genocide.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We feared the worst when we were unable to reach wildlife veterinarian Dr Louis Nzeyimana, who was trapped in Kigali with his wife and seven month-old baby. For the first few days we remained completely powerless. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile the space shuttle Endeavour was in orbit, doing what it was sent up to do, scanning the gorilla habitat. Astronaut Rich Clifford who was on board at the time recalls the operation. “Radar imagery of the gorilla enclave in Rwanda during the STS-59 mission proved the value of the Spaceborne Imaging Radar... Visual observations of the enclave during the mission were usually obscured by clouds or darkness. The imaging radar could ‘see’ through the obscuration and thus valuable information was obtained.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Although undetectable from space, and invisible in the resulting images, Endeavour’s radar could also ‘see’ the killing fields of Rwanda, where one of the most horrifying acts in human history was unfolding. Consequently NASA refused to give us the data fearing they may be accused of spying. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Suddenly our little organisation was in the wrong place at the wrong time, trying to promote an obscure cause which seemed inappropriate during such a time for Rwandans. Gorilla conservationists argued that as incongruous as they may seem in the midst of war and genocide, these large charismatic mammals could one day be a boon to the effort to rebuild this country. And they were right.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was one of the lowest points in my career. Often during office hours I would head to the local pub in the afternoon and start downing whiskeys. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But my dramas were of no account compared to the human suffering in Rwanda. On the Friday morning after the bloodshed began, Louis Nzeyimana finally reached me by phone from the hotel Mille Collines (later immortalised in the movie <i>Hotel Rwanda</i>). </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I’m taking my family,” he said, voice quivering as he struggled with his English, “and we are fleeing Kigali today in the 4x4 vehicle.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Where will you go?” I asked.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“To Goma,” he replied, “in Zaire, where hopefully we can get on a plane to Nairobi.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Listen," I said. "There’s an eight-week conservation education course starting in the Cotswolds next month. I’ll enroll you and hopefully that will enable all three of you to get UK visas.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It seemed <a href="http://www.franksmyth.com/escape/people-in-the-mist/" target="_blank">an impossible journey</a>, along a road littered with dead bodies and barricaded with more than sixty road blocks manned by murder-drunk vigilantes. Louis was from the right tribe but his wife was not, though her papers stated otherwise. And although she was uncharacteristically petit, his tallness made him suspect to pig-ignorant vigilantes. At times it was only the gorilla logo on the side of the charity’s car that saved them, provoking cheers of solidarity from genociders who then allowed them to pass. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It took them ten hours to drive 200 kilometres. They crossed the border at 6 o’clock arriving at Goma International Airport barely in time to make the last flight out. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I called the British High Commission in Nairobi and convinced them to issue Louis and his family visas on a Saturday, which kept immigration off their backs when they arrived at Heathrow the following morning. I’ll never forget the look of utter release on the Nzeyimanas' faces as they pushed through the gates. They lived with us for the next month in our small council flat in north London, and I never once saw her put that baby down. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">They never returned to Rwanda. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile gorilla patron Arthur C. Clarke was urging the American space agency to hand over the habitat radar data, saying, “I’m sure if this information is released properly, it will bring the best possible publicity to Nasa.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">NASA wrote back, “We are happy to report that data were successfully acquired on two passes over the site, on Orbit 58 and Orbit 171. Images have been processes at JPL for the first data take and will be transmitted to the research team at Rutgers for analysis… We look forward to attempting to image the Karisoke site on our second flight in August.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“You mean you’ve never seen </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">the Floyd</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> in concert?” asked Storm, with perfect nonchalance. It was Saturday afternoon, the day after our lunch at Primates, and he had called me at home.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“No, never,” I replied.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Tonight’s their last performance at Earl’s Court,” he said. “There’ll be an access all areas pass waiting for you at the door.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I gasped. I had just been invited to the inner sanctum of a rock phenomenon that famously walled itself off from its fans. My excitement grew as I rode </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">the Tube </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">into town and a cascade of images from the band’s discography came to mind: a cow standing in the English countryside / a man diving into water without causing a ripple / rays of light / cathedrals / a floating pig / balls / coins / ticking clocks - every one a Storm Thorgerson invention.