Bovine Bonanza

Wrapping it up...

2008-08-28T17:39:00.003+01:00

IMG_1807, originally uploaded by Augustus Finbar.

Are you familiar with Murphy's Law? I used it several times in my Watson interview to illustrate how I understand things can go wrong under the worst circumstances. I thought I understood such a scenario having had some hard times before. That was until June 26, 2008 and the following six days in India. Let's see, in that week my bike has broken badly three times forcing me to hitchhike though rioting Kashmir, rode in the back of rickshaws with my bike and a small army of Kashmiri, Pakistanis and Afghani staring at me for a combined total of 100km, riots in Srinigar and Kashmir making me a hostage in the city while awaiting my bike repair, found myself between the rioting mob and police barricade just like out of a climatic movie scene, my travel agency mysteriously closed with flights in a mess, favorite sunglasses finally broke after 11 months of travel, and had to sell my beloved bike, Chibuku, for spare parts to a mechanic in order to make my flight from Delhi to Hong Kong. I like to call this a Beautiful Nightmare orchestrated to perfection turning my last week in India into a comedy rather than a tragedy. R.I.P. ChibukuI then headed to China for a brief tour with my brother before coming home. I was curious to visit my first "communist" country of the trip, but my fears soon disappeared once I arrived to find a KFC on every corner with McDonalds, Pizza Hut and Subway on the adjacent corner. And if that wasn't enough, I somehow found myself in a lesbian bar in the middle of Chengdu, a city you have probably never heard of that has 13 million people and a solid blanket of smog covering it. The hot pink walls with yellow and tin foiled honeycomb design should have given me a hint that it was a gay bar but I kept telling myself. "This is China not San Fran...There are no gay bars in Communist China." I sat down at a table, ordered a beer, and started to notice my fellow short haired customers had unusually large chests...no..ok..they are girls. But these girls were very touchy-feely with their longhaired female companions. What's the deal? Finally, a short haired Tom Boy comes over with a dolled up long haired feline in tow to talk with me in broken English."What you doing here" she asks"Traveling""No, no, what you doing here" pointing around the bar, "You not lesbian...this lesbian bar!""Yes it is..and...well...I don't know what I am doing here?"I decided to stay for a couple beers to check things out. The girls that called me out for not being a lesbian soon became my friends. They tried to answer several of my questions about the bar: "How long has this bar been open?" "Is there a big gay scene in China?" etc. The conversation didn't get very far due to the language barrier and my curiosity was not satisfied. I decided to leave once my newfound friend got up and declared, "I love Hitler!" I spit out my beer yelling, "What!” She yelled again," I love Hitler for his passion!" I tried to tell her that Hitler's passion was directed directly against her, but she didn't understand. I decided to leave. It was getting weird. The first person I met at the next bar was from West Virginia. Needless to say, it was yet another bizarre night.I left from NYC July 21, 2007 making it an even year on the road living out of a backpack. The clothes that have made the entire journey with me don't really fit anymore: falling straight of me without a belt. It is not like I really want to wear them anyway because they smell like they have been in a backpack for a year! I have one week left before I return to the States: broke, tired and in desperate need of some home cooking. It is strange what you miss when you are on the road. I have thought about it a lot, and I miss biscuits the most. Biscuits, as we know them in America, don't really exist anywhere else.

More Himalayan Adventures: Sights and Sounds of Nako

2008-06-13T11:32:00.007+01:00

My shortcuts never turn out to be shortcuts. Instead, they turn in long lost wanderings through the middle of nowhere trying to find my way with head wobble directions from locals which are impossible to judge correctly when the roads disappear under glacial run-off from the glacial peaks towering above or massive boulders slide into the muddy roads blocking my way. One recent mislead shortcut wasn't my fault though; well none of them are really my fault when I tell the story, but I blame this one on the map. Our great Indian Road Atlas showed a road connecting the village of Kibber to the 700 year-old Komik Monastery...key word "showed." We set off from Kibber wearing shorts, t-shirts and were worried more about sunburn than anything else. After a thirty-minute climb up a ridge where we ran into a herd of wild blue mountain sheep, the skies darkened, the wind silenced and with it the fear of sunburn vanished. With one silenced fear came a much bigger one: an unexpected nasty hailstorm. In the matter of minutes we were being pelted with Skittle-sized pieces of ice blowing sideways from the storm's powerful winds. After two wrecks, a broken side toolbox, broken foot stand, torn pants, and a damaged ego, the hail stopped but we were lost as night was quickly approaching on the high barren slopes of the Spiti valley, 18km from the Tibetan border. Not a good situation to be in!Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a yak herder tending to about a dozen yaks and dzos (a mix between a yak and a cow) appears on the ridge above us. I think he was just as shocked to see us, as we were to see him when we rushed to him for directions. With a gentle smile and a half-head wobble, he led us down a dirt path to a village named Tashigang, Tibetan for a high beautiful place. That was the start of an eventful week that grew more bizarre and exiting with each passing day; a week filled with breathtaking views; goats and their shepherds; yaks and their herders; glaciers and their ice-cold runoff forming waterfalls that captivate the imagination with their size and frequency but causing havoc on the roads; triumphant sporting moments beating local yak herders in a friendly game of cricket only to be humbled the next day in a intense volleyball game with Buddhist monks half my size in what I would call my most embarrassing sporting event ever!The events from the previous week have all taken place in the Spiti valley. The Spiti valley is a desert mountain valley located high in the Himalayan mountains, which is periodically cut off totally during winter by horrendous snowfalls and thick icing conditions. It possesses a distinctive Buddhist culture similar to that found in nearby Tibet. The valley and surrounding region is one of the least populated regions in India and is the gateway to the northernmost reaches of the country, Ladakh. Many times we came within twenty kilometers of the Tibetan border until my Israeli friend, Hagai, and I finally mustered up the courage to venture eastward to the border.We spent over an hour and liters of precious petrol climbing the border mountain between India and China with no idea of what waited for us ahead. Our only plan was to act lost if we were forced to stop. About one kilometer from the peak and subsequent border, the army guards jumped in front of our bikes stopping us in our tracks. They proceeded to wave their batons in the air while angrily shouting Hindi insults our way. They weren't happy! I was a little worried at first but there is one thing I learned about Indian government officials in Dharamsala long ago: humor them!The Dharamsala police rolled my bike away from a perfectly legal parking place knowing it had to be a foreign tourist's bike because no self-respecting Indian would be caught dead riding a pink Enfield. They wanted tourist bikes to get back shish (a bride) from them nervous tourists that don't have a driver's license or insurance such as myself. I retrieved my bike title from my room, printed off a fake insurance form from the Internet, and reported to the police stand to find all of the policemen staring at my pink bike. The police chief was demanding 1,000Rs ($25) for improper parking, fake insurance and for just being a foreigner. I thought he had me but then I pulled out my West Virginia driver's license and my family photos popped out. He was intrigued. I told him a brief family history of how my family are cattle keepers just like a good Hindu. I omitted the small fact that we were beef farmers raising cattle to be hamburgers but he never asked. After a chai (milk tea) and more tale tales about my family history omitting other possibly offending facts, the chief wished me a happy journey before handing over my keys with zero rupees paid. I was so shocking that it was comical.Back at the Indo-Chinese with the angry batons whirling sergeants, Hagai and I tried the same approach, humor. I don't know what finally broke the ice but I think it was when Hagai told the guards American women loved Indian men. Knowing I was from the States, they looked at me with astonishment. Holding back a sly grin, I agreed continued the story in detail. The enchanted guards needed details. Ten minutes later we found ourselves in a bunker drinking chai and homemade rice wine with the broad generalization that all American women loved all Indian men being our ticket. The conversation was surreal. I think part of it went like this, Curious Guard: "Are all women like Monica Lewisky "Me: "Of course, all like that" Excited Guard: "If I come to America, can I get girl like Monica Lewisky?" Me: "I know one just for you" Rounds of joyous laughter, high-fives, hugs, and bottles of rice wine ensued. Keep in mind, this was all taking place in an army bunker one kilometer from the disputed Indo-Chinese (Tibetan) border where no foreigners are allowed to visit. That's kind of funny!When the embarrassing volleyball games thankfully ended, the cricket balls were lost, the bike was fixed, the drunken border guards passed out, and no hail storms in sight, I found myself sitting in a small village, Nako. Nako is a village just small enough not to get lost in but big enough to provide a new route through the maze of narrow earthen streets each time I wandered through. In my wanderings through the alleys, I found a rock to call home for an hour to record the sights and sounds of the Himalayan village:

Sitting on a lonely rock in a forgotten street Nako comes to life; toddlers barely old enough to walk roam the street's unafraid and unharmed; ladies are frying seeds into tiny kernels for sale in the local market in animal kraals; the steady "Ping, Ding, Ping, Ding, Ping" of hammers chiseling away at rocks shaping them into desired shaped for new houses or animal kraals; old women that can barely stand upright slowly carrying thatched baskets full of green fodder for the animals; a donkey nays the sounds of a frustrated lover as he frantically searches for a mate; Tibetan prayer flags flapping in the gusty mountain winds (red, green, blue, white, and yellow representing sun, grass, sky, clouds and earth respectively), men walking briskly in and out of the alleys as they are loaded down with two, three or four lumber beams for the constant maintenance and construction of the traditional Tibetan styled homes made mostly from rocks, mud, manure and sticks from the surrounding area; a Bollywood tune plays in the distance, probably from a TV, for no matter how far into the Indian countryside you venture, every village has electricity and several satellite dishes perched atop their houses made of cow dung and rocks. The ears being tickled by the Bollywood tune most likely belongs to a man since most of the women are hard at work with numerous chores like most third world or traditional settings. I think...oh no..it is Om Shanti Om, the most popular Hindi movie and subsequent song in Bollywood history that is overplayed to the hilt. A woman just passed with freshly processed flour and cooking oil in one hand and a clump of cow dung in the other to fuel the fire that will cook the flour with the cooking oil.One major difference in the mountainous village vs. the low-laying Indian villages to the south is the smell. In the mountains, ammonia fumes from yak, dzo, cow, donkey, sheep and goat manure are overwhelming; so strong that a headache instantly ensues the initial whiff. The same smell exists in the south but is drowned out by the smell of burning trash suffocating the nostrils and stinging the taste buds; the smell of poverty. In Spiti, there small black smoke plums from burning trash piles are non-existent. The streets are somewhat clear of various forms of litter. How refreshing!My fairytale is not complete, however. Amid the most simplistic agrarian lifestyle operated through a maze of stone huts and earthen alleyways, sits state of the art solar panels atop a twenty-foot stainless steel pole peaking it panels just above the Tibetan thatched rooftops. The solar panels charge all day to serve as night-lights in their strategically placed positions in the village. As I said before each village has power bringing with it the eyesore of power-lines strewn across the alleys just high enough to escape a nomadic toddlers curious grasp. The power lines are out of place and scar on the otherwise fairytale Himalayan village, but who am I to say they can't enjoy the pleasures of modern technology, even if that means listening to Om Shanti Om on repeat.A small calf wanders past; the horny donkey still nays in the distance as he continues his search for a mate; an old lady passes to collect to the fresh dropping from the calf to patch her house or to mold into disks for fuel; the prayer flags are still flapping in the wind as they start to tether at the fringes; a drunken elderly man carrying a half-empty bottle of rice wine stops to talk with the calf for at least a minute before he realizes he is talking with a calf, my company less is far less interesting as the stumbling elder only stops to chat with me for a brief moment, local birds still singing the sweet Himalayan songs, and now I am surrounded by four nomadic toddlers watching my every move with awe and wonder hoping for a sweet. Ok..I give in! I pass out chocolate cookies and watch as they scurry off with excitement and giggles.

An hour is up and time to return home where I find a Buddist nun and her thirty year old brother eagerly awaiting to see who is America's favorite dancer in the hit reality TV show finale, "So You Think You Can Dance."
Where am I again?

Shortcuts Gone Wonderfully Wrong

2008-06-02T15:37:00.005+01:00

Setting

Bikes in the shop...again
My friend Anton and I take a local bus to the mountains
Fatal car crash blocks main road...maybe for days?
Bus driver takes a shortcut through numerous small villages
The dead man was from one of the villages on the detour. The angry villagers cut down a tree to block the road demanding money from the government to allow traffic through the government road through their village.
After hours of argueing the passengers finally unite, overpowering the villagers, and removing the road block.
I jumped in! and Anton caught it on film

Rest of the story coming soon...

Delhi Bullet Wallas

2008-06-02T13:16:00.003+01:00

Bike Trip 1 009, originally uploaded by Augustus Finbar.

There is a sucker born everyday goes the saying. I will be the first to admit I have been a sucker many times during the year. In many places, life becomes a negation due to the skin tax imposed on all foreigners. It can be endlessly frustrating being forced to haggle a pair of shorts from 40,000 Tanzanian shillings to a measly 2,500 shillings. I am not nearly that good of a negotiator especially when the negotiating is in Swahili. The small shop owners simply see an opportunity to hit it big with the “rich” tourists and try to capitalize. It can get frustrating to say the least.You would think I would have learned my lesson by now but that wasn’t the case when I bought my Royal Enfield in Delhi. The swallowed the dream the owner, Balu, sold me hook line and sinker. The dream was to join a newly formed multi-national biker gang, Bullet Wallas. He even promised to make me custom stickers for my bike with “West Virginia Bullet Walla” on it (I can't lie. I really liked them, especially with the orange dueling banjos in the middle). I lived above the bike shop with my four newfound friends who also believed the dream as they too bought bikes from him. We were eager to hit the roads on bikes freeing ourselves of the painful bus journeys and overcrowded trains that plague Indian backpackers. The idea of joining any semblance of a biker gang in India made the decision to buy even easier.We paid a premium (40,000Rps=$1,000US) for the bikes that were totally reassembled with a new engine, tires, custom paint job, and even West Virginia Bullet Walla stickers. We were living the dream...at least for a while. Boy, were we had! It took us about a day to figure out the bikes may not be all we had hoped. Don’t get me wrong, Enfields break, that is what happens when 1950s motorcycle technology is driven over rough Indian roads. But after only 600KM drive from Delhi to Manali, two of the four bikes bought from Bullet Wallas needed new pistons (2000Rps), new starter, two new batteries, dozens of over tightened bolts letting oil ooze out, and other loose ends. Enfields break but every single time a mechanic takes out the broken part from my bike he laughs because it always the cheapest knock-off part to be found in India. Some mechanics have laughed at me in my face upon seeing the Bullet Walla stickers knowing there will probably lots of problems with the bike that I paid too much for. Some have also said they would not purchase a Bullet Walla bike because it wouldn’t be a good bike. So basically, I paid 25% more than I should have for a bike that kids assembled with the cheapest parts available by an American guy selling me the dream of entering into a world of an elusive traveling biker gang in India. Can’t say that everyday!Note: Any weary traveler in India thinking about buying an Enfield, definitely do it. After two months and all of my cheap imitation parts have been replaced, my bike finally running like it should and it is amazing. It will definitely get you off the Humus Trail and into some remote areas to see more Indian culture. I couldn’t imagine traveling around India any other way. Just don’t buy a bike from Bullet Wallas in Delhi. You can buy a good bike for 30,000 Rps ($750 US) from other travelers and then sell it after a couple months for the same price. Several travelers sell their bikes on the road (a lot in Goa, Dharamsala, Pushkar or Manali) and most mechanics sell good bikes. Always ask for a test drive to a different mechanic to get a second opinion. The best mechanics I have found are Anu Auto Works in Manali (Vishisht) and Rai Auto Works in Gaggle (right beside the Dharamsala airport...a 30 minute drive from McLeod Ganj).I will admit. I was a sucker. Don’t make the same mistake I did, but do buy a bike!Message from an angry "ex-Bullet Walla"

Land of Color

2008-05-31T14:12:00.005+01:00

There is a famous section of Buenos Aires named Boca where the colorful houses and tango music filling the air with tango dancers lining the streets has turned into quite the tourist destination. Boca is probably most famous for its football (soccer) team, the Boca Jrs. The Boca Jrs. have of the most illustrious histories of any football team in South America but they are best known for two things: Maradona and the most devout musically gifted fanatical fans on Earth. Maradona lead the Argentina national team to its victory over West Germany in 1986 World Cup, in which he collected the Golden Ball award as the tournament's best player. He scored both goals in the 2-1 victory over England in the quarter-final of the '86 tournament. The first goal was an unpenalized handball known as the "Hand of God", while the second goal was a spectacular 60-metre weave through six England players, commonly referred to as "The Goal of the Century" or, in Argentina, "The Cosmic Kite." He is legend around the globe but the fans of the Boca Jrs. take a back seat to no one. Fans from around the world come to Buenos Aires to learn from the musical geniuses in the stands as the have a song for each player and many more tunes to passionately sing out depending on the situation. Witnessing a Boca Jrs. game is the pinnacle for any sporting enthusiast around the globe.

