Rooting for the World (7/19/2026)

I have been watching the FIFA World Cup and rooting for the country of my birth, the Congo, which was eliminated; the country where I grew up, Curaçao, also eliminated; the country of my original nationality, the Netherlands, eliminated as well; the United States, the country of my current citizenship, eliminated in a somewhat embarrassing way; and Belgium, because when I was born, the Congo was still a Belgian colony. No wonder I feel somewhat conflicted. Am I a man without a country, a man with too many countries, or simply a man of the world? Let’s assume it is the latter: a man of the world, free to root for any football team I choose.

As you may know, I have traveled extensively, lived in at least eight countries, and experienced a great deal. Let’s not even talk about all the countries I have visited. The other day, at our UU church, we did a word association exercise. When I heard the word “free,” it took me back to a day in late April or early May of 1979. We had been under a two- to three-week siege in Uganda, fearing for our lives almost daily. One day, just after noon, we heard tanks and heavy equipment approaching the front gate of the Leprosy Center where we worked. At first, we feared this might be the end. Then, suddenly, we realized they were Tanzanian soldiers. We had been liberated. We were free. The compound erupted with screaming, celebrating people. It was amazing to witness. We celebrated for the next couple of days. The strangest part came that on the evening of our liberation, when we listened to a Radio Netherlands broadcast. After the news, our names were announced as missing, with a request that we call home if possible. That moment captured what freedom meant.

In every country where I have lived, I have experienced something special—some moment that felt like freedom. I may not remember the earliest ones. We left the Congo when I was one and a half, moved to Belgium, and left there when I was three. Perhaps my birth itself was a kind of freedom: freedom from my mother’s womb and into life. My first real memory of freedom came on December 5, 1956, in Curaçao. I was three and a half years old when my father told me Sinterklaas had brought me a brother. Sinterklaas is the Dutch equivalent of Santa, except that we celebrate him on December 5. My brother was born that day, and I still remember my disappointment. I had asked Sinterklaas for a sister, but he gave me a brother.

The moments when I felt most free during my youth were usually spent in or on the water—swimming or sailing—or alone in nature, strolling through the bush and observing the world around me. I think I was awkward, a loner, and a bit of an introvert, with maybe one or two friends. I was never bullied or ostracized, but I do remember feeling different. My first-grade teacher told my parents, and me, that I was highly intelligent and would become a professor. My second-grade teacher hated me. I received many beatings from her with a ruler. I am sure I was no sweetheart, but she broke a yardstick on my behind almost every week. Corporal punishment was common in those days, especially in her classroom. I complained to my mother, and she told me, “The next time she does it, get up and walk out of the class to the principal.” Well, I got up—but instead of going to the principal, I walked home, more than an hour in the stifling tropical heat. Free at last. The teacher never reported my absence, so my mother eventually reported it to the principal. Things improved after that: freedom from the daily beatings. I still remember the teacher’s first name: Babs.

Has my ultimate freedom come with retirement? I wish. I am now the president of our church, I still have a mortgage, and I now have a loan for the Airstream. In addition, I depend on the government for Social Security and Medicare. I pay taxes and need a license to drive. I had better stop here. No, I am not a libertarian, but I am as free as I can be—or at least as free as I can feel. Maybe freedom is not the absence of obligations, but the moments I spend on the water, in nature, and out in the world: listening to a concert, traveling, and camping. I hope you feel free too.

We were happy to watch Spain win, although it would have been wonderful for Messi and Argentina as well. We had no strong favorite, which left us free to watch the game without bias and without ties to either country.

We were kayaking the other day (after a long hiatus).  It felt great to be on the water again!

Uganda here we come (03/17/2026)

The couple was aimlessly wandering through the departure halls of Zanventem, the international airport of Brussels in Belgium. He was 24 and she was 22. It was February 1978 and they were filled with apprehension. They had met two years earlier and got married 7 months ago and now they were going to the man’s first full-time job as farm manager at a leprosy center in Uganda. It was 10 o’clock in the evening. They were taking a Sabena (the Belgium National Airline) flight to Nairobi, Kenya and from there to Entebbe, Uganda. Into the unknown.

At the time of their move, Uganda was ruled by the ruthless dictator Idi Amin who had given himself the title "His Excellency, President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular." He was known for the deportation of all Asians in the country and a brutal murderer of anyone who opposed him. Moreover, flying to Entebbe meant they were going to the airport that was famous for the hostage crises and Israeli raid of 1976. Everybody they knew told them that they were crazy and that they were going to be in severe danger by going there. The couple kept telling themselves that leprosy would repel anyone that could threaten their lives; people were afraid of that biblical disease called leprosy, or so they thought. Now these two were not religious, they went for humanistic reasons and for adventure. Little did they know what would happen in the next year and a half.

The two had arrived in Brussels in the morning by train from Rotterdam. They deposited their luggage at the hotel from where the Sabena shuttle to the airport would leave that evening. Having time to spare, it was time to do some sightseeing: the Great Market and Manneken Pis, have a last Trappist beer and a nice dinner. After that, they sat in the hotel lobby waiting for the shuttle to the airport.

Their flight left Brussels around midnight. They were flying over the Sahara when the sun came up. It was one of the most beautiful sights they had ever witnessed in their young lives; parts of the mountains and dunes illuminated by the orange light of the rising sun, while the opposing sides of hills were still in the dark.

They never exited the plane in Nairobi, but they could feel the warm tropical air rushing into the cabin when the doors opened to let passengers off and allow new ones to come on board. Th majority of the embarking folks were Africans and so, the ethnic makeup of the passengers changed dramatically. Reality hit, they suddenly realized that they were no longer in Europe but were entering dark Africa.

The landing into Entebbe gave them some beautiful views of Lake Victoria and their first Ugandan villages down below. Once landed the plane taxied to the terminal where they were greeted by a huge banner with the face of that ruthless Ugandan dictator, Idi Amin Dada, the conqueror of the British Empire. The banner was draped from the roof of the arrival building and reached all the way to the ground. Now in 2026 the couple is being reminded of that sight by similar banners with the picture of the current U.S. president that are draped of buildings. Let’s not talk about Amin’s massive deportation drive of folks that had migrated into Uganda and did not look like him. Nothing new under the sun.

Once they cleared customs, the couple was met by Pieter, the Dutch doctor and medical superintendent of the leprosy center, and Steve, the Ugandan anesthesiologist. Later they learned that Steve was a wheeler dealer for the hospital, he knew which buttons to push, who to bribe and even had sex with him. But so did the sworn bachelor Pieter, neither gentleman had ever heard of sexual harassment and avoiding sexual relationships with underlings. But after all, this was Africa and late 1970s.

Naturally, that couple were my wife and I. As you know, my writing is a collection of autobiographical sketches, environmental essays, and political commentary. Hope you enjoyed this one and it gives you an insight into my brain and who I have become over the years. Feel free to browse the keyword list for the word Uganda; there is so much more, and more to come.