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Kensington High Street, one stop before my destination, where the band’s loyal following began in 1965 after they performed at the Countdown Club. An obscure sometimes frightening manifestation of the new psychedelic culture, the Floyd would play until dawn, set after set of eccentric rhythm and blues songs extended with lengthy solos and accompanied by mind-blowing light shows. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While fame did not grow overnight a seed was certainly sewn, or rather a magic bean, for when it did appear it was colossal. To date the Pink Floyd have sold more than 250 million records worldwide.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Expecting the clouds to part, I gazed upward as I emerged from the Underground. Masses of people were queuing outside the venue. After a record thirteen nights at Earls Court tickets were a premium for this final performance of one of rock’s most monumental acts. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Eventually I located the stage door where I was meant to pick up my pass and stood in line with Mike Rutherford, the bassist from Genesis. Smiling, I said, “Loved your album <i>Smallcreep’s Day.</i>” He smiled back.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Uncertain what an AAA pass meant at first, I quickly discovered I could to go absolutely anywhere. Soon I was backstage watching a roadie hand spool a 70 millimetre film to be back-projected onto a giant circular screen behind the band on stage, for ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQM1mzmcH_Wb2MMu6mvdU7HWSnu3N4wwa-X2EcchM3mjagt4od0M6cs4gGUC7UJoypWNiNl-iPdzL3WQTmpoLE1wqxhMmTXOy_cQ9xu1AWgtJyYWvyPlhI5eo_Tw6xTcUyepI2F-RJiG8/s1600/pulse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQM1mzmcH_Wb2MMu6mvdU7HWSnu3N4wwa-X2EcchM3mjagt4od0M6cs4gGUC7UJoypWNiNl-iPdzL3WQTmpoLE1wqxhMmTXOy_cQ9xu1AWgtJyYWvyPlhI5eo_Tw6xTcUyepI2F-RJiG8/s400/pulse.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After a whole set of greats, the band broke for intermission. I wandered around the vast venue holding a plastic pint glass full of lager and whenever the whim took me, swanned through barricades manned by surly bouncers who never so much as batted an eyelid at me. I was astounded by the number of eighteen-wheeler trucks parked indoors behind the stage. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Then I heard it - a heartbeat followed by voices, machinery - and I hurried back. An unexpected treat: for the first time in many years Pink Floyd was performing <i>The Dark Side Of The Moon</i> in its entirety. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Storm </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">had decamped </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">to the mixing desk with the rest of the Cambridge Mafia, but I spent the duration of the concert riveted to the stage, standing amidst fifty thousand enthralled fans, transfixed by Rock’s supreme <i>son et lumière</i>. I had been waiting for this moment for twenty years. And I got to tell this to the band in person after the show. ("C'mon it's time to go...")</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">~~~</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisPTFrI7ld5Q-dwD_hHPacIsnDsewPTDHswZ4ucB3FaZxLtguHgrxS5qj04yBtQ_PBfT8HgsnaIOh-hi7_DQ_N_ljlwqNJFl8_SbciFHbPKcSzfWt7sg0KZtvjWFQ3RqzE2ucHyxj-iBI/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisPTFrI7ld5Q-dwD_hHPacIsnDsewPTDHswZ4ucB3FaZxLtguHgrxS5qj04yBtQ_PBfT8HgsnaIOh-hi7_DQ_N_ljlwqNJFl8_SbciFHbPKcSzfWt7sg0KZtvjWFQ3RqzE2ucHyxj-iBI/s400/tree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“What’s the point of having a dream team if you’re not prepared to fucking listen to them?” scoffed Storm. It was the following Spring and we were making a short film together, a goodwill message from Arthur C. Clarke to be shown at the London premiere of <i>Congo</i>. It wasn’t the film I had originally envisioned Storm making, but there wasn’t any money for that.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">With Clarke’s greeting from Sri Lanka in the can, he now wanted to shoot a closeup of the author’s books but I objected to the additional cost. Storm did not back down. After thirty years of explaining his vision to music industry morons, he was hardly going to yield to a neophyte like me. Moreover he was my hero. “Alright!” I said, “we’ll do it your way.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The next morning, I carted a stack of science fiction paperbacks down to King Studios in Soho and found him at the controls of a 35 millimetre rostrum camera, which had been designed to animate still objects. Silently, between sips of tea, he arranged the books on a table beneath the camera, then rolled the film and slowly panned the books. Moving diagonally and capturing every tear and dog-eared corner, he told an unexpected story, different than what was written in the books, or I had envisaged. It was freaking alchemy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We became good friends. His studio in Belsize Park was a mere ten-minute walk from my office, and I’d often visit and watch him work. I loved listening to his stories and found his mordant sense of humour an antidote to the terrible things that were happening in my life. He shone a light.