I found the Boca fanatics and Maradona nostalgia to be the most interesting while in Argentina, but since in India, I often think of the other main attraction to Boca: the mixed and matched colors on each house. The reason for the lime green doors, yellows window frames, red, orange or yellow siding, and many other combinations all adorned on one house, was the scarcity of paint when the area was established. Boca has always been and still is the blue collar section of Buenos Aires always pinched for every nickel or in this case, every drop of paint. It became Boca's trademark: crazy colored houses lining the river port. If Boca couldn't paint their houses one solid color due to paint shortages, applying the same logic to India would mean paint should be the rarest product in the country, surpassing gas that is now over $5 a gallon at the pump. Buenes Aires had one section of the city with wacky colored houses making it famous but wild and wacky colored houses are the norm in India. What happened to all of the paint?

Pink door, blue windows, red siding and a multi colored Shiva shrine adorned with an array of flower necklaces draped on the colorful figure; a typical scene driving around the Indian countryside. The colors do not end with the houses though. The women love bright colored clothes in many various combinations; pink saris, baby blue pajama pants, and orange sarongs wrapped around their necks. There are golden fields of wheat which have quickly been replaced with rice paddies looking like dozens of miniature green-tinted reflection pools as the rice sprouts emerge from the shallow water, blossoming apple and cherry orchards, produce stands on every street corner selling exotic fresh fruits, bright orange turbans from the Sikh Punjabi tourists, and much more. The truck drivers, a profession that doesn't usually attract the artistic spirits, paint the most intricate flowery and religious symbols on their trucks. Some even take the time to crawl beneath their trucks to paint their favorite Hindu God on the rear wheel axle. With so many colors in the oddest places, I have labelled India the "Land of Color."

Not all of the colors are good though. TRASH! It is everywhere, even the most remote beautiful places are scared with plastic wrappers of every make and model. Most city streets lining with trash a foot high in the gutters being picked through by kids, cows and dogs for any forgotten bits of nourishment. It is heartbreaking that such a beautiful country is being destroyed by trash. When a driver finishes a water bottle, he will simply throw it out the window. The same goes for the passengers with any and all trash. The blue trash plastic bags, the red spicy masala potato chips bags, and much more are clogging the rivers and streams. I actually saw a dump truck go from Manali town with a full load of trash properly put in the trash bin, drive five kilometers to the dried out river bed, and dump the load knowing the flood waters will wash it away as the glaciers melt. Does he ever think of where that trash might go? I doubt that he considers the river water from the Himalayas brings life to roughly a billion Indians on the sub-continent. But why should he care? Right!

This is not just a problem in India. It has been a constant theme throughout my trip. Many small villages around the world have started to outlaw plastic bags because of this. This didn't bode well or my friend Jane in Tanzania when she came to Longido village to teach the women how to crochet plastic bags into hand bags for tourists. We did find some plastic bags…from the store! Not her fulfilling her original objective of cleaning up trash but it worked out well. One person tried to tell me that most developing countries' citizens have traditionally discarded any extra wrappers or bags back when such things were made naturally and were bio-degradable. Then came the modern plastic wrappings that never disappear and someone forgot to tell the average Jo this important piece of information. I don't fully believe this theory because plastic has been around for a long time and people are still littering.

A major reason the trash disposal is lacking in most countries is the lack of infrastructure to properly dispose of all the trash. Infrastructure costs money and these countries think they have bigger problems than being environmentally conscience. India has the money now becoming an economic powerhouse that some predict will one day have an economy just as big if not bigger than the US. Lets just hope they clean up their country because it is an amazing place.

Even though it's trash, it is still colorful. Yet again, earning India a fitting title in my book as the "Land of Color."

Harvest Season

2008-05-11T08:32:00.006+01:00

Usually, the worst part of traveling is traveling itself. Being crammed into buses, braving rusty rickshaws, or herded onto trains, are all nightmares that everyone must endure to reach their destination making the actual travel the worst part of the trip. Instead of dreading my transit experience, I am filled with excitement knowing I get to ride my Enfield once again letting my imagination soar with childhood wonder on the Himalayan roads. Each trip is an adventure within itself with numerous close-calls due to utter stupidity by all parties, but the recent journey from Manali to Dharamsala was my favorite.

As we ventured southbound leaving the high altitude and encompassing snow-capped peaks of Manali, the blossoming apple orchards with their surrounding green terraces of wheat began to transform with every kilometer traveled. The wheat stalks slowly turning lighter hues of green with a growing hint of yellow, ultimately turning dark yellow morphing the terraces into a giant golden staircase meandering up the mountain steppe disappearing into the heavens with the low evening cloud cover. The changing of the color meant harvest season is in full swing. The golden plateaus become littered with colorful sari silhouettes of women hard at work bringing in the harvest. Whether the women are squatting down to cut the wheat stalks, balancing bulging bundles of wheat on their heads, or seeking shelter under a shade tree, the assortment of bright saris (light shawls) scattered throughout the golden fields look like candy sprinkles atop a birthday cake.

It is amazing to witness the whole process of the harvest. From cutting the stalks with a hand sickle, to wrapping wheat bundles with the longer wheat stalks, and balancing a dozen bundles atop each head with grace as they make the journey to the thresher for processing, the village is buzzing with activity throughout the day. With so many people going in so many different directions in the golden fields, each dressed with an array of bright colors with golden stalks under their arm or resting atop their heads, my eyes are pleasantly overwhelmed with color. This amazement soon led to curiosity, and I found myself living in a village helping with the wheat harvest.

I ended up in Chawari by accident with the rest of my biker gang when we met a local an Indian guy in an Internet cafe that promised to take us on a scenic drive surrounding Dharamsala. A flat tire, two broken chains and eight hours after we departed from home, we found ourselves only a two hour drive from home as the sun was setting. Our guide felt bad about the frustrating day after he promised us a utopia, and invited us to stay at his home for the night. Tired and hungry we accepted his invitation.

The family compound was buzzing with excitement as seven foreigners came roaring in colorful Enfields. Some people in this village had probably never seen this many foreigners in their life much less seven at one time on pink, green, and red bikes. Needless to say, they were excited and extremely hospitable. After they softened us up with their homemade wine that tasted like moonshine, they fed us a proper Indian meal of rice, dhal, and roti. We spent the rest of the night in a food coma greeting various villagers whose curiosity led them to come see the foreigners. I sparked up a conversation with our host, Bikee, and promised to help him cut wheat in the morning. I never thought he was going to wake me up at 6AM but he did...with a hand sickle. I was a little startled to wake up to a razor sharp sickle waving in front of my face but Bikee's wide smile put my serial killer fears to ease before we set off up the mountain in the dark.

Squatting down cutting wheat is cool for about fifteen minutes until your knees, back, hands, and neck are ailing from the monotonous process: grab (the wheat)…cut cut…shuffle shuffle (the feet forward)..grab…cut cut…shuffle shuffle. To make me feel even worse, the grandmother that could barely walk to the terrace is cutting circles around me while taking the time to laugh at my clumsiness. It was frustrating but after an hour the pain went away and I improved to cutting mediocrity. After the sun’s heat chased us from the fields, we returned to the village for a special treat, pancakes. The rest of the gang decided to return to Dharamsala while I decided to stay for a couple more days to help with the harvest and see a little more of Indian village life. It was a wise decision.

The cool mornings and evenings were allotted for cutting wheat but the rest of the day was no picnic. The mid-day heat just meant the chores moved inside, under a shade tree, or in the river. There was a large watering hole near the village that served as the local bath tub for the whole community. Soon after it became too hot for cutting wheat, everyone grabbed their soap and towel to head for the mint covered riverbed for a dip. The small mint leaves created a green blanket of sweet aromas covering the whole area. After a quick wash in the river, the village was busy processing their own wheat stores for the year. After separating the wheat kernels from the stalks, they turn them into chalky white flour with their own water powered flour mill in the riverbed. The village was totally self sufficient with the harvest being a busiest and most critical time of year while being the most interesting time for me to visit.

One aspect of village life that shocked me was the amount of weed (marijuana) growing everywhere. In the villages, weed is actually a weed growing in every open space and around each corner, but not every villager is not smoking a peace pipe or in this case a chillum (smoking pipe used by Indian Sadhu holy men). Instead the villagers find a practical purpose for the fields of gange, bed lining for the cows during the wet season. The villagers let the weed grow because they will place the plants in the cow’s bedding during the wet season to rid the animals of leeches and serve as insect repellent. This is very important because the cows can be infected by the huge swarms of insects or drained of their energy by leeches which would mean disaster for the villagers that depend on their by-products: milk, ghee, dung, and urine. Still yet, it is odd to see six foot weed stalks growing beside the kitchen door or outside an elementary school classroom. It's everywhere!

The thought did cross my mind to stay in the village for an extended period of time but I was tired of being used for show and tell after only three days. Bikee would need to run "errands" all day long which required the use of my bike. I was happy to assist because it allowed me to see other surrounding villages but it soon turned into more of a spectacle than anything else. Whenever we would arrive to our destination, Bikee would slip on his fake Ray Ban sunglasses, slick back his hair with whatever liquid was handy (using Coke once), and trying his best John Travolta impersonation from Grease with an added bounce in his step. He was loving the attention I created, throwing out a lot of hand gestures looking like shooting pistols whenever he recognized someone he knew or would like to impress. I felt like his new toy that he was showing off to all of his buddies. It was comical for the first day but then it became very annoying prompting my early exist. Bikee was the center of attention for a short period of time riding around with a mustached foreigner on a pink Enfield. I guess I am quite the sight to villagers!

Everyday is an Adventure

2008-05-06T11:49:00.003+01:00

Everyday in India is an adventure. There is always something bizarre around every corner that makes me stop in amazement, wonder, or horror. It is an intriguing place to visit due to its cultural, spiritual and natural diversity. My adventures in India took on a whole new level once I bought the pink stallion, Chibuku Gopa. Every time I kick start the engine on the poorly made machine and the 350cc engine turns over with a roar, I know my day will take on a new dimension; a dimension that I have little control over. As I have repeatedly tried to depict, the traffic in this county is crazy with few laws restricting any form of driving. Putting aside the nomadic cows on the road, the monkeys on the curb darting in and out of traffic whenever they spot a forgotten morsel, and the hot summer heat turning the poorly tarred patchwork holding the roads together into slippery black goo, there is only one rule on the road, Might is Right…as long as you use your horn. Blow Horn! This warning is plastered on the back of every truck and for good reason. The art of using the horn is perfected in India with different chimes or rhythms signifying a passing car, road rage or just hello. It is a form of communication on the roads making your ears just as important as your eyes while driving. Mastering the horn is essential to surviving on the Indian roads.

Another form of communication is the head wobble. Whenever you pass someone on the street or drive past them on the bike, there is no hand gesture such as a wave that is customary in the States. Instead, a little nod of the head to the side with a smile does the trick. The head wobble is even used when asking directions, ordering food, or just saying hello. The wobble can take on many different variations meaning just as many different frustrating possibilities. Whenever I am lost on my bike and ask for directions, the response I usually get is in the form of a head wobble; right, up, down, left with a twist back up. What the hell is that supposed to mean? My first response, but I have learned to take the first direction of the wobble until I find another man to head me in another direction with his initial wobble. Somehow, I find my way through the maze of street vendors, beggars and animals using head wobble directions. Like I said, every ride on the bike is an adventure, even the short ones.

I am still traveling with the same group of travelers I met at the bike shop in Delhi. All four of the original group are English; Anton, Giles, James and Ben #2. It is a great group that has grown since then with the addition of an Israeli and a Canadian, Noam and Ty. It is more fun traveling in larger groups but more importantly it is a lot safer. There have been numerous breakdowns, close-calls and even a two bike wreck along the way but every situation is resolved much easier with a large group.

One day we decided to take a ride to a village near Manali. We set off around mid day with no real idea where we were going. About thirty minutes into the ride down the winding country roads, we came across two Buddist monks. I made eye contact with one when he gave me a kind head wobble. I took it as a sign that he wanted a ride. I stopped, put one monk on my bike and the other with Giles. The monks were filled with giddy excitement as we sped around turns and over humps getting a weightless feeling at times. They loved it until Giles’ monk lost his hat. We all stopped while Giles turned around to retrieve the monk’s fallen hat. Everything would have been fine except for the monk’s excitement to get back on the road turned disastrous. During the retrieval mission, Giles’ bike stalled out. He was in the process of kick starting it when the anxious monk jumped onboard. Giles did not have enough control to support the weight of the bike and the monk so down they went. They were like dominoes falling one after another. The monk fell first, then the bike and finally Giles. Gas was pouring out of the bike so Giles lifted it up halfway until he realized the monk had a wound on his head. Down went the bike again as he rushed to his aid. Then came the sound of a horn from around the corner signaling a speeding bus was on the way. Down went the monk as Giles then saved his bike from being run over. It was give the ordeal. In the end, the monk, the bike and Giles survived the incident and a crowd of Indian onlookers, my monk and even myself got a good laugh out of the show.

The stories are endless once perched on our poorly made machines. From hitting homeless men wandering the dimly lit night streets (on accident), fording rivers when the roads suddenly disappear, stopping at roadside weddings to be invited in as a honorary guest, drawing a crowd of onlookers with each stop, flat tires, new pistons, worn-out brake pads, broken nuts, over tightened bolts, blown seals… the list never ends. I feel like I am in a Seinfeld episode constantly trying to find a trustworthy mechanic that is not going to rip me off. Once finding a ‘Tony’ (Seinfeld’s mechanic), I shower him with Cokes, cookies, and compliments in a shallow attempt to make him take extra special care of my bike at half the price. It is almost as hard as finding a burger in this vegetarian land. It is a labor of love because my bike gives me the freedom to visit small villages well off the tourist radar and see the Indian culture with minimal tourist exposure to the Hummus Trail.

The mainstream traveler’s route from Goa north into the mountains is often referred to as the Hummus Trail due to the large number of Israelis traveling within India. There are so many Israelis traveling in India that Israeli Idol, their version of American Idol, held auditions in Dharamsala just last week. I tried to audition but my Hebrew is a little rusty at the moment. Israeli independence day is nearing which promises to be a good time as well. For me, I like most of the travelers I meet and have re-named the Hummus Trail to the Shak Shuka Trail because I am in love with the Israeli breakfast dish.

So Many Cows...What To Do?

2008-04-27T10:14:00.001+01:00

Chopta-Rishikesh 162, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Cows are everywhere; on the street corner, crossing traffic, impeding traffic, in the alley, in the trash heap, getting massages from people passing by, on the steps of 15th century monuments, on foot bridges bringing pedestrians to a halt, and even in homeless cow shelters. Streets are stained with cow manure that fills the air with its distinct aroma bringing with it thousands of flies awaiting yet another feast. Streets are not knee-deep with manure because the dung is constantly being gathered to eventually be forged into dried out disks to be used as fuel. Cows provide many essential elements for everyday life; milk, curds, ghee butter, urine and dung — are all used in puja (worship) as well as in rites of extreme penance. The milk of the family cow nourishes children as they grow up, and cow dung is a major source of energy for households throughout India. Cow dung is sometimes among the materials used for a tilak-a ritual mark on the forehead. Most Indians do not share the western revulsion at cow excrement, but instead consider it an earthy and useful natural product. (If you don't believe me check out this article on the front page of a Delhi newspaper a month ago http://www.indianexpress.com/story/286437.html Cow urine seems to do the trick) So, when I am caught in a traffic jam caused by an emaciated cow wandering through traffic or see people sharing a fresh roti (flatbread that is a staple of an Indian diet) with a playfully aggressive bull on the street corner that feels he is just as entitled to the roti as the purchaser, I get frustrated, amused and bewildered that such a different world exists. This life is not wrong, it is just different.

Why is this world so different you ask? The majority of Indians are Hindus. Hindus have many gods and worship each for a particular reason. Cows are involved with many of these gods- Lord Krishna and Lord Shiva in particular. Lord Krishna was a cowherd, and the bull is depicted as the vehicle of Lord Shiva. Today the cow has almost become a symbol of Hinduism. Holy cows are not always happy cows though. Many of the cows roaming the streets of India are malnourished, surviving on whatever they can find in the trash heaps beside local markets. Many of the cows end up eating plastic bags, cardboard boxes and other manufactured goods that get wrapped around their stomachs often turning fatal. This is disastrous for a country and a people that worship the animal. The solution: government run homeless cow shelters called goshalas. Goshalas were set of for a couple reasons. The religious reason is to treat, protect, nurture, and ultimately save the dying nomads roaming the streets. The more practical reason is the clash between a developing nation and its religious base.

