Hazard Training P2 - Tennessee Simulation

It's a chilling thing to commit to training that will prepare and educate one for dangerous places in the world -- but ever necessary when journalists are telling the stories of those who are torn by war and conflict. While one can never be fully prepared, thankfully, there is a way to go in with as much knowledge as possible. So that's where Pioneer Consulting steps in - and for four days, 6 other freelance journalists from around Eastern U.S. and myself took on the grueling task of absorbing security information, travel guidance and became basic field medics in case of emergencies.

Our host, photo-journalist, Robert King was gracious enough to open his home for training and course work. Close living quarters, as if on assignment, provided the best source for us to get to know one another and interact through the week. 

For the first two days, the course was largely academic - it began with stressing the importance of planning and assessing the risks when preparing to travel to foreign places, personal security, working with resources and transportation safety and awareness, intertwined with medical training - CPR, first aid and how to handle situations in conflict. While Tim Crockett, Pioneer's founder, largely focused on security, Chuck Chiodini, a retired Military Medic, worked with us on the medical training. Ironically, sitting in a classroom-style setting for a bunch of moving journalists can create restlessness, but, the lectures provided adequate information and basis for foundational discussions on the role of our profession and the most effective ways to accomplish assignments.

As the Medical treatments were introduced, we were able to experience hands on learning with dummies and each other. Of course, it was always interesting to play the dummy - acting as the vulnerable victim in a mock situation. In any case, the "meatball" treatment for a field situation proved itself helpful and always included assessing the Danger first and ended with talk of morale and who or what was the priority in various scenarios.

Talks even included a lesson in weapons and protection. With seven journalists, it's not hard to understand why we're interested in items that can essentially blow things up...it's how we find stories. The course introduced a number of small arms, their capability and  how to manage the dangers of conflict where they are used -- whether fighting opposition, guarding a post or even celebratory fire. Following was a discussion on the best methods for protection and how handle varying situations.


The second two days involved much more practical application. Day three included navigating through trees and an extension of the property - learning how to find our steps and be aware of open and critical spaces, navigating around them. During one point in the exercise, a shot went off and one of our instructors had created a situation that required medical assistance. We teamed together and worked out the best treatment for the symptoms the patient/victim displayed. And in the end - created a tarp stretcher for all of us to carry the victim from the scene....which by the way, is not an easy task.

On the final day, after a heavy class session on the realities of kidnapping, we ventured out to complete our final test- taking what we had learned into a simulated situation in a "hostile environment." Certainly, we all knew that it was not real and that mindset can be difficult to switch from -- however, it did give us small window to work through a living photograph for some of the obstacles that could occur when faced with a such a task of covering a like story.

While it remains that you can never be fully prepared for anything unless you experience it and each experience builds on the last, it is still important to gain as much knowledge and wisdom as possible in order to mitigate dire circumstances. Participating in Pioneer Consulting Group's Hazard Training was an important experience - even for those journalists who had already been in war zones.

 *bottom photo taken by Chris Asadian

Hazard Training P1 - Just Getting There

It was just after 1-a-m and my phone was beeping at me, who in the world was sending me text messages? Oh wait...

With one eye open groggy and dry, I fumbled with my phone to open up the message, he wanted to know When are you anticipating to arrive or be in the Memphis area? What, already? I didn't think I needed to be there until 10 or so,....does they need me there earlier? I smirked slyly and sleepily, realizing we had never fully discussed my arrival to the farm - ah well, I was awake now and committed, apparently. 

I fumbled with my free hand for the lamp next to my bed, and sent him a text back, Well I wasn't going to get up and go for another hour, but now that I'm awake... 

A text back and forth about whether or not I could help pick someone up and I was out of bed, threw on the clothes I had laid out and went for the sink to wash my face. The cold water would help me wake up, I decided. It was time to hit the road, it would be a long week, but I had to make it, so off I went. 

Driving in the dark, to a place called Middleton, TN - a farm, ranch-style home, outside of Memphis definitely would involve the off road. In an attempt to help guide me, I received a few more text messages with short-cut directions - which at first sight didn't seem horribly out of the way and could save some time, then again it was 4 in the morning, raining- oh, and dark. Epic adventure already before the crack of dawn, fabulous. I stopped at the said "Flying J" and after a couple more texts with the rain getting harder, I called my guide to clarify. He did, sort of, in low tones tried to explain the roads I should be going down. It made sense, maybe, then again, I really couldn't see a thing.

