You have got to be kidding

You have got to be kidding me.

This is a common phrase, right? And generally associated with something negative happening.

Something you say after someone cuts you off in a car. Sometimes followed by 'Seriously?' and your arms up in the air with a gesture of 'what gives.' 

Said when you are listening to the news, and you hear a statement by a politician, which you know is completely false.

Or maybe you say this after you open your credit card bill and hold your head in your hand.
Or when you are trying to fix the font and spacing on this blog and it simply does not work. 

It is something said after a long week of work, when you have come home, pour a glass of wine, set your self up on the couch to watch a movie and the power goes out....you have got to be kidding me!

It is something you say after you have been on a 1.800 line for more than 30 minutes, trying to get help to your simple query and just when you are about to get the solution, the line drops. 

This week I used the phrase while snorkeling in the Indian Ocean. Warm, clear, aqua colored water. I spent hours with a snorkel, fins and mask, floating across coral, sea-grass, fish and a kaleidoscope of colors. I tried not to think about the demise of global coral reefs and our government's criminal denial of the cause. I tried not to think about coral reefs as the protein factories for the world and the millions of people dependent on healthy reefs for their own health. For me, when faced with such beauty, I often think of the ramifications of their loss, the 'what if' it goes.

So, I tried not to think about the recent report on the demise of the Great Barrier Reef. In the salt water of the Indian Ocean I focused on the riot of colors below me. Blue, pink, orange, black, magenta, red. Orange and white striped clown fish, yellow, black and white angel fish and brown and white blowfish. Fish of all colors, patterns, shapes and sizes. Darting about looking for food. Within arms reach, but never able to touch. Black, sharp urchins hidden in the coral. Listening to the cracking of the coral, I relished the buffered sounds of the under-water world, trying to let the thoughts of work and stress leave my mind like a wave. 

As I swam I spotted a fish that made me say to myself 'you have got to be kidding me.' Followed by 'seriously?' The pattern of this fish was meticulous, magnificent. How can such a creature be so striking? The colors poignant, the royal blue and black strips between its eyes perfect in alignment, its soft looking fins, yellow plump mouth, an incredible species. A trigger fish.

The beauty of nature is endless. Irreplaceable. If we'd only open our eyes. See the colors. See the brilliance. Notice the patterns. Perhaps then, and only then, will we choose to reverse the decline. For it is a choice, a distinct choice, in our control, and we are now making the wrong choice. 

'In the end we will conserve only what we love; we will love only what we understand; and we will understand only what we have been taught.’ – Baba Dioum, Senegalese Poet.

If we do not open our eyes and notice these amazing creatures, we will not understand them, nor will we love them; therefore, we will not protect them. The time is now.  

Hong Kong

It is humid. The salt air smells like home, but I am far from home. Not Nairobi home, which my mother still says is not my home, but home-home, Marblehead. I am running in Aberdeen, on the south side of Hong Kong. The path takes me through a fish market. Men with rubber boots carry buckets of fish. The ground is wet and the air smells of fish and I am concentrating so as not to slip on the slimey ground or crash into any of the fishermen. A white women jogging through the back alley market is probably not a common site. The fishermen go out at about 4 am and return around 7 pm. At night the lights on the ships are lovely to watch as they return after a hard day of work into the harbor. Its a whole fish market, so stacks of styrofoam coolers line the market, ready for packing and shipping. The main catch are hairtail, mackeral, scad, big eye, pomfret and croaker, names unfamiliar to me. In 2013 the Government banned trawling because of a major decline in fish. Unsustainable fishing methods has led to a radical decline in stocks, a decline we see globally.

As I run around the harbor boats come in and out, new and old. The rice barges reminds me of my time in Bangkok and the car tire bumpers dangling on the side of the boats bring back memories of the boat I worked on in the Chao Phraya River. Drumming fills the air and I see red and yellow flags flapping in the wind. A crowd gathers and as I nudge my way through to see what is happening the smell of incense becomes strong. A group of young men dressed in colorful silk uniforms carry an elaborate dragon, his head made of huge, delicate feathers. A group of older men in the classic grey Chinese suit are clearly the honorary guests, they lead the crowd to a pile of offerings and a great red satin ornamental house. The drum and tambourine fill the air. An ancient looking man in a long cape, which looks like an oriental rug, and wise looking face with a wispy long goatee leads the band with methodical steps.

