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.

Nigeria: Grieving for Answers

 

A man in Nigeria, whose wife was killed in the Dana Air crash earlier this week, is filing a suit against Boeing and the estate of the American pilot for defective engines and putting his wife in “unreasonable” danger.

The Boeing 727 crashed into a residential area, in Lagos, resulting 163 dead and others injured. Masses of locals rushed to the site and it was hours before rescue workers could get in and start pulling bodies out of the rubble. The fire took time to burn out and even media crews had a difficulty maneuvering through the wreckage and the crowds.

A day later, the Nigerian crash took a unique turn. A dear friend posted on his Facebook that he had lost his sister in the crash, and that she had been on the plane, and among the declared dead.The pain of his loss certainly made the reality of the incident powerful. Watching his grief gives perspective to the emotions many of the victim’s families may be experiencing.

The other man who sued Boeing isn’t looking for money or attention, rather a sense of Justice – because for such a circumstance, it is only natural in the human mind to want someone or something to blame, a responsibility upheld. There must be explanation; there must be a reason his loved one died, even if it was preventable. And perhaps it was not preventable; the crash itself is under investigation with the Nigerian Aviation Authority and other officials, however, if something can be explained, if anything can be given a reason, there is retribution. The human condition is prone to the need for understanding, for reason, for a detailed answer to the question, “why.”

In the end – the families who are speaking out, the ones who are frustrated with the government’s lack of answers and the ones who are vying to obtain their loved one’s body for burial – are simply in need of peace, security and resolution. A pastor in Lagos stated that everyone in his congregation knew someone or was connected to someone in that crash. The grieving nature of the community will take time to heal and while the news moves on, they will stay persistent in their search for answers and strength.

Note: Breaking news is always a rush – when an event happens that changes people’s lives in a significant way, a learning curve always follows. As a journalist, one has to know how to handle being sensitive to the suffering and yet using every resource necessary to cover the elements and facts of a story. The pkg above was filed by Vladimir Duthiers for CNN

surf and sand

my friend, jett, picked me up and helped me tie my borrowed surf board to the top of his car. the day was warm but fairly overcast. even so, it was a perfect day to go out and try my hand at surfing again. still only learning, i hadn't been able to pop up on my feet yet, but any excuse to work at it and well, be engulfed in the high seas- i would take it.


once we attached the board to the car, he opened his trunk and showed me an enormous crab. the fishy smell wasn't pleasant, but the crab, though dead, had an amazing amount of life attached to it - barnacles and green sea-life that was fascinating. jett explained that he just wanted to show it off to people, but planned to put it back in the ocean.


after a quick pit stop for water bottles and energy bars, we cruised around the neighborhood overlooking the water to see where other surfers were catching waves, we settled near the pier and unloaded. jett's wet-suit was still wet, so he put a bag on each of his feet and slipped through the tight foot-holes while i fumbled for the long zipper on my back. the morning was cloudy. it didn't matter, the breeze was cool and the sky showed signs of sun.


we grabbed our boards and headed down toward the pier. i waded out, hopped on and efforted swimming over the waves coming right at me. an immediate chill went down my spine, the taste of salt, and i was in heaven. for the next two hours, i ducked through waves, body surfed, knee surfed and tried to find my footing on the 7 foot long board. i even forgot to duck quick enough to avoid another surfer's board knocking me in the head...an epic fail, but in the end, i was in the pacific, and i just didn't care. 


jett and i pulled our boards from the water and laid them on the sand, started peeling off our wet-suits and he skipped a few rocks against the waves. the morning was over and the sun dried us off. we headed back to car but not until we grabbed the crab that sat on the post above the stairs.


he dropped me off, i changed into work-out clothes and headed off for a good hour of hot yoga. my friends had been right, the cold/hot and physically exhausting combination was sensational and jett's suggestion to take haley's class was fantastic. 

when the dripping sweat hour was done, i walked back for a shower ready to take on the world...or at least the ocean beach farmer's market.
  

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. 

A Word On Syria-

 "So in the interest of innocent victims everywhere, 
we as journalists need to work harder to find out who they were, to paint a picture of the lives they had and the people who grieve for them. 

May they all rest in peace -- and be counted." 

(Sara Sidner, CNN)*

*the quote above was take from an article discussing the recent 17 victims in Afghanistan, however it applies to this platform

In Syria, an estimated 9000+ people have been declared dead. And as numbers continue to increase, so does the discourse about what will come next and if the Syrian regime doesn't accept a plan presented by Kofi Annan to end the conflict peacefully, which thus far has not been done. Of course, the debate also rages on as to whether or not Annan's "cease-fire" and negotiation "plan" will even be effective as the Opposition groups struggle to come to terms in Istanbul. 

The Western educated Syrian leaders, with their iTunes lists, flirty emails and general dismissal of the pain they inflict on their own people has certainly been nothing but disturbing. In recent days, President Bashar Al-Assad visited the city of Homs where much of the shelling occurred and from where residents fled...those that did not die on the way out, for the past year. But it seems his visit was only that of a political ploy. According to activists, shelling continued after he left and others say security forces gathered a "pro-Assad" crowd to make his visit seem welcome. Even humanitarian groups have had difficulty getting in and out of the country to rescue those with dire medical needs. The situation, frankly, is a mess.

Ironically, the "Friends of Syria," seem to be looking less like friends and more like the political leaders debating how to handle the ravaged country, that is, idly sitting by and "talking." There are those among the Arab nations who might readily arm the opposition and but Western powers hesitate when there is a wide variety of opposition groups that have yet to come together. At the end of the day, the International Community is frustrating the people who are suffering the most. Even Annan's 6-point plan seems like steps right out of a self-help book in the dusty corner at Barnes & Noble bookstore. 

