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October 30, 2006

Reaching Out Across The Sea

I am honored to share the news that I have been invited by the United Nations "Children and Armed Conflict" division to work with, and develop materials for, children in war torn areas. I am thrilled to be of service to these children who really need help. I will be travelling to the Congo in December or early January to work with kids in the DRC.

My friend Bill Kelsey is a pilot who flies relief efforts in Africa and I hope to hook up with him when I'm in the Congo. I spent some time with Bill on Saturday evening. He is an amazing human being with an incredible story. Here is some of it:

From Bill Kelsey:

I have just returned to Uganda after flying in Chad in support of relief efforts for Darfuri refugees from Sudan. It was my fourth working trip there in the past two years. On this one I acted in my capacity as Africa Regional Chief Pilot for Airserv International. The task was to go to Abeche in the east near the Sudan border for a month and train a new First Officer for our Twin Otter, upgrade two First Officers to Captain, and help organize the team. We ended up in the middle of an upsurge of the local civil war and did a few evacuations, a few medevacs, including some life saving ones, and generally did our best to be useful, and I hope at least harmless.

Here I summarize my personal experiences from my various trips to Chad. It might be of interest to pilots, camel breeders, students of Arabic, and observers of the wars of the region. It follows no journalistic rules. Skip the parts that don’t interest you.

The airplane I flew this time was our venerable DHC-6 Twin Otter, hull number N899AS, which I had first flown in Congo four years ago. It is a legendary craft, designed for the Canadian tundra but used successfully in harsh conditions the world over. It is a flying truck, designed to get the job done without an excess of comfort for the passengers, but with a rugged reliability in landing on short, rough strips. This particular one I flew in the service of Airserv has been nearly destroyed by landmines and machine guns in events in Sudan, Liberia, and Burundi over the past two decades. Carefully patched and put back together each time, it still brings hope to people in troubled parts of the world. It is dear to many of us.

On my first landing at Abeche two years ago a large dark spot in the touchdown zone turned out to be a camel. I added a little power, and humped over him and landed further down the runway as he gazed at the airplane with enviable non-chalance and serenity. This special creature is an important part of the story, so I made a point of finding out what I could about camels and their owners beyond what I knew of them from the Middle East.

The camel herders in Chad tend to be Arabic speakers. Because of their place in the life of the desert there are many dozens of words to describe precisely which sort of camel we are talking about. Here are a few I picked up for my friends who study Arabic: (and the qaaf is pronounced gaaf)

Hiwaar: a young lactating camel
qa9ood: a young weaned camel
bakra: a virgin camel
Hiqqa: a camel pregnant for the first time
daari’: a heavily pregnant camel
naaqa: a milking camel
9awda: a old female camel
naab: a really old female camel; the word is also used for tusk, tooth, or fang; using this word to refer to an old lady camel might have something to do with her being long in the tooth. But I digress.

Once I was taxiing for takeoff on the useable half of the dirt runway in Adre, right on the Sudan border. As we were halfway through our U-turn we found ourselves nose to nose with a camel. This was a special moment. She moved her head from side to side gazing at us with a somewhat puzzled look. We contemplated each other and reflected for a few moments. I prepared to reverse the propellers to blow forward hard in her direction if she came any closer. (Years ago in Mozambique we worked out this technique for when a mentally ill person came dancing out of the bush too close to our spinning props). Then the camel decided to let us go on our way and hobbled off. Her two front feet were loosely tied together to keep her from wandering too far too quickly. This reminded me of the famous quote from the Prophet Mohammed, "i9qal wa tawakkal." His companions had asked what they should do with their camels during prayer. Would tying them up imply a lack of faith and a fear that they would wander off or be stolen during prayer? His reply translates as "hobble up (your camel) and have faith." I say this to taxi drivers in the Muslim and Arabic speaking world if they tell me I don't have to fasten my seatbelt. Come to think of it, I've even said it to cab drivers in the States.

Abeche is a dusty desert town with unpaved streets. Goats, donkey, horses, and of course camels mix with motorcycles, cars, and the pickup trucks used by local military forces. These pickup trucks are really special because aside from the mounted machine guns and rocket launchers and other implements of destruction on board they have baskets hanging on either side of the cabs. In each basket one sees a dozen or so rocket propelled grenades. We do not wish to sideswipe one of these as they careen through the streets.