Manneken Pis

The conqueror of the British Empire

Before I die and before I’m gone (1/4/2026)

How would I look back at my life, my accomplishments, regrets, failures, things or places I never did? I already have written about an eulogy as I described in part over in this blog post. But is that all? I have written about other things that are going on or have occurred in my life; however, I somehow feel more contemplative during the days with the least daylight in the year. Christmas and the new year are ideal times to reflect. Most of my regular readers know that I am not a guy for New Years resolutions. I discussed that in my recent blog post for my church and in this regular post here.

Do I feel my mortality? Maybe a little, I am getting older and I feel like I am getting slower. My joints hurt, I get mysterious muscle pains, I am looking forward to my mid-day naps, and I have become more cerebral and reflective. I am no longer that interested in the advances in biology but I have changed interests to history. I am still interested in science and I consider myself a naturalist who enjoys being out in nature and I hope to continue chronicling my forays into and opinions of the natural environment.

The truly most enjoyable things I have done in my life involved nature; those events stayed with me over the years. I have been above 14,000 feet three times in my life and those are among my favorites. The top of Mount Elgon (14,177 feet or 4321 meters), Grays Peak (14,276 feet or 4351 meters), and the north slopes of the Annapurna (we estimated to approximately 16,000 feet or 4800 meters). Our visit to Gros Morne National Park was another highlight. Finally, our hike on the Isle of Sky ranks up there as well.

My failures and most troublesome experiences include my job and stay in Uganda. I have had a difficult time holding on to jobs over the years. I am sure it was caused by my sometimes-abrasive behavior and my cynicism and sarcasm. Early on I had a difficult time compromising; but then I hate hypocrisy and that is how I perceived the world (and sometimes I still do). During my job in Nepal, I walked into my supervisor’s office and saw him bent over a chair with his pants down getting screwed in the rear by the assistant supervisor. That surely did not help, both were male and married to women. I lost my job fairly soon after that.

Anything I still want to do, experience or place I still would like to visit? I am 72 years old. How many more years do I have in me; how much longer will I live? Five, ten, fifteen, twenty years? I better hurry up. They call the 80s the slow go years (obviously even slower than right now), and the 90s the no go years. My wife thinks we will be strong and independent for a long time; seventies is the new sixties she keeps reminding me. There are places I would like to return to: Curacao, Newfoundland, Scottland, Uganda, Nepal, Japan, just to name a few. I would love to visit New Zeeland, the Easter Island, Chili, Portugal, Spain, Italy, Finland, the Faro Islands, Iceland, Alaska. Things to do? Take a Rhine cruise, eat in some high-end luxury restaurants, visit the Albuquerque balloon festival, go to the Munich October fest, take a stroll on the beach of Ipanema (I guess that I am still a dirty old man), visit Rome and Florence. I am sure there are a lot more things, but I better keep it realistic.

These are some of my thoughts about going into the new year. Politically, socially, and environmentally, 2026 is going to be an interesting, albeit very stressful year. Put on your seatbelts.

A picture from our hike on the Isle of Sky in 2011

The Stories of our Life (1/30/2025)

The folks at my church (the Unitarian Fellowship of the Peninsula) have established what are called “Fellowship Circles.” These spiritual circles are approximately eight persons strong, meet twice a month for approximately an hour and a half and discuss a specific topic. The topic this week was “The Stories of my Life.” We were asked to discuss three questions (in a round).

The questions were:
1. Tell us a story from your life that tells us something about where you came from.
2. Tell us a story from your life that tells us something about what you are.
3. Tell us a story from your life that tells us something about where you are going.

If you read my blog regularly, my possible answer to the second question should be familiar to you; this is what this blog mostly is about. I could have given four stories that address question 1. One of the stories is about the kid that was killed for stealing a pig. This happened in Uganda (1978) and the event is still haunting me. The other stories include one on how my career started; secondly about the first kiss my wife and I exchanged in 1976 while skating on the ice between Gouda and Rotterdam; and lastly the labor riots in Curacao 1969 and what this eventually led to.

Let’s start at the beginning: Curacao. I was 15, when on May 30, we were on lunch break at our high school. We were standing just outside the gate of our school, having just returned from buying some snacks at the Portuguese shop (toko, or convenience store) across the street when a huge crowed of angry protestors marched by the school on their way downtown. I was personally blown away from seeing all these angry faces walking by and so many! The school closed down and I think it was my father who picked me up. We lived on top of a hill fairly far removed from downtown (20 or so miles) but that afternoon we watched dark billowing clouds of smoke rising from the town (Willemstad). It later appeared that downtown was partially destroyed and put ablaze by the rioters. I read reports that eventually 432 rioters were arrested. Based on those numbers you can imagine how many rioters I saw that faithful morning passing by our school. The islands went into martial law for a week, and I remember 1) family friends coming over to stay with us, to be far enough from the epicenter of the riots, 2) with my father franticly driving around the island trying to find an arms dealer or some place where he could buy a weapon to defend the family, and 3) being safely at home with my scared parents and their friends. The name of the leader of the rioters was called Pappa Godett. You can just imagine what the white minority on the island was joking about or hoping for.

A little background, we had lived in the Congo and although we had not gone (suffered) through the independence war in that country (read Atwood’s “Poisonwood Bible” or Naipaul’s “A Bend in the River”). Many of my parents’ old friends (yes, white colonialists) had and had shared the horror stories with them. These riots scared my parents shitless, enough that they started panicking. Eventually things settled down, but my parents had enough; they decided to move back to the Netherlands. They stuck me on a plane in early August to start my 3rd grade (9th for those readers in the US) in high school (the move put me back one grade). I was sent to live with my aunt and her four daughters (two more or less my age) for the first few months and was reunited with my family in December of that year.

You can imagine how this shaped me. I had just discovered girls, already fallen in love at least twice and now had a steady girlfriend. These riots pulled me away from it all, my beloved island, its culture, my friends and my girlfriend. It changed my life forever, setting a course for who I am now, not better or worse. It just made me who I am today.

Stay tuned, I will write more about the next two stories that shaped me. Who knows, I may even write the story of my future in one of these posts; however, I hinted at it in my previous two posts about the workshop with Clay Jenkinson. Conversely, the current political happenings make me feel that I cannot and should not keep my mouth shut; I still have so much to say. In other words, my life stories may be interspersed by some more social and political commentary.

Yorktown Battlefield, a place where at least two battles were fought and a lot of stories were told, and lives were shaped.

Murder she wrote (10/31/2024)

The other day, my wife had a phone call from a good friend telling her that someone they knew was killed in a murder/suicide. No indication was given who did who, but it was a married couple and after the fact it came out that she frequently berated him. The guy brought calendars to her office and seemed to talk incessantly with the staff. You could not shut him up. I can just imagine that dynamic at home.

Regardless who might be the victim or the perpetrator, it brought some distant memories back to me. A little more than five years ago now, were we informed of a mass shooting in Virginia Beach. The killer turned out to be an old colleague of mine. We had somehow stayed in touch when we both left our employer in 2004. Moreover, during my stormwater training career, he attended my classes and so did the folks that he killed. At the time it affected me a lot.