India is growing at an alarming rate. It has the fastest growing middle class in the world and one of the fastest growing economies in the world with construction happening everywhere. It is a fascinating time to be in India at this point in time to witness the changes taking place. Even though I have no prior experience in the country to accurately judge the rate of change, it is not hard to see that basically everything seems to be under construction: new subways, bridges, roads, hydo-electric projects, shopping malls, movie theatres, Mcdonalds, KFC and much more. It is like stepping back in time to when America or Western Europe was developing. The construction is not being done by massive bulldozers, graters, or other advanced machinery as I am accustomed to seeing back home. Most of it is being done by people; dozens of them chiseling away at rocks with hammers to produce gravel, digging roadside ditches with nothing more than a pick axe, patching old roads with scolding hot asphalt by hand and building bridges as fast as the workers can carry the beams to the top. The most shocking aspect about the labor is the majority of it is performed by women, occasionally with a baby wrapped around their backs. If she tires from the additional weight wrapped on her back, the baby will be placed on the curb, dangerously close to the unpredictable traffic. She has no other option. Just today I watched as a group of workers cleared a rock slide from a ditch with the women being the ones actually carrying the rocks to the truck, not the men. They just helped load the buckets as the women carried the loaded buckets on their heads to the dump truck for removal.

With a country that is modernizing rapidly, nomadic cows wandering the streets can hinder development. The goshalas are being set up across the country as a place to put all of the wandering bovine because they can't be eaten. The goshalas I have visited have been financed by various religious organizations, private donors, or local governments. They range between fifty cows to over a thousand depending on the facilities. All people involved seem to be happy with the situation and are looking to expand. The most exciting part of all of this is the actual capture of the homeless cows on the streets that can often turn violent; not for the cows but for the catchers themselves. It turns violent when the unsuspecting cows are being chased through the streets by the urban cowboys with the objective of getting them into a truck door wedged against the side of a building. The cows can become angry of course and cause harm but the average bystander often helps the cows escape by fighting off the John Wayne's of the Indian streets. I have never witnessed such an event but the goshala managers have told me some comical stories of the round-ups. It should be quite a sight.

TJW Report 3

2008-04-26T11:19:00.002+01:00

I am so accustomed to bizarre things happening around me that I sometimes forget to appreciate their significance. The first time I visited a goshala was a shock, but at the time it just seemed normal to be abnormal. There I was trudging around a homeless cow shelter in my poorly selected footwear, sandals, in a foot of cow manure when a Jain Guru appears with her sponsor to check on the goshala. The sponsor, a very talkative Indian woman from Delhi, gives me the grand tour of the 'emergency room', 'labor room', "sick bay', 'operating room', and the manager's suite fully equipped with five cows recovering from surgery requiring extra special supervision (I was offered the job but regretfully had to decline). The sponsor would lie in the foot deep manure to hug and kiss the cows saying over and over again, "You see, they are just like us. They just can't talk." I didn't know what to think. I grew up on a commercial cattle farm that was business and here is this woman playing in the cow shit like she has found her long lost friend. This is an extreme case and not all Indians do this but it still makes me think about other beliefs. This woman may sound bizarre and a little off her rocker but she was a successful business woman in Delhi and her son is a manager for a hotel in Singapore. She bragged about this fact for hours just as a mother would in the States. It is easy to think of people worshiping cows and letting them roam the city streets as crazy but is that any crazier than waiting to see if a groundhog sees his shadow which will determine the upcoming weather patterns. Are the average onlookers on Delhi streets that fight government paid cow catchers in an attempt to help the cows escape capture and remain free cows for just one more day crazy or cultural sound? This is all seems like abnormal behavior but then again what is normal. As I tell myself everyday, just because a culture or belief system is different does not make it wrong.

Different cultures also have different expectations that can seem bizarre when put in contrast with your own belief system. The main contrast I have found is the definition of success within each culture. What is success? I was asked this question in my Watson interview over a year ago. I stumbled through the question, soon forgetting about it and its significance. I was a graduating senior from a prestigious liberal arts school; I knew everything and had my life planned out for at least the next decade. At first, the question even sounded silly because success was clearly defined for me at the time; wealthy with a nice big house with a couple little ones running around inside the white picket fence, the American Dream. I never actually sat down and thought about the question because that is what I was supposed to want. That is a great life and I still want some variation of that but there is so much more to dream and think about now. Being successful is so arbitrarily labeled depending what the local culture dictates that I have constantly asked myself which label of success is correct? Are any correct? What is my definition of success?

A successful profession or life varies greatly depending on your geography. With the Masai, the man with the most cows, wives and children is idolized reaching almost god like status in the village. In Texas, a similar man will have his wives and children taken from him by the government with criminal charges being filed. I am not condoning such behavior but it shows how differently similar lifestyles are viewed within different cultures. In India, a man can be fired from every job he has ever held, be a failing father, husband and citizen of the community but still find salvation by simply giving up and becoming a wandering Baba. He can simply start walking, basically becoming a nomad, and living of the generosity and charity of others as a holy man. This is respectable in India. Even though he has left his family to fend for themselves and has failed in every other aspect of his life, he will still be respected. Is the French stock broker that decided after six years on Wall Street to give everything up and start an extreme sports company in the Himalayas successful? He sure seems happy. Is one man's success any less significant depending on his culture or geographic location? Each destination I reach brings with it a new set of rules, expectations and commitments that defines the culture. Every two to three months, I have to redefine so many different aspects of my life to adapt to my new surrounding that is creating one big melting pot of contracting philosophies. Again, what is the right recipe?

Most people simply accept their cultural expectations to be the truth and strive to attain their culture's version of success. The past nine months have opened my eyes to different worlds that I never knew existed, some mesmerizing and others terrifying. With the new exposure comes excitement but also anxiety to see what I will think upon my return home. Will I fall right back into my previous life without missing a beat or will I chose a different path? I don’t know the answer to these questions right now. I keep telling myself that I don't have to worry about it but that does not stop my mind from constantly churning over the possibilities.

Learning about the world is a funny concept coming from the States where traveling abroad usually means going to Europe. It had been an amazing year to be traveling as an American citizen. Obama or Hillary? If I had a nickel for every time I have been asked that question, I could fund a second Watson year for myself. I have also been embarrassed to find that many people know and follow the American political system closer than most Americans. I try to keep up to date with the political news just to be able to answer the inevitable third or fourth question in every introductory meeting with a stranger: Obama or Hillary? The question often comes in the most random and unexpected places.

About seven months ago when the presidential race was just gaining momentum, I was in the meat eating ceremony with the Masai. As we were sitting around the fire watching my prize goat roast over the flames, the Masai elder, Noonjuma, was asking me questions about my life through a translator, his son. Halfway into the conversation he asked me, "Who will win...Obama or Hillary?" I was shocked to hear this coming from a man that could only speak Maa, the Masai language, and not Swahilii, the language of the local newspaper and radio. Noonjuma's next question, "How long will it take me to walk to America?" Noonjuma knew the leading presidential candidates of America but he didn't know there was an ocean impeding him from walking from Africa and America. How can this be? Why should he care about Obama or Hillary? I have thought about that conversation often but as bizarre as it may sound, the election will affect him even if he is tucked away in a cow dung boma in the Rift Valley of Africa.

America’s influence on the world has no bounds: good and bad. It is shocking once you discover the extent. Every newspaper I have read from Zimbabwe to India and everywhere in between has at least one major article on US politics or pop culture. The front page of the Victoria Falls newspaper in Zimbabwe did not talk about the dire humanitarian or economic crisis in the country. Instead, it fully documented Britney Spears’ little sister getting knocked up with the subsequent article about the US election. As I put down the paper in disbelief, I peered across the street at the endless line of people camping on the street corner waiting for the bank to open not knowing if it would be in an hour or a week. Still yet, little Spears was more important that starving Zimbabweans. How can our priorities become so skewed?

Not all of my discussions about my home, America, have been pleasant. In fact, most have been very anti-American. There have been many instances when people automatically dislike me for being an American. It has affected me whether I like it or not. I have learned how to hate America during this trip, even believing it at times. Now that I know how to hate my country, I can appreciate it for what it represents: an improbable experiment in democracy as Obama put it. It wears on me having to constantly defend my country around every corner when it has been instilled in my brain since elementary school that America is the beacon of hope in the world, the leader of the free world. Being raised in such a way often blinds people of the countless possibilities the rest of the world has to offer. This mentality also creates a bizarre contradiction: the country with the most influence and power in the world knows the least about it.

Not all things in life are bad though. Riding through the Himalayas on my pink Enfield lets my imagination run wild. I find myself in a fantasy world of towering snow-capped peaks, numerous waterfalls sending freshly thawed water cascading down the mountainside, tiny villages dotting the lush green landscapes with blossoming apple orchards sprinkled along the terraced mountain slopes, monkeys darting in and out of traffic, cows laying dead or alive on the street, colorful Hindu shrines and temples around every corner and random festivals that fill the air with joyful music, alluring spices, and mesmerizing colors that overwhelm the senses. It is a world that I thought could only exist in my imagination. It feels like a dream but I know it is real; more real than anything I have ever experienced. I tell myself everyday that I am on of the fifty luckiest people alive because I have been given a gift: a chance to experience the world, learn about myself, and open my mind.

Finally...My Bike!

2008-04-09T12:26:00.002+01:00

Bike Trip 1 014, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Things have changed greatly since I last posted any news. I am now the proud owner of a reconditioned 1994 model pink Royal Enfield Motorcycle. It took me a month to finally muster up the courage to follow through with my original plan of buying a bike due to the treacherous driving conditions. To the casual onlooker on the street or even the passenger in the back of a bus, driving in India is the most chaotic, dangerous, and frustrating debacle ever witnessed and rightfully so. Might is right on the roads. Buses stop for no one; not even passengers for they must run alongside and somehow manage to climb aboard with their luggage and sometimes children. India has the fastest growing middle class in the world and that means people are starting to buy more cars. Getting a license can’t be that difficult because most people really can’t drive worth a damn. More cars on the mostly the same infrastructure build by the British Raj with lots of bad drivers spells congestion and accidents. Throw into the mix the mopeds carrying three to five people, numerous other motorcycles with delusions of ESPN XGames grandeur, donkeys, camels, cows all pulling carts of some sort, nomadic cows wandering the streets as if it is their right (it is in India), monkeys waiting eagerly on the side of the roads awaiting the right moment to dart across the road, goat herders guiding their flocks on the curb, landslides, more cows and who know what else…maybe an Elephant!

You are probably thinking who in their right mind would even attempt to drive a motorcycle, much a less a pink one under such conditions. I talked myself out of it until I took my first trip to the north with friends I met from Delhi. It was the weekend of Holi, the festival of color that was meant to welcome the spring and win the blessings of Gods for good harvests and fertility of the land but has turned into an excuse to drink Bhang (a drink that has opium in it), cover unsuspecting tourists with colored ink, and dance the night away very intoxicated. During this weekend, I decided to leave Delhi and head north into the mountains. We took two different hikes at the base of the Greater Himalayan range; one to Tungnath Temple ( a holy Hindu temple) and the other to a lake above a small village called Sari. It was a crazy experience to be surrounded with Bhang silly Indians dancing around fires, dogs with steel collars to at least give them a chance if and when they attacked by leopards, six and seven thousand meter peaks dotting the horizon and small villages scattered across the Himalayan foothills with intricate terrace farming networks carved out of the hillsides. After the hike, I stayed behind in Rishikesh (the Yoga capital of the world and also the place where the Beatles visited to study meditation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi). After a couple days of watching old men take heaps of cow manure and turn them into dried out disks of manure, people sharing the food and bottled water with random cows on the street and people even giving cows massages on the street, I decided it was time to go back to Delhi to get a bike so I can visit more small towns in the mountains. A bike would offer me the freedom to see all of the small towns and not just the tourist hot spots. I did take a swim in the Ganga (Ganges) while I was in Rishikesh. It was cold and refreshing.

Once back in Delhi, I contacted a bike shop called Bullet Wallas (wallas means ‘guy’. So a bricklayer will be a brick walla for instance). After wandering the streets of Pahar Ganj, a very crowded and dirty neighborhood of Delhi, I finally found the bike shop. To my surprise it was run by a American guy from New Mexico named Balu. That isn’t his real name but since he was a big bear of a guy in India and someone made the Kipling connection and called him Balu. This is where the story gets really bizarre. I tell him I am from WV and he is taken aback and says he has been deer hunting in White Sulphur Springs, basically right next to my home in Lewisburg. Who would have thought that in the middle of India I would meet an American biker that has been hunting in my home county in WV. It is a small world!

I tell Balu I want a bike to head to the mountains. He was also shocked by the amazing coincidence and is more than willing to help me out. We go to the shop to find a newly built Enfield bike that just so happened to be Petal Rose Pink with a tan leather seat. “I’ll take it” were the first words to come out of my mouth. I ordered stickers to be put on the bike that say, “Bullet Wallas West Virginia” with two orange dueling banjos in the center (that was Balu’s idea). While my bike was being finished, I met four English guys that had the same idea as me, to buy a bike and head north. We decided it would be safer and more fun if we all hit the road together.

Buying a bike and driving around India sounds like a great idea but here is the catch, I have never actually driven a motorcycle. I left that part of the story out when I was purchasing my bike from Balu. I simply said that I had limited experience on a bike. That was the understatement of the trip! About the third day when I was hanging around the shop waiting for all of the bikes to be ready, Balu threw me the keys to my bike and told me to go fill her up with petrol. It was about 4PM, right in the middle of rush hour in Delhi, and I had never ridden a motorcycle. I figured I had to learn somehow and I took off. I made it about 100 meters before I stalled out and couldn’t get it restarted. A crowd soon gathered to laugh at the foreigner that couldn’t get his pink Enfield to start. One man out of about a hundred finally offered to start the bike for me. I was off again and this time only made it 20 meters. The crowd followed laughing and jeering at my inability to drive. I finally made it out of the alleys and side streets and onto the main street where I again stalled out in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic five rows deep. After another crowd formed to heckle the foreigner, I realized I was out of gas. After pushing the bike for thirty minutes, filling up with petrol, stalling out about nine more times, I finally managed to get it back to the shop in one piece. Luckily!

My second ride wasn’t any better but much more comical. Balu took all five of us to a deserted park to practice before he sent us out on the open rode. I finally got the hang of the gears and was doing quite well. We were all excited, trying tricks, and weaving in and out of trees with ease but then it came, a thunderstorm. Out of nowhere, a torrential rain moved in over us. Balu, the only man that knew the way home, took off and yelled, “every man for himself.’ We ended up stuck hiding underneath an archway for at least an hour with dozens of homeless people staring at us. A hell of a day!

I am now in Manali, a hill station about 500km north of Delhi. (Hill stations are towns in the mountains that offer modern amenities such as internet, restaurants, and better hotels). The ride to Manali was an eventful one with many breakdowns, wrecks, monkeys, cows, goats, snow-capped mountains, and much more. It was a great ride and we all made it here in one piece. It was definitely a group effort. The four English lads I am traveling with are good company and we hit it off immediately. I plan to visit some more goshalas (homeless cow shelters) around Manali. It is more for comic value than anything else. I have been in email contact with one Goshala that signs off every email with ‘yours in service of Lord Krishna and His cows.’ I am not joking. I can talk forever about my visits with the goshalas but that warrants another post.

I have decided to name my pink stallion ‘Chibuku Gopa’ which means ‘Chibuku the Cow herder.’ Chibuku is the name of a local African alcoholic brew that I ran across in Malawi. The drink is kind of like mixing sour milk, bread dough and alcohol together and drinking it. Wretched! But, the Malawians had a very catchy song and dance to go along with the drink that I loved and that is where Chibuku gets her name.

A Rickshaw Ride Through Old Delhi

2008-03-14T11:51:00.005Z

Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque embedded within the streets of Old Delhi.
india 137, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

My grandpa developed a fascination with peacocks and instead of just dreaming about the exotic birds, he decided to populate the farm with blue-shoulder roosters and hens. Nature took its course and soon there were dozens of peacocks roaming and nesting in the barns, sorting pens and even the front porch. For me, the crowing peacocks did not tell of another world or an enchanted forest in the jungles of India as a Rudyard Kipling book may suggest. The often annoying shrills bellowed out by the beautiful birds meant I was home on the farm getting ready to go fishing, hunting or running through the barn from hay bail to hay bail trying not to fall into a crevice. In India, peacocks are anywhere with just enough green space to let the birds spread their wings. Their early morning singing, annoying I might add, wakes me up every morning from the adjacent nursery to my current home. It brings a smile to my face, if only for a brief moment because it is 6AM. I role back over and think of the farm. That is one of the few things that remind me of home in India. To tell you just how different life can be here I will try to recreate a thirty minute auto-rickshaw ride through Old Delhi I took the other day. It was an adventure in itself.