The first day I walked through Abeche I was astonished to see a camel parking lot, something that cannot be described adequately. It must be seen to be believed, especially when we are talking of more than a hundred of the beasts. Camels are usually serene when they are loaded and walking. But when kneeling on the ground resting they snarl and growl and moan and hang out their tongues and twist their ugly faces that only a mother (a naaqa!) could love.

With this herd was a group of people I can only describe as Afro-Bedu. Their skin was black but their features Arab. The men wore white, light gray, or beige robes with turbans. The women wore clothes of an exaggerated gypsy stereotype: bright and garish purples, oranges, reds, and yellows. Their ankles, necks, and wrists were adorned with a variety of silver bangles and stone ornaments. Heads were covered loosely and sometimes not at all. Some even had bare shoulders. In my pilot’s uniform I caught their eye as they caught mine. But when we made contact they looked down.

I am not one comfortable with taking pictures. But how I wanted to speak to these camel caravaneers. What was their dialect? Where did they come from and where did they travel? These folk used real working camels, not the redundant ones used only for milk and meat and tourists in the Arab world I knew already. The drivers and I gazed at each other across the centuries, each curious about the other, but I was not sure what conversation to have. And it was time to go back to the airport and fly.

Over the next few days I thought of how I would break through the invisible wall of shyness between us next chance I had. (One doesn’t think of breaking the ice in the extreme heat of Chad). I would go and ask to buy some of the milk I saw the ladies selling. I would greet the men in Arabic and wish them peace (Assalaam 9alaykum) with confidence and see what developed. But the next opportunity I had to go downtown in Abeche there was not a camel to be seen. Instead an herb seller called me over for a philosophical and religious discourse on the strength that was esoteric (baaTin) and the strength that was manifest (Dhaahir).

On this most recent trip I did actually have a chance to connect with nomads. We hired camels from some nearby Mahamid people, a local tribe, and went for a little outing in the semi–desert. Their Arabic was clearer to me than the dialect of the town and conversation was easy. I noticed from time to time that we went through small fields that were undergoing a heroic effort at cultivation. “Why are we passing through this? Won’t the people growing things in this field get annoyed with us?” I asked.

My companion answered that in Libya camels could not be ridden through cultivated fields but in Sudan and Chad “no one” could object and the camels and their riders had the right of passage anywhere they wanted. So with this we have reached the beginning of the story that began long ago and plays out today in the Darfur conflict. Do we have the right to grow vegetables where camels walk and graze? Do we have the right to walk and graze our camels where people grow their vegetables?

I will continue soon insha’alla with accounts of what I saw and learned flying a Twin Otter in service to the refugees of Darfur.

Entebbe, Uganda

Bill Kelsey
bill@kelseys.net

Posted by trevor at 09:41 PM | Comments (3)

October 29, 2006

Posted by trevor at 07:47 AM | Comments (3)

October 26, 2006

Humble Pie From A Previous Post

It really amazes me how the universe knows how and when to put people in their place.

I have been so caught up in myself just lately. The letter “I” has been dominating my vocabulary a little too much.

Apparently the universe agrees.

I bent down to pat a cute little dog in the neighborhood yesterday and, yes, he peed on my leg.

He did not care about all the books I have written. He couldn’t care less about my video awards. He couldn’t give a hoot that my jeans, upon which he peed (a lot) cost ninety three dollars.

He did what he needed to do and in the process brought me down to earth…and gave me a huge laugh.

Thank you little dog for reminding me that I am not as important and I sometimes think I am.

Posted by trevor at 06:29 AM | Comments (3)

October 19, 2006

Upon Reflection

I was sitting quietly by myself this morning reflecting on the many unexplained but truly amazing moments I have been blessed to experience in my life.

My thoughts turned to my father.

My dad and I used to enjoy running together during my annual visits home to South Africa.

The year before he died my father and I had an amazing 15k Sunday morning run through the tree lined streets of Johannesburg.

It was a beautiful clear summer morning with deep blue skies and a slight cooling breeze.

“I love running with you, dad,” I said.

He leaned over and touched my shoulder as we ran. “If we're not running together, just think of me right there next to you, running shoulder to shoulder. I will always be there in spirit."