The rain got harder and more blinding. Semi-trucks were pulling over and cars were freaking out. I was more of afraid of the country drivers than of the pounding rain, so I thought it best to find a little spot to sit, besides, the lightening was so intensifying, I thought my car might be electrocuted by a glove of light (and of course then there would be this cartoon moment when I'd be shocked to a skeleton - wait, that's not funny). I found a little church parking lot and drove up and parked by the building waiting for things to calm down. That lasted 20 minutes and I figured it safe to keep going. 

By dawn the rain had stopped and I was closer to the farm. I passed the street I needed to turn down 3-times due to the fact there was no street sign for the second to last street - I was almost there.

The host of the week was standing at the garage when I pulled up, he looked at me quizzically and I offered a hand-shake to introduce myself. He asked if I needed help unloading, I told him it could wait a few and I should meet the others. I walked in and took my shoes off - immediately the ranch style country home was welcoming and overwhelmed with other mates who had arrived earlier than myself. Only one was missing and on his way back from Memphis with our lead instructor. I drummed up a second wind of energy and made my way around the room with introductions and happy hellos. There was Andrew, Craig and Allison from New York, Chris, Robert and then our Medical Instructor, Chuck. They offered me a cup of coffee, which of course, I just couldn't turn down after driving through the night and we opened up small talk.

After the last class mate arrived, the morning was kicked off and a little grocery shopping ensued followed by an introduction to our next four intensifying days.

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (#OutOfOrder2)

The Way Out

I knew I head to get a head start. I'm a night owl and knowing that I wanted to try to and get to the Texas border by dawn, I had to go - despite protests from my aunt, I had slept all day and couldn't sit still. I was ready to get back to work, but not before I stopped to see my grandfather. 

I saw a smile cross his lips when I walked through his door. He sat comfortably on the couch without his prosthetic. I saw the stump that was his right thigh. He rubbed it on occasion, no doubt because it was still uncomfortable and he admitted his prosthetic wasn't as tightly fitted as he needed - of course he would ask for an adjustment. But he did say he was trying to get away from using the walker and just use the cane, another step in the recovery process.* 

The black and white movie became white noise and our conversation went on as it always did - certainly with my grandfather, never a dull moment being together- from his daily activities to spirituality to the latest in the news and my job. But the night was getting late and I knew I had to get on the road. Papa insisted on giving me a little gas money, he used his upper body strength and his good leg to maneuver into the wheel chair, rolled to his room and grabbed his wallet. He pressed 20 bucks into my hand.  

Seeing him in the wheel chair made me realize his frailty. It was the first time I had seen him during his surgery. I was aware of the pain he went through. And as I walked out the door, slipped into my Jeep and slowly pulled away, I watched him. He lingered in the door way and his face...just seemed so sad. 

I bit my lip and rode away. 

The night was before me, the dark desert with me, I had hours to drive and the next overnight stop  seemed as far as the stars. But I was determined because one cannot start a mission and not finish... 

Open Mic Night: Lazy Hummingbird

I walked into the strange cafe that had a Fedex attached to it. I smiled to myself and thought, "this place is hokie." I was amused at the rag-tag Ocean Beach crowd that swarmed in and out of the narrow door at a place so fittingly called "Lazy" Hummingbird. 

When I walked in, the young crowd was friendly and shared a few hellos. Most were there staring straight ahead at the open mic of musicians, paying close attention, not saying a word and dedicated to the music. It seemed they were all a little less than hippie, a little more than hobo - dreads, multi-colored clothes, tattoos and an interest to save the world through music and community. They were a group of artist-idealists. 

A little blond toddler walked into the cafe, looked at me curiously and gently put her little finger to her lips instructing me to "shh" - she bent down next to the jewelry maker on the floor and pointed to the game shelf wanting to retain the Twister box. After she got her hands on it, she darted out the door to play with her mom, a woman about my age with long beautifully wavy hair who later told me she was from Colorado.

I looked up and my friend had just walked in with her Ukalale. I made my way through the crowd and we decided to head outside. While there were no chairs available, so we found a table with a lone artist and made ourselves comfortable on the cement next to him. Through the course of conversation, he asked my friend to play during his spoken word session, for which she happily agreed. The young man told my friend that he was going to call it the Penguins of Paradise because he appreciated how penguins stuck together in the harshest conditions and well, he liked paradise, so it worked. 