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHXr8Kl_MY6ndFK5rB_0Sic8rY5VAjqDGmDpJvEPV7_nikGJBQoMCiYLxavYz6DjAn9frcEBffkC55Hyr2tiPvA8JhnfAQJxW0i4uTqMWQNCkeaVeQukzHh1vvdVpDLTtu87aOZr33xA/s1600/f4d4e4b7acc5cf215c084bb9d1de63e4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHXr8Kl_MY6ndFK5rB_0Sic8rY5VAjqDGmDpJvEPV7_nikGJBQoMCiYLxavYz6DjAn9frcEBffkC55Hyr2tiPvA8JhnfAQJxW0i4uTqMWQNCkeaVeQukzHh1vvdVpDLTtu87aOZr33xA/s400/f4d4e4b7acc5cf215c084bb9d1de63e4.jpg" width="252" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My chance to return the favour came on New Year’s Day 2001. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Storm was writing a book called ‘The Book of Black Things’ and wanted Arthur </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">C. Clarke </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">to write the forward.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Arthur was in London on a rare visit to Britain. He'd come for a special screening of <i>2001: A Space Odyssey </i>at the National Film Theatre, a new 70mm print with digitally remastered sound. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After the screening we were invited to meet Arthur at Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair. He wasn't feeling too energetic and chose to receive us upstairs in his suite. Brother Fred ushered us into the room. There beneath plush covers, a stack of satin pillows propped up behind his magnificent bespectacled head, was the world’s greatest futurist, cracking asides with pinch-me-I’m-famous incredulity. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“I feel as though there should be a monolith in the room,” quipped Arthur with his arm outstretched, aping the rapidly ageing Dave Bowman in the penultimate scene of <i>2001</i>.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjy7ZUdi73ufLRzyBHqYbN8IgE7G2otsnpjRInPXqycz_4R8JN2FkAgzmy_zEJc0wmMAYSa3QEE9NtTaJYyFOlpy2wIz87qtdjKHQhMqY_BKJlrcv3QX04a-Eyp-4jpMRqpChFDmYU3jI/s1600/exhibit07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjy7ZUdi73ufLRzyBHqYbN8IgE7G2otsnpjRInPXqycz_4R8JN2FkAgzmy_zEJc0wmMAYSa3QEE9NtTaJYyFOlpy2wIz87qtdjKHQhMqY_BKJlrcv3QX04a-Eyp-4jpMRqpChFDmYU3jI/s400/exhibit07.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Arthur agreed to Storm’s request for a forward, though in the end </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">‘The Book of Black Things’</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> was never published.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px color: #000000; text-decoration: underline;"><b>Subject: </b></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><b>Re: jungle love</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b></b></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>hi greg</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>my my its you</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>didnt know you'd left gorillaville</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>but not before time i guess</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>uganda?</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>why uganda?</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>glad to hear about writing...keep at it</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>if it were easy everybody would do it</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>my life has been plagued with illness</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>first the stroke rendered me disabled</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>then...</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>a barrel of laughs to be sure</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>take care</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>storm</i></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9hy2UvmI4edTNMuE4OgXtJqC1XSMDNDFljVr67VwlS5Lrg4PwTt1TxU1SCV6z1I262KbDfSJRm31cqCvrImNlgd4euveMi1AoXabcqPtFoXGt49OKp5Q6KHkerd0Z6hlO3ncL8FeNvc/s1600/d7c69249e884e2b1693ed994069c78b7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9hy2UvmI4edTNMuE4OgXtJqC1XSMDNDFljVr67VwlS5Lrg4PwTt1TxU1SCV6z1I262KbDfSJRm31cqCvrImNlgd4euveMi1AoXabcqPtFoXGt49OKp5Q6KHkerd0Z6hlO3ncL8FeNvc/s400/d7c69249e884e2b1693ed994069c78b7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">With Storm’s passing there remains only absence, a sustained chord searching for accompaniment, as palpable as his creations, the perplexing album sleeves he designed, the superfantastic films he made, the larger-than-rock events he staged, from Marrakech to Battersea, proving pigs <i>can</i> fly. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He was a pillar of strength to me when the temple came tumbling down around me. He understood that there is a dark side to everything but that it’s <i>not</i> all dark. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Shine on Storm!</span></span></div>
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-32170634416074999362013-07-12T23:17:00.000-07:002013-07-17T23:40:15.172-07:00The Blinding Geezer from Carlisle<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?-->
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Looking back, I can now make sense of that bleak semester I spent alone at the Quarry in Surrey. The previous six months I had witnessed a military coup in Thailand, famine in Ethiopia, and been arrested for espionage in the Yemen. The 17<sup>th</sup> century cottage on the estate of Lady Bronwen Astor proved the perfect sanctuary. </div>
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I’d been almost everywhere yet belonged nowhere. Born in an affluent North American city, shortly thereafter I was dragged off to live in hot, difficult places. This made me an outsider, a ‘reverse-refugee’. The move to England was meant to straighten me out. But shell-shocked, disorientated, and in low orbit around London, I seemed incapable of kick-starting that career in journalism.</div>