I carry on running and notice red and yellow flags in the water, dragon boats--beautiful, long wooden crew boats with an ornate and dramatic gold dragon at the bow. I think of my nephew, wishing he were here to see these historical and ornamental boats. There are 24 people in the boat. Their oars are short. The coxwain beats a large elaborate drum and the paddlers go to the beat. As I sweat and run, I pass men and women doing Tai-Chi in the park. They move thoughtfully, with focus, slowly, with their breath. Perhaps that is what I should be doing. Slowing down, taking pause, following the way. Oh, I will do that later, the perpetual pledge to pause and breath, ha, keep making the pledge. Another group are doing Tai-Chi with shiny silver swords, together, they follow a routine, their movements in unison, their swords shimmering in the sun. They move like birds.

Later that day I make my way to Repulse Bay, a lovely cove on the south of the island. The story goes that the bay was used by pirates, but they were 'repulsed' by the British Army; thus, the name. Now it is a beautiful cove, with light color sand and a view of tropical looking volcanic islands. There is a strip of stores that make you feel like you are in California. I get a fresh juice at the yoga store and watch the people pass. At the end of the bay is a Taoist shrine with a huge statue of Kwun Yam, a goddess associated with compassion and kindness, and Tin Hau, goddess of the sea. I like a religion with female gods and one cannot argue with people kneeling, praying and lighting incense to compassion and kindness. An ornate, small red bridge connects another section and is known as the bridge of longevity. Two beautiful elephant adorn a pagoda. People rub the trunk, close their eyes, murmur works of prayer and touch their praying hands to their forehead thoughtfully. Praying to the elephants, another thing I like about this religion.

From my very limited knowledge, and trust me, it is limited, Taoism is a religious tradition of Chinese origins, which emphasizes living in harmony with the Tao, the way, in harmony and movement with nature. Taoist ethics vary, but in general tend to emphasize We Wei, (effortless action), "naturalness," simplicity, spontaneity, and the three treasures "compassion," "frugality," and "humility." I was just discussing with my parents the book 'Living Buddha Living Christ.' An excellent book that draws the obvious and distinct parallels and similarities between the two religions and leaders. It is the same with Taoism--compassion, frugality and humility--the three treasures, and yet, aren't these the core of what Jesus taught us? If only we'd remember, not focus on the 'who' that taught us but embrace the core principles, especially today, in this mad world we live, where we discuss barriers, not bonds, differences not commonalities, walls not welcomes, hubris not humility.

In the afternoon I am in a Tao temple in down town Hong Kong, on Hollywood Street--one must appreciate the irony of being in an ancient temple in Hong Kong on Hollywood Street. The air in the temple is filled with incense, literally. People are wearing masks because of the smoke. You can buy a batch of 20 sticks of incense for about 10 HK Dollars. People light the whole batch, say a prayer, bow and stick the incense in a gold bowl filled with sand at the base of the various statues. People bring fruit, flowers and prayer papers. I stand to the side and watch, the devotion, the prayer. Breath in the incense feeling the burn in my nostrils and eyes. Built in 1847, the Man Mo temple houses the God of Literature (Man) and the God of War (Mo). Again, I am struck by the similarities in religion as I am reminded of the incense that the priest carried in the catholic church in an ornate gold chamber. He would swing it side by side and as children, I remember dreading this moment in mass as I did not like the powerful smell.

I wander the city, getting lost in the chaotic streets, passing markets along cobble staircases, restaurants filled with people eating noodles out of big white bowls, gardens filled with fig trees and stores filled with everything from cheap souvenirs to Gucci. The simple act of walking is a treat for me, not something one does in Nairobi. Just wandering, without thought, without caution, is a privilege.