That was the last run we had before he died.

A few months after my return from the funeral, I went for an early morning run along the Hike and Bike trail around Town Lake in Austin, where I live.

I run at a medium pace and I’m often passed by faster runners. One thing that bothers me is when someone runs up behind me and settles in at the same pace without passing me. For some reason, I find this uncomfortable and I’ll either speed up or slow down to let the person pass me.

On this particular morning, I was running well and was not passed by many runners. As I neared the halfway mark, a runner did indeed come up behind me and settle in to the same pace that I was running. I could hear his feet crunching on the gravel behind me.

I sped up. He sped up. I slowed down. He slowed down. Irritated, I finally stopped to tighten my laces and the runner passed by me.

Not long after that, the same thing happened again. I heard footsteps behind me and this time two runners ran behind me keeping the same pace. I sped up and ran hard for a few minutes and managed to lose them.

As I was approaching the Lamar Street bridge, I heard footsteps behind me again. As I ran under the bridge I sped up a little and the runner did the same. “Why are all these people trying to irritate me today,” I thought. I slowed to let the runner pass. He slowed too. He was right behind me. He was matching me step for step. I could hear his feet hitting the gravel at almost the exact same time mine were. I turned to let him know that I was not happy. As I looked over my shoulder I discovered that NOBODY was behind me. In fact the closest person to me was a lady walking her dog at least a hundred yards back.

I was amazed that nobody was there. I heard the footsteps loud and clear. I figured it was probably the echo of my own feet against the concrete bridge that I heard.

I finished the run and went to my local coffee shop for a cup of tea. At the shop I saw my friend Tuck.

“Hey, I saw you running on Town Lake a little while ago,” he said. “Beautiful morning for a run hey?”

“It was,” I replied.

“Is your brother in town?” he asked.

“No, why?” I replied. “He lives in South Africa.”

“Oh,” said Tuck. “I saw you running with someone under the Lamar Bridge as I drove by. The dude looked like you. Except he had a mustache. I thought it was your brother.”(My father, my brother and I look very similar. A few years ago we all had mustaches and were often told we looked like brothers. My dad looked very young for his age.)

“Nah, I ran by myself this morning,” I said.

“You were wearing a red running top, right?” said Tuck.

“Yes I was,” I said.

“Man,” said Tuck, “I could have sworn I saw a guy running alongside who looked just like you.”

I said goodbye to Tuck and smiled all the way back to my car.

Thanks dad for keeping your promise. I'd love to run with you again soon.

Posted by trevor at 03:07 PM | Comments (2)

October 17, 2006

Simple

The holiday season is fast approaching. Holiday time means gifts. Many gifts. Big ones. Small ones. Pointless ones. Pathetic ones. Thoughtless ones. Waste-of-money ones.

When I was a kid, the best gift I ever got was a box. A simple, plain old cardboard box.

I don’t even recall what came in the box because the box was better than the gift itself.

Over the next two weeks the box took me on the most amazing adventures. My particular box could fly, travel underwater, become invisible and morph into whatever I wanted it to be.

I was able to visit outer space in my box where I recall having tea with an extraordinary nice "hippocrockanellieduck" on a purple planet.

I went back in time in my box and witnessed my grandfather winning The Great River Jump. Nobody has ever been able to achieve that feat since. (I actually think the story was fabricated.)

I won the Cape to Cairo motorcar rally in my box, beating out more expensive and faster rally vehicles.

I hid from a nasty thunderstorm in the box.

I kissed Janet from across the street in the box.

I got slapped by Janet from across the street in the box.

During that time I was spared certain death from a killer cockroach that chased me into the box and held me hostage for at least three minutes before my mum perfumed it into submission with a full can of deodorant spray . (My box lost smelled pretty good for a while after that.)

I flew three missions over Germany during the Blitzkrieg and shot down four Stuka Dive Bombers in my box.

I hid in the box when my dad lost his job and my mother was crying.

I smiled in the box when my dad climbed into the box with me and held me and told me everything was going to be okay.