The call to my wife and the awakened memories made me more contemplative for a while and I started wondering how many folks actually know a murderer or someone who was murdered. Now my wife and I both know such a person, or one (or more) of each. I absolutely do not live in a hole in the ground, and as I described here, I have had my run-in with death or killings before, but that was when we lived in Uganda more than 40 years ago. However, that does not make any killing or murder less bad; neither makes it me more callous.

In thinking about these things, I had an additional thought that disturbed me: how many white folks know a murderer or someone who was murdered vs. African American folks. I have not done any research on this subject; however, I want to bet that black folks probably on average have disproportionally more killers and deaths by murder in their lives. I am absolutely not saying that African Americans are inherently more violent. No! There are some very clear reasons for this. Let’s call it out the way it is.

Our society is a tale of two economies; it is still racist at its core and that shows up everywhere in society. Words like economic justice, environmental justice and even, and this is my word, educational justice or disparity, aptly describe some of the causes for what is going on here. African American folks get concentrated in certain areas, they have less job opportunities and if they get them, they are lower paying because of the sub-par education they have gotten. Areas with large concentration of African Americans have fewer trees, and research has shown that the average temperatures in these areas are a few degrees warmer, which causes more heat emergencies in summer. It also seems that heavy industry or polluting industry is located or is planned for areas with larger minority populations. I once read somewhere that it is much easier to commit some crime if your outlook for the future is dismal. What is there to hope or plan for? It seems that minorities are for more often put in situations with little hope. When on top of all that you stick a lot of people in one place, violence will increase as well.

I heard that a lot of black mothers worry about their kids when they go out. Whether it is gang related or the white police showing their lingering racial bias or manliness. Although this is somewhat changing with all the recent school shootings. This results in more homeschooling for white kids and that changes the makeup of the schools and the lowers the education level. A vicious circle.

So, what am I trying to say here is my short post? Killing, murder or even suicide is deplorable. This is regardless of race, mental conditions, income, you name it. Violence is still being encouraged in certain political circles, and so is racism. It is not surprising that these circles intersect or even that both exist in same circle, racism and the encouragement for violent acts. We saw that on January 6 almost 4 years ago, during demonstrations in Charlottesville, call to mobilize the Army to take care of the “enemy from within,” and I can go on. Folks, we need to do something about this. We need to vote, reject violence and foster racial equity.

On first look, this picture has nothing to do with this post; however, I am seeing at least 4 different tree species here, which are equally affected by the change of seasons.  This shows that nature treats all the same, unlike what we do as human beings. 

Roosters Unite (5/26/2024)

People finally moved into the house two doors down from us, and they have a rooster. While our county allows you to have chickens, roosters are not allowed. They also have ducks, which seems to be illegal as well by our county's ordinance. I do not understand the logic behind all these rules, but why question the wisdom of our county's leadership since they clearly exhibit that they have very little. They spend millions on building a new “law enforcement” building or palace, but do not seem to care one bit about education here in York County, Virginia.

I realize now that this is not what I intended to write about in this essay, but it must be said. My wife and I have been following the saga of our local school board. It seems that members were elected to the board under falls pretexts of being apolitical. However, that changed the minute they were elected, and they started to push an ultra conservative agenda which in the long run would hurt our children. One member used to be a substitute teacher in our school system but was fired for incompetence. Now she knows how to run the entire public school system (or take political revenge?).

Let's get back to the subject at hand: the rooster. It crows or cockle-doddle-does incessantly. This reminds me of the rooster we had in Uganda, we called him “Turkey” or "Turk."  I realize that the name exposes my inert cynicism or playfulness, but our rooster was something else. Being in Uganda my wife had no full-time job to do; we were in our mid-twenties and so we amassed a menagerie of animals. We eventually had two dogs, at least seven chickens, our rooster, at least three goats, and an East African crested crane. We also took care or two horses. Later in Nepal we had a load of chickens, our two dogs and a cat we had brought from Utah. The dogs and cat traveled the world with us and after returning to Europe and the U.S.A., they ended up going to Yemen with us for our next assignment. I do not remember having chickens in Yemen. I guess you could say that we scaled down with age.

But more about Turk, our rooster. Turkey ruled the roost. We relented when some locals wanted to sell us a baby crane. We really did not believe in taming local wildlife, but otherwise it might have become a crane stew or a hyena snack. So, we bought it and raised it. Turk was the boss and quickly established a pecking order with our crane who was at least five time larger than our dominant rooster. The crane and the rooster also had fun with our dogs. The crane easily jumped over our German Sheppard when he charged them, and this became a game. Turk would chase the dogs all over the yard.

The funniest thing with the rooster was his love of opera. You need to know that my wife is a huge opera fan and was, even at the ripe old age of 23. We had a stereo with us, with records and Donna would often put on an opera record. Turkey would run in the house, the minute that the music started playing, and he just stood there still, did not move and listened. When the music was over, he would shake and ruffle his feathers like any good rooster would do and walk out. We always had our home wide open and at times, the horses would come in to beg for a banana, or the kid goats would jump all over the furniture. Uganda wasn't that buggy, although we both got malaria and Donna became quite ill. But I hope you can imagine why the crowing of a rooster two houses from here would take me back to a time almost 46 years ago.

Ladies and Cranes, here is Turkey, our rooster from Uganda

One of my favorite pictures of the time, Donna and Buddha our German Shepard pup.

Compromise (5/4/2023)

During our lunch meeting at work, Kevin our supervisor asked me what I have learned during my long career. We had gotten takeout and most of the staff members were gathered around the conference table eating our salads, pizza or sandwiches. The question made me think back to something we talked about at our UU church yesterday: write a letter of apology to yourself for something you did to someone else. At the time, I could not think of anything I was sorry of.

So, what wisdom could I impart to this group of colleagues and friends now I am a month from retiring? I could not leave them hanging, like I did in church, or really haven’t learned anything in life.

After a few seconds it dawned on me: mellow out, compromise. I have mellowed out over time. As I described to the gang, I have always devoted 100% the company, organization, and colleagues I worked for and with. This devotion was sometimes to a fault. The fault was that I would not compromise. I used two examples that I told to my colleagues, which I’ll recount here.

I entered required military draft in 1976. When my wife graduated in the US in 1977, she moved to the Netherlands to be with me; however, to be allowed to live there we had to get married. In addition, marriage allowed me to live off base and tripled my salary. We were able to rent a mobile home near the barracks and we moved in. The guys in the group I was working in (mostly career soldiers) started making fun of me before we got married and making crude jokes like: “Don’t come knocking, when the trailer is rocking,” and this was a mild one. Instead of taking this in jest, I got pissed and after extensive teasing I blew up. This got so bad that the Army asked me to file for Section 8 (or insanity). I refused, partially because I knew I wasn’t insane and because I wasn’t looking for a compromise. I threated to kill them. Eventually the solution was to make me the base photographer for my remaining time. I was the only private first class with a private office and free to roam the base to take photographs. It helped that I was the leader in the photography hobby club. Compromise might have been OK and gotten me out early.