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One blustery night in May, on the eve of my twenty fourth birthday, I was in my room listening to the wireless. Storm clouds were gathering and the treetops teetered back and forth. The antique wooden writing desk opposite my bed, its bevelled top slid open to reveal an untidy array of handwritten notes and unfinished stories, and my Canon Typemate portable electronic typewriter were all covered in a layer of dust.</div>
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I was studying the world map on my wall, searching the continents between the Tropics for somewhere warm and exciting to go next, when the door bell rang. A visitor, now?</div>
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I hurried down the stairs to the front door and opened it. There stood a wiry young man, his face covered in self-styled anarchic tattoos. “Hiya,” he said grinning. “I’m Andrew. I’ll be staying for the week.”</div>
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I scratched my head. “Ah, Andrew. Lady Astor said you might be coming, but I wasn’t expecting you for a couple more days.”</div>
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“Well here I am. Fancy a pint?” Looking up at sky I wondered if the idea might be a bit rash, but he insisted. “I‘d really like to celebrate. It’s my first night out of prison.”</div>
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I grabbed my coat and an umbrella and we headed to the nearest pub. The look in his eyes as he tasted his first glass of Chippington’s is still fresh in my mind. He couldn’t say enough about how good it felt to be free.</div>
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Andy was a kindred spirit, another lost soul confined to the periphery of society. Our paths could not have been more disparate - his eighteen month in prison for assault and car theft began about the same the time I dropped out of university to conquer the world - but now they had crossed, at the gates to the asylum.</div>
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“Her ladyship asked me what I wanted to do with my life,” he said, eyes darting around the pub. “What sort a question is that for a twenty year old Guilford punk from Carlisle, just out of prison? I’m happy if I get a job as a street sweeper and somet better than a squat to kip in.”</div>
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We shot a few games of pool, sized up the talent, then headed back to the Quarry. On the way home I let slip my birthday was tomorrow. “Blinding!” he said. “I’ll bake you a cake.”</div>
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The next morning I found him in the kitchen whipping up the icing. He had already baked a dozen cup cakes and prepared as many sandwiches. “I hate the bloody Queen!” he said, frantically beating the bowl. “I mean, why should she have two birthdays, eh? Why not one, like with everybody else in the world, you know.”</div>
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I was touched. Someone I hardly knew putting all this care and attention into celebrating my birthday. “I’m throwing you a party. Already invited some people. We’ll need supplies.”</div>
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In town we picked up a litre each of whisky, vodka. and scotsmac. Andy tried to score some gear from an old mate, offering him an invitation to our party as payment, but the geezer said he had a wife and kid to think about now. In the end only Sister Andrew dropped by the Quarry, briefly for a nip of whisky and a piece of cake.</div>
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As the night progressed Andy acted out stories from his ‘jack up days’ in Guildford. “I was living with Sharon, beautiful Sharon, hooked on smack and fixing in squat toilets. I remember her shuddering in my arms like a kitten. I brought my hand back to give her a slap, like. But it was too hard. I couldn’t hurt a girl like that. It was like she wanted me to hate her, you know.”</div>
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We talked until dawn when I bid him good night. It was the last I ever saw of him. Later I was awakened by the police. Lady Astor’s BMW had been stolen. They found it wrapped around a tree a few miles away. And Andy was on the run.<br />
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Bronwen blamed me, said I must have encouraged him. I was heartbroken. Why hadn’t the blinding geezer from Carlisle asked me to come with him?</div>
Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-85926570985364870322013-04-07T07:26:00.004-07:002013-06-18T11:19:38.575-07:00A terrifying trip through the heart of Africa<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This in-depth review of GORILLALAND, written by Lisa Niver Rajna was published September 2012, <a href="http://technorati.com/lifestyle/travel/article/gorillaland-by-greg-cummings/" target="_blank">Technorati website</a>. </span></i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Greg Cumming’s Gorillaland describes a compelling and </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">terrifying trip through the heart of Africa. The reader is treated to a cast of characters like individual strings in a Byzantine intrigue, from the pristine to the corrupt, to the archetypal and historical. When each is tightened into place and woven more completely together the story's tapestry reveals the chaos, greed, natural beauty and power of Earth's largest continent.