Rhino

There is a Rhinometer in the local newspaper. It tracks the number of rhinos killed. It is the kind of thermometer you see when people are fundraising, where you want the red to reach the top, signifying your fundraising target. Yet with the Rhinometer the red symbolizes the blood of rhinos, you pray it does not keep rising. We are in Kwa Zulu Natal. On Monday the meter indicates 54 rhinos killed in the Province and by Friday it reads 60. Despite the noble efforts of scouts, agencies, concerned citizens, and conservation groups, the slaughter continues. Each day we hear of one, two killed. One every 13 hours in South Africa. A guard sits on a rock, holds his head in his hands, distraught. These are the brave men putting their lives on the line to protect these mighty mammals. Another day we hear from the head of security, 'We just got another report, one is shot, still alive, she has a baby with her.' These are the realities in the bush. Leakage points have been identified at the Mozambican border. They move in quickly, well trained, one shot, horn hacked, boiled to dissolve the micro-chip and they go back across the border. Done. In 2005 South Africa lost 14 rhinos. Last year 668 were poached, these are only the known deaths. This year the projections put poaching at over 1,000, a horrific number. On our drive out of a reserve we see two rhinos peacefully grazing. These enormous, prehistoric creatures have thrived for centuries. We watch as they eat, in silence. A rhino was poached that morning in the same reserve. Watching these rhinos now feels different, sacred. None of us speak, but we are all thinking about the same thing, their future, their survival. 

Total Disarray

My Kenyan colleague continues to nod his head and say 'total disarray.' We are in Juba airport, the capital city of the newly independent South Sudan.

An exacerbated man makes his way through the front door (which is quite a feat within itself), scans the masses in this dim room, catches my eye and says 'how does this work?' I reply simply with a smile 'it doesn't.'

Floods of people are outside the airport, loitering, selling, chatting, working, some traveling. You enter the airport through a narrow door. In a situation like this I just plow my way through—no eye contact, just move. A man wearing ray bans, a camouflage uniform holds his arm out, says to me 'where is your ticket?' E ticket I say. You have to have a bit of an attitude or they will identify you as a rookie, and you are stuffed.

My colleague from the Ministry pulls me through the door.

The airport is one big room, no lights, well, one here and there, and it is packed, no signs. Now, when I say packed, I mean packed, wall to wall people trying to get tickets, visas, baggage checked, stamps, approvals—chaos. I am grateful it rained the night before because the air is cooler. The heat is severe in Juba, you just sweat.

Everyone is taller than I, so I am seeing coats, shirts, and jackets. I see a man whose head is above the crowd, one would think he is on a table, but no, he is one of the tall, lanky South Sudanese. They are known for their height.

Remember the game you played as a kid, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, where two of you would squish someone in the middle, well, that’s what the airport is like, an adult version. In these situations, you just roll with it, otherwise you will not move. So my elbows come out, shoulder leaning into people to make my way through and I wheel my suitcase like a lawn mower over people's toes and shoes without any thought or concern.

I am aware of my briefcase, filled with laptop, IPad, blackberry, wallet, and passport. I guard it. I could be fleeced of anything in here, I would not even notice if someone took my pants off, that is how sandwiched we are.

We make our way to the Kenya Airway counter, a dirty cinder block slab. I shove my way to the front. A tall man wearing a white boubou (Islamic dress) tries to nudge me out of the way, no way I think. I push my back against him, holding my firm place at the counter.

We check in, and then go to the passport line. The man behind the counter is shielded by glass that has a small window. It is utterly impressive how many arms, hands, passports, cash are making their way at once through the window. He sits back, sipping a soda, and slowly processes the visas.

My colleague does not have his yellow fever certificate. They tell him he must get a shot. He says ‘No Way, I'd rather stay here.’ Discussions, money changes hand, a certificate, no shot, we make our way to the line to enter the gate.

The line to enter the gate is no different. You know when you play the game of human dominoes; press everyone against each other in a line and then all sit down, and you are on each others' knees...that's this line. Absolutely no personal space whatsoever. The man behind me is a young South Sudanese. His elbows are in my back, his bag pressed against my knees. He is tall, dark. He wears a nice black suit, fresh, crisp white button-down shirt. His forehead tells me he is from the Dinka tribe. He has five impeccable thin lines, scars, across his entire forehead. Incredible scars which signify where you are from.