I make my way towards the water and come upon a square filled with women, literally, filled with women. I look in every direction for a male face, but just see women. They are all sitting on cardboard, they have taken card board boxes, flattened them and they are laying on them, sitting on them, picnicking on them. It is a peculiar site as I picture people picnicking on comfortable blankets, outside. These women are on cardboard, on cement, in the central city square. My friend explains later to me that they are 'the workers,' the house help, mostly Phillipinno. It is their day off. And they gather on Sundays, to spend time together in this central space.

This week, Wednesday, is International Women's Day. I suspect it will go unnoticed for these women who sit on their cardboard on their day off. I hope somehow the compassion of Taoism, or whatever religion of their employers, will seep in and make their days a little bit better.

I walk through the flower market, bird market, fish market, gem market and the ladies market. Its as if there is a market for everything. The colors, smells, sights are invigorating, perplexing and stimulating.

The goldfish market was fascinating. Walls and walls covered with bags of fish. What is it with humans and wildlife. I found everything. Turtles, tortoises, chameleons, snakes, birds, fish of all kind.

In the evening I have a bowl of noodle soup (yes, there is a more ornate name to it in Chinese) and some dim-sum. I am grateful that Hong Kong is a large city because the catastrophe I create with my chop sticks is epic and at least nobody knows me, nor will they ever see me again. I have splattered everything around me with the broth as the noodles go flying out of my chop sticks and mouth. My face is so close to the table so that I can simply shovel the food into my mouth, I literally could rest my chin on the table. Elegant.

On my last day I take the metro to Lantau Island to see the big Buddha. This Buddha is giant, 34 M high and weighs over 250 metric tons, it is bronze and beautiful. Whatever your religion, standing at the base of this Buddha one feels a sense of awe and a recognition of something bigger, something greater, whatever that may be for each person. This Buddha is called the Tian Tan Buddha. He sits on top of a bronze lotus flower on top of an alter. He is surrounded by six beautiful bronze statues referred to as the 'Offering of the Six Devas' because they are offering him flowers, incense, lamp, ointment, fruit and music. These gifts represent the Six Perfections of generosity, morality, patience, zeal, mediation and wisdom, all of which are necessary for enlightenment.

To reach the Buddha you climb 268 steps. The Buddha is enormous, impressive. There are tons of visitors and I am curious watching each one, to understand why they are here. From the Spanish ladies that leap on the count of five to get their photo in front of the Buddha as they are mid-air, to the Asian who is being filmed for a documentary at the base, to the older Chinese woman on her knees praying. The Buddha's right hand is up and facing outward, this a position symbolizing protection, peace and dispelling of fear.

Next to the Buddha is the Po Lin Monastery a colorful and ornate Buddhist monastery founded in 1906 by three monks. Inside are incredible gold Buddhas, dozens of them. Similar to the other monasteries, people come with offerings and light incense. I purchase a stack of incense and join a group of Chinese women. We light the incense, say our prayers, place the stick in a large lotus shaped bowl and slowly back away as the smell and smoke carry our prayers into the air.

    

Timothy

I am in a small bus with a delegation from Cameroon, Congo and Senegal. We are in Amboseli National Park, in southern Kenya, showing them how communities here are involved in conservation and how Kenya Wildlife Service manages the park and tourism. The delegation is comprised of directors of wildlife agencies, government officials and park managers. It is fun to see these grown men, yes, all men, in awe of the wildlife. They come from forested landscapes where it is difficult to see wildlife and when you do, because of poaching, the wildlife disappear quickly.

As we bump along the washboard road, we catch a glimpse of a male elephant behind an acacia tree. We stop and watch. When he moves from behind the tree, my jaw drops at the size of his tusk. It is hitting the ground, absolutely enormous. You wonder how he can even lift his head with the weight of these tusks. I learn later than the elephants name is Timothy and he is 45 years old.

Timothy is 45 years old. He is known as one of the largest tuskers in Amboseli. When I looked him up I found a number of lovely photos, like the one below from Paul Obuno. I also found one with a spear in his head. Timothy was speared in 2016, right on the left side of his head. You can find the image on line. This is a common retaliatory action from local Maasai when elephant come out and raid 'shambas' gardens or trample homes. Fortunately, Timothy wandered to help and a team was able to tranquilize him and pull out the spear.


Photo (c) Paul Obuno.

The delegation is utterly impressed as they watch Timothy and the other wildlife in Amboseli. It is impressive, truly. But what these men do not see are the real issues facing this landscape and others in Kenya. With a population of 44 million expected to double by 2050, there is just not enough space for wildlife with the current development trends. Don't get me wrong, if Kenya embarked on proper and binding land use planning, it could thrive economically and ecologically, but without that planning rampant development continues to block wildlife corridors, put severe pressure on protected areas and accelerate conflicts with communities.

The median age of elephants in Amboseli is 55. So Timothy will hopefully live another decade. I cannot help but to wonder what this landscape will be like in ten years, and what challenges Timothy and the other Amboseli elephants will face.

Congo

I have not left Nairobi, and yet I feel as if I have arrived in DRC, the Democratic Republic of Congo.

The people waiting in the gate with me are dressed to the nine. Red pants, colorful dresses, white alligator pointy men's shoes, gold jewelry, brilliant head wraps, stripe pants with a paisley shirt, it's awesome. I look down at my black T.shirt, khaki pants, black shoes--drab. But think about it, think if I were to put on striped paints with a paisley shirt, I'd look like a clown. Yet for the Congolese, more then get away with it, they look fantastic, stylish and hip.

The other thing one notes is the volume, it is turned up. Lively discussions, laughter and debates. The first time I was in Central Africa I thought everyone was fighting, but quickly learned the aggressive responses, loud reply and play in language is simply 'how we communicate.' So you quickly find yourself joining in.

We fly three and a half hours from Nairobi to Congo. Congo-Brazza, short for Congo-Brazzaville, which is different than the Democratic Republic of Congo. The two countries are separated by the mighty Congo River and the flight from Brazzaville to Kinshasa, the capital of DRC, is only 10 minutes. The expanse of forest that one flies over in Congo is impressive. The green lung of Africa, the second largest tropical forest in the world, this, along with its inhabitants are what we are trying to save.

Unlike a few years ago, the airport is somewhat seamless. No bribes, no hassle, easy visa and I exit. The new airport has been built by the Chinese, like a lot of infrastructure in Africa. The old airport, is just that, old. It reflects the years of history, with bullet holes, and the years of tropical temperatures, with mold, crumbling facades and just a worn down look.

I was supposed to travel to Kinshasa in September, but there was rioting. President Joseph Kabila, son of Laurent Kabila, has served two terms, but does not want to let go of the reigns, a common issue in Africa. He tried a number of tactics from changing the constitution to suggesting a census needs to be done before the election, but Congolese had enough, so they took to the streets demanding elections. The main road to the airport was blocked, so traveling at that time was simply not an option. The protesters succeeded and elections are scheduled for December 2018. I ask everyone I meet on this trip, so, will they happen, the elections. The common response from the optimists 'we'll see' and others, no way.

I am in Kinshasa for only two days of meetings. Staying at a small hotel with a lovely leafy garden. Two crowned cranes roam the property and gaze at themselves in the mirrored reflection of the sliding glass doors.

We are in a meeting and a young women comes in to bring us tea and coffee. On her cheek is a brilliant blue heart with the Congolese flag perfectly painted inside the heart. Tonight is a football match between DRC and Ivory Coast. I played football, I enjoy watching football, but I don't really follow football.

After our meetings, my colleague and I throw on our running shoes and head out for a run. The air is thick with warm humidity and I am very quickly drenched in sweat. We cross Boulevard du 30 Juin, which is named after the day DRC became independent from Belgian rule, and head down to the river. We run on wide, leafy streets, with big houses hidden behind impressive fences. Passing Embassies and other picturesque buildings. There are people everywhere and soon we see them starting to gather around TVs in windows, driveways, shops and houses, the game is soon starting.

As we wind up our run and head back towards the hotel, I notice the city has vacated. It is as if a nuclear bomb went off, the streets are empty, literally empty. Now, remember, Kinshasa has 10 million people, so empty streets is not an easy feat. Suddenly there is a loud roar, screaming, thundering and blasting. I am momentarily startled, but as my colleague sprints away yelling 'they've scored'--I realize 10 million people are yelling in victory.

Back at the hotel I turn on my TV and there is Donald Trump being inaugurated. I watch in horror for a moment and decide to turn it off and join the Congolese for a cold beer and a game, a much better option. We go to Hotel Royal Kinshasa and outside near the pool they have large screens set up, chairs and a number of beer vendors selling cold beers. The scene is vibrant, all the embassy staff, local Congolese are watching, drinking, cheering and yelling. The match ended a tie, but good enough for the team to proceed.

The next day I head to the airport. The traffic is bad, really bad. We divert from the main road and take side streets. Dirt roads through the belly of Kinshasa. For the first time I start to really appreciate the magnitude of the city and the number of people. People are everywhere, walking, riding bikes, working, braiding hair, carrying water, carrying chickens. Children in uniform carrying oversized back backs. Rivers clogged with trash and egrets standing on islands of rubbish. Fresh bread on the side streets, music blaring, people playing pool. People sitting on tin cans. Shacks painted colors, fun names like Salon de Rose or Patisserie d'Obama painted on the sides of buildings. For 90 minutes we go at about 5 km per hour, watching Saturday life unfurl in Kinshasa. Dodging potholes, children, bikes, goats, people, motorbikes and vehicles.

A wave of despair drapes over me as I think about the effort to catalyze interest in conservation. To get people to care. to inspire pride in a country's natural resources. Here in the back roads of Kinshasa I am unconvinced we will succeed.

Westgate

Yesterday was the first time I returned to Westgate Mall since the terror attack. Westgate is a posh mall located in my old neighborhood, Westlands, in Nairobi. On 21 September 2013, ten days after the anniversary of September 11, the mall was taken over by Al-Shabaab terrorists. Sixty seven people were killed and more than 175 people injured in an event that lasted 48 hours. 

It was a typical Saturday in Nairobi. People were sipping fresh juice on the front patio of a cafe in the mall, kids were on the roof finger-painting. Women were shopping for make-up, teenagers eating pizza in the food court, friends eating sushi in the fancy sushi restaurant. I was in Rwanda, flying back that evening. Our office phone tree quickly kicked into gear. Our staff were safe. 

Westgate was my mall. It was around the corner from where we lived. It is where we had a video store, picked up coffee on a Saturday, shopped for groceries and met friends for a glass of wine after work. It was hard not to think 'what if?' What if I had not been in Rwanda? What if I did my usual thing on a Saturday--woke up, went for a run, ate something, showered and then went to Westgate for a coffee and to grocery shop?

Westgate was a double whammy for the terrorists. It is partially owned by an Israeli and in addition to the hoards of Kenyans that frequent the mall, a lot of westerners living in this part of Nairobi shop at Westgate.

The images of the attack were horrific and all too familiar. A women lay dead under the Dorman's Coffee counter, where we would treat ourselves to a cappuccino on the weekend. An Al-Shabaab masked man with an AK47 points a gun at customers in the cereal isle of our grocery store. People with their hands in the air descend the escalator we rode weekly to the second floor to Mr. Price to get sheets and other household goods. Children lay in pools of blood in the parking lot where we parked on weekends. 

Not surprisingly Kenyans rallied, they always do. On the Monday after the initial attack there were still hostages in the mall. Our staff showed up to work and when released raced to the local hospital to donate blood. Stories of heroism emerged about Kenyans who risked their lives to save others in the attack. Stories were posted on Facebook in remembrance.

The mall reopened in 2015 and the idea of returning to Westgate never enticed me. After the bloody incident shopping or dining in any mall was not that enticing to be honest. One needs to appreciate that in Kenya, shopping is clustered in malls. So while in the USA shopping in a mall is a bit foreign to me as I grew up and lived in towns with shops on the street, in Kenya many stores are clustered in the malls. I found myself avoiding meeting friends in malls and if I had to shop, I would be quick and efficient.

I had driven by the new Westgate before, but again, had never found the need or desire to go in. Sure, it was no longer my neighborhood, so I rarely found myself with the opportunity. On Friday however I was in Westlands for a number of meetings and was meeting a colleague who is based on that side of town, so we decided to meet at Art Cafe, in Westgate. I did not think too much about it except that at some point it would be good to go back, so why not now?

The outside of the mall looks the same, except now, like many places in Nairobi, your car is searched inside and out by private security company staff, you go through a metal scanner when entering the building and a German Shepherd with a metal wire muzzle is held at the front door by a police man in camouflage. The inside looks similar, shiny, new. Busy. Some stores changed but the core remained familiar. People went about their business, people of all ages and walks of life. 

I grabbed a table on the lovely, leafy porch and ordered a Chia Firecracker, a juice made of baobab powder, chia seeds, honey, banana, sweet melon, passion juice and red chili. Hip music played in the hidden speakers, a Chinese business man ate lunch next to me with a Kenyan, a blond European women drank an espresso and smoked a cigarette. As I watched people eating, drinking and laughing, I wondered if anyone was thinking about September 2013. I wondered how life just moves on. Life does move on, and life should move on, but somehow we always need to remember these events as they shape who we are, how we interact with others. They shape our history and our future, and we must always, remember.

Uninvited Visitor

I had a visitor last weekend in Amboseli National Park, a vervet monkey. Clever little buggers. Adorable little black faces. They can wreak havoc and after raiding a sugar bowl, watch out. You know when your child has sugar? Yes, same thing.

Hmm. The guest is in the room.

Perfect. The sugar is right by the coffee as always.

Man, this door is heavier than I remember.

Hey, you, are you going to help here?

Not in Africa

It is 6am. I tip-toe out of the apartment with a towel and a mug of coffee. As I walk down Kaiulani Avenue towards the beach I rub the sleep out of my eye, sip my coffee and watch the morning sun light emerge. Other surfers are walking in the same direction--locals. Tanned, flip flops and carrying a surf board under their arms. Morning surf session. What an amazing way to start the day, a pre-work surf. 

I get to the beach, it is still dim light and the water is already peppered with surfers. The young man renting the boards is tanned, blond, he spends his days on the beach. For ten dollars he sets me up with a board. He tells me to get out there an kick some ass. I tell him, I can go out there and have fun, but I definitely won't be kicking any ass. 

I slip into the warm water and start to paddle. The water is so refreshing and the whole experience of being out, early morning, new place, ocean is delightful. Now, lets be clear. I am not a good surfer. In fact, I would not even call myself a surfer despite having done it a lot, and I mean a lot, so technically, I should be a surfer, but, well, heck, we all can't be good at everything. But I come from the ocean and there is nothing more healing and refreshing than warm salt water.

The waves are long and gentle. Quite a contrast to my first attempt at surfing in Costa Rica where I was literally thrashed for over an hour. Having swallowed gallons of cold salt water, broken the leash, and my friend breaking his board in half we resigned for the day. Here in the Hawaiian waters, the waves a strong enough for a good long ride, but not so strong they wreck you. I am smiling, paddling. Looking at the clear ocean, gazing at the volcanic hills to the mountains that frame the beach, watching the sun rise and embracing the morning. After a long paddle I straddle the board and enjoy the view while waiting for the waves. I watch tall, skinny, large, young and old Hawaiians catch waves leisurely. They do it with ease, like walking or sipping a cold drink, effortless and graceful. Dancing on the waves. After a few attempts I find my self in a wave, standing, riding. I am laughing, saying yahoo. By myself on a long ride, enjoying the morning, enjoying the moment, enjoying life.

 Surfer statue in Waikiki.