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While following the story of minerals like diamonds and coltan, Cummings work exhibits a remarkable level of understanding of the issues. Richard Katz, the “Jewish” Diamond King from South Africa to New York, Natalie, the up and coming young NGO executive from WorldWatch, Derek, the rebel cowboy guide complete with boots are like Broadway Musical stars waiting for their solo to share their side of the story. Their arguments with each other pale when they become entangled with the rebel general and warlord Cosmo Zomba wa Zomba who has killed not hundreds, as the International Criminal Court in the Hague says, but thousands. Nearly all the characters are chasing the chance to restore the honor of a family member, an opportunity for bloodline healing. Lions are not the only predators in this story; crocs, revenge, and the past all come back to bite you in this story.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The setting of this story is the Congo, “The place is fantastical, with all its erupting volcanoes, exploding lakes, impenetrable jungles and, of course, the river. Add human suffering to the mix and you have the perfect setting for a movie.” The issues of saving silverback gorillas, who are being hunted as food and for witchcraft rituals, as well as the drama of how to remove resources from the Earth and what constitutes fair trade are enough for a blockbuster. But add in centuries of African struggle and conflict of religion, culture and the story really takes off. The additional issues of international aid from foreign countries, corruption in the military, and various feuds, boils this story into a cauldron that must erupt nearly as certainly as the possible explosion of Lake Kivu!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The anecdotes and life stories of the main characters explain the hardship and devastation of this vast land. Using the characters' personal histories as context ..... Pedro’s loss of his entire Rwandan family living in Uganda due to the ravages of AIDS. The reader learns without feeling lectured. The "Lost Boys" tragedy of being torn from family or watching them suffer reveal how this army of young soldiers has been twisted into place. The ever present and lovely-looking yet nefarious Madame Nshuti, with a curious scar under her wig, a poorly ended affair with Derek, shows this Michele Obama of the Kivu to be a survivor but is she also a killer, and double crosser?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Natalie’s evolution is apparent when she yells at Cosmo while in the jungle, “You don’t frighten me. You disgust me. You think you rule the Congo? You don’t. When the real rain of progress falls on this country, murderers like you and Duke will simply melt away in the jungle, never to be seen again.” Many of the characters are forced to reconsider their life-long attitudes of hate to others especially Duke, who “was sworn to hate the Hamites.” Yet after interactions with Pedro, a Tutsi, he must alter his thoughts.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The moments for key players to cross and double-cross each other with arms deals, mineral wealth and loss of life seems to the reader like watching a tennis match. Which side is winning? Will evil overtake all? Just when you think you know what will happen next, some natural disaster like looming lava or great earthquakes disrupt all especially those on the river in their iroko pirogues.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In our technically-evolved world, we forget that nations have found ways to speak to each other. “Hakuna raisaux,’ said a Mai Mai soldier wearing the mane of a bush pig on his head, ‘we have no (cell) network here, but you can drum him a message, and it will reach that side now-now. I speak Balanga drum.” From far away, it is hard to understand or even imagine the jungle world of the Congo; this story brings light to so many critical elements of Africa that we should learn to understand.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Derek sums it up at one point, “You have to hand it to the Congalese for remaining so optimistic in the face of such adversity. I mean, these people have nothing: no government, no institutions, no infrastructure, nothing. Yet they still have a touching belief that great things will happen in Congo.”</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Lisa Niver Rajna, Greg Cummings and Richard <br />Bangs pose with the Caped Crusader in Bel Air</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On a personal note, I met the author, Greg Cummings, at a private screening in Bel Air. His astonishing first-hand knowledge of Africa, the gorillas and all the players in the madhouse of the jungle make this moving story very real. I know that his efforts to improve mining conditions and also help the gorillas have made for some of the best on-the-ground advocacy from the region. My elementary school students and I were fortunate to have him come and share his passionate intensity with us. We look forward to being part of the grassroots solution with creating more gorilla-friendly electronic devices, like cell phones and computers. Perhaps we can help to save this unique animal and even learn how to save ourselves.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>Gorillaland by Greg Cummings is available as an ebook and hardback at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gorillaland-Greg-Cummings/dp/1908122307/" target="_blank">Amazon</a></i></span><br />