The other example I used took me back to Uganda. My first job out of the Army. If you are a regular reader, you would know I worked there as a farm manager for a leprosy center in 1978 and 79. This was at the end of the reign of one of the most ruthless dictators Idi Amin. We stayed in the country during the civil war that ousted him. Right after our liberation one of my friends and top assistant, a local young Ugandan man went crazy and tried to attack all the white (European) staff at the center except me and my wife. The rumor went around the entire hospital that I sent him. It was known that I had quarrels with the European medical superintendent and the European hospital administrator because they were funneling profits from the farm to pay for the hospital expenses. I understood that this was one of the reasons the farm was there; however, in my mind they were taking too much. It seemed that everyone in the hospital knew of the issue and when the guy stated running around with a machete trying to kill all the white folks, rumors started flying. This made it impossible for me to maintain my position at the center and I had to return home. Of course, I did not send him, and had I taken a less public, less strong stand, the rumor might not have started, and I would have been allowed to stay.

These two examples are among a few where a harsh or hard stand had some interesting results. I can mention many more. Finally, in 2002 after two quick consecutive layoffs and a minor bout of depression I decided to go for a few counseling sessions and it was there, by talking with a complete stranger, that I finally became to understand that a strong, hardline opinion might not always be the best, especially if you express it and put your foot down. Lessons learned.

When Kevin asked me, it took me a few seconds to figure out what I had learned in the course of my career. The day before my wife and I were listening to a radio show where they were talking about the term: “That’s a great question.” My wife commented that it was such an overused meaningless sentence. But I had to contradict her, I told her that as an instructor it gives me just enough time to consider the question and come up with an answer. Then came the answer over the radio and they answered it the same way as I told my wife. The question from Kevin was such a good question that needed a few milliseconds of thought to come up with the answer. That was a great question, Kevin!

I am happy to be alive and happier than a clam (11/29/2022)

Strange title to this post, isn’t it? Today, during my morning walk in the woods with the dogs I was overcome by this feeling of extreme happiness and contentment. I was feeling happier than I could remember ever feeling before; even during my daughter’s wedding a few months ago, although I felt pretty damn happy then, but also full of anticipation, thinking about everything to come the rest of the day.

Come to think of it, this was probably one of the happiest moments in my life. So, what brought this on? I am not on drugs, and as I mentioned in numerous posts of mine, I am not particularly depressed or optimistic. Neither am I a pessimist or optimist. Well, thinking about it during my walk, I concluded I was happy to be alive, and even that thought did not bring me down!

Let me explain.

Bad news abounds, three mass-shootings lately, two of which were here in Virginia and one in Colorado Springs. My wife and I were talking about the shooting in Colorado Springs and how a brave guy put himself at risk and stopped the shooter. We were talking about “What would you do” in such a situation. Armchair quarterbacking is easy, but my first reaction was that I would not hesitate and try to stop the shooter. As I explained to her, I survived at least four episodes where I should have been killed by a gun in Uganda, but somehow escaped it, and once by a natural disaster in Nepal. While I am not invincible, I have been so lucky to have lived through these episodes and survived this long. Therefore, it would be ok if someone gets me, if I can save someone else’s life; I lived a full life already. The thought of that full life did it to me, it made me realize what a great life I have led, and I should be happy.

Now I was walking with my dogs today. In winter we usually we take one of two routes. One takes us behind our home through the woods and then back to the neighborhood to the front of our home. This is about a mile and a quarter long walk. The other one starts out the same way but veers off into a trail that eventually leads you to what I consider to be a piece of relatively old growth forest with huge oaks and yellow popular trees. The stand has an understory of pawpaws and maples. That route is slightly longer and is only in nature.

My plans today were to walk around to the front as we call it. However, the dogs had another idea. They wanted to take a left into the woods to the old growth, my favorite area and surely theirs as well. This time we walked a bit further than usually because it felt so good. The dogs walked calmly, and we were just enjoying ourselves. It was then that this feeling of extreme joy came over me and it has not left me. I was in a high of the woods, the sights and the thoughts.

Researchers talk about how important forest bathing is for your wellbeing. The looks, the sounds (or the lack of them), and the smells, the phytoncides are so good for your health, mind, blood pressure, and overall wellbeing. It seems that one walk in the woods can last weeks. I sometimes have two or three walks in the woods each day. I wish they were cumulative; I would have enough for the rest of my life. Let’s just hope I can capture this happy feeling for a bit longer.

This photograph of the old growth was taken a week ago.  My wife can be seen in the middle of the trail.  You can see the beauty and size of the trees.  

Natural turnover everywhere in these woods.  Mushrooms are active all over the place.  I just love looking exploring and just taking it all in.

A quick after remark.  This past evening ( the evening after publishing this post) we were walking the dogs, and I saw two falling stars in a row.  The both radiated from the direction of Mars.  The first shot right into the constellation of the Gemini, almost directly towards Castor and Pollux.  The special thing is that I am a Gemini and have an affinity to those two stars.  The second meteor shot away less than a minute about 90 degrees away from the first towards to tip of Orion.  Absolutely a great ending on an already great day.

For those who cannot remember the past (11/09/2021)

This weekend I was reminded of the saying often attributed to the Spanish-American philosopher George Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” I was being interviewed by a fairly close friend for her school project about my career in environmental sciences; how I got to where I am now. My friend is relatively young, I think in her mid to late thirties, and is trying to finish her college degree on-line. This was part of one of her final projects. I find her a go-getter, very intelligent and overall, a very nice gentle person. It was fun to be interviewed by her. This is in no way an editorial or a judgement on her.

There was one point; however, where she drew a blank. I mentioned Idi Amin and she had no idea who I was talking about. Maybe not surprising since he was a ruthless African dictator who ruled a relatively small country from approximately 1971 to 1979 (way before she was born). My wife and I lived in Uganda during that time and went through the bloody civil war that ousted Amin in 1979. Back then everybody talked about the “Conqueror of the British Empire” as he called himself. He even inspired two movies, one based on the raid of Entebbe where the Israeli commandos freed hostages from an airplane hostage taking; the other “The Last King of Scotland” was based on the first few years of Amin’s reign. It was after the Entebbe raid when my wife and I moved to Uganda to work at the leprosy center in Kumi.

My concern is not my friend or Amin, but I realized we have a collective amnesia with the past. Whether it is the climate, yes, we may make fun when grandpa talks about having to walk to school through three-foot-deep snow and other fairy tales. Or was there really a holocaust, a guy named Hitler who was a demagog, a landing on the moon? Before long we will forget we will forget we lost a war in Viet Nam or even Afghanistan. Did the US really support dictators in Central America? Never heard of a guy named Samosa. Let’s not talk about Gaddafi, Mugabe, Marcos, just to name a few. Then we should never mention how the CIA assisted in overthrowing governments like the one of Allende in Chile.

To me the worst of it all is the attempted overthrowing of the election on January 6, and let’s not talk about this weird idea of critical race theory that is floating around. We definitely do not want to teach our kids that it was their grandparents who were standing in front of the public schools and universities yelling and shouting the N-word and trying to prevent these institutions from integrating and allowing students of color a proper education. Let alone their grandparents were openly members of a group that were wearing hoods and burning crosses onto lawns of folks who were for the integration of society. No, we do not want our children to know that grandpa and grandma were these folks and that we, your parents, were raised by them to by like them and we (secretly?) hate minorities, as well.

This is what I realized this weekend! We live in such a sheltered U.S. centric society, where we do not learn about our past, let alone the global international past, or we purposely want to ignore it. We do not learn world history, or we purposely want to ignore it. Conversely, instead of ignoring it, we spin it to fit our narrative, with the result: a demagog and an aspiring dictator was able to get elected. He and his henchmen are still out there, and we must be careful. We need to study and learn from history in order not to repeat it!

This is one of my baby bonsai trees in its fall colors.  It is a forest planting of two dawn redwoods.  Dawn redwoods are among the oldest trees in existence.  Once thought to be extinct and only found in fossil records, a small forest of them was found in a valley in China and from there they concurred the world as horticultural specimens.  Obviously, this species would have a long memory and able to tell us a lot about world and human history.

Sorry, I have tried (06/04/2021)

I have tried! I really have, tried to stay out of politics in this blog. But, I can’t stand it! Looking back at my posts this year, I have the label “politics” on my post from April 9, although I do not mention much about my feelings or opinion in there. I write about COVID and racism on February 25 and about how the elected Republican officials are only in it for the short term by not wanting to impeach tRump for a second time on February 17. On inauguration day, I promised I would write more about my life, the environment, and less about politics. Crazy, but here I am again and need to pour my heart out again.

Why can’t I? It seems now that the Republicans are not in for the short-term as I mentioned in my February 17 blog. This is a long-term gambit. By pushing and pushing this lie that the election was stolen; that it was somehow fraudulent and that Joe Biden is an illegal president, Republican legislators throughout the country are now feeling empowered to rewrite the election laws and restrict voting. In other words, they know that they will not be able to win fairly so let’s make sure that they can win at all cost (unfairly or by cheating). Others call it “Jim Crow 2021.”

Here I thought it would go away, and folks would forget tRump after a while. But no, they are talking about a military style coup, to justify the means. They actually had a much longer goal in mind than I was thinking. They are dangerous. Come to think of it, tRump is actually giving a speech this week where he is built as “the legitimate president.” It is dangerous.

When we lived in Uganda in 1979, my wife and I made a plan in case the marauding Idi Amin soldiers killed me. We were there during the civil war and I was among the few who always needed to meet with them when they visited our compound to loot us. I have had some horrible experiences at times, I am still surprised that I lived through them. The plans we made were, what she would do and where she would hide or flee to, if that (my murder, at the ripe old age of 25) would happen.

Let me tell you, this week, we sat down and actually discussed what to do in case of a civil war or a military style coup. Are we just crazy? I wonder in how many homes this discussion is going on, and whether this is in liberal or conservative homes. All I know is that we need to think about it all in the long term and protect democracy, fight what these states are doing and protect equal rights and the voting rights for all citizens.

I love this country (10/15/2020)

I really do love this country.  Otherwise I would have never changed my citizenship.  This is why that over the past four years I have been relatively vocal about our political leaders or those people that claim to be our leaders.  I have also continued raising the alarm about our environment locally, nationally, but also globally, because we simply do not live in a bubble.  I really prefer to write about my life, my travels around the state (pre-COVID), and the nature around me; however, it is important to lend a voice to this important cause.  

I much rather write about my walks in the woods and exploration than raising the alarm.  I love to describe what see, like these two gorgeous little guys.

It feels that our current so called leaders want us to live in isolation and as you know from my posts, I have not only lived in many regions in this country, but also in many countries on this blue marble floating in space.  The U.S.A. was respected world-wide in the old days.  From what I hear, that is no longer the case.  It always amazed me when I entered a hut in Uganda, in the late 1970s and saw a picture either of president Kennedy or sometimes even of president Carter on a wall, often together with the obligatory picture of Idi Amin.  If you did not have Amin on your wall, you were a dead person for sure, or at least potentially dead.  I would not be surprised if Obama showed up in the past 12 years or so.

The problem is that this term "Make America Great Again" does not hark back to the time that the U.S.A. was respected abroad, because we were respected under Obama and the last president Bush.  This MAGA slogan is isolationist and for the largest part a racist slogan.  That bothers me.  However, for example, when I try to set people straight about the black lives matter movement and tell conservative acquaintances about its deep roots, I am being made fun off by those MAGA few and told I that I miss the boat and need an education.  In fact it is they who need one, but at one point I feel like giving up and withdrawing into my peer group, my safety net.  What is the use trying to educate them and potentially alienating them.  I am not sure that I have the story completely straight and can defend myself through thick and thin without loosing my temper.

Am I hiding and avoiding confrontation?  I am afraid so; at times I do have the guts, at other times I just avoid it.  Should I always stand up for what I believe, defend it and try to work for what I believe is a more perfect country?  I am often at a loss and not sure if I make the right decision.  Should I react with my brain of my heart? 

I learned that liberal vs. conservative or democrate vs. republican is becoming almost more ideologic or religious and that the divide is becoming so sharp that they can almost be called battle lines.  This is scary, I have seen tribal wars in Africa and in Yemen.  In Yemen they ended up becoming a war between religious sects.  In Nepal, I saw what happens when a cast system (or a class system) puts its stamp on society.  A bloody civil was followed there as well.  I am in fact fearful of what will happen after the election.  

All I can say is that it is important to vote and the closer the outcome of the election is the likelier it will be that there will be trouble in this country that I chose to move to, live in and love.  I would really hate to see that happen.

My Sermon (2): Liberation (4/5/2020)

As part of a group that takes a sermon writing class at our Unitarian Church, I am asked occasionally if I present a sermon on the days that our minister is either off or has a commitment elsewhere.  I relented and said I would do one.  Originally I was thinking of presenting a sermon on growing bonsai and spiritual growth and church growth; however, when the request came out, they asked me if I could do something on liberation.

So here it is:

It started with a low rumble in the distance which progressively grew louder. Of late this had been an ominous sign of another impending raid by marauding soldiers trying to escape north to the Sudan in advance of the liberators who were in the process of overthrowing the current government of the country. I remember it like yesterday, being liberated. 

Let me set the stage, it was May 1979 and my wife Donna, and I were living and working at a Leprosy Center in the eastern part of Uganda, a country that had been ruled by the ruthless dictator Idi Amin. We had been in the country for over a year, and I had been working at the Leprosy Center as a Farm Manager, managing a 2500-acre dairy farm, with close to a 1000 head of cattle, that was part of the Center. In January of that year, rebels with the assistance of Tanzania to the south had invaded the country in an effort to overthrow the government. In April, I think it was actually on Donna’s birthday or just before that, did Uganda’s capital Kampala fall. The Amin army fell apart, deserted and tried to flee to the Sudan to the north. The problem was our Leprosy Center was located just off the major highway to Sudan. We had been unable to evacuate in time and we were stuck at the center. During the past weeks we had been subject to the looting and harassment sprees of these fleeing soldiers. Moreover, while under siege for the past month to a month and a half we were running out of all things essential (sounds familiar?) and had to live on one candle a night; two or three matches a day; we only ate sweet potatoes and eggs three times a day; drank rainwater and locally distilled moonshine. I’m amazed that I still have a liver and my eyesight. 

Hearing the vehicles approaching in the distance meant that we needed to get ready to deal with another wave of obnoxious soldiers (corner me over a beer one of these days and I can tell you some stories, but this is not the place today) when all the sudden tanks and jeeps rolled in, very unlike the deserters who came in with stolen ramshackle cars. Here they announced that they were the liberators, the Tanzanians! It was unbelievable feeling of relief that moment, being liberated, we laughed, we cried, we knew we had made it. Let me tell you, there had been moments the past month that we thought we were not going to survive it. Really, being liberated never felt so good. On top of that, the evening of our liberation Radio Netherlands read an announcement over the shortwave radio in which it told the listeners that we were missing in Uganda and asked anyone who had heard of us or seen us to call the Netherlands foreign office, but that they feared the worst. 

But, we were liberated and we were alive, we could live again without fear! Almost everybody was rejoicing and celebrating; and that night we burned two candles and had a small get-together, followed by a center-wide party the weekend following. 

During that party, the flood gates opened, the people were finally able to express what they thought of Idi Amin’s reign and the past 10 years they had lived through. We heard more horror stories about the oppression, the difference between the haves and the have nots, how you could not even trust your closest relative, because they could rat you out and that could cost you your life. 

Living in Uganda and working with lepers, we were working with a part of society that were outcasts and heavily discriminated against. Nowadays we would call this social justice. Social justice is not a new thing, but unbeknownst to us we were practicing it. We were not using those words; we were there to help. Some could ask me why the hell we put ourselves in such danger to serve and work with these folks. It was a combination of a lot of things including compassion, empathy, naivety, and the thirst for adventure. I have always been a teacher at heart and in my way, I also was there to observe and teach. While we had already learned a lot about the difference between the ruling class and the common folks, it was then and there that we really appreciated the importance of liberty and being liberated. 

The center where we worked was sponsored by the Church of England and the local Bishop was on our board. He was a regular visitor to the center; however, he would return to his Ivory Tower after his visits. 

Other religious folks we encountered were the Dutch catholic priest and the Italian nuns. Those Catholics were a different breed all together. One of our favorite story was about father Meindert van Acht, the brother of the Dutch prime minister at the time, who we frequently visited. One day, just after we arrived at his remote village on the slopes of Mount Elgon, a 14,000-foot-tall volcano located between Uganda and Kenya, we sat on his porch and watched him exiting his church. He had just finished mass. There he came, walking towards us with the bible under one arm and a crowbar under the other, a sight to behold, a priest, the brother of the second most important person of the Netherlands, in a tattered and torn robe with these two items under his arms. We never asked him if and if so, how, he used the crowbar in his service. 

Father Meindert had one request, which was that he did not want any visitors on Tuesdays because that was his weekly whiskey night, so he did not need an excuse to drink. All other days were great. The guest room was always open, and, in the evening, he would break out the mass wine or some additional whiskey for his visitors and himself. During visit with the Italian nuns at a Leprosy Center in Jinja in north central Uganda we always enjoyed fine Italian wines and good conversation. 

But it was not always fun and games or drinking to excess. It was a form of stress relief in a country where it was very difficult to work in. It was a country where we saw a lot of murders, assassinations, political and social injustice, and where we all tried to work with those folks who were oppressed and looked down upon. We youngsters, in our early and mid-20s, were in awe at what the missionaries were doing, how they were living, coping, and surviving. They lived alone; we were in a group of 6 Dutch folks who could give each other at least some mutual support. They were outwardly happy, content, even keeled and at peace with themselves and their god. I guess that is what their belief did to them. 

In those days we had not yet learned about those words “social justice” or another word called “liberation theology” that Father Meindert and his compatriots were practicing in the villages of Uganda or elsewhere in the developing world. 

Liberation Theology was first introduced by the Uruguayan Priest Juan Luis Segundo Gutiérrez in 1971. In his book “A Theology of Liberation” Gutiérrez proposed that the true task of theology was not to declare pristine abstract truths, rather ‘only by doing this truth will our faith be “verified.”’ At that time Gutiérrez and other liberation theologists in Africa, Central and South America were struggling to bridge the gulf between divine justice and social justice, trying to address the reality of human suffering and confront their own discipline. Some of them were trying to approach the Bible from the perspective of the powerless. 

In the opinion of the liberation theologists, the church should be a movement for those who were denied their rights and plunged into such poverty. Folk that were deprived of their full status as human beings. Liberation theologists were of the opinion that the poor should take the example of Jesus and use it to bring about a just society. 

A common way in which priests and nuns showed their solidarity with the poor was to move from religious houses into poverty-stricken areas to share the living conditions of their flock. The nuns that operated the leprosy center in Jinja and the Dutch fathers that were operating the boys orphanage in Mbale a town to the south of us or father Meindert on Mount Elgon, were working with folks that were either down on their luck, from a tribe that was on the fringes of society, the poor and the sick, or just simple outcasts. They were not the pious religious priests from my memory growing up on a Caribbean island, but real down to earth people who served the communities they were working in. They were not there to save souls; at least they never expressed that to us. 

Regretfully, we did see some missionaries from some other denominations in Kenya whose interest seemed only to be there to save souls in an effort to stroke themselves, somehow still living in their ivory tower, and seemed less interested in social justice. 

Most controversially, the Liberationists said the church should act to bring about social change and should ally itself with the working class to do so. Some radical priests became involved in politics and trade unions; others even aligned themselves with violent revolutionary movements. They were often accused of spreading or at least preaching the revolution, socialism or even worse, communism. As the Argentine theologian José Míguez Bonino said it was the revolutionary challenge of those who boldly proclaimed: “Jesus Christ is Che Guevara.” Liberation theologists were often not accepted by their regular church and told to shape up. Some tried to moderate it a bit with statements such as: “love for the poor should be preferential, not exclusive.” Things finally changed a little bit with the new Pope who led a less opulent lifestyle and paid more attention to the poor and sick. 

Although we live in a free country, even here in the US there are different levels of being free, isn’t there? If you are white, have money and often if you are male (especially a white male), you seem to be freer then others. It should therefore not be a surprise that even here in the U.S. liberation theology took root. The Protestant African-American theologian James Cone wrote in his 1970 book entitled A Black Theology of Liberation: ‘If God is not for us, if God is not against white racists, then God is a murderer and we had better kill God.’ Black religion, Cone asserted, began not with an abstraction but with the acknowledgment that ‘God is Black’ and present in the experience of black people, from the slave auction block to the urban ghetto. Others argue that that the Bible assigning a male gender to God was the original justification for the patriarchy. This was discussed by the feminist theologian Mary Daly in her book Beyond God the Father which was published in 1973. 

I travel a lot around the state and get to see the economically and environmentally depressed areas of the state, both black and white. The inner city and the Appalachian region. This is one of those things we have been trying to address this in our community as part of our social justice commitment. Here at the UUFP we have a social justice table that we can visit during coffee hours and find out about worthwhile causes. We go to marches; we have a black lives matter banner outside; you name it. But let’s not forget the other causes out there as well. 

We UUs have a rich history of social justice, ranging from our stand against slavery, to the voter registration in the south in 60s and 70s, to our support of the Black Lives Matter movement, to our push for gender equality, equal rights, marriage equality, and to the social justice committees that you find in almost all the UU churches and fellowships throughout the country. Social justice does not stop there, we are also concerned about environmental justice. 

After working in the 3rd world, the freedom to move around, to think what you want, to express it to friends and family, freedom of association, or even think to yourself and not be in doubt. All the things that makes me so happy to be a citizen of this country, to be a member of our UU religion, and especially of this fellowship. The UU’s 6th Principle which promotes: THE GOAL OF WORLD COMMUNITY WITH PEACE, LIBERTY, AND JUSTICE FOR ALL is so darn important to me after what we experienced in Uganda and the other countries, we have worked in. It also makes me scared of the things I see happening around me or what has happened, but at the same time hopeful about the countercurrent that is occurring as well. 

Remember, today social justice can mean different things for different religions and we need to watch out for false prophets. For example, some will even claim that preventing a woman’s right to choose is a form of social justice. Competing claims of being on God’s or at least the right side are testing the limits of a liberal social order straining to accommodate militant believers. Our fourth principle tells us that we: A free and responsible search for truth and meaning. This is something many dogmatic religions don’t allow; it is something totalitarian governments try to suppress, like the one we experienced in Uganda. Let’s use it wisely in defending it and applying to our efforts in social and environmental justice. 

That is what I try to do throughout my life, and I know many of you do. I had the privilege to get an education, but I try never to be condescending to anyone and share my knowledge with all who want to hear it. We are not rich but contribute to the church and other worthwhile causes both monetarily and by volunteering. We are socially active when we can and marched for women, for science, the environment and for gun control. All I can say is to stay true to yourself, like father Meindert, the Italian nuns, and the many liberation theologists and try to address the human suffering around us and in particular the suffering of those who are socially, economically, environmentally and racially disadvantaged. 

I believe we all can learn from the example the liberation theologists gave us and incorporate them in the way we live our UU faith.

Donna and I visiting one of the male nurses and his family at his home in the village in Uganda

Invocation:

Rev. Karen G. Johnston

Do not be alone right now...

Gathering together grows courage...

These things add up: your one thing & my one thing; his one thing & their one thing & her one thing…

Do not be alone right now. Do not let me be alone. Any liberation – all liberation — is collective liberation. My freedom is bound with yours and yours with mine. Inextricably...

Reading:
The Gift— Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky

We have not come here to take prisoners,
But to surrender ever more deeply
To freedom and joy.

We have not come into this exquisite world
To hold ourselves hostage from love.

Run my dear,
From anything
That may not strengthen
Your precious budding wings.

Run like hell my dear,
From anyone likely
To put a sharp knife
Into the sacred, tender vision
Of your beautiful heart.

We have a duty to befriend
Those aspects of obedience
That stand outside of our house
And shout to our reason
’O please, O please,
Come out and play.’

For we have not come here to take prisoners
Or to confine our wondrous spirits,

But to experience ever and ever more deeply
Our divine courage, freedom, and Light!”


Benediction:Barack Obama

Change will not come if we wait for some other person, or if we wait for some other time.
We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.
We are the change that we seek.

Guilt? (5/1/2019)

I was listening to a program where they interviewed a lady (doctor/psychiatrist) who had written a book about her experience after accidentally killing someone. It was part of a car accident; she was 22, and was cleared by the police. A 6 year-old boy ran out from behind a set of mailboxes along a country road and she hit him. However, she never received any support or counselling, was devastated for more than a half year, could hardly move out of her apartment and attend classes . Even after that it stayed with her for life. Now at the age of 45 she had written a book about it and gives counselling to folks to whom this has happened as well.

The story brought me back to my own experience, something that is never really far removed from my mind, and will always stay with me.

It was 1978. It was the second day in Uganda and the medical superintendent of the leprosy hospital, where we I was going to work as the manager of a 2500 acre dairy farm, thought it was time to introduce us to the powers in Kumi, the town near where our center was located.  One of the persons on our list was the police commissioner.

At the time, Uganda was under the rule of a brutal dictator (Idi Amin) who had instilled fear and whipped up the masses to a frenzy. It was strange, there was a police state (or an army state), but at the same time there was a form of anarchy in the land and he had allowed people to pass justice like this by themselves, without proper hearings and trials (you could only hope that village councils or elders were impartial when it cam to passing judgement, if you could get that far). You could not trust anyone, not your neighbor and maybe not even you relatives. They could rat you out and before you knew it you could end up in a cardboard box in a banana plantation. We always joked about the crocodiles in the Nile that they were very well fed, because that's where a lot of the bodies of the assassinated folks ended up. On the other hand being in the village (or in the rural part of the country) was great. People were nice and extremely hospitable; however, as you could understand everyone was very guarded. You did not end up in those cardboard boxes in one piece, playing hide-and-seek, and lets not talk about what you looked like when you ended up as alligator bait.

Soon after our arrival at the police station, a riot broke out; a group of what I would estimate to be at least 100 people was running towards the building chasing a man. The man entered the building and the mob stayed outside; we noticed the man had torn clothes, was sweating, and had a noose around his neck.  He was standing very close to my wife, as in the hope that the proximity to her would give him some protection. When she moved, he would move with her, like her shadow.

The commissioner eventually explained that the man was accused to have stolen a banana on the market. Idi Amin had proclaimed that anyone caught stealing; however small an item, must be executed on the spot and that was exactly what the mob was trying to do. He had escaped the mob that was trying to kill him and made it to the station in the hope that the police would save him, and send to jail.

So how did this tie in with the program I heard over the radio?

While not completely correct, in Uganda it was the first time I somewhat came in contact with being a privileged person. As a 24 and 25 year old white guy I was treated as an important person, while the local folks were treated like dirt. We were sitting on stage next to the minister, the governor, the police chief, the director of the bank, the bishop, all the dignitaries when they came to visit. I was called the Swahili word "Mzee" which can be loosely translated to "wise old man." How is that for a 24 year old guy. When visiting a local village we were the center of attention, we were given gifts, it was ridiculous, a chicken, even a goat. People were poor and still we received gifts.

Well, a few days after our visit to the police station, I was the only European (or manager) at the hospital and got a call to come immediately. The medical superintendent, the anesthesiologist (who was the fixer, but that's another story) and the accountant had gone to Kampala on business. In the middle of our campus were a group of local folks from one of the surrounding villages. These villagers that were holding what looked like a 16-year-old boy.  The boy had a rope around his waist and a pig tied to the other end. Long story short, they accused the boy of stealing the pig and asked me what to do with him and pass judgement. Remembering my experience and the police station a few days earlier, I told them that I would take him to the police. However, after extensive negotiations, I was told that the boy wanted to be tried by his elders. I did everything I could to convince him that he was better off going to the police, but to no avail. My discussion with the crowd and the boy through a translator (both language and cultural translation) took close to an hour. Finally, being new in the country (I was there for about a week) and only 24 years old, I felt I had little authority and eventually gave up.

A few hours later, I was told the boy was dead.  He was stoned, just outside the gate of the hospital.  It seemed that he had been escorted off the property of the leprosy center and that was it! My assistant farm manager Mr. Opuno (I was the farm manager) and I drove to the place where people told us the body was located. The pig that was still attached to his body and actually had started to nibble on the boy's body. We had to untie the pig and after discussing the issue with Opuno we decided to inform the police what had happened. Later that evening the parents of the boy came and removed the body.

It is an amazing horrifying experience to see and touch a dead body at the young age of 24, especially when it is someone that young and someone you had tried to protect. I can only imagine what folks go through when their children die or get murdered.

To this day, I feel somewhat guilty for this boy’s death, or that I could have avoided it. I did not want to rock the cultural boat at the time, I was only there for one week.  My inexperience, my age and probably lack of persistence lead to his premature death. I think about this event frequently, if not daily.

Explorers (7/24/2018)

I have always been a fan of (the lone) explorers.  As a teenager, I read a book about the Scandinavian (Swedish) explorer Sven Hedin.  As an adult, I have been and are still fascinated by the likes of Sir Richard Burton, Charles Darwin, John Wesley Powell, Everett Ruess, and John Muir.  Actually, when working in Yemen I became interested in Peter Forsskal, one of those explorers that not many people have heard of, but more about him in a little bit.

All explorers I mentioned here were cartographers and/or naturalists in one way or another.   They were all ahead of their time and maybe with the exception of Ruess somewhat prophetic; although Ruess disappeared and presumably died at a very young age.  Forsskal died very young as well.

At the time that I liked Hedin and his accounts of travel through the desert of Inner Mongolia, his discovery of a solution for the existence of the lake known as Lop Nor and his travels to Tibet, there was no Internet and Wikipedia,  otherwise I would have learned that in his later years Hedin was a huge fan of Hitler and the Third Reich. Hedin would have been an unwelcome visitor on our bookshelves if we had known that since one of my uncles died in a concentration camp and our father spent time in one.  However, I loved Hedin’s account of his travels and writing about it and now, I wonder if this is where I got my interest and love of the desert; I was fascinated by his tales of the Gobi desert and how in his mind a whole civilization disappeared because a river and lake dried up.  It seems that Hedin was initially motivated by the lust for fame and secondly by curiosity.

If there is any person I admire a lot, it is Sir Richard Burton.  A true renaissance man, he traveled India, Afghanistan, and was one of the few Europeans to enter Mecca. He spoke a multitude of languages (29); he was the ultimate spy for the English empire.  I want to be like him when I grow up!

I will not say much about Darwin except that we named our sailboat “the Beagle.”  I will leave it to you to guess why, but as a hint, I will tell you that Darwin traveled the world on a ship named “the Beagle.”  It was on this ship that parts of his theory of evolution were developed.

Powell explored the west, and one of my favorite books is an account of his exploration of the Colorado River.  He starts in the Green River and trouble starts almost instantly in the Flaming Gorge.  Powell had a great career as a geologist and predicted amongst others the water shortage experienced during the dust bowl, 50 years later.

Muir has occurred in many of my writings and I will leave it at that.  Just look through the labels.  What amazes me is that he not only traveled the Sierra, but he first actually walked from Kentucky to the Florida Keys.  

Which brings me to the two enigmas: Forsskal and Ruess.  

Peter Forsskal was a Swedish/Finnish botanist philosopher.  He was a student of the famous Linnaeus; however, he also studied oriental languages and philosophy.  Interestingly, in 1759, he published a pamphlet entitled (loosely translated): “Thoughts on civil liberty.“  In this pamphlet he pushed for the freedom of print (freedom of expression?), which did not endear him with the powers of the time.  In other words, he was also way ahead of his time, freedom of the expression showed up in the U.S. Constitution that was first proposed 30 years later (I think) around 1789.  I read the pamphlet and it is darn revolutionary.  However, what initially interested me in Forsskal was the fact that he died in Yemen, approximately 20 miles from where we lived.  In Yemen, I ran into a plant that was named for him by Linnaeus (Forsskaolea tenacissima) and I started wondering who the heck this guy was and what he was doing in Yemen in the mid 1700s.  Linnaeus recruited a number of his students to swarm out over the world and collect biological specimens for him.  This was a big thing at the time; it seems that your status in the world went up with the number of species in your collection.  Linnaeus was one of the most ambitious of them all.  Moreover, he was the inventor of a completely new classification system of life; a system that we still use today.  Linnaeus sent Forsskal to the Middle East, first Egypt and then Yemen to collect plants.  It seems he contracted malaria and died in Yemen at the age of 31.  There was a time I was hoping to write an article about Forsskal, if not a book.  Maybe one day, but there is very little information on Peter, at least in English.

Finally Ruess; he was somewhat of an enigma.  He was a poet, artist and can be considered an explorer in his own right.  Since he was only 20 years old when he died in in 1934, we can never really say much about what he achieved either metaphysically, philosophically or scientifically.  However, I think he played on a lot of people’s fascination.  In 1931, at the age of 17, right after high school graduation, Ruess left home and started traveling alone through California and later on through the Four Corners Region on a horse and borough.  He made linoleum and wood blocks, did drawings and wrote home to his parents or brother Waldo on almost a daily basis.  These letters form a daily diary of his travels.  Ruess disappeared in 1934 and is thought to have been killed by two Ute Indians who stole his animals.  The mystery of his disappearance is still a subject to speculations.  In his writings home Ruess appears much wiser and knowledgeable than hi young age would give him credit for.  He even interacted with Edward Weston, Ansel Adams and Dorothea Lange, three famous photographers.

So what fascinates me about these explorers, what is the common thread?  The fact that they roughed it, survived rough conditions to a point, discovered things: new cultures, new plants, animals, not only for themselves but also for society.  Ruess appears to have been murdered; I hope it was swift and as painless as possible.  Forsskal most likely suffered.  It somehow reminds me a bit of some of the situations we endured in Uganda, from being held at gunpoint a few times to having very little food to eat and two matches per night during the civil war when Idi Amin was being removed from power.  It also reminds me of the hikes through Nepal and our stays in villages in areas where few had ever seen white folks; or where we were in danger of being flooded (see this post); my stay at a home where they had a funeral for an important Buddhist lama; or that one time we slept in a home at an elevation above 12,000 feet.  It reminds me of sitting between these two heavily armed Yemenis driving through the Empty Quarter up and down sand dunes looking for a Land Rover mechanic.  In a way, I miss it. 

Reaching back to the past.  While working in Nepal I had to hike into the back country and get into villages where some of the folks (especially kids) had never seen Europeans.

One of my favorite pictures and I suspect I showed this one before, but when traveling on the Tibetan plateau, we ran into this guy and had a great talk with him.