But first, you need a brief history lesson of Delhi to fully appreciate Old Delhi. Delhi has evolved over the ruins of seven cities, built by rulers from the Hindu Rajputs to the Mughals and finally the British. Old Delhi is the city of the Moghuls, created by Shah Jahan and dating back to the seventeenth century. It’s the capitol’s most frenetic quarter, and it’s most Islamic, a reminder that for more than seven hundred years Delhi was a Muslim city. Its greatest monuments are the magnificent remnants of Moghul empires, the Red Fort and the Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque. Due to the tremendous economic boom of late, modern suburbs and developments encompass the tombs, temples and ruins that date back centuries; in some cases, the remains of whole cities from the distant past sit happily amid homes and highways built in the last decade or two. With its jam-packed streets, bazaars, tower blocks and temples, forts, mosques and colonial mansions there is a surprise around every corner. It is a place where suit and tie businessmen rub shoulders with traditionally dressed orthodox Hindus and Muslims, and the smell of spices, feces, burning trash, and cow dung fills the air with a rather strange aroma. This is Old Delhi.

“Mujhe Red Fort Chahiye” I try tell to the auto-rickshaw driver in my worst Hindi accent. He looks at me and just smiles. I fear I may have botched the only Hindi words I have been able to learn in a week so I ask him again in English; I want Red Fort! “ Oh, yes…100 rupee,” he tells me holding back a sly grin. No, No, I will give you 20 rupee. 90, 30, 70, 30, 50, 30, 40, ok 40 it’s a deal then. Lets go!

And we’re off in the green and yellow auto-rickshaw that smells of exhaust fumes from the harsh life on the Delhi streets. The streets are soon filled with every beast of burden pulling some sort of cargo; donkeys carrying sandbags for construction projects, mules carrying wagons full of cow dung, camels carrying larger trolleys filled with sacks of potatoes, horses pulling carriages, cows pulling or carrying an assortment of goods, and people pushing carts filled with vegetables. The four marked driving lanes don’t really mean anything since the buses, cars, rickshaws, animals, people, trolleys, mopeds and motorcycles are crammed six or seven across.

Ahh, finally a stop light; everyone will stop after the oncoming traffic honk their horns to signal it is their turn. Silence, if only for a moment because there is a beggar between three and five years old holding a naked infant while rubbing her belly signifying she is hungry and needs food. Children beggars are everywhere. I give in and give her a rupee. My driver then yells at me for perpetuating the problem. The next thing I know she has told her friends and I then have six children beggars swarming my rickshaw. The light turns green. Finally, I can get out of here. The children then must dodge the oncoming traffic that doesn’t slow down because pedestrians are on the bottom of the pecking order on the streets.

The streets get narrower and more congested as we near the heart of Old Delhi. My driver directs my attention to the right where a huge baboon is swinging from electrical lines above the street shops. This was not like the baboons I saw in Africa. This was the city kind that was black from sleeping in back alleys and scavenging through trash. Dreadful looking… but normal here. Make sure you close your hotel windows because they can be good thieves!

Damn! We hit a traffic jam. Everyone laid on their horns even more than they usually do which is a lot. I can’t see what the problem is ahead but the traffic begins to slowly creep along. My driver makes a quick maneuver around the bus in front of us blocking our view. Now way! Three mounted elephants are making their way through the middle of the street causing the traffic jam. We speed by the elephants along with a Land Cruiser, Mercedes and multiple other rickshaws. I was stunned and my driver looked at me and laughed.

Watch out! A cow was in the middle of the road and my driver was laughing, looking at me instead of looking at the road. Cows are the king of the road wandering with, against or across traffic as they please where they always have the right-away. My driver swerves out of the way just in time. The cow remains oblivious to the traffic and elephants going past as it continues to chew its curd in the middle of the road.

I can see the Red Fort, almost there. The traffic becomes even more congested; cow, Lexus, horse and buggy, camel pulling a trolley, Land Rover, three bicycle- rickshaws, five auto-rickshaws, Mercedes E-class, more cows, beggars, touts, donkeys loaded down with sacks, two buffalo… “Red Fort!” my driver yells. I give a hundred rupee note. “No change, no change…I wait you here after tour.” I took my tour and my driver was awaiting my return just as he said. Then, I got to take the second strangest ride of my life back home; second due to the fact I was becoming slightly more accustomed to my surroundings.

First Week In India

2008-03-14T11:46:00.004Z

india 160, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

My first week in India had been eventful to say the least. Two days before I arrived in India, a friend from college hooked me up with her friend, Vik, in Delhi. Vik’s family offered to take me for a couple of days until I get oriented in another new country. It couldn’t have been a better situation because Delhi is quite a hectic place where everyone needs a quiet place to catch their breathe. I got lucky yet again. Thanks Mary.

I didn’t really know what direction I wanted to take with my project in India. There are so many different aspects to investigate with cattle. India has thirty per cent of the world's cattle with twenty six different breeds mixed together. Cows are everywhere! Because the cow is respected as a sacred animal, it's allowed to roam unharmed, and they have grown accustomed to the traffic and the rhythm of the city. So, you can see them roaming the streets in towns and cities, grazing unmindfully on the roadside grass verges and munching away vegetables thrown out by street sellers. As opposed to the West, where the cow is widely considered as nothing more than walking hamburgers, in India, the cow is believed to be a symbol of the earth - because it gives so much yet asks nothing in
return.

For animals powerful enough to stop traffic and holy enough that they’ll never become steak, cows are treated dreadfully. Scrawny and sickly, they survive by grazing on garbage on the street. Due to this maltreatment, different religious organizations in cooperation with the government have set up gosadans (homeless cow shelters). No joke! I plan to visit some of these shelters soon to see them for myself. I have also heard that the city of Delhi has cow catchers to round up the homeless cows and take them to the gosadans. I could see myself wrestling down cows in the streets of Delhi. We’ll see?

Another aspect that has fascinated me is an organization called RSS, composed of members from the extreme right of the Hindu faith. I have heard stories of people following around cows awaiting fresh pee to come pouring out so they can fill up their cups. They believe that a cow’s pee replenishes the body. This is similar to the Maasai’s belief of drinking blood. Both are thought to rejuvenate the body and spirit. I am trying to get in touch with the RSS to see if the rumors are true.

In the time it has taken me to figure out which direction to take, I have been the ultimate tourist visiting numerous temples, mosques, shrines and forts that are scattered across Delhi and the surrounding areas. My favorites have been the ghost city of Fatehpur Sikri, Humayun’s Tomb, Taj Mahal, Jama Masjid, and Nizamuddin Sufi Shrine. Fatephur Sikri was built by the Mogul emperor Akbar to be the imperial capital. After building the city from scratch and living in it for over ten years, they finally figured out there wasn’t enough water to survive. So, they abandoned the capital city and it remains a ghost palace even today. The Taj Mahal is simply incredible due to its size and detailed art work in the white marble. Jama Masjid is the largest mosque in India and I think the largest in Asia as well. On Fridays, it is flooded with people trying to pray inside. Nizamuddin Sufi Shrine is one of the seven required shrines that every Sufi has to visit during pilgrimage. It is hidden within a bustling Islamic neighborhood that the average traveler would never stumble across (I was lucky and had a friend to show me around).

It is also wedding season in Delhi. Hindu weddings are quite the affair with it being more of like the coronation of a new king and queen rather than a matrimonial union. Every night since I have been in India, I have fallen asleep to the thunder of fireworks, blaring Bollywood favorites, and a little Justin Timberlake thrown into the mix as well. I asked my hostess, Praveen, how I could attend one. She smiled and showed me an invitation to a wedding the following night. I was excited. I went out the next day to buy a traditional Indian kurta-pajama and was ready an hour before our scheduled departure. We arrived to the wedding that was in a huge tent with wall to wall carpeting, a neon green, pink and orange dance floor, pink fabric forming small huts and an endless buffet serving India’s favorite dishes. It also turned out that I was one of only four or five men wearing the traditional kurta-pajama with the rest of the men wearing a suit or khakis with a button-down shirt. A great lost in translation/culture moment. After Praveen made me sample every type of food on the endless buffet and I could no longer move, the groom arrived on his noble steed preceded by his dancing family members. His family dances up the entrance with the bride’s family standing flat footed ready to receive the dancing mob. It took the family about an hour to dance up the ten meter long entrance. They were in no hurry and were pulling out some impressive dance moves. I was nodding my head with the music when someone spotted me and pulled me into the mix. I cut a rug for a brief moment and then retreated back to the masses. The bride and groom made their way into the tent and took their places on the red velvet covered chairs on center stage. There were about four hundred people there and that is considered very small. A large wedding reaches well over a thousand in attendance. It was still a great time even if it was “small”.

It has been a busy week getting adjusted. I will be the first to admit that India is not for everyone. It is a land of extremes that are endlessly confronting: rich and poor, pristine and dirty, terrible but incredible, material and spiritual. India can’t be generalized or even be put into a few categories because it has everything and its opposite living side by side. In most countries this incites violence stemming from jealousy or resentment but everyone seems to co-exist here in their own way.

Not an Ordinary Week

2008-03-08T07:22:00.005Z

Not an Ordinary Week, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

My journey from Argentina to India wasn't your typical week in transit experience. To start, I arrived in Sydney the day before the 30th Gay Mardi Gras kicked off. I didn't realize this until I tried to check into multiple hostels upon my arrival into Sydney. All of which flat out rejected me and one receptionist even laughed at my ignorance. Not very nice... Anyway, after a 13 hour flight with no TV to pass the time, I was too tired to get freaked out about my situation. I found myself in an Internet cafe in Chinatown searching for a hostel gracious enough to take me in on such a momentous weekend. In the process I struck up a conversation with an Irishman named Dave. It was only ten in the morning but we headed to the local Irish pub to blow off some steam. What can I say, he’s Irish and drinking is national pastime in Ireland. After a couple of beers, he offered me a place to sleep on his hotel room floor. The thought did cross my mind about his intentions seeing how it was the weekend of Gay Mardi Gras but I had never met or even heard of an alcoholic Irishman that was also gay. I decided to go with it, the story of my life right now. It turned out to be a very nice hotel located on George Street, the main street in downtown Sydney.

Sydney was just voted the most desirable city in the world to live in. I can believe it after visiting. The city is immaculately clean with numerous pristine parks scattered around the city, and then there is Sydney harbor. The harbor is a little piece of heaven where the sun always shines, a breeze always blows in from the harbor and with the Sydney Harbor Bridge and Sydney Opera house providing picturesque portraits that even the most amateur photographer can't screw up. It’s close to paradise in my book. It truly is a great city but also very expensive.

I have never been to Mardi Gras back in the States or to Carnival in Brazil, but I can now say I have been to Gay Mardi Gras in Oz (Oz is the shortened hip saying for Australia). With over 10,000 people participating in the parade, I have never seen so many jock straps, speedos, ass-less chaps, the color pink and black leather in a variety of forms in all my life with the constant background music of Kylie Minogue's greatest hits. That being said, it was an amazing sight to see. Many of the floats had political and religious overtones to go along with the liberating outfits. "Gay Is The New Black" and "Would Jesus Discriminate" are the two saying that I remember the most. The streets were jam packed with eager onlookers to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the event. The parade lasted for hours. We decided to leave a little early and as we were making our way through the maze of people, we somehow managed to find ourselves on a side street where the floats were preparing to depart. There is where we got a up close and personal look at all of the floats; very different but clever to say the least. It was a great event all together with a very international crowd of participants enjoying the freedom to express themselves openly. It was a great event.

Over the next three days I was able to catch some sun on famous Bondi beach, explore the Blue Mountains which just make me homesick, and managed to catch a nasty stomach bug, a precursor to Delhi Belly that awaits me in India. I caught a 15 hour flight to Abu Dhabi, the richest city in the world, only to get stuck in the airport for 13 hours awaiting my flight to India. I cleared customs and tried to find a hotel room in the city but after five hotels were booked solid and the cheapest of them was asking $125US a night, I informed my taxi driver to drive 45 minutes back to the airport where we began our fruitless journey. Along the way I was able to gaze out the window at the second largest mosque in the world lit up at night, a magical sight, and the city itself. I now know whose coffers are filled with all of the money I spent filling up my Toyota Tacoma with gas for so long. Abu Dhabi is quite a sight, even at night.

In one week I traveled from the Paris of South America, Buenos Aires, to the most desirable city to call home, Sydney, via the richest city in the world, Abu Dhabi, and have finally made it to one of the most polluted hectic and bizarre places on Earth, Delhi. I think I am going in the wrong direction when I put it like that?

There was a poster in my freshman English classroom in college that depicted the globe turned upside down that said something to the effect, “The New World.” I always loved the poster but I am just now learning to appreciate its meaning. I can now understand what is means after being crammed into a rickety old rickshaw zigzagging through Delhi traffic sweating at the numerous close encounters to my drivers amusement as he looks me through the rear view mirror while still holding his hand firmly on the horn for no apparent reason while dodging weary pedestrians, begging children, nomad cattle and countless motorcycles weaving in out of the madness. It is organized chaos in the truest sense of the word. The world has been turned on its head for me once again. Now it is time to try to make sense of it all.

Recap

2008-02-26T18:40:00.002Z

Crossing the Tropic of Capricorn

IMG_2105, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

The past two months in Argentina have not been as bizarre and foreign as my first months in Africa but they have still been eventful. Let's see, I have crossed the tropic of Capricorn while dodging spitting llamas (felt kind of bad because when I dodged the incoming llama luggie it hit a young boy. Moral hangover), seen a seven coloured mountain (seriously the mountain had seven colours due to different mineral deposits of iron oxide, manganese and other minerals that turned the mountain different shades of red, yellow, orange, white and even green), watched the sunset over the partially restored fortress of Pucará de Tilcara (rebuilt ruins that were once occupied by farmers of the Late Incan Empire over 500 years ago, ruins that may be even 1,000 years old in places), found the hidden city of Iruya tucked away deep in the Andes in the north western province of Jujuy, witnessed the most fanatical sporting event on Earth a BOCA Jrs. home football (soccer) game, traversed through the legendary Rt. 52 through the Andes which was the set for scenes in the movie "Seven Years in Tibet", hiked to the base of the highest mountain in western hemisphere- Mt. Aconcagua, ridden with the gauchos as the sun rose over the pampas, rode in a glider in the Argentine Nat'l glider championships, bought a cheap linen suit, ate my body weight in Argentine beef twice over and washed it down with gallons of steamy mate, had a Argentine girlfriend, lost an Argentine girlfriend, hiked to Garganta del Diablo (waterfall called "the throat of the devil"), hunted for rabbits with a spotlight in the back of a truck going 40mph which is a recipe for disaster, learned to speak Spanish (mas o menos) and well I think that about covers it.

Other stories...

I was in a little town called Tilcara to meet with the local agricultural agent in the area and decided to leave after a week. I went to the bus station booked a 24 hour bus to Buenos Aires for the following day, put the ticket in pocket without looking at it and returned to my hostel. The next day I show up and realize she booked it for the wrong day and I was exactly 24 hours late for my bus, the bus I thought I was to get on was booked solid and so were all of the buses for the next two days. This would not have been a problem unless a friend from back home was coming to visit me the following day and I had to get back to Buenos Aires. I went to argue with them and they let me on a bus to Salta, the largest town in the north of Argentina. The next morning, Valentine's Day, after arguing with the ticketing agent for about 15 min, he put me on an empty bus back to headquarters to discuss it with the boss. I thought that meant that the boss spoke English. No, he didn't! He just smiled and said "no hablo English." Then put a document down in front of me and told me to write down my complaint. I started in writing in English but he then took it from me, ripped it up and said, "En Espanol solamente". It took me about an hour of remembering high school Spanish classes but I finally managed to write out a two paragraph account of how the ticketing agent in Tilcara made a mistake and not me. He looked at it, shook his head in approval, gave a new ticket for free and we proceeded to drink mate until the next bus went back to the terminal. Not all of my lost in translation moments have turned out that well but will not tell you about those.