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Gorillaland Safarishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18050299123109314463noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6572407534829133867.post-4655632679008187232013-03-29T07:05:00.001-07:002013-04-16T07:16:37.332-07:00Cosmo's Journey Down the Lomami River<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Excerpt from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gorillaland-Greg-Cummings/dp/1908122307/" target="_blank">Gorillaland</a> </i>(Cutting Edge Press, London 2012) by Greg Cummings</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>C</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">osmo had spent the night following a surreptitious path westward across the jungle, down the gradual incline that separates the tributaries of the Lomami from those of the Congo, past innumerable trees bearing baleful warnings, carved into their trunks or hanging from their branches, and through death’s other kingdom. He’d walked for the whole of the night without rest and, as the sun rose above the trees, he was sweating through his beret, and his eyes were like molten lava rocks behind his glasses. Despite the discomfort, he wore his thick camouflage jacket bearing the blood-red mark of <i>Mani Kongo. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When the <i>bazungu</i> first passed this way a hundred years ago, they believed they were discoving somewhere no civilised person had ever seen before. And yet beneath their boots were the ruins of two great African kingdoms. Over hundreds of years the kingdoms of Kongo and Lunda had flourished, controlling the mineral trade in and out of the Congo, and even sending ambassadors to the Vatican. In time they succumbed to mercenaries, slavers and foreign plundering, and had now all but disappeared. That was centuries before Livingstone and Stanley ever set foot here, yet they called themselves ‘explorers’. Africa was littered with the tombstones of <i>bazungu </i>who<i> </i>never bothered to take the time to learn about the place. Cosmo stopped to behold a watercourse beyond the trees and smiled. At last he had reached the banks of the Lomami River.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The longitudinal Lomami was a very different kind of river than those that usually flowed through the Congo Basin. On first inspection it bore no sign of sentient life whatsoever, yet it had once been a main navigation route, connecting the south of the country to the Congo River. Over the centuries, and right up to the present day, the Lomami had witnessed some of the most horrific acts of inhumanity anywhere. More than any other watercourse, it harboured the tormented souls from Congo’s bloody history, and it had always been the last line of Cosmo’s defence.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">His prize possession was exactly where he’d left it six months previously, fully armed and ready to go: a fifty-foot, aluminium-hulled Swift Boat. If there was one good thing about the Left Bank, it was that you could always leave your hardware unattended and no one would dare touch it. He climbed aboard, pulled the fallen branches and vines from the deck, as well as the handful of evil totems he’d scattered across the bow to ward off any brave intruders, and untied the boat from its berth. It was the same iroko<i> </i>tree to which the boat had had always been tied. When Cosmo bought it off General Kiko five years earlier, he found it moored to this tree on the riverbank. A decade before that when Kiko first stumbled across it, he too found the Swift Boat tied up in the same place in the jungle. No one knew its origin, but one thing was for certain, the boat was unfailingly river-ready, and provided the fastest possible way out of the jungle.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A few years back he’d replaced the old engines with twin 580-horsepower Detroit Diesels, and the eighty-one-millimetre gun at the rear with a cupola-mounted MK19 machine gun. What else did he have to spend his money on? He now checked that the grenade ammunition was still in the hold. It was there, along the ammo for the rear machine guns. After turning over the engine a couple of times without ignition, he checked the battery connection, then tried again, and it coughed and sputtered, but eventually started. Cosmo eased the boat away from the bank and headed north down the brown Lomami River in the direction of Opala, which at a speed of twenty knots, with a five-knot current, it would take him the rest of the day to reach. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As the Swift Boat arced around a bend, the river appeared tranquil and barren. Cosmo knew otherwise and almost instinctively observed every symbol and sign that had been scratched in the trees, or arranged with stones on the riverbanks, left there by those who had preceded him along the deadly Lomami. Some warned of rebels and mercenaries, others of evil spirits, and places to be avoided at all costs. Cosmo did not fear the supernatural, though he respected it. The power of <i>muti</i> was strong and he sought to make use of its forces for his own practical purposes. He rarely consulted witch doctors, believing he already possessed all their talents and more and, though he had marshalled the power of <i>muti</i> often, black magic was just another arrow in Cosmo’s quiver. He had learned how best to administer fear as a means to an end and didn’t let the <i>muti</i> haunt him like it did so many other warriors lurking in the shadows of the Left Bank.