While the world's leaders have encouraged the opposition to create a clear vision of what they hope for the future of Syria, most are just trying to survive. Women, Children, Old Men - are lost, are dead, are barely hanging on. At the end of the day, the politics are meaningless and the talk is just that -- babble achieving nothing, at least not until the last gun shot is fired, not until the last explosive reduces to ashes. If the international community doesn't, there are those with ill intentions, and theirs will be the help Syria receives because they have no one else.  Even then, the repair will take years and the mourning will have only just begun. 

The tears, anger and suffering press on, and ironically, the journalists seem to be the only hope for the Syrian people. Perhaps, just maybe, if we keep showing their stories, chasing the aftermath, showing the blood and sweat and screams -- the world will finally wake up. 

Of Note: Invisible Children

A Note On Kony 2012 --

With over 80 million views, Invisible Children has sparked a movement of young people, through YouTube, social media and highlighted a warlord that has long been wanted by the ICC. Through content made for children with the simplest explanation of Joseph Kony and his atrocities in Northern Uganda, the organization has been able to raise awareness and money to support their cause. They encourage students and viewers to buy media and help make Joseph Kony famous so that Congress will pay attention and help fund military operations to bring Kony to justice. 

But the campaign has not been without criticism. Invisible Children CEO, Ben Keesey and Film Producer, Jason Russell have made a number appearances on NBC, CNN and other media outlets to answer for their intentions. The organization has been drilled over their financial distribution, a perceived western-world driven campaign and even why they're producing a film that has been a story for more than a decade. 

Granted, CNN interviewed Jacob Acaye, featured in the Kony 2012 film who says it's not too late, especially if Kony is still kidnapping children, making them child soldiers and raping young girls. He says the mission is important and he wants justice for he and his brother, who was killed by Kony. While there are Ugandans who support and are part of the campaign and Invisible Children's programs for education and assistance, others are raising a red flag.  

A couple of days ago; the campaign's producer, Jason Russell was detained by police after reportedly being drunk in public and stripping to his underwear in Pacific Beach, San Diego. He was taken to the hospital for treatment and Invisible Children released a statement saying he was hospitalized for "exhaustion, dehydration and malnutrition. The past two weeks have taken a severe emotional toll on all of us, Jason especially, and that toll manifested itself in an unfortunate incident yesterday"

So the question remains: was the campaign a good idea? Or were there self indulgent intentions behind raising funds to make Kony famous? Immediately, those defending the campaign would say no. They might blame the projected media attention or the pressure of such a large campaign. 

Interestingly enough, activists in Uganda conducted a screening, bringing thousands of Northern Ugandans, some former victims of Joseph Kony to view Russells film and join the debate, react to the content. And the result, documented by Al Jazeera, was anger and distrust. For some, it comes from the fact that Kony no longer exists in Uganda. Reports indicate that he has gone into the bush somewhere in the Democratic Republic of Congo. For others, they want to call attention to the Ugandan government leaders who allowed the LRA's atrocities and still some feel as if Invisible Children are calling them weak, patronizing them and their pain.

Ultimately: while they may have had some pure intentions identifying a terrible villain to a new generation; Invisible Children seems to have more to answer for; their strategy was to take Joseph Kony and turn him into a celebrity. To a culture who has spent years (and still is) recovering from the fear of this man and his oppression, turning him into a celebrity, putting him on T-shirts and posters, to them, shows an ignorance on the part of the organization. For many Ugandans, Jason Russell is missing the point and doesn't understand their need or their view of justice.  

Ironically, then, the point is: it's important to be open to understanding the customs and culture of people groups that you're trying to represent. One, two or five does not represent an entire country or an entire region. People need to see your humility before their see your capability. Learn from them, then help them. And be honest, as a non-profit organization, you're held at a higher standard, so complete transparency is key. Then again, there must be a balance: don't put yourself so closely in the public eye that even cause is just about an image, and it looses the flavor. Be willing to morph and change when perhaps, just maybe - the means doesn't bring a justified end. 

Will Joseph Kony be caught? Eventually yes. Evil men cannot stand. Will Invisible Children have helped with their awareness campaign? Maybe. 

What happens Next, God only knows, and Time will tell. 

Book Review: Game of Thrones Part 1

"When you play the game of thrones, you win or die, there is no middle ground." 

(Cersei Lannister, Game Of Thrones)

How true comes the statement from a jealous and even vile Queen in an epic story by George R.R. Martin. Set in an early century world of Knights, Kingslayers, watchmen, Lords and rumors of ancient Dragons: Game Of Thrones depicts a story that can only be told through the eyes of its characters.

Eddard Stark and his wife Catelyn are caught in the middle of a battle for honor among families who are competing for the throne while their own family may be in jeopardy. After Stark, a long time friend and confidant of the King, becomes the Hand of the throne, he discovers secrets that he wish he had never known. And time is running out as rumors rise that the children of ancient dragons are planning to revolt. 

Each chapter Martin moves the story forward by focusing on the point of view through various characters. From the view of the Stark family to the dwarf brother of the Queen to the daughter of the last great Targaryen warrior to the Night's Watch, the high intensity of progression made it hard to put the book down. 

When vying for power, money and in the case of Sansa Stark: love, everyone's honor seems to fail. Even among those most respected among the Night Watch, most of the boys coming from questionable backgrounds regaining their name and reputation -- find their vows are a heavy loyalty to bear against their families, particularly for Jon Snow, the illegitimate son of Ned Stark. 

Nevertheless, as winter is coming, so is war - and the high anticipation of clashing Lords hangs in the balance through betrayal, tragedy and peculiar loyalties and unorthodox victories.

I would highly recommend this Award winning book, Game of Thrones, and I look forward to the second installment: A Clash of Kings.

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.