Argentina: Political Cows

2008-02-26T15:41:00.005Z

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IMG_2408, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Argentina is a funny place. I often get confused as to where I am in the world because of the French architecture, Italian fashion sense, tourists scattered about but at the same time, speaking Spanish is a must to survive. I didn’t know it before I got here but Argentina is very European: mostly Spanish and Italian with a French influence and other eastern Europeans thrown into the mix as well. The indigenous population constitutes only 3% of the total population. This dynamic is best seen in Buenos Aires, a city that could be a perfect mix of New York City and Washington D.C. with a Latin feel if that is possible. Argentina is famous for beef, the tango, Patagonia, and beautiful women. I will say that the beef is some of the best I have ever eaten, people dancing the Tango fill the streets of some neighborhoods, Patagonia is breathtaking (I haven’t been yet but the pictures are great though) and the women, well they are the most beautiful women I have ever seen.

My plans changed drastically after I hurt my leg and could no longer ride a horse which is a prerequisite for working on any farm in the country. I have been bouncing around since then looking for a purpose with some success with my project. The cattle industry in a perfect microcosm of the problems in the country. Argentina is a country that has everything. Everything that is except good government. The country has been plagued with bad government for years and the corruption has run ramped. Argentina has enormous agricultural potential, wealthy in natural resources, diverse landscapes, thriving tourism industry and a large population to fuel the economy. The population, for the most part, has the same ethnic make up as the States as well. If a country has everything it could possibly need to succeed, then why does the vast majority of the country live in poverty? Like in Africa, the problem lies with bad government. That seems to be a common theme to my trip thus far. Argentina is just better at hiding their problems. The country is by no means poor. The money is just concentrated within a very small percentage of people, which is another reoccurring theme of my trip.

As I said earlier, Argentina is is famous for its beef. I have heard conflicting reports but the average Argentine consumes close to 150lbs. of beef a year. That is a lot of beef! Beef has become as much a part of their culture as the main staple of their diet. The government knows this fact so beef has become a powerful political issue. The government wants every Argentine to be able to afford cheap meat. If they didn’t, there would be riots in the streets. Seriously... Their solution: install export quotas on the beef industry turning it into a heavily regulated business. The domestic beef market has to be filled first before any beef can be exported and that is arbitrarily determined by the government as to when the market is full or not. To add to the confusion of the farmers, the international market likes larger cuts of beef than the domestic market meaning that the farmer has to cater to one market or the other not knowing what the quotas will be at the time of sale. To complicate things even more, the government takes a 15% fee off the selling price, not the profit, of the cattle. So lets say you do find the right market to sell your cattle either on the domestic or international market and make a reasonable deal, before you see any money at all the government takes their cut of 15%. This makes increasingly difficult for local farmers to turn a profit but they don’t complain because it could be much worse. Worse, how? The government takes between 28% and 35% on different crops such as soybean, sunflower, and wheat. The profit margins continue to shrink and the farmer gets even poorer.

The solution to this problem is the same solution that farmers in the US have, get bigger and bigger to survive. Lots are farms are becoming commercially operated or bought up and consolidated by businessmen with too much money from other professions. This is not unique to Argentina at all. It is actually a common trend in the USA and similar to what I witnessed in South Africa as well. Small farmers just can’t compete anymore as a primary source of income or against corporate farming. It is happening everywhere, not just in the States.

Beef's political importance runs much deep than just keeping the peace with cheap over the counter prices which is absurdly low: i.e. 2 pesos for a pound of asado (which is the equivalent of 66 cents US for their favorite cut of meat that is unique to this part of the world. The cut of meat is cut across the ribs. The actual steak with have four or five pieces of rib bone in the actual cut. It is very good.) and 80 centavos for a pound of hamburger meat (roughly 25 cents US). Again, beef is cheap, especially over the counter. If you don’t know your Argentine history, the country had a financial meltdown in 2001. People lost everything, banks ran out of money, land became worthless, the currency was devalued and the country plundered into massive foreign debt. Since then the country has rebounded and managed to pay off most of the debt but the interest rate for the debt is directly tied to their consumer index which beef consumption is a major part of since Argentines eat so much of it. By keeping beef prices low, the consumer index will remain low, thus keeping the interest rate low for their foreign debt. Even though this may sound a little strange, as it should, it is working for now so why should the government change it? For the future, that is a different story.

For the beef, it really is that good. It is not that there are proportionally more cattle in the country but the cattle they do have are all high quality. Driving down the road, you don’t see any bad cattle. They are all high quality black Angus scattered across the landscapes on any land that is unsuitable for soybean, wheat and sunflowers because the crop market is much better than the cattle market these days (even with a higher government tax). The government control of the beef market has had its effect though. Go out to a restaurant and order the best steak they have and you may shell out the equivalent of $10US for a really good cut of beef. A good bottle of wine may run you US $10US also. With that being said, Argentina is a man’s paradise; great beef, great wine, beautiful women, and big mountains to climb. Whats not to love?That being said I am ready to leave. I know I know, I am an idiot. Argentina is just too European for me right now and also very easy to travel within. I would recommend it to anyone to backpack through. I just miss the adventure of Africa, mostly the culture shock. I am off to India. I have one contact in Delhi, no idea what I plan to do or how I am going to do it, but three months in India should provide quite a shock. Adios!

I'm no Gaucho

2008-02-03T14:53:00.001Z

I can honestly say that I do not make a good gaucho. Why? Well my tenure as a gaucho lasted only lasted minutes and I have still not decided whether or not I was a victim of a joke- a rather funny one I might add- bad luck, or that I just can’t ride a horse. Either way, my string of good luck ended shortly after I mounted a horse the first morning on the Santa Maria Estancia in Benito Juarez, Argentina.

My time in Argentina had been very relaxed for the first couple of weeks. I was getting adjusted to a new continent, language and culture while coping with post-Africa withdrawal, a symptom I am still dealing with. I arrived at Santa Maria estancia (ranch) a day before the planned round-up of their cattle. It only happens twice a year and is very similar to what we do at home. It is the time when the calves are worked and in this case shipped off to market. I was very lucky to show up a day before and I was instructed to be at the barn at 5AM to meet the gauchos.

Gauchos are famous in Argentina just like the cowboys are famous in the American West. Both ways of life are romanticized about through literature and both are slowly disappearing. A gaucho way of life consists of drinking a lot of mate, a drink that is like a combination of green tea and coffee, eating a lot of meat and a little bread in between. They are Argentine cowboys.

So, I met the gauchos at the barn at 5AM as instructed, ate lots of bread, drank lots of mate and then went to saddle up the horses. Everything was going well until I actually got on the horse. This is where everything got interesting because it turned into my own mini-rodeo. The horse got spooked or something and started jumping around trying to buck me off. I am by no means an expert horseman and I was holding of for dear life. I was able to stay on but in the process I felt my groin start hurting. I thought nothing of it at the time because everyone was laughing at the Gringo (me). They either gave me a wild horse as a joke, the horse just got spooked, or I did something wrong. Either way, it got my blood pumping very early in morning.

Once everyone else was saddled up, we took off to round up the cattle. They only knew one speed to ride and that was full speed ahead. I was again just trying to hold on to horse as it was trying to catch up with the rest of the horses that were far in front of. After a solid ten minute sprint across a freshly harvested wheat field, we found the cattle and started to bring then back to the pens. In the process, the sun began to rise over the pampas plains turning the field of knee-high wheat stalks into a field of gold. It was beautiful but I had no time to admire the scenery because I was busy rounding up stray cows and calves, again trying just to stay on my horse that was becoming increasingly annoyed by my slow pace.

Once the cattle were in the sorting pens, I was relieved because I thought I would finally be able to get off of my horse tend to my ailing groin. But no, they also sort the cattle in the pens on horseback. This is where true horsemanship becomes a factor because it can become very technical in close quarters. This is also where my lack of horsemanship became very evident. One man got off of his horse to watch the gate hole with his leather whip as we herded the cattle to him. He let the cows pass but held the calves. This went on for about an hour and by the end of it, I could not longer ride because o the pain in my leg.

Finally, I was able to dismount. I took my first step and fell to the ground. It felt like my groin was torn in half. Unable to help, I sat on a stump and watched as the men branded, tagged and castrated the calves. It was exactly the same process as at home only with inferior equipment which makes the process much harder. Once finished, I slowly made my way back to the barn, unsaddled my horse, slowly gimped back to the house where I would remain for the next three days watching bad re-runs of Walker Texas Ranger. I made it out of the house one time to visit the Argentine national glider championships in the neighbouring town of Chavez. I was able to take a ride in a glider and convinced the pilot to do a couple of flips as well. Riding in a glider is like floating on air because of the silence.

My only regret is that I didn’t take my camera to document the morning. In my sleepy state, I simply forgot to take it with me. There is a famous artist, Molina Campos, which depicts gauchos in his paintings. I have chosen this one to depict my first and only morning playing gaucho.

Argentina

2008-01-21T14:04:00.000Z

Happy New Year! It is amazing how much things can change in a year. The last couple of months have been hectic, busy and amazing. I spent New Years in Cape Town. Cape Town definitely lived up to the hype for me and I quickly fell in love with it. It is my favorite city to date. I left Africa a week ago and it felt like leaving home. I became very comfortable in Africa and I felt the same anxiety leaving as I felt leaving the US five months ago. Weird, huh? I will be back one day. I have missed Malawi since the day I left two months ago. I stopped in Madrid for three days staying with a friend from home before to Buenos Aires. It is an amazing city and I would like to visit the city when it is not freezing cold and rainy. Don’t ask me why I had to go to Madrid first, but my travel agent said it was cheaper. I have decided to let her go and book the rest if my flights on my own. It was very liberating to mail back the rest of my plane tickets. I now have no timeline for the rest of my trip. It is a wonderful feeling!

I am now in Argentina, a country famous for its beef. The first thing I did upon arrival was go straight to a steakhouse and have the biggest T-bone they had. It was amazing, totally different than any beef I have ever eaten. I have had a couple of bad ones since then but the beef here is still excellent.

Buenos Aires is also a great city. I definitely think I am getting spoiled travelling from Cape Town to Madrid and then to Buenos Aires. All three are amazing cities and are among the best in the world. After walking around the BA for a couple of days I headed to Mar del Plata through a connection I made through W&L (my university- Washington and Lee). It has been great to see some friendly faces and tell college stories again. I am staying on a farm called Santa Isabel with the Estrada family. Mr Estrada, his daughter Carol and Wes McCrae are all W&L grads and even though I have only met everyone in passing before, we were able to connect immediately through our common experiences at W&L. It has been great and it brings back good memories.

They have a major rabbit problem on the farm and I was able to help alleviate that problem last night when we went rabbit hunting. These rabits are not the nice little rabbits like we have at home. They are huge, being almost two feet long when stretched out. They are big suckers.

My plans are up in the air right now. I have some plans to work on a couple different farms in Argentina for the next month but after that I may venture into Chile, Bolivia or Brazil. I don’t know yet.

Agriculture in Africa

2008-01-12T16:53:00.001Z

IMG_0902, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

‘A man is nothing without cattle’ is both a Maasai and Himba saying that shows the underlying importance of cattle in society. Family planning in some tribes revolves around the father’s cattle ambitions: the more girls you have, the more cattle you will receive in the form of a dowry when you marry them off. Five cows for each girl is hell of a deal and if you educate your daughter, she is worth much more, say twenty cows. I am taking the concept to the extreme to prove a point, the importance of cattle in African culture. With the Maasai, donkeys are viewed as the car to carry water, goats as meat and cows as the money. A man with a hundred cows and a falling down mud hut is considered to be wealthier than a man with fifty cows and a sturdy brick home. People do not invest their money in real estate, stocks or bonds. If they have money, they buy more cows. If managed properly, they could be very prosperous but the commercial view of management and the tribal view of management is very different. For instance, a local man has a yearling bull calf that, if taken to market now, could make a lot of money and allow him to buy three or four smaller calves, thus, improving his herd. But, that yearling calf is his status symbol. Status is not seen by how fancy his clothes are or what kind of car he drives, instead, by his cattle. If he sells his calve at the most opportune time, he will be losing his status in town as ‘the man with the best cattle in the village.’ A very big deal! This may sound absurd and it did to me at first, but it is a totally different value system. When this value system was established, there were no cars, cell phones, designer clothes or other material possessions we value today in modern society. Today, that value system is clashing with modern society as it encroaches into their society and their culture is quickly disappearing as a result. I admire them for clinging to their culture but because of this they are begining to suffer. What should they do: abandon their culture and accept modern ways or carry on with their traditional ways while continuing to suffer because of it? Either way, things are going to change for better or worse.

When I came to Africa, my goal was to analyze the current agricultural methods and its potential, specifically with cattle. In my struggle to answer this question, I found myself having to study the people and culture that is the driving force behind it because they areirrefutably linked. This can be said for agriculture around the world but I think the connection is stronger in tribal Africa than elsewhere. Why? In many parts of Africa tribal allegiances are still the driving force behind many decisions. Tribal taboos and witchcraft can the deciding factor in managing a herd in many instances. Tribal headmen are elected the democratic way by popular vote. This does not mean that they are the most qualified or the smartest in the community but the most respected-sounds like small town politics in the States doesn't it.

Picture this-- A small town in the desert of Namibia that is struggling to find its niche, its life-line, a way of life and has to elect a local headman to lead them out of their current economic crisis. There are many likely candidates: the most successful local African farmer that has been able to develop a commercially viable farming system, a white Afrikaner that runs many local businesses in the community, the principle of the secondary school, the janitor of the secondary school, and the local convenient store owner. Who would you choose as your headman, a mayor, a principle, a janitor or three variations of a businessman? The village I visited elected the janitor. Once elected, the headman is shown the utmost reverence and respect by the rest of the community. At a community meeting when the headman stands, everyone intently listens to what he has to say whether they truly believe in him or not. This is a major problem that carries over to agriculture. If an organization wants to help communities develop sustainable agriculture, must first speak to the local headman of the village, in this case the local janitor. I am not saying that being janitor is not an honorable profession. I am saying that there are more qualified people to be making decisions for the community at large.Another major hurdle in developing agriculture in Africa is changing the mentality of the local people. How do you make people change from communal to commercial agriculture? As the old African axiom goes, 'It's a wise man who cultivates just as much land as his wife can conveniently hoe!' The concept of producing three or four times what you need is totally foreign to many African people. That would require the foresight of planning for the future. Seeing what lies ahead is not ingrained in the brains of African culture. I had a hard time understanding this mentality for some time until someone laid it out for me. Traditionally speaking African people view time as a river. They are standing facing a river watching the water flow past. The water flowing past represents time. The water directly in front of them is the present, the water downstream the past and the water upstream the future. The western viewpoint is to see what happened in order to plan for the future, the water upstream. The African viewpoint is to focus on what can be seen, the water in front of you and the water downstream. The concept of planning to harvest five months ahead of time is ridiculous when they cannot feed their families today. This mentality is where the major disconnect occurs.The agricultural potential in Africa is enormous. This potential was identified and utilized during colonial times in Africa. Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe and Zambia, was an agricultural paradise attracting some of the greatest agricultural minds in the world. The Portuguese took full advantage of the agricultural potential in Mozambique and Angola. The Belgiums did the same in the Congo. In many areas of Africa, agriculture has regressed from colonial times. Zimbabwe is in the process of reverting back to subsistence farming as we speak. The lush green fields that were once tilled by John Deere tractors and other state of the art farming equipment ten years ago is now managed using donkeys and oxen. And this is considered progress?

I am generalizing when I say agriculture in Africa. It is easy to list many problems in Africa as one and fail to differentiate the numerous countries that compose the second largest continent in the world. South Africa is different from the rest of Sub-Saharan Africa in many ways and agriculture is no different. South Africa has a booming beef industry that uses modern farming methods to cultivate the land. The farms could easily be mistaken for farms in the American West due to its similar landscape. There are also many developed farms in Botswana, Namibia, Zambia and parts of Mozambique that produce some of the best beef in the world. I chose to focus primarily on tribal agriculture in many instances because it was the most interesting to me and the most backwards. I believe the answer to these problems must come from cooperation between the modern farms, mostly run by people of Afrikaner and English decent, and the local tribal leaders. That is the approach the organization, Kunene for Christ, is trying to take in order to bring the local people out of substance living on the land. It can be done but first it will take reversing a hand-out mentality that has been developing for decades to motivate the local people into actually wanting to make a change. Only then can they hope to achieve viable commercial agriculture in the region and pull themselves out of their current economic despair.

Family Safari

2008-01-12T16:49:00.001Z

A Himba boy and her mother in a village we visited during our Overlander trip.