Posted by trevor at 06:47 AM | Comments (2)

October 12, 2006

Salute

I saw an old man today who I have written about before. I live near a middle school and I was going for an afternoon run. As I was waiting to cross a rather busy intersection near my home, I noticed an old man trying to cross the road. He was bent over and seemed to move like he was suffering from arthritis. Each time the man would prepare to cross the street, a car came. The poor bloke was having a tough time.

I then noticed two boys, who seemed to be about fourteen years-old, standing near the man. They wore hooded sweatshirts and were carrying skateboards.

Suddenly my heart went cold becaus,e as the traffic stopped, I could hear the boys yelling. They were taunting and ridiculing the old man.

“Cross the road,” I heard one yell. “We want to see a car hit you.”
“Run old man run.” Laughed the other.
“Were you in a zombie movie?”
“Yeah you look like the living dead.”
“Dude, you smell like a moth ball.”
“Take a shower man.”

I was flabbergasted. I walked toward the boys ready to give them everything I had. One kid flipped me the bird and they both bolted across the road and disappeared behind the convenience store. I tried to chase them, but stopped when I realized that there was nothing I could do if I caught them, except get myself into trouble for trying to teach them a lesson.

I went into the supermarket across the road and saw the old man buying groceries.

“I’m sorry about those boys out on the street,” I said.

“Pah,” he said. “I ignore it.”

“I don’t know if I could,” I said.

“Well,” he said. “I’m eighty-four years old. My skin is pretty thick.”

“That was so disrespectful,” I replied. “I just wanted to…”

“Yeah,” said the man. “They have so much to learn. I was just a few years older ‘n ‘em when I was fighting in the war.”

“Which war?” I asked.

“The second one. I was a pilot with the RAF. I was shot down during the battle of the Bulge. December 16 1944. Yep. It was a bad one. 75000 Americans were killed. I landed in a forest in the Ardennes region of eastern Belgium. I was a prisoner for a while.”

I looked at the old man and felt so sad. Here was a person who risked his life so that a couple of snot-nosed teens could have the luxury of living in a free country, to ride skate boards, play video games and torment old people for sports.

I wish there was more respect for the elderly like they have in many of the Asian countries. Places where old folk are revered and adored for their wisdom and knowledge.

I said goodbye to the old man and watched him shuffle off down the isle.

I suddenly had a thought and rushed after him

“Thank you for fighting for us,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.

The old man gave me a shaky salute, turned, and disappeared around the corner.

Posted by trevor at 05:42 PM | Comments (1)

Sketching

People have asked my how I manage to deal with the emotional stress that comes with being a 'doctor of mischief' to terminally ill children.

Other than finding a quiet place to ruminate and give thanks, I sketch every day.

For me, sketching is one of the most calming and soothing ways of slowing down and reflecting. I started drawing in my early thirties and must admit my first attempts were not great. I wasn’t very happy with what I had drawn, but I found the process incredibly satisfying. I still feel the same way today. Whether I like the sketch or not, there is a wonderful sense of well-being that seems to seep into my body as I draw, even if I’m doodling simple stick figures.

My good friend Danny Gregory, author of the book ‘Every Day Matters’, said this in a recent blog entry:

“Every day matters. Every single day. The day you meet the president. The day you have a baby. The day you find a special on sirloin at the supermarket. The day you get your shoes back from the cobbler. I find that drawing helps me to commemorate those events, large and small, dull and transformative. For me, that's the point of art. To deepen my understanding of my life.
If someone else suggests that I draw a particular thing that opens my eye to fruit or glasses or the pattern of sunshine on my counterpane, then that's great. But ultimately, we all live different lives and are handed assignments by each dawning day. Each day we're handed a new set of challenges, new rivers to ford, new choices and wonders and pains and lessons. If we think the day is full and familiar, we need just dig deeper into it, look for fresh insight, and peel back the layers of the onion. I find that drawing helps me do that.”

Posted by trevor at 07:07 AM | Comments (0)

October 02, 2006

He reached under the bed and pulled me out.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"No." I replied.

"What's wrong?" he said, putting his arm around me.

"I miss you dad," I said.

"I miss you too," he said.

"I wish you were still alive," I sighed.

"Yeah, me too," he said, softly.

But, I'll always be in your heart," he said.

"I know," I replied. "But I still miss you."

"I feel the same," he said.

"Is this a dream?" I asked.

"Unfortunately it is," he smiled.

"Why am I a little boy when I dream about you?" I asked. "Not the age I am now?"

"Because you're my little boy," he said, holding me tightly. " And you always will be."

Posted by trevor at 05:52 PM | Comments (7)

Umfaan Again

I recently completed "The Kite Runner" and it reminded me of something I wrote about during the past year.

It was about the time I made my first and last kite, which took me two whole days to build. It was made of yellow and green tissue paper and I was really proud of it. I made a tail from my dad’s old school tie.

This was probably the worst kite ever built. It was heavy and clumsy and rather ugly. In my mind though, it was a masterpiece!

I ran outside to fly the kite the minute it was done.

It was a gusty fall day in Johannesburg. Not perfect kite-flying weather, but I didn’t care. I had made a great kite and I was determined to fly it.

We didn't have a garden so I ran up and down the road trying to get the kite to fly, but it just wouldn’t lift.

I was frustrated because, in my nine year-old mind, I could see that kite touching the fluffy white clouds in deep blue Transvaal sky.

A sudden gust of wind lifted the kite and jerked the string out of my hand. Before I could do anything, the kite took off, lifted steeply and then took a nosedive into the oak tree outside Mrs. Van Buuren’s house.

And there it sat. Wedged in the branches beyond my reach.

My mum and dad were out and with nobody to console me, I sat on the sidewalk, buried my face in my hands and cried.

I did not even see the old African man approaching.

He patted me on the head.

I looked up startled.

“Are you sad, umfaan?” (”Are you sad little boy?”)

“Yes,” I replied pointing to the tree. "My kite is stuck up there.”

“That’s a pretty kite,” he said.

“I made it myself,” I replied, proudly.

“Let me see if I can get it for you.”

He took off his old, almost worn-out sports coat, folded it carefully and placed it gently on the sidewalk below the tree.

The man had holes in his shoes.

“Why have you got holes in your shoes?” I asked, innocently.

“Oh umfaan," he said. “I am poor. I have no money for shoes. There is not enough work and I have kids and grandkids to feed.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling embarrassed.

“That’s alright umfaan,” he said, smiling. “I am very rich inside." He patted his heart with his hand.

The old man’s smile warmed me from head to toe.

“Does your daddy have a rake, umfaan?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s in the garage. I’ll get it.”

I ran and got the rake. The old man stretched up and tried to reach the kite. He wasn’t quite tall enough so he tried standing on his tiptoes. He stretched even more and managed to touch the kite with the rake. He then leaned back and pulled the rake down. The kite came loose.

“You did it,” I yelled.

Before either of us could say anything else, the rake slipped out of the man’s hands and fell. As it tumbled to the ground, it tore the kite to shreds.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” said the man, putting his hand on my head. “I broke your kite, umfaan.”

He picked up the kite and tried to straighten out the bent and broken struts. Then he handed it to me and shook his head sadly.

“I’m truly sorry umfaan,” he said, picking up his jacket.

For some reason I could not look the old man in the eye and instead I looked down at his shoes.

“Wait,” I said and rushed inside my house.

I went into my dad’s closet, grabbed his very expensive leather shoes and ran back outside.

"These are for you,” I said, handing him my father’s shoes.

“But umfaan they are very expensive,” he said. “I cannot take these. Your father will be very cross. And maybe the police will think I stole them.”

“They don’t fit my dad,” I lied. “He was going to get rid of them anyway.”

“Thank you umfaan,” he said, taking off his old shoes and placing the new ones gently on his feet. He handled my dad's shoes like they were made of glass.

They were way to big for the old man.

“They’re probably too big,” I said, relieved. I was starting to regret having given him my dad’s expensive shoes. In my desire to please, I did not stop to think about the consequences.

“Oh that’s okay,’ he said, smiling. “I’ll put some newspaper in the front and they’ll be very fine. Thank you umfaan.”

The old man walked down the street, never once taking his eyes of his shiny pair of new shoes.

Then he turned the corner and disappeared.

Two days later my mum found a beautiful handmade kite at the front door.

There was no note but I knew it was from the old man.

It was a work of art.

It was too precious to fly so I hung it on my bedroom wall.

And treasured what it was and what it meant.

Posted by trevor at 09:37 AM | Comments (2)