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Nudging down against the tree line, the sun was yet stoking the afternoon heat, while the air hung still and sticky on the river. Cosmo slowed the engines right down, as his Swift Boat approached Opala, gradually and silently drifting up to the village dock: a few sticks in the mud on the riverbank, strewn with tattered fishing nets. Except for a single, piercing, monotonous cicada song, there was no sign of life. The village appeared to have been abandoned in haste, with utensils, tools and root vegetables still out on empty stalls. Cosmo was on his guard, knowing he was probably being watched by unseen eyes in the forest. People in this part of the jungle were known to leave their valuables lying around by the riverside, unattended, to lure people ashore, while they lurked in the dark. When a visitor laid a hand on any of it, they were caught, flayed alive, and added to the local food chain.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Cosmo had seen things at the back of Opala’s upright mud and thatch huts to make his steely blood curdle: ghastly instruments of <i>muti</i> that should have been buried long ago. Hidden in wooden boxes in that unholy ground behind the lattice bamboo fencing, amid the grim fetishes and rotting peculiarities, dwelled the horror many had written about but few ever saw. It was back there, locked away, if anyone dared look: a mirror for the dark recesses of the soul. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">An old palm tree bent over the river provided a mooring for the boat, and Cosmo advanced cautiously through the village, trying not to disturb anything. He had his Glock in one hand and, held high in the other, a live grenade with its arm taped down, to let whoever was watching know he meant business. As he approached the shadows behind the village, away from the riverbank, the air became rife with the smell of death and decay, and he began to see evidence of their grotesque carnivorous appetites. Bleached white human skulls ornamented the streets, while a multitude of thighbones and ribs lay piled in a rubbish pit behind the cluster of huts. Scraps of palm nuts, bananas, sugar cane and cassava at least testified to a varied diet. Then from somewhere nearby he heard the sound of a log drum, tapped in slow succession: <i>tuc dun, tuc dun, tuc dun. </i>Cosmo understood it to mean ‘welcome’, so he worked the pin back into his grenade and holstered his pistol, then continued into the forest, guided by the sound of the two-tone drum.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As the gloom of the jungle encircled him, he was compelled to remove his shades to find his way through the thick entanglement of thorns and stinging nettles. Every few metres, planted atop a stake in the ground, was a grinning skull, some human, some ape, with many more in the mud bearing only their remains. Then he came to a passageway some twenty metres long, which he had no choice but to stoop and enter, or else turn back. It was an indestructible edifice, constructed from timbers and twine, and tightly woven into a tunnel, with overhead loopholes through which an unwelcome intruder could be speared. Inside the walls glistened with blood, and his way through was impeded by the stench as much as the confined space. When at last he emerged gagging at the other end he found a group of men in a smoky clearing, around a cache of weapons, and wearing caps of colobus monkey and antelope skin. Their greeting was unspoken, as they preferred to engage in a wordless standoff of cocksure postures and cold stares, enhanced by their weird surroundings as much as their attire.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Behind them stood a lavish shrine, made of a multitude of polished elephant tusks encircling a crude wooden statue, about two metres high, depicting a man with wide brown eyes and long lashes, who had a small, thin-lipped mouth and a straight, narrow nose, and was wearing a pith helmet and khakis<i>.</i> The effigy was similar to the witty carvings he’d often seen in the Congo, typifying the <i>colon</i>, only this one was much larger, with brown rather than pink skin. Despite having the lithe features of a <i>muzungu</i>, Cosmo knew it to be a likeness of the great Congolese soldier, Ngongo Lutete. General Kiko and his Mai Mai rebels believed they could fully resurrect him, and that once restored to life, the legendary cannibal warrior would lead them to victory against any enemy. The ritual required the eating of a <i>muzungu, </i>along with copious quantities of iboga (a highly psychoactive African shaman’s root found only in the jungle) within the confines of the ivory shrine. Although iboga was plentiful in this part of the jungle, <i>bazungu </i>were scarce. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The drumming ceased as General Kiko stood up from the centre of the clearing. He was a light-skinned, clean-shaven man, in his late thirties (though he looked to be in his twenties), with the letter ‘K’ carved across each cheek, and missing an eye, but he kept a pink, glow-in-the-dark golf ball in its socket. On his lumpy head, he wore a lime green wool cap pierced with countless little shards of human bone, battle souvenirs so dense it looked like chain-mail armour. His outfit was less idiosyncratic: olive gumboots, a pair of baggy, navy Adidas track bottoms, and a brown, long-sleeve T-shirt, boasting a picture of an AK-47 and the slogan, ‘<i>When every motherfucking person in the room has to die</i>’ in yellow. He stepped forward and glowered at Cosmo, who was much taller than him. With all that had passed between them, who knew what this short, capricious warlord might do next. ‘<i>Chipu!</i>’ he rasped, finally throwing a brotherly hug around his old adversary.<i> ‘</i>Welcome back to the Theft Bank, motherfucker.’ </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘Kiko, you old Crane,’ said Cosmo. ‘<i>Kuma mayo! Vipi</i>?’<i> </i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The generals stood back and regarded each other with mutual admiration. ‘Eh!’ sneered Kiko, strutting and gesticulating like a gangster. ‘But we are just here, somehow waiting, listening to the radio, hearing all about Zomba wa Zomba’s greedy escapades, and wondering when we were going to get our share.’