IMG_0604, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

The end of my travels in Africa was concluded with a two week overlander trip with my family. My family and family friends, the Stence family, made the journey to Africa to join me for Christmas but also as an excuse to visit the Dark Continent. An overlander trip is a tour in a truck/bus that allows the slightly apprehensive traveler a way to experience Africa without dealing with many of the hassles. It was the perfect way for my family to see so much of Africa.

The trip started in Swakopmund, Namibia, a coastal town that is a blend of a German retirement community and an adrenaline junkies playground. But don’t forget, its also the place where Brad and Angie had their baby!!! Our final destination was Victoria Falls. Along the way, we visited many famous game parks and natural wonders.

Highlights of the trip:
Etosha National Park in Namibia was the most luxurious accommodation of the trip. We went on a game drive the first evening and the following day. We were able to see all of the big five (Big Five-Elephant, Lion, Leopard, Rhino, and Buffalo, The big five gets it name for being the animals most valued to hunt either for prestige, ivory or hides.) except for the buffalo in a very short time. The first evening we were able to see two young leopards on a hunt, very rare. The following day we saw ten lions, dozens of giraffes, and hundreds of oryx and springbok. A very good game drive but the big highlight came at night. Because it was the dry season, all of the wildlife we saw was congregated around the water holes. The park built a water hole just beside the lodge and placed flood lights to illuminate the water hole at night. It was incredible. You can drink your tea, watch the animals come and go while sitting comfortably on the surrounding benches. At night we were able to see elephants and rhinos as close as thirty meters away.

Okavango Delta- Most National Geographic films that depict lush green water lands with literally every animal lurking about, it is the Okavango Delta. We took a scenic flight over the delta and then stayed on a house boat for two nights. The scenic flight was exactly like watching National Geographic only with being a little woozy from flying. “There’s a herd of elephants on the right,” we would yell. The pilot would immediately bank hard to the left to circle back around while only being a hundred feet above land. It was great ride but I was happy to set foot back on land.

As a kid, I loved playing the game Hungry Hungry Hippos. I never put much thought into why they picked Hippos emerge and chump down the white balls swirling around the board. Hippos are the most dangerous of all African wildlife but people still seem to forget it. It crossed my mind as I was boarding a mokoro, dugout canoe, getting ready to be lead through the delta propelled by a local guide with a pole, but like any tourist, I thought that if tourists can do it, then it must be safe. It was amazing to zig-zag through the waterways, created by hippos no less, but still not thinking about what lay ahead. As we approached an opening, we spotted three hippos at the other end of the pool. The guide’s tone quickly changed and they began poling very fast as we crossed the deeper water. We reached the other side of the pool and assembled close enough for the head guide to give a little speech about hippos. In the process the hippos submerged three times only to reappear closer each time. By the third time everyone was ready to leave, the charge being lead by my dad and rightfully so. The male hippo then raised his body out of the water marking his territory. We were all in agreement that is was time to leave then. The guides slowing inched backwards giving ground to the dominant male. After we reached the bank behind us and had nowhere else to retreat and the hippos were only about twenty meters from our “dug-out” canoes, the guides finally took us out of there but while everyone kept a close eye on the hippos. I had the mental image of our mokoros being the little white balls swirling around the playing board, in this case the water pool, awaiting for the Hungry Hungry Hippos to attack. Luckily, we made it out in one piece.

The Caprivi region of Namibia and the Chobe National Park in Botswana were also incredible. Chobe has the largest elephant population in the world with 150,000 elephants living in the park. Elephants and hippos littered the river banks along with various other wild game. It was very lush and green.

Christmas in Victoria Falls was incredible. It is one of the seven natural wonders of the world. I went rafting down the Zambezi just below the falls on Christmas Eve and lets just say it isn’t for the faint hearted. Going over the highest commercial drop in the world, 22 feet, and being thrown out of the raft every ten minutes made for a very taxing day and an every sorer Christmas day. It was a great time though.

We then headed for Cape Town to unwind and relax for a couple of days. Cape Town is an anomaly in itself. It is a very international city with breathtaking beaches and of course, the symbol of the city, Table Mountain. It is the greatest city I have ever visited to date. It has everything you could possibly want; great food, beaches, bars, hiking, people, parks, botanical gardens, and much more. I highly recommend a visit if you have a chance. It was a perfect way to end the family trip and for me, to wrap up my time in Africa.

Are White Africans African?

2008-01-07T14:02:00.001Z

SA 008, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

"It is often said that the worst thing to happen to Africa was the arrival of the white man. And the second worst was his departure."

I love staying in hostels. When you are traveling it is hard to establish relationships out of thin air much less have anything even slightly interesting to discuss. Hostels solve this problem by instantly breaking down barriers because they provide a place for fellow travelers to meet because they are all in the same situation; alone, nervous and eager to meet others. As you meet people along the way, you are able gain new perspective from the discussions that take place. There has been a reoccurring theme pop up in many hostel discussions throughout Africa that has been weighing on my mind. The scenario for the discussion is always the same: a white South African (WSA), a Westerner (European or American) and either a racial, political or Zimbabwe debate. This is the setting for the same reoccurring debate that is based on one underlying question, 'Are White Africans African?' This subject is usually directed at South Africans because of the lingering apartheid legacy but I think it should be applied to the whole of Africa and not just one country in the south. However, for the sake of the argument I will focus on South Africa for it is the beacon of prosperity in sub-Saharan Africa and the most memorable debate at a hostel centered around it.

So one night I was in a hostel in Windhoek, when an Australian girl started preaching to me and three WSA guys that every white person in Africa should be forced to leave. She started listing of numerous horrible acts Europeans have done in Africa and called for their immediate withdrawal. She then looked to me for some assistance in her crusade against the evil South Africans. Matching her enthusiasm and tone I replied, “they will leave when every white Australian leaves Australia!” She was shocked and the WSA applauded. She couldn’t’ see the connection. Yes, Europeans have done terrible things in Africa, but also to the rest of the world. Let’s say for instance all of the Aborigines were not systematically killed over time and they were the ruling party in Australia today. What would the political landscape look like now? If all of the American Indians were not killed off by disease and war providing them with the majority today in the USA, how would we, white people, be judged if they were in charge? The fact of the matter is that terrible things have been carried out on a very large scale throughout history and only now do some of their descendants have to deal with the consequences; i.e. South Africa.

Before coming to Africa, I took the same moral high ground as the Australian girl, but I realized I was wrong.The Australian girl then started attacking the WSA guys about apartheid and looked at me as if she redeemed herself. I again told her that I have to moral high ground to stand on. America has the same dark history of racial segregation and anyone that denies it is lying. I consider myself southern being from West Virginia and have traveled extensively throughout the South. I know that there is just as much racial tension in the US as there is South Africa if not more because I have experienced it. The mentality isn’t that much different. The only surprising and shameful aspect about South Africa is that it lasted for so long, ending in 1994.

I then asked her what the white people living in South Africa should do. “Move,” she said. One of the WSA guys yelled “Where! I grew up in South Africa, my family is from South Africa and my passport says I am South African. If I am not South African, what am I?” It is a very good point and I do not have the answer and neither did the Aussie girl. After the situation calmed down a bit, I asked our Aussie girl how many generations her family had been in Australia. “Three,” she said. The WSA gave a little chuckle and informed her that his family has been in Africa for four generations. I couldn’t answer the question because quite frankly, I don’t know! Immigration is a topic of everyday discussion for WSA today. Many have immigrated to Australia, England, New Zealand, Canada and the USA because of the current situation in the country. I have become very well versed in recommending suitable cities in the US for them to possibly immigrate to. For instance, I was waiting in line in the Victoria Falls airport when I met a very nice WSA couple in their early thirties. They began to ask very pointed questions about certain cities in the US trying to hide their real intentions. Knowing they were looking for possible destinations to immigrate, we had a lengthy discussion and I ended up making a couple recommendations for them.

South Africans have been through a lot over the past couple of decades. The turbulent 80s that brought an end to apartheid which lead to anxiety and uncertainty of post apartheid rule provided more than enough reasons for all WSA to pack up and leave the country then. Many did leave but many also stayed. The anxiety was quickly calmed with reconciliation and the country has managed to prosper even in the face of numerous problems. I now ask myself another question: Why are the same people that were willing to stay in the 80s and early 90s now looking to immigrate? What has changed? Have things gotten worse? There has been another development in South Africa that has taken place just one month ago that has prompted this new wave of fear. The ruling party of South Africa is the ANC. Nelson Mandela was and still is to an extent the face of the party that has ruled the country since independence in 1994. The president of the ANC in effect becomes the president of the country. The ANC held their elections last month. The winner was a man named Jacob Zuma. This is frightening because Zuma has numerous felony charges pending against him including corruption, arms dealing and rape. How can a man with countless criminal charges possibly be elected to lead the most prosperous country in all of Africa? Simple, he is a Zulu, the most populous tribe in the country, and this is African politics. African politics, to an extent, is a legalized form of ongoing tribal conflict and warfare. Look at Kenya right now. The elections results are being disputed between the two largest tribes in the country. The vast majority of Africans still align themselves with tribal beliefs and will vote for anyone that represents their tribe, criminal or not. Under such circumstances, is democracy the best form of government? There are many different philosophies on how to solve the problem.

I have no idea which one is right but I do know that it will have to be a compromise and nothing absolute. Absolute like in Zimbabwe, the beacon on hope in southern Africa before South Africa took its place once it stumbled. Zimbabwe has tried and is in the process of trying to expel all of the white farmers from the country. Robert Mugabe, the leader of Zimbabwe, has been successful in his efforts because most of the white farmers have fled for their lives. Others were not so lucky and have lost their lives when war veterans showed up at their homes and killed them. The result, Zimbabwe is the fastest shrinking economy in the world. Inflation is reaching 15,000% where $1 US dollar is worth 1.2 million Zimbabwean dollars. The standard of living is half what is was at independence in 1980. Some Africans, still say this is progress because the white man is gone: white men that were there for generations, built clinics and schools where the government would not, and white men that employed thousands of Africans. Now, the country that was considered ‘the breadbasket of Africa’ that could feed itself and its neighbors with some of the most advanced agricultural technology in the world has reverted back to subsistence farming tilling the land by donkeys in some areas. There is no food in the country. If you are lucky, you live close to the border where you can leave to buy groceries. If you are not so lucky, it is the survival of the fittest finding food wherever you can. This can’t be the solution.

The world is getting smaller every day with larger numbers of people having the ability to move around the globe with unprecedented ease. The racial, linguistic and ideological make up of countries are being tested and gradually changing as populations are confronted with the influx of immigrants. America is a nation of immigrants and yet, each call themselves American or some variation (i.e. Chinese American, African American, Latin American) No matter where their ancestors may come from or where their racial homelands lie, immigrants can still achieve citizenship. This is happening on a daily basis around the world but some parts of the world have not figured out how to deal with past movements, in most cases forced movements. This is a major problem in Africa today: accepting the past and resisting the urge to reverse it. In Africa, the issue of being native or not is easy identified for some because it is black and white, literally.

The Art of Rock Sledding

2007-12-11T16:56:00.001Z

IMG_1089, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

The first day I was traveling with the missionaries through Kaokoland we stopped in a small village called Warmquelle. This was the location of their first community discussion informing the local people what the goals were for their new organization, Kunene for Christ. The meeting was in Afrikaans, translated into Damara and Herero, with no English. After about an hour my mind started to wander and I decided to leave the protective shade of the fig tree to explore the village. Not long after leaving the tree I spotted a group of children playing on a hillside not far away. I made my way over to them and was amazed at what I discovered: four little boys using a three inch black plastic pipe as a sled on about four or five layers of jagged rocks. I can remember growing up sleigh riding on nice powdery snow complaining when it turned slightly icy but these kids were half naked running up and down the mountain from rock to rock barefoot and appeared to be having the best time of their life in the process.

The three inch plastic pipe was used as the sleigh for all four boys to ride. One would go first on his butt to make some semblance of a path to follow. The main objective of this boy was to remove the numerous rocks blocking the way. Just remember that this mountain is like one giant rock heap where nothing can grow because it is just layers and layers of loose rock. Once a vague path was cleared, the boy would scurry back to the top to join the others for the ride. I assisted then with a push but was gentle, not wanting to propel them to their deaths. They didn’t even make it halve way down the hill and even though I could not understand what they were saying, I could tell they were not pleased with my lackluster pushing. So, the next time I pushed them as hard as I could and they went flying down the hill screaming and yelling with laughter. They were pleased and I continued to push them many more times. What amazed me most was how fast they were able to ascend the mountain after their ride was over. They were all barefoot but could run up or down the rocks faster than I could with hiking boots. Just watching them ride down the mountain bouncing off of rocks ending up in one big heap of mangled body parts was painful for me but then again, they loved it.

This is not an isolated case of African children’s resourcefulness. Instead of going to Toys’R’Us or Wal-Mart to buy toys, kids use anything from discarded plastic pipes from failed irrigation projects to empty Kiwi shoe polish cans and even scrap metal to make their own toys. Find any trash pile and give a couple of kids ten minutes and they will come out with some toy or device to amuse themselves. What is even more amazing is that the same toys are made by different children across Africa. I have seen the same toy trucks made from scrap metal, bottle caps, and random other pieces of trash in small towns in Tanzania, Namibia and everywhere in between. These trucks are no laughing matter either. They are very detailed in their construction having gas pedals, gear shifters, steering wheels, small pieces of paper with made up license plate numbers and a long pole extending up to the desired height of the creator to push, “drive”, it around. I didn’t fully appreciate this similarity until I put my trip into perspective. I realized that I have been traveling thousands of miles throughout most of Sub-Saharan Africa, seeing vastly different cultures and landscapes, but still seeing the same underlying human spirit represented by children turning trash into toys. If kids that are thousands of miles apart can each independently construct identical toy trucks from trash, what does that say about what we really need to make us happy -the latest industrially manufactured Tonka dump truck with its toots and whistles or scrap metal to make our ‘truck’?

Rock Art Hunting on Brandberg Mountain

2007-12-11T16:54:00.001Z

IMG_0139, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

After travelling through Kaokoland for a couple of weeks, I was dropped of in Windhoek. I had 10 days and nothing to do. That problem was quickly solved after the first night. I went to a restaurant called Joe's Beerhouse, a very nice local place that serves wild game and local dishes. I devoured my Oryx fillet, hung out for a while at the bar and then planned to go home early. Standing in front of the restaurant trying to wave down a cab, a rickety old lime green VW minibus pulled over to give me a lift. The driver's name was Mark and he was a local Nambian of German descent. He was a great guy and offered me a ride back to the hostel. I was more than happy to catch a free ride and go to bed but then he invited me to a private party at the local club. I couldn't say no to such an offer and went along for the ride. It turned out to be a great night and it soon turned into something much more. At the bar we were making small talk when he invited me to go hiking with him in the desert for a week. Seeing how I only knew him for a total of 2 hours, I was a little cautious. He then informed me that Brandberg Mountain would be our destination. Brandberg is the highest mountain in Namibia with over 50,000 documented cave painting scattered across various caves and overhangs. The most famous cave painting on Brandberg is the ‘white lady’. Its name speaks for itself. I half jokingly asked him, ''are there any cows in the paintings?'' He informed me that numerous paintings depicted nomadic herders with their livestock. That is all I needed to hear. We made plans that night to leave two days later into the desert.
The two days preceding our departure, I was still a little wary about our plans. Mark was either the nicest guy I have ever met or a serial killer trying to isolate me in the desert. Before we departed into the desert, he let me stay at his parents place for a day to save money. This really set my mind at ease because after spending a whole day with his parents showing me countless baby pictures and recounting their entire lives to how old Mark was at the time. I scratched the serial killer option, a good feeling to have.
We set off in his 1974 Range Rover equipped with all the camping gear we could possibly need for a week. We camped in a cave for the first night on the way to Brandberg. Once arriving at the mountain, we set up camp in a dried up river bed using a tree to aid us with protection from the sun. We would hike very morning and evening using the middle of the day to rest and hide from the sun. I was amazed at the number of painting we were able to find. Mark was very experienced in looking for the paintings and was able to just look at a feature on the mountain to locate the paintings. They were usually located under an overhang or in a cave. One painting pictured a snake, animals and people. I had no clue what it meant and I don't think anyone can be exactly sure what it means because we don't know exactly who even painted them in the first place. But, Mark told me that the snake represented water and the direction of the livestock told the direction to find it. It sounds reasonable enough. Out of curiosity, we decided to hike in the same direction the animals were facing to see if our assumption was correct. Further up the canyon we were able to find a spring. It could be a coincidence, most likely, or we have found our calling in life, interpreting thousand-year-old rock paintings. Who knows???
I was always a little on edge during the hike due to the numerous leopard tracks scattered across the mountain. Seeing how we were usually camping in and around caves and overhangs, a perfect den for a leopard, we were always on guard. The hike was exhausting and after a week we decided to head to the coast and camp on the beach for a couple of nights. It was a great way to relax after the unbearable heat on the mountain, reaching close to one hundred degrees most days. It was a great excursion and experience. I soon realized that Africa has many different climate and landscapes. Namibia is basically one huge desert with many different features within it. I have been told it is the oldest desert in the world but I have not been able to confirm that yet. The coast is a big tourist destination spot, especially Swakopmund. Swakopmund is an adrenaline junkies dream come true with skydives, quad riding on the sand dunes, sand boarding, and just about every other extreme sport you can think of.
A I have said many times the global culturization is taking place all over the world. I have been shocked to come across it throughout Africa and Namibia was no different. The first day I was in Swakopmund I was in a coffee shop with Mark when the waiter realized I was a foreigner. The first thing that could come to her mind was not “welcome to Namibia” or even “what do you think of our country.” It was, “Did you know Brad and Angie had there baby here?” “No, I didn’t know that and thank you so much for telling me” She was pleased with herself and scurried away without taking our drink order. That was almost as bad as when I was on Manyara ranch in Tanzania riding with a local driver to get supplies for the night. The driver was Maasai and could barely speak English. To my surprise he was able to name every nominee and winner of the 2007 MTV music awards that happened the previous night. So, there I was looking out the window at zebras, giraffes, and acacia trees and this guy is telling me how Justin Timberlake is his idol now. Go figure…