Conversation continued for a while until we thought it best to check out a couple of the other artists. As we stood up to go inside, the emo-Brad Pitt and his motley crew behind us asked if they were bothering us - and we assured them we just wanted to hear some of the music. Although, I'm quite sure the other guy who was shaky and wouldn't sit still was looking to escape for a drug hit. 

We walked inside and watched various musicians take turns sitting in the hot seat. At one point, a gentleman, with long grey hair sticking out of his green hat and a nervous demeanor sat down. My friend leaned over and said, that's Dave. He was abducted by aliens and this is his song, she smiled. I stopped and shifted my eyes into a dead stare at her, thinking...um really? I shrugged and turned back to the man on the stool. But instead of singing a song this time, he made an announcement about how he identified with the Occupy group in San Diego and believed in equality. He passed out orange fliers and walked away. 

Back to the music and it was finally time for a little spoken word. The young artist my friend and I spoke with was up and she joined him. He allowed her to start with her song about a tree and he followed with his poetry, while she continued to play. Several drummers picked up the beat, but before long there were a few too many and the drum circle wasn't really listening to each other. Even so, my friend found a way to conduct them back into the same basic rhythmic pattern and the Penguins of Paradise carried on through the 10 minute open mic. 

When it finally dissolved, my friend and I exchanged smiles and left the little hokie coffee house. All in all, it had been a sweet and entertaining evening on Santa Monica street. 

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (#OutOfOrder)

West Rear-View

It's not as if it was the last time I would ever see the place called home, but leaving so quickly does things to one's head that often come as a result of driving 40 or more hours by oneself.

As it were, I left in a fog - the mist enveloped scenery, bounding once again to a life that would lead me away from the crashing waves. The only thing I could see in front of me were the eastern Mountains silhouetted against the sky and two feet of road. The crisp air smelled of salt and dew, and my mind was in a swirl of ghost like passing. Perhaps it would get clearer, so I went on. 

The two lane highway headed Southeast into the desert barely bore a soul. As the salted wounds began to shake off, and the border drew closer, the skies began to clear and I could see my first sight of green grasses and ascending desert-like mountains, which seemed small in comparison to what I experienced in the mist. The sight of it was like watching a painting in motion of brilliant earth tone colors welcoming me away from where I had been. 

Three hours and Yuma, Arizona was in sight. The deep sigh that escaped my breath made me realize I already need to stretch my legs, so  I spotted the nearest gas station, filled my tank the rest of the way and paused a moment to reflect on the idea that well, I just didn't know when I would cross that sweet California border again. 

I was headed to see my Papa, just months after his surgery. He was in his own house, had a walker and a new leg to boot - a boot that attached to his stump and made for a good story, even in its saddest of moments. The aunt, the uncle, they were nearby - pushing prodding and making good to keep an eye on him. 

Getting back on the road seemed a little more bearable and the dry air gave me motivation to work the second half of the first leg of a long cross country trip. 

Descending south led me to a border checkpoint, though I can imagine it's nothing compared to those that would make themselves home in desert countries overseas. Still, it wasn't the first time and as usual, it was a little odd. Needless to say, as the checkpoint got closer, I slowed and rolled my driver-side window down. The young Border Patrol cop, who looked younger than me and scarcely older than a high school student asked, "Can you roll all your windows down please?" 

"Sure," hoping that he wouldn't mistake all of my "travel-for-a-month" supplies as a sign that I had human beings stuffed underneath. 

"Where are you headed?" 

"Georgia" 

"Is that where you live?"  

"Yes." 

"Are you a US Citizen?"

"Yes."

"Where were you born?" 

"Ohio, sir." 

"Anyone else in the vehicle?"

"Nope."

"Ok, move on!" He commanded it, almost as if I had disappointed him. I can only imagine that a good smuggle was all the excitement these guys got. Semi-trucks are like treasure chests and the dogs were their shining hope. 

Considering how easy that really was, I kept thinking they needed a better system. But who was I to say? 

Quickly forgotten; I continued on to Maricopa. After several road detours I made it to the aunt & the uncle's house, two hours later than I had expected. A little dinner, wine and jacuzzi joy...the end of the night had finally come. Breathe.

Only seven states to go....