</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘It was not possible to contact you before now.’</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘I see you’ve come empty-handed, Zomba. Where’s your precious livestock?’</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘A day’s walk from here, under guard in the forest.’</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘Mmm-mm!’ slavered Kiko, slapping a hand on Cosmo’s shoulder. ‘OK. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars a kilo for them, my friend.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘Why don’t we put aside talk of <i>nyama</i> <i>bazungu</i> for a moment?’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘<i>Eh!</i>’ laughed Kiko, sitting back down, and looking incredulously at the soldiers in their animal skins flanking him, who all nodded in accord with their fearsome commander. ‘What else is there?’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Cosmo grabbed a seat, dragging over the bleached skull of a forest elephant and placing it opposite Kiko, then, leaning forward to make sure they all saw the eye-catching crest on his jacket, said, ‘I want to raise a fighting force, powerful enough to take on the UN.’ </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘You can’t take on all those <i>muhindi</i>,’ laughed General Kiko, and his soldiers agreed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘Not alone … That’s why I need you to join forces with me. With your Mai Mai rebels, and my heavy hardware<i>,</i> together with the Balanga warriors Duke’s training, and any other capable soldier who wants to join, we’ll at least have the numbers and firepower to attack the UN base in Kisangani.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The idea intrigued Kiko, who thought about it for a moment, before shaking his head and folding his arms. ‘<i>Hapana!</i> I prefer to work alone.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘Look, this isn’t about raiding villages for food and pleasure, <i>rafiki. </i>I’m talking about a mighty rebel army, the like of which has not been seen since the Simba Rebellion, capable of driving the UN out of the Democratic Republic of Congo.’ He leaned further forward conspiratorially, glaring with eyes the hue of a burning sunset, and whispered, ‘We’ll even raise the great Ngongo Lutete, to lead us into battle.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">General Kiko smiled, looked back at his ivory shrine to the statue of Ngongo Lutete, then began stroking his chin and nodding slowly. ‘A mighty rebel army, you say.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘The Kongo Liberation Front,’ said Cosmo, rising from his elephant stool, ‘inspired by the ancient Kingdom of Kongo! I know you can marshal the numbers from the Mai Mai spread around this forest. Can’t you imagine it? A new, terrifying rebel army, storming Kisangani and taking control of the UN base. You could play your fucking bagpipes, Kiko!That always scares the hell out of them ...’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘My one-of-a-kind bagpipes, yes … But there are many peacekeepers in Congo, my friend.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘Who are almost all in the jungle dealing with the Kivu crisis. We need to strike now! We’ll train for a couple of days, then storm the base and take hostages,Ith only one demand: the UN <i>get out of Congo </i>...’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘You haven’t you had your fill of hostages by now?’ said Kiko, signalling for one of his men to fetch him his bagpipes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘It’s been hell. I made the mistake of taking them through the jungle. We should have held the hostages in the Walikale Hilton, executing them one by one, for every day that passed without a ransom.’ </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘The UN base is still heavily guarded,’ warned Kiko.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘I am also heavily armed. Is the howitzer where I left it?’ Kiko nodded and grinned. ‘Good. Tonight I’ll make a brief reconnaissance trip with the Swift Boat. When I get back, we’ll discuss the battle plan.’ </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The soldier returned with what looked like ordinary Scottish pipes, decorated in a green-and-red tartan, and Kiko arranged them under his arm and began to blow into his singular instrument, filling the leather bag with air, then squeezing the wind through the pipes, while fingering the different notes, and the forest resonated with a stirring lament. He was good at it, having spent hours on end practising in the jungle, after learning the basics from a Scotsman he once knew in Kindu. He had fashioned them from the belly of the very same Scot.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘So do we have a deal?’ asked Cosmo, extending his hand.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘We do,’ replied Kiko, cutting short his tune to shake it. ‘But I also want my <i>nyama</i>!’</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘No problem. I’ll let Duke know,’ said Cosmo, taking his phone from his jacket pocket.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">‘<i>Hakuna raisaux</i>,’ said a Mai Mai soldier wearing the mane of a bush pig on his head, ‘we have no network here, but you can drum him a message, and it will reach that side now-now. I speak Balanga drums. Tell me what you want to say.’ </span></span></div>
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