The Drowning

2007-12-11T16:39:00.001Z

IMG_1200, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Not long after we arrived at Swapooisdrift a man disappeared in the river. They did not know if he drowned or taken by crocodiles because the body was still missing. The headman of the village came to our camp just before sunset to ask if we could give him a ride into the bush to inform the missing man's family. Jacob, the head missionary of the trip, agreed to take the headman and a few others. I quickly jumped on the back of the truck as well. It would soon be dark and I did not know where we were going or what even happened to the man, but I tagged along anyway. We drove about thirty minutes on a small trail parallel to the river. We finally came to a single mud hut hidden amongst bushes and rocks. The headman went inside to inform what I thought was the family. It turns out that it was just a friend but he joined our party in the back of the truck. We then took another small road away from the river over a mountain. By this time, it was pitch black outside with stars beginning to dot the night sky. We travelled for what seems like ages over mountains and through dried up river beds where we luckily didn't get stuck. We finally arrive at a sodalite mining camp where the family lived. (Sodalite is a semi-precious blue stone used for tiling)
During the trek into the bush, I seemed to lose sight of the purpose of our venture into the bush. The family came outside to greet their headman. He informed them of the bad news and the emotional outcry was immense. Many people broke down in tears immediately and some screaming in agony. I did not know what I should do or if I was even supposed to be there. I just stood very close to Jacob hoping not bring any attention to myself. The family was traditional Himba covered in red ochre and barely clad with animal hides. The family climbed into the back of the truck and we were off. The truck was now very full with half of the people being traditional Himba. The ride back was filled with emotional tension and again I did not know what to do or if I was even supposed to be there.
That night reminded me of a similar experience in Tanzania. One night, I was eating dinner with my friend, Faraja, when he was summoned to take a man to the local laboni (witchdoctor). Faraja was the most well-known driver in the village so they came to him for transport. An elder was deathly ill and he did not believe in modern medicine. Everyone crammed into the back of Faraja's truck and we were off to the laiboni about 20km in the bush. After dropping the man off at the laboni, we quickly left not knowing the fate of the sick man. I never found out.
The following morning back in Kaokoland, we held the community meeting on the bank of the river as planned. There was a single boat searching for the body of the missing man throughout the day. As soon as they meeting was over, as if it were planned, the men in the boat began screaming to inform everyone they had found the body. Everyone quickly gathered on the bank awaiting the boat and the body. I, again, did not know what to do or where my place was. A local man grabbed me by the arm and told me to come. He took me by his side and we joined the masses by the riverbank. When the pulled the body from the water, there was mass hysteria. Many women had to be carried away from the water by fellow onlookers, but most stayed by the body to await the arrival of the local police. I was still fuzzy on the details of what happened to the man. The local man that told me to accompany him filled me in with the details. It turns out that the man was mentally handicapped. Many people would tell him to fetch them water, in a sense, taking advantage of him because of his mental state. The man did this quite often but this time he was drunk, fell into the river and drowned.
Death is part of everyday life throughout Africa. The Himba have a very different approach in dealing with death. The actual burial takes place only for one day but aftermath takes weeks and sometimes a month. There is no living will on record for the deceased. The local people will not work or carry out their daily routines in order to discuss what will happen to the belongings of the deceased. Like anything in Africa, the people are not in a hurry and there is no urgency or timeline to these talks. Between AIDS, TB, crocodiles, drowning, starvation, snakes, numerous other lethal diseases and unknown dangers, death is a part of everyday life. Because of this, almost 50% of their life is consumed with death in one form or another. It has got to be terribly depressing.

Kaokoland Trip

2007-12-11T16:28:00.001Z

IMG_1151, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

My string of good luck and good timing has continued in Namibia. I didn't know it but the contact I made was a missionary and they were planning an extensive trip through Kaokoland (NW Namibia where the Himba live). The focus of the trip was on agriculture. The group, Kunene for Christ, was composed of two missionaries, three farmers and an EU project manager for developing agriculture in Namibia. I arrived on the same flight as a mission worker and was picked up at the airport. They even had a sign with my name on it which was a first for me. I had to laugh at my good fortune.

The original plan was to tag along and then stay in a Himba village afterwards. I seriously underestimated the transport issues in Kaokoland and the climate. From about noon to 4PM, it is the worst place on earth due to the heat, but the mornings and evenings are spectacular. In the middle of the day, any sensible person or animal is huddled under a shade tree for protection from the sun. It is unbearable. We all have limits and I reached mine after a week in Kaokoland. There is a saying that when you are in your twenties you think you are going to live forever and can do anything. I definitely think that sums up my attitude, but I was quickly humbled. It was an amazing experience but I was ready to leave the stony-hearted, dry world of Kaokoland.

The trip started in Outjo. We headed north to camp in Ongongo Gorge in Warmquelle. Warmquelle is the unofficial border between Damaraland to the south and Kaokoland to the North (both are regions affiliated with the tribal homelands). The campsite was incredible. There was a natural pool with a small waterfall supplying warm water to swim in. The first evening was one of those moments when I had to pinch myself because it was surreal. I watched an incredible sunset over the mountains and then took a swim in the pool under the stars. It was a great night. We had a meeting the next day with the local people to discuss the goals of the agricultural program. I was out of the loop because it was spoken in Afrikaans, Herero and Damara (No English).

On the third day of the trip, we headed further north through Opuwo, the unofficial capital of Kaokoland, and camped at Swapooisdrift on the southern bank of the Kunene River. The Kunene forms the border between Angola and Namibia. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be or even want to be camping 100m from Angola on the banks of a crocodile invested river. Angola is often labeled the worst place to live on Earth due to its roughly 40,000 active landmines strewn across the country. A mine costs twenty cents to install but twenty dollars (US dollars) to remove. It is a solemn reminder of nearly forty years of civil war the plagued the country only ending in 2002 with the assassination of the opposition leader. The meeting the next day was in English so I was able to follow the conversation. The objective of Kunene for Christ is to improve the knowledge of the local farmers and help them establish sustainable agriculture. This is not an easy task because of many reasons; climate and cultural obstacles being the main ones. Kaokoland is a dry, rocky desert that any foreigner could not survive for a week. The other still debilitating factor is trying to change the mindset of the African people to make the transition from communal agriculture to commercial. As the old African axiom goes, ‘It’s a wise man who cultivates just as much land as his wife can conveniently hoe.’ This mentality is still very much held today. This communal mentality does mix well with the concepts of commercial agriculture. It is a great cultural divide.

Kunene for Christ was just recently established with this being its inaugural trip. The meeting was mostly introductory, laying out the objectives of the project. The local people were cautious and wary of the program. This is understandable due to the countless programs that have made empty promises to the people. This is common throughout Africa. An organization has good intentions but short term planning. Many people think that giving a community a generator, pump or even solar panels is a great thing, which it is. The problem arises when they do not train the local people to operate or fix the machines. I have seen the remnants of countless failed programs throughout Africa. For instance, we visited a village called Ehomba. They were given a very nice pump to provide water for the community. The pump has been broken for years. No one was trained how to fix the machine and programs don't usually last long enough or have the funding to provide maintenance for the equipment they provide. The pump is still there. It just doesn't work.
I like Kunene for Christ's approach to agriculture. They are trying to fight the handout mentality that dooms many projects. The local people said they need a fence. Instead of just building a fence for free, Kunene for Christ will provide the wire if the people set the fence posts. They are trying a different approach, to meet in the middle and not just giving everything away for free. This is hard because the solution to so many of Africa's problems has been to throw money at it. This may solve the immediate problem but fails to solve it for the future. This program is trying to show the people how to create sustainable agriculture and curb the overgrazing of animals without actually doing it for them. Ultimately, the responsibility will lie on the shoulders of the local people to succeed. I think this is where the responsibility must lie if they plan to make lasting change.
All of the people on the trip were Afrikaners. I have been living in Afrikaner communities in South Africa and now traveling with them through Namibia. Needless to say, I have been getting an education about their history and culture. Our trip through Kaokoland traced the route of the Dorslandtrekkers. The word 'Dors' means dry in Afrikaans. This is very fitting because Namibia is extremely dry. It was a group of Afrikaners that left South Africa in 1876 instead of being subjected to British rule. There were three different treks north into Angola and we visited many of their historic sites. In Kaoko Otavi, we visited the remains of a church. At Ehomba, remnants of dams are still evident. Just above our campsite at Swapooisdrift was a monument commemorating the location the trekkers crossed the Kunene River. This was a constant theme of the trip because two of my travel companions were direct descendants of the Dorslandtrekkers. One travel companion, Bertus, was born in Angola before his family migrated south to Namibia during the unrest in Angola. It is an interesting story and worth a little more reading if you like history.

Leaving South Africa

2007-11-22T17:04:00.001Z

The Dumbest Animal Alive... 80% of the world's farmed ostriches are concentrated in the very small region in southern South Africa
SA 101, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Africa is usually generalized as one entity to the outside world. If something happens in Rwanda, people generalize it with the whole continent and not just with the country. In fact, Africa is the second largest continent in the world with many very distinct cultures. Travelling through a small portion of the continent has made me aware of this. Tanzania, Malawi and South Africa are all very different with their own distinctive culture. Tanzania and Malawi are very poor countries while South Africa is the shining light in Africa in terms of development.
Throughout Tanzania and Malawi, I travelled using public transport catching minibuses and taxis from town to town. I felt perfectly comfortable being jammed into minibuses like sardines, often cramming over twenty people into a ten-seat bus. I grew accustomed to this and began to enjoy the experience because I never knew what would happen next. One ride in Tanzania included a drunken bus driver that almost hit a giraffe, a woman breast-feeding literally inches from my face and at every stop the bus would be swarmed with people selling anything from cell-phone credit to chickens. Bus rides quickly turned into miniature adventures where anything could happen. Malawi was similar in that people were crammed into buses that were definitely not road worthy and travelled long distances. Everyone was hot, sweaty and uncomfortable together and I never felt threatened.
The atmosphere quickly changed when I started travelling through South Africa. The country is very modern with great infrastructure. I call it the European offshoot in Africa. It is not that I don’t like South Africa. I like it a lot but it is not ‘Real Africa’ that I have grown to love. Modernization and development brings with it many problems that countries around the world are confronting and South Africa is no different. The main problem facing South Africa is the staggering 43% unemployment which fuels the ramped crime. This is the main reason travellers stay away from public transport while in the country. Most travellers hire cars to travel within South Africa because the infrastructure is first-class and there is no concern about police checkpoints that sometimes require a bride in other African countries.
I have grown to love each country for different reason while in Africa. Tanzania and Malawi are third-world countries that provided me with massive culture shocks. I was busy learning Swahili, getting accustomed to eating chewy bland goat meat, porridge (called Ugale in Tanzania and Nsima in Malawi), and other colourful local dishes that usually made my stomach a little queasy, and at the same time, sticking out like a sore thumb being the only white person in sight in many cases. It sounds terrible but I loved it. It was so new and exciting. That is probably why I have decided to leave South Africa prematurely.
In South Africa, I have experienced constant culture shocks just by walking through grocery stores or shopping centres. I will be the first one to admit that I did not fully understand the level of development in South Africa before I arrived, but I have met many travellers that had a much more skewed viewed of the country. I met one American traveller in a very nice mall in Bloemfontein, the capital city of Free State province. She was complaining that there were no lions or giraffes walking around the public parks or city streets. She was under the impression that elephants, zebras and various other species of wildlife roam about the streets unchecked by humans. She was so wrong that instead of being comical it became depressing.
South Africa is not identical to the States but similar enough to prompt my early exit. I am departing for Namibia to live with the Himba people in the Kaokoland. The region is in the Northwestern part of the country in the middle of the harsh Kalahari Desert. The Himba are said to be very similar to the Maasai but have been more resistant to change. It should be another massive culture shock but I will be happy to get back to ‘Real Africa’.

The Not So Simple Life

2007-11-18T11:37:00.001Z

SA 110, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

A farmer’s life is often referred to as ‘the simple life’ due to its laid back lifestyle far removed from the hustle and bustle of city life. Sadly, this is not the case is South Africa. South Africa has the highest violent crime rate in the world that is fueled by ramped unemployment. Conventional wisdom would tell us to move far away from the cities that typically provide safe-havens for criminals to the country where it is safer; again, the simple life. The harsh reality in South Africa is that farming is the most dangerous profession in the country with security guards coming in a close second. Cities may harbor more criminals but they also provide more security services that secluded farmers in the countryside do not have access to. I have been living in a small town called Vryburg. On the surface, it is very similar to a small Midwestern town in the States. At first glance, the farming is also very similar. In reality, the dangers in South Africa are unfathomable to people living in small-town America.
I can’t help but think of Holcomb, Kansas when trying to compare rural South Africa with rural America. Holcomb is the setting for the infamous farm murders that shook rural America to its core. It was a senseless farm murder with no real motivation behind it. This murder has been made famous by Truman Capote’s book, In Cold Blood, and subsequent Hollywood movie, Capote. This one farm murder that happened in 1959 is still remembered in the American media today and still strikes fear into small towns across the country. In South Africa, farm murders occur with such frequency that they often do not even make the evening news. I do not have the actual statistics for the yearly farm murders in the country, but everyone I ask about the issue simply says that it happens quite often in many regions.
Farm murders are not the only major problem facing South Africa farmers today. The farmers must check their herds on a consistent basis to prevent stock theft. The unemployment rate in the country hovers around 40% and stealing stock is an alternative way to make a living for many people. The local stock sale every Friday has a high number of baby calves for sale. These are mostly all calves that have been stolen from the surrounding farms. Some thieves are smart about it and feed the calves for a week or even a month in an effort to disguise the stolen calf, but some can’t afford to wait that long and take the stolen calf directly to the sale. I have met a farmer from the Kwazulu-Natal region that has suffered eight stock thefts this year alone totaling R100,000 ($15,000). I have been staying on a farm run by Dick Richardson and he too has suffered from stock theft. On his farm, the police were the culprits of the stock theft. The problem was only resolved after a shootout. There are also stories of stock left being perpetrated by the farm workers. For example, when the absentee landowner asks the worker how many calves were born this week, the worker would say one when there were actually three. The trusting boss accepts this and goes on with his daily routine. When the boss does visit the herd, the worker will hide the two calves or sell them before his arrival. The selling of one calf will provide the thief with enough money to live off of for at least a month in most cases.
Dick has another problem that is much more imminent. His farm, Brussels Estate, is located on a prime stripe of land rumored to contain alluvial diamonds. Property rights in South Africa are not like in the USA. If the diamond diggers want your land, they usually get whether the farmer likes it or not. The same applies to the government. If they want the land they take it, and if you’re lucky they will pay you a fair price. Many farms throughout the country are being reclaimed by the government as ancestral tribal lands. The farm is then taken from white farmers and given to blacks with minimal farming experience. A farm that once supported one family is divided up among multiple families.
A perfect case study of this is in Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe was once referred to as ‘the breadbasket of Africa.’ The country holds some of the best farmland in the world and at one time, its surpluses fed many surrounding African countries. Robert Mugabe, the leader of Zimbabwe, then started to expel white farmers, giving the land to unskilled black farmers. The result has been catastrophic. However, it is not all the black farmer’s fault. The government does not give them ownership of the land, only the rights to farm it. With no direct ownership, the farmers have no way to get loans from the bank and therefore, no way raise capital to run the farms even if they did have the necessary skilled required, which most do not. The citizens of Zimbabwe must now travel into neighboring countries to find food because there is none inside the country. Agriculture was the backbone of the once booming economy and now the farms lie in ruin.
I have constantly asked myself the question, “Could the same thing happen in South Africa?” As for now, if the government decides to take your farm, they will pay you a fair price; you will just have to wait three to five years to get the money. But, the replacement black farmers are still not given ownership of the land, only the right to farm it. This creates the same problems that led to Zimbabwe’s downfall.