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (7)

The Moment of Yes

I needed a break. I needed a moment to think. I needed to call out in the middle of the week. I needed to wander, and perhaps I needed to get lost. So I did. When the burden of work was released, I slipped on my favorite sweats, a T-shirt, and picked up my camera. I was headed to the beach to think, not that thinking was going to do me any good and perhaps it would only cause me trouble, but think I would and whatever came of it would keep from being at home, cooped up all day.


Finding a parking spot on a weekday isn't so hard to do, then again this was San Diego and even in February the 60-some odd degree weather and a slight breeze is enough to bring even the most stubborn bear out of hibernation. I made my way down the boardwalk, jumped over the wall and dug my toes into the sand. The sound of the crashing waves kept my attention and I felt like I was able to breathe - slowly, in through my nose, out through my lips, closed eyes and sense of rest passed over me.


But as I continued walking down the beach, I heard voices singing. This was Ocean Beach, there were always buscars about and a hobo sitting audience. Of course, this time, the voices I heard were multiple and harmonizing. Curious, I approached the group of ragged musicians - they were jamming to the beats of Bob Marley's "One Love" and traded off guitars, a shaker, and a djembe. I couldn't tear myself away, and frankly I didn't want to - from Bob Marley to jams to the Spanish singer and others encouraged everybody to "keep on movin'," -- I was practically drooling over the fantastic scene of talent and joy that came out of their vocals.


I found a spot on the wall near the musicians, tossed my flip-flops aside and faced the water. I could have sat there all day just listening to music and watching the waters tumble underneath the pier.


Finally, the music stopped long enough for me to lean over and tell them how great I thought they sounded. One of the boys, peered back at me from under his long curly hair, smiled and said, "thank you so much." He reached out his hand which I eagerly shook and introduced himself.


I asked if they lived in the area. No, he told me, they were from New York, he and two others he pointed out. They were The Band and had come to Southern California to find fans and friends, living off the good graces of strangers.


Introductions went all the way around and eventually I met the Spanish singer, blond hair, tall and talented. He wasn't part of The Band, but he was a local musician, a starving one at that - working for a catering company by day and making his way around San Diego with a guitar at night. His bright attitude and hippie sticks kept us in conversation even after the band kept playing. He'd brought crackers and carrots which he willingly shared and we swapped stories about our roots.


After realizing I still had my camera with me, I grabbed a few pictures and figured I'd throw it up on my blog. It couldn't hurt to show a little support, truth was, I didn't have a dime on me to throw into the guitar case, which honestly is what the band was really hoping for -- they had to manage to eat and fill their purple van with gas...somehow.


The afternoon ended with an invitation to join the boys at a bar and the conclusion that I had finally made a few new friends. The place I'd come to find myself and get lost was becoming home - and it was only the beginning.

A Wedding

My New Year started with taking pictures at a wedding - one of my dearest. Here are a few of the pictures:

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (6)

Starting Line

New Year, new apartment, and thank heavens only a mile from the clear blue waters of the Pacific. The hustle and bustle of legal paperwork I had to sort through just to get approved for a legit studio California bungalow was enough trouble to make a person go bald by way of pulling all their hair out. 

January 1st - moving day and once again, I'd have to hail a Uhaul to drag my belongings from the dusty house to a smaller space with a pool. But I could live with that, the studio was the biggest I had ever seen. Truly - the living room could have added a wall and a door with room to spare. The long hallway led to a built in vanity at the end next to a walled off bathroom. A separate kitchen with counters and cupboards completed the space and I was set for time being. 

I dragged everything I owned into that apartment: the headboard, the foot-board, the glass iKea desk, the iKea shelf, the dishes, the pictures and well the guitars & cameras. The property manager, Beverly, gave me the keys to the mail box, the gate and my 1-car garage. But, of course, I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted to unload and see how long it would take me to make it to the ocean. I was in a race for the sand between my toes and I wasn't due to be back to work until Monday. 

After about two hours of heavy lifting and probably damaging my back for ages to come, I locked up, hopped in my little Honda and drove down the street, literally - 1.2 miles - to the blue vastness that rushed over my toes. Since it was winter; the ice cold sent chills went up my spine. But I took a deep breath and released. Now, now I felt like I was home with a beach and a sane mind. 

I had no outlook on the new year, I just wanted to get through the first month, earn enough to avoid detaching my arm for expensive California living. And at the moment, I was content enough to be staring across of body of water that doesn't stop until it reaches the next continent. 

What would come next...