The line into the gate has turned into anarchy. The man working at the entrance waves me over in a firm manner, I am in the wrong line, I should be in the ladies line. I stand, wait. My colleague from the Ministry continues to hold my arm; it is a very common gesture here and throughout Africa. It's a sign of friendship, care. It is common to see people holding hands, men. Friends. When you meet someone, you do not shake and let go, you continue to hold hands as you greet each other.

South Sudan suffers from a number of things—poverty, war, conflict and what we call the Big Man Syndrome. You see it in the cars they drive, the people that they have supporting them. Here in the airport we see it in the line. They head right to the door waving their way through.

The man at the door now pauses both lines. Nobody is moving into the gate area, nobody moving out. You can picture him thinking ‘Now, all of you, reflect on my power.’ It’s fantastic. You just have to smile and drink in the whole situation.

South Sudan is the youngest country in Africa. Newly independent after decades of war, the worst in Africa and that says a lot. In South Sudan 50% of the population is under the age of 20. 80% illiteracy rate. Combine that with very easy access to weapons, and you have a lethal cocktail. This was the strategy of the North, oppress the masses, don't educate them and they will stay underneath you. Well, after decades of war, they are now independent.

When you land in Juba you notice the runway filled with UN, WFP (World Food Program), Red Cross and other humanitarian aid planes. Juba, the capital of S. Sudan, has approximately 1.3 million people, but this is an estimate—nobody really knows. It sits on the Nile, and yet there is no electricity, no running water. The Nile is lined with diesel generators pumping waters into trucks to service the city.

We are working with the government to help them develop policies, processes and frameworks that will ensure the country can develop in a way that protects their natural resources (water, forests, wildlife, parks) while simultaneously fostering a diverse and robust economy. It’s a country with enormous potential which we hope to help them fulfill.

Tracking Leopards. Panthera pardus.

We are in Kruger National Park. It is 40 degrees Fahrenheit--Hot. We are sweating. The sun is relentless, unforgiving. But the lure of spotting a leopard on foot makes me forget the heat. The organization I work for has a leopard researcher in the Park. He is monitoring their movement patterns and behaviours so that park we can design conservation programs strategically. He has put radio collars on four of them. This way, with telemetry equipment, he can follow them and know their movements and whereabouts. We meet at the gate a 6 am. He indicates that the leopard has been in one place for over 24 hours, he suspects the leopard has a kill. He asks if we are keen on checking? Absolutely we say. 

We pick up a guard from the protected areas staff quarters. He is an elderly gentleman, wearing a khaki uniform and hat. His socks are tucked into his pants to keep out the insects and protect his skin. He is wearing thick, heavy black boots. I break a sweat just looking at his feet. He speaks no English, just his native language, and carries a big rifle. He sits in the front of the truck with the researcher, and four of us cram into the back of the truck. Now, it’s hot just sitting, so imagine how hot it is crammed four in the back of a truck.

We turn onto a ‘do not enter’ sign road. As a researcher, he is allowed to go wherever he needs to complete his work. We drive through vast grasslands passing impala, elephant, wildebeest....the usual. We do not stop for this wildlife; we are focused on the big cat. We stop near a river bank, the researcher pulls out the telemetry gear, gets himself on the roof of the truck and listens for the beep. The beep indicates the leopard, the louder and faster the beep is, the closer you are. He listens. We listen and watch, while trying to fetch any shade. He decides we should drive a bit further, as the road will get us closer to where we need to go in on foot.

We park the vehicle. The researcher reminds us of the rules for walking in the bush ‘walk single file, do not talk, stay alert, and look for any instructions from the guard.’ ‘The worst thing you can do if something happens is run, so hold your ground.’ Wide-eyed we all listen, watch and agree. In single file we follow the researcher and the guard. The researcher holds the telemetry equipment forward, waving it in different directions and following the beep. The air is thick. I am in a full sweat.

We enter a sandy river bed. The sand is deep making walking even more slow. The bush along the edge is thick. Pointing to a very thick area of vegetation, the researcher says she might be in there. He reminds us that leopards are very dangerous. We are completely exposed; she could be anywhere, let alone the other wildlife that could take us down in a snap. I edge myself closer to the ranger with the gun. Standing in the riverbank, the beep moves, she moves, we follow, quietly, following the elusive beeps. The researcher moves up the left river bank and I can hear the beeping get louder, faster. The researcher turns and says ‘stay with the gun.’ OK, I think, that is an instruction I will follow, scooting right up to the ranger again.

We break through the bush to a more open area, grasslands with shrubs and trees, and all of a sudden the corner of my eye catches movement ‘there she is’ I yell. Indeed, the leopard. Running, a comfortable distance away from us, we get one more look, and then she is gone. Fast. Eyes wide open with massive grins we all breath a sigh of delight, ‘wow, we saw her.’

The researcher says ‘let’s find out where she has been hanging out.’ We follow him and look around. We get a little spread out and again, he reminds us that leopards are dangerous and we need to stick together, like ducks in a row, we obey. Soon enough we are standing below a large tree, look up, and there in the fork of the tree is a bloody, adult impala draped over the tree limbs, her kill. Leopards drag their kills up a tree for safe keeping and sure enough, this one was safe up there. The limp body dangled over the tree like a doll, and yet, a male impala can weigh up to 80kgs, a hefty mass to drag up a tree. The leopard we were tracking is a female, they weigh up to 35 kgs, so imagine dragging half your weight up a tree, with your teeth, not an easy feat.

What is it that amazes us about leopard or cats in general? For me, it is their awesome beauty. The coat on a leopard is absolutely exquisite. The detailed pattern stretched out over their muscular body is awe-inspiring. Watching them and knowing their strength and abilities makes you pause. Their yellow eyes bordered by black eye-lids are mesmerizing.

Like all large cats in Africa, the leopard is on the Red List of Threatened Species. Their trend: Declining. They are almost extinct in N. Africa. Its advantage is that they are adaptable and somewhat elusive, but this also makes them very difficult to monitor.

As we head home that evening, despite only seeing a passing glint of the leopard, we are thrilled with our sighting. The adventure of walking in the bush, tracking one of Africa’s greatest cats is not something one gets to do every day, nor is it something one forgets.

Normal

According to the dictionary normal means ‘conforming to the standard or the common type; usual; not abnormal; regular; natural.’ Regular, natural, normal.

I am struck daily as to what has become normal to me. Things that would make other people’s eyes pop out in shock, no longer phase me. A woman carrying a box of eggs on her head. Normal. A man dodging traffic on a bike that looks like it is taped together. Normal. Driving on the sidewalk. Normal. An election where the lead candidate is wanted by the International Criminal Court. Normal. Four people on a motor bike and a duck. Normal. Fifty live chickens strapped on top of a bus. Normal.

I am stuck in Samburu. Sitting under an acacia tree with five Samburu women. I am on my way to Nanyuki, a little town on the edge of Mt. Kenya. The planes here are like buses, we stop at an airstrip, drop people, then move to the next. We stopped at the first airstrip and were delayed taking off because giraffe were on the runway. Normal. We land in Samburu, a hot, dry area, scattered with scrub and acacia trees, home to the Samburu people. We drop some tourists, pick some others up, and the plane will not start. The young pilots are looking at the manual and I am thinking ‘this is not good.’ After a few phone calls, flipping of the manual, they confirm that we cannot take off. They say an emergency plane will come from Nairobi. ‘Yeah right’ I think, ‘we’ll be spending the better part of the day in Samburu.’ Normal.

I grab a bottle of water, my binos, a book and find a rock to sit on next to the Samburu ladies under an acacia tree. There is not a human structure in sight. We are literally in the middle of nowhere. Normal. This does not strike me as odd in any way. The women are decorated in incredible coloured beads, the youngest girl’s neck is completely covered with stacks of large beaded necklaces the size of records. Normal. They are here by the airstrip trying to sell jewellery and carvings to tourists leaving and arriving. There is probably a max of two flights a day given it is high tourist season. They were packed up and ready to go when we were trying to take off, but now, they are back under the tree, just sitting, watching. Their homes are far, they walk a distance to sell a bracelet or two. They have woven satchels that are made of recycled plastic within which they carry their goods. The eldest lady who is lying sideways as if she is modelling a bikini in a swim wear photo shoot, gets up, stretches the bag on the ground and offers me a seat.

It is hot. About 90 degrees. The shade is lovely and the penetrating silence delicious. I have not sat quietly like this for some time. I have been moving—Joburg, Nairobi, Arusha, Addis. I am soaking in the silence. One Samburu girl starts singing quietly. People pay money to hear songs like hers but here we are, under the tree. They are not pushing their jewellery at all. In fact they have not even dumped them out of their bags. We are their entertainment. They wait to see what happens.

A plane arrives. Landing from the east. One of the passengers with us has to catch a 3.30 flight out of Nairobi, so we all grab our bags and run to the plane. I have a zillion beaded bracelets, but I want to buy something from the elderly women who gave me her seat. She has a silver bracelet on her arm. I ask for the same. She offers me the one on her arm, I insist no. She reaches into her bag and pulls one out. It is basically tin, but it is a week’s meal for her family. I buy one from her and one from the young girl, 300 Kenya Shillings, less than four dollars. Kwaheri (goodbye) and I run to the plane. The engine starts. Meanwhile the mechanic is at the old plane with the two pilots. As our engine starts, we look over and he is telling us to cut the engine by motioning his hand across his throat. Oh boy, now what?  Once the engine is off, the mechanic comes over; he has fixed the old plane. Yup. Classic. Those going to Nanyuki run to the old plane, those to Nairobi stay on the new plane.

The Samburu ladies still sitting under the tree watch as we run back and forth between planes with our bags, cracking a sweat. Silly Mazungus (white people) they must be thinking. But all of this is normal, standard; regular; natural.

Normal I suppose is just what you are used to. I am driving in Nairobi last week. A matatu (the mini-vans that provide public transport) is in front of me. He starts rolling backwards on the hill towards me. A couple guys jump out of the vehicle, yes, while it’s moving. I now can’t see what is happening because the exhaust spewing out of his tail pipe is as black as the night and has encompassed my entire windshield. They pull rocks out, put them behind the tires, it rolls right over them. The vehicle is now sideways on the road. Meanwhile, life continues, cars go by and soon enough I am driving on the sidewalk, around the matatu, and carry on as if nothing has happened. Normal.

How far does one have to go to not adjust and find things abnormal?

 Riding a camel. Normal. 

Rules

The rules here are what always get me. For example, a red light in Kenya is simply a suggestion. Sometimes rules are enforced, sometimes not. That is the gamble. It can frustrate or free you. Use them when it works for you, bend it when it does not. That is what creates the chaos we have gotten so used to and participate in. I will be first to admit, after a long-day at work, if there is a jam, and the sidewalk has open space, I will gladly utilize that open lane.

It is 4.30 am in Kampala, Uganda. I am catching a plane to South Africa, the only one of the day. Traffic in Kampala is a nightmare. There is one road in and out of Kampala. No ring–roads and really no space to manuveur a-la Nairobi style—side walk driving, making one lane three lanes etc... If you get stuck in Kampala traffic, you are stuck! A friend of mine got stuck once and he jumped into a tuk-tuk—the three wheel rickshaws, and drove the 60 kms to the airport!

Anyhow, on this dark morning I leave early to avoid traffic. It’s a gamble, drive in the dark or get stuck in traffic. Kampala’s roads are ok and we make it fine to the airport. At the check-in counter the attendant says “I am sorry, but we cannot check you in....” “Umm, and why is that?” “Your yellow fever certificate has expired.” (Rules. Here is a rule that is sometimes enforced, sometimes not. In Congo they enforce it to get bribes, but I have never had an issue with my yellow fever certificate. OK, I will confess, I knew it was expired, but who has time to go to the doctor.) Now, another lesson I have learned here is you just talk them into things. For example, “Miss, your bag is too heavy for the plane.” “Oh, but that is OK.” – and there it is, she checks it in. So, here I go into talk – mode “Oh, but that is no problem, you see, once it is expires you have 30 days to renew it, and I have a Dr.’s appointment tomorrow.” (All of that completely untrue.) She does not buy it.

Crap, now I am concerned. Remaining completely calm I ask her what she thinks I should do. “Well, there is a clinic down the road, you can go get a shot there.” Ha! It is dark, I am an hour outside the capital, Uganda has an HIV problem, oh right, and they just had an Ebola outbreak, but I will just skip on down to the clinic. Fat chance. Rules. I ask for the supervisor, and long-story short, some sweet talking, and I get on the plane. I ‘adjust’ the documents on the plane. Arrive in South Africa. Distract the customs officer with trite conversation and I am in. Rules. Bend them. Use them. Abide by them....when you can.  

Whale Sharks

His name was Johnny Cash. He wore a tattered red t-shirt, ripped shorts and no shoes. He was selling bracelets on the beach in Mozambique. 30 cents for a bracelet. He was probably eight years old, wandering the beach with two friends, trying to sell bracelets. Bracelets, batiks, wooden carvings, they were selling them all, but here was Johnny Cash, a kid. We were walking the beach, no money on us. We said we’d see him tomorrow. He said, ‘OK, but remember, it’s Johnny Cash.’ How could we forget?

You wonder where he goes at night. Where does he sleep? Does he go to school? If he does not sell the bracelets, what does he have for dinner? As always, you wonder the story behind the person...and in this case, the kid. That’s the reality here. Buy the bracelets. But how many bracelets, wooden carvings, batiks, beads can one person buy. Will it change a life? If not, how can we create the change that is so desperately needed at scale? Transformational change.

What is our story? We are on holiday. Vacation. We are delighted to be on the beach, finally the beach. It’s a luxury. This beach is like nothing I have ever seen, miles, miles and miles of beach, long stretches of soft sand and gorgeous dunes without any development. We walk for three hours in the morning, and do not see another person. We see whales, but no people. The white sand sings as you kick it. I am instantly brought to Manchester, Massachusetts. Amazing how one can be around the world, and a song, a smell, or a sound can bring you to another place, so very different than where you are. I am brought to a fire, it is morning, and Uncle Lenny cooks eggs and bacon on Signing Beach. It is one of my fondest memories, and was such a treat for us to cook and eat breakfast on that special beach.  

Yet, here I am in Mozambique, far from the eastern shore of the United States with the warm Indian Ocean. Like many countries in Africa, Mozambique is a country with a history riddled with war. A country that struggles with poverty and wrestles with development.

We drove from Johannesburg. Nine hours to Maputo the capital. An easy drive, but hot in a small 4-door Gulf with no air conditioning. As a former Portuguese colony, I envisioned the coastal capital with white architectural buildings, seaside cafes. I had even suggested an extra night there. Good lord, thank god we nixed that idea. We got to the hotel late, a quaint, simple and cheap room in a colonial style house. Tired, hungry, we jumped into the car to go to a restaurant up the road. Within minutes we were pulled over by the police, and as I am slowing the car down, pulling towards the side walk I realize I do not have my Kenyan license, International license or passport (which you are supposed to carry everywhere—a crazy rule that I never follow.) My USA license is long-gone and I am yet to renew it.

The officer speaks no English, we speak no Portuguese. Now, lets’ be clear, this happens all the time in Africa, but I pride myself on not paying bribes. I have bribed once in Zimbabwe, and did not realize I was doing it, truly (that’s another story). In Kenya I tell them to drag me to the police station, court, whatever, and they usually get so bored or annoyed with me, realize they are not getting any ‘chai money’ and they let me go. Here is different. It is dark, we are tired, we are in the wrong and I really do not want to go to a Maputo police station. So, after much discussion, we agree on a price, tell them we will return to the hotel to get our various forms of identification, and head off. We bang a u-turn. As we head in the opposite direction, we see the cops who have pulled us over on the other side of the two-lane road, and cops now on this side of the same road pull us over! My husband is now driving, and before he pulls over I am hollering out the window, arms flailing around and yelling ‘this is ridiculous....we have just been pulled over....” Needless to say, my patience level has not increased in the five years of living in Africa. They let us go. The evening ends with us back on that same street for an amazing meal of fresh prawns, the first of many prawns, and huge crab. Well worth the hassle.

The next morning we have a lovely breakfast with Portuguese breads, danishes, croissants and good coffee. We woke early, did a drive through of the city, while the streets were quiet, its Sunday. We are anxious to head north, leave the city, the police and get to the beach.

Now we are on the beach, the most beautiful beach, with Johnny Cash. The humpback whales are in this part of Africa now and we see them every day, diving, jumping, splashing, it’s amazing. We are hunkered down, relaxing, reading, walking, and swimming. We are staying at a lovely eco-resort. Five modern cottages tucked into the dunes, heavenly.

 

We decide we must do at least one boat trip, so we sign up for an ‘ocean safari.’ We arrive at the resort that is running the trip and meet our fellow safari companions. There is a South African family with three kids, including a young boy who is probably 7 years old, all in short wet-suits. A young Japanese couple and French couple who are staying at our resort. The French and Japanese women are both in stylish bikinis. I am in my sweet REI surfer shorts (that are coated in wax from a surf board), and long-sleeve sun protection surf shirt—feeling real stylish.

Our guide is a South African man. A professional diver who knows the water well. He gives us a talk about the trip, what to expect and then runs through safety signs he will use when in the water. ‘One hand in the air means come see this, the OK sign under water is me checking in on you, waving above your head means you need help etc...’ Off we go, into a pontoon boat and we lurch off at high speed. The young boy is holding on for dear life, and as the pontoon goes airborne over a wave, he grits his teeth in a fierce grimace. We see whales, dolphins, but we are looking for whale sharks—the largest living non-mammalian vertebrate—ie. it’s huge! Just to put it in perspective, an elephant weights 3-5 tonnes, whale sharks weigh 22 tonnes.

I’ve heard of whale sharks but I am not really clued in today on the possibility of seeing them. Which is probably a good thing. Whenever looking for a specific species be it a leopard, wild dog or rhino, I get a little worked up (well, some may say even a bit crazed. Like the time I nearly knocked out a woman to grab her telescope since I could not see the wolves that she was seeing through her scope, not my best moment). So probably best for all that I was not on a mission. Like all safaris, land or ocean, you never know what you are going to see, so I am not getting my hopes up.

We continue to float above the ocean on our pontoon. The water is brilliant. Clear blue. The warm breeze refreshing. The guide spots a whale shark. Everything happens so quickly. The boat speeds up. Stops. The guide yells—‘everyone over.’ Masks. Flippers. It is mayhem on board. Geared up, I flip backwards into the water. Looking around, not sure for what, I scan the water. The South African father is next to me (we are both under water), he smacks me on the arm and points below us, and there it is, the whale shark! Right below us. Moving gracefully with speed right underneath me. It is huge. Beautiful. Its white spots on its grey skin are amazing. It moves smoothly below us and we follow it for a while until it goes too deep for us to see anymore. I am in awe.

(We did not have a camera in the pontoon, so the pics of the whale sharks are not mine, but the one with the swimmer is exactly how we were with the whale shark.)

 We all hurl ourselves ungracefully back on the boat, completely jazzed. We are supposed to return to shore, our two hour trip is up, but the guide asks if we want to go again. Yes! The 7-year old kid who was petrified boating out here is completely stoked, jumping up and down, grinning ear to ear. It’s great to see such enthusiasm over wildlife.

We cruise around again, looking for the whale shark. There it is. Back in the water and we swim with this magnificent creature. It’s hard to gauge how long it is, but the largest confirmed whale shark is 41 feet long! The largest aggregation of whale sharks ever recorded was reported from the Yucatan coast of Mexico, where more than 400 animals were seen together!

I swim up along the side the whale shark to see his mouth. It’s incredible. An enormous mouth, which can be up to five feet long, cutting across the entire length of his face.

Despite its size, the whale shark is docile and does not pose a threat to people. The number of the species is unknown and it is listed as vulnerable.

In Kenya where there is a strong whale shark conservation program working to protect these amazing mammals, they call the whale shark "papa shillingi" which comes from the myth that God threw shillings (coins) on the shark that are now its spots. Here in Madagascar the name is "marokintana" meaning "many stars.”

 
After bidding farewell to our group, we walk back to our cottage on the beach. It is a two hour walk on a beautiful remote stretch of the beach. Wading in and out of the warm water, looking at the tide pools, I am still high from the whale shark. As the sun sets we approach our cottage in the dunes and watch the rest of the brilliant orange sun set in the ocean. Leaning back with my head against the sand, I think about the whale shark, wondering how many are left and if they will survive in the future. I think about Johnny Cash and whether he has had a good meal tonight, if he sold enough bracelets today.

Obligation

"When you see a thing, what then is your obligation?"

-Julia Alvarez, A Wedding in Haiti