In the face of all of these problems, the farmers in South Africa continue on with their daily lives like nothing is wrong. As I said earlier, everything appears to be in order on the surface. In reality, the future does not look good for farmers. As Dick says, “you don’t know whether it’s a light at the end of the tunnel or a train.” Their resilience is amazing and should be admired. One thing is for sure, nothing drastic will happen until after 2010 when South Africa will host the Football (Soccer) World Cup. Until then, the government is forced to maintain order and can’t take drastic measures like in Zimbabwe. After 2010, many key issues are debatable, including the direction of the country.

Arriving in South Africa

2007-11-03T14:11:00.001Z

The local livestock auction is every Friday. The cattle are sold and then marked with the numbered irons to identify the animal's buyer.

Vryburg, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

I arrived in Johannesburg in the middle of the night with no real plan. My friend’s father was in town for business so I thought I would look him up. I found his hotel and soon realized that he had checked out the previous day. It was a very nice hotel. Everyone was wearing suits and cocktail dresses while I was wearing the same T-shirt and shorts for about a week at that point. Needless to say, I stuck out. Then I got very lucky, again. The guest services manager named Lindy asked me what I was doing. I thought I was in trouble or something but she ended up being very nice. I explained to her what I was doing in the lobby of her hotel and quickly made friends with her. She called a hostel and arranged for them to come pick me up (for free) and then took me into the lounge and gave me a beer (again for free). So there I was, sitting in this five-star hotel lounge with a smelly T-shirt, muddy pants from the hike and loving every minute of it. It was a big culture shock coming from Malawi, which is one of the poorest countries in the world, but I did not complain.
My ride finally came and I was sad to leave the leather couch and very trendy bar. But, it was back to reality at my hostel. When I arrived, I asked to make a phone call. The receptionist said that wasn’t possible. I then asked to use the Internet. Again, he told me that wasn’t possible. I informed him that I could pay for these services. He then said with a chuckle, “ No, you don’t understand. You really can’t. Someone has stolen the phone lines.” I thought he was joking, but he informed me that it is quite common for people to steal the phone lines because they can sell the copper wiring. The next morning, while eating breakfast, I got another reality check. I was looking through my guidebook when I heard a banging sound. I looked up and a man was using a lead pipe to dislodge a light fixture from the side of the hostel. He was successful at dislodging the fixture, pulled it off the wall, looked at me, smiled and then ran away. In a country that has 43% unemployment, crime has become a daily occurrence. This is why razor wire and metal bars are a common decoration for homes, shopping centers and practically any modern building. I thought I was in a war zone walking through some parts of Johannesburg. I left that day and headed to Pietermaritzburg to stay with Justin and Gill Platt, the aunt and uncle of a friend of mine. It was nice to relax for a couple of days. After resting, I was ready to get back on the road. I went to a small farming town called Vryburg where I arranged to work on a farm.
Vryburg is in the Kalahari thorn-veld region in the Northwest Province of South Africa. The region is often refereed to as ‘the Texas of South Africa’ due to its similar landscape with Texas. I was looking forward to living in an English speaking environment but my hopes were soon dashed when I realized Afrikaans was the spoken language in the area. The family I am staying with can speak fluent English, which is a relief. I was in Vryburg for only two days when the family left for a week. I was basically left to housesit and look after the farm while they were away. I was kept busy helping the farm workers fix wind-mills, herd cattle on horseback (it was the first time in ten years I rode a horse), mending fence and tending to other daily farming activities. It is very much a modern farm and very similar to my family farm at home.

TJW 1st Quarterly Report

2007-11-03T13:27:00.001Z

flickr 001, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

When I decided to come to Africa, I did not fully understand the consequences of my decision. I was simply looking for an adventure. I bought an English to Swahili dictionary, the Tanzania Lonely Planet guidebook, watched the movies, read the books and I thought I was ready. I boarded a plane headed for Tanzania to learn about the Maasai. I did not know exactly how I was going to accomplish this feat seeing how I knew no one in Tanzania. I had received one return email from a man that said he might be able to help which never actually happened. The flight went smoothly and I touched down at Kilimanjaro Airport in the middle of the night. I retrieved my bag, cleared customs, walked outside to find dozens of touts and taxi drivers accosting me for my business, and at that moment, I realized that I could not have been more naïve to what I was about to experience.
It has been said that there are two different kinds of white people: those who have never found themselves in a situation where the majority of people around them are not white, and those who have never been the only white person in the room. Until three months ago, I would unequivocally been classified as the former. I grew up in a very safe homogenous environment and college was much of the same. The airport was a rude awakening but not nearly to the extent as living with the Maasai in Longido.
Longido by western standards is a very small economically depressed village with dilapidated buildings serving as a truck stop between Nairobi and Arusha. In reality, it is a bustling town in the heart of Maasailand. Even though it was a lively town for the region, there were very few white people present. There are the occasional tourists stopping to get their cultural tourism experience portion of their African safari, and a few volunteers scattered about. This is by no means a racially biased assessment of the village. It is simply the reality that for the first time I discovered what is like to be the minority. I was simply referred to as ‘the mzungu’, which is the universal African term for ‘white tribe.’ Young children would run up to me, touch my skin or my beard, then turn and run, yelling and screaming with excitement. The very young children that were less brave would simply start crying at the mere sight of me.
I was trying to cope with the massive culture shock internally with very little success. It was day ten of the trip when it all became overwhelming. Being the minority for the first time in my life, witnessing appalling poverty around every corner, and looking at everything with the big picture in mind, all became too much. I cracked, but luckily I had someone to confide in; Paul, Sarah, and Jane. They were American volunteers spending three weeks in Longido that just so happened to coincide with my first three weeks in Longido. They helped me understand that in Africa you can’t think of the big picture because it is too depressing. Instead, you take it one day at a time; do what you can, and hope that it will make a difference. That simple piece of advice helped me cope with what I was experiencing. I was very fortunate to have them.
This solved my internal conflict, at least, for a while. I then started asking myself other questions about the Maasai culture and questioning the reason behind many of the social and economic systems that were completely foreign to me. I spent one whole week reading every book I could find about the Maasai. I began to understand much of what I was seeing around me. This newfound knowledge also had its consequences because what frees one’s mind saddens one’s heart. A perfect example of this is the disparity between my comprehending two very similar ceremonies with the Maasai; a wedding and a female circumcision ceremony.
I attended the wedding after only being in Africa for five days. I was still very much a tourist; wide-eyed and naïve to what was going on around me. I was taking lots of pictures to document the very lively dancing and singing that is carried out during the two-day ceremony. I did not have the slightest clue what any of it meant. All I knew was that the morans (warrior class) performed most of the dancing and singing in a formation that looked like a horseshoe. The nditos (uncircumcised girls) gathered at the open end of the horseshoe of morans. Both the morans and nditos were wearing their respective ceremonial attire with red ochre painted on their faces and intricate beadwork worn as necklaces, earrings, and headdresses, often overlapping each other. I was is awe at the beauty of their singing and dress; again, being a tourist.
The two-day festival climaxed just before sunset on the second day. The nditos took over the singing and entered into the horseshoe formation of morans. I was simply told that it was time for each ndito to pick the moran she thought performed the best during the ceremony. I was so naïve that I didn’t read between the lines. It was only after I attended a female circumcision ceremony a month later that I realized what was actually going on. The nditos were picking the morans that they would share their bed with that night. Keeping in mind, the nditos range from ages seven to fifteen and the morans between ages eighteen and thirty. That was the biggest reality-check of my life. I remember when it all materialized and at that moment, I decided to leave the ceremony early. It just became too much to handle.
The Maasai are renowned for being one of the most conservative tribes in all of Africa, but they can no longer resist change. Their culture as a whole is in a transition phase. Most young girls are not circumcised and not all marriages are arranged. Although this still occurs among the traditional Maasai, it is becoming less common because most people are trying to emulate western culture, especially the younger generations. During the ceremonies I attended, there would occasionally be a moran leave the singing procession to wonder aimlessly around in order to find cell phone service. There are many other traces of western culture integrating into their culture as well.
The Maasai are not alone in trying to emulate the west; they are actually far behind the rest of Africa. Across Tanzania and Malawi, I have been surprised to find western pop culture everywhere I go. It is sad that many of the cultures are disappearing across Africa, and the world is slowly developing into one big homogenous culture. I have mixed feelings about this and don’t know what to think of it yet.
It is hard to believe that three months have already passed. It has been a crazy chain of completely random events that has continued to perpetuate itself culminating in my current location in South Africa. I do not know how I have done many of the things I have done or how I have arrived at my current destination, but it has been an adventure.

Mt. Mulanje

2007-11-03T13:21:00.001Z

IMG_0406, originally uploaded by Benjamin L ong.

The local legend, claim to fame or whatever you what to call it is that J.R. Tolkien visited Mt. Mulanje shortly before writing The Hobbit. People even say that the mountain gave him inspiration in writing the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I do not know if it is true or just a ploy to get tourists, but I will say the landscapes of Mt. Mulanje are very similar to the books. It was probably the most remarkable place I have ever visited. Usually over the course of a three-day hike you will be able to experience a few different types of vegetation and landscape. On Mt. Mulanje, around every turn there is a completely different environment. Literally every fifteen to thirty minutes along the hike, we were travelling through a completely different world. One minute, we were walking through dense rain forests with lush green vegetation and waterfalls, and ten minutes later we would be traversing through massive tracts of scorched deforested land. As soon as we were accustomed to the blackened forested, we would enter another world filled with boulders littering across yellow pastures standing almost above our heads. I thought places like this only existed in the dream world or science fiction movies but I was pleasantly surprised to find that is exists in the real world as well.
I hiked the mountain with two friends that I met in Nkhata Bay, Michael and Hagar. Hagar was a great cook which made the trip that much more enjoyable. We stocked up on food in Blantyre and headed for the mountain. Travelling anywhere using public transportation in Africa is experience in itself. After taking three different minibuses with an hour and a half wait for one to fill up with people, we finally made it to the forestry office. We hired a porter, James, and prepared for the hike. We hiked for about an hour the first morning to a waterfall where we planned to eat breakfast and take a swim. It was a great way to start the hike. The rest of the morning we were all in amazed of the beauty and diversity the mountain had to offer. We were travelling through many miniature ecosystems the whole morning, which fed our enthusiasm. As soon as we reached our first tract of blackened earth, a massive thunderstorm erupted sending rain and hail pouring down on us. It was an eerie coincidence to emerge from a lush rain forest into a dismal landscape only to have the weather act accordingly.
The second day was much of the same; wide-eyed and excited to see what would be around the next corner. It was only a four-hour hike to the next hut where we dropped off our things and headed to the peak. Michael and I hiked reached the summit (3002m) by mid-day just in time to relax and soak it all in. The views were stunning, but another rainstorm ended our much-deserved break. We made it back down to the hut to find Hagar preparing dinner for us. We celebrated reaching the peak with a couple beers (which was a bad idea since we were already dehydrated) and sat around the fireplace until we fell asleep.
We made our descent on the third day. We made great time and were able to get back to Blantyre before dark. It was by far the beautiful mountain I have ever climbed and I highly recommend it to anyone planning to travel to Malawi. The total cost of a three-day high including park fees, transportation, hut fees, food, and hiring a porter cost a grand total of $35. Not a bad deal.

Nkhata Bay

2007-11-03T13:17:00.001Z

flickr 049, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Nkhata Bay is a relatively big town for the region with many backpackers hostels scattered across the surrounding inlets. I stayed in a hostel called Mayoka Village that is about a five-minute walk from town situated on a cliff above Lake Malawi. The bar/restaurant is the main attraction of the hostel. It is a three-sided building with the open side facing the lake. Mayoka Village is almost too good to be true. The snorkeling gear is free to use, huge buffets every night for a whopping $4, free boat rides to secluded beaches on Weds. and numerous other activities to keep you busy during the day.
I went to Nkhata Bay to find Robert, the local agricultural agent that I met on the bus. I was able to find him after a couple of days roaming through the town asking random people if they knew him. During this process, I made several other friends in town. The Malawian people are very friendly and always willing to invite you over for a meal at their home. After I found Robert, we have a few discussions about the local agriculture but nothing too in depth. He was busy and I don’t think he wanted to drag me around with him everywhere. I liked Nkhata Bay very much, especially Mayoka Village. So, I decided to try make something out of nothing in order to stay longer. I continued to try to make contacts with little success. I stayed in Mayoka village for a total of ten days before I exhausted every option.
The highlight of my stay was definitely the people I met in town and at the hostel. I have come across some very funny names throughout Africa but Nkhata Bay takes the cake. I have met and heard of people being named after famous rappers and movie stars but the residents of Nkhata Bay have taken it to the extreme. The names include King David, Chicken Pizza, and my personal favorite, Happy Coconut (his name was Happy Pineapple before he shaved off his dread locks) I thought they were joking at first but I soon realized they were being dead serious.
A new trend for travelling through Africa is by Overlander bus. There are many different companies offering various routes throughout Africa, most starting in Nairobi and ending in Cape Town. I have mixed feeling about this method of travel because it can turn in to a traveling nightclub moving from one bar to the next without experiencing ‘Real Africa.’ On the other hand, most people would not even consider travelling through Africa and an Overlander bus is the compromise. At least, they are in Africa.
There was an Overlander bus in Nkhata Bay when I arrived and I was able to tag along on many of their tourist activities. They organized to visit a regional jail and I jumped at the opportunity. The deal was that we had to buy the inmates fish, which they only get twice a year, in exchange for our visit. Once inside the prison, we toured the jail while the inmates were all in the central courtyard being guarded. Jails can be in very bad condition in rich countries. So, picture a jail in Malawi, one of the poorest countries in the world. Needless to say, the jail was in very bad condition but the inmates were very excited to see us. We all sat down while one of the inmates stood up and described the daily life of the inmates. Then we were asked to stand, say our names and country of origin. What happened next was baffling but sadly very typical. The first girl stood up and said New Zealand, the next Australia and so on and so forth with little response from the inmates. About the fifth person in line was from the USA. She stood up said her name and country. As soon as she said USA, all the inmates jumped up from the ground yelling and clapping with excitement. They were fascinated that someone from the USA was right in front of them. This did not surprise me because I have received similar responses travelling through Africa, but I thought I would pry a little deeper into the subject. I was the last in line to introduce myself and when I stood up I asked, “what do you know of the USA?” There was a short silence and then an inmate stood up, yelled “Miami”, and proceeded to start dancing like he was in a rap video. Another inmate then yelled “50 Cent”. I then told them I was from the USA and they all cheered once again.
It was another one of those moments where I had to say, “Ok, I am in a Malawian jail right now where people are living in the worst conditions possible and all they can think about is dancing to 50 Cent song in Miami!” This is a perfect example of how the western culture, specifically American, is slowly taking over the world. I still have mixed feeling about this global culturalization taking place in Africa.

The Trek

2007-11-03T13:02:00.001Z

This is the second waterfall we visited during Day 1 of our hike up Mt. Mulanje in Malawi. I went for a swim which was very cold but refreshing.

flickr 070, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

After the Safari, I headed south to Zanzibar. I heard a lot about the islands from backpackers in Arusha and had to check them out for myself. It was like living in a postcard. I spent one night in Stone Town and the rest of the time on the northern tip of the island in Nungwe. It was a great couple of days but I could not afford to stay long. The highlight of the visit was going fishing on a dhow. I tried to organize a fishing trip with my hotel but they wanted too much money. In my broken Swahili, I was able to negotiate with a local fisherman a much cheaper price. Once on the water, I realized that we did not have fishing poles. It turns out that instead of fishing poles the fisherman just wrap the fishing line around their feet. I did the same and I was almost pulled out of the boat. I luckily got the line off of my foot just in time before I went into the Indian Ocean. We caught three yellow-fin tuna over the course of the morning while suffering from seasickness. It was a blast.
My original plan was to head back to northern Tanzania after Zanzibar. Instead, I met a guy from Malawi that assured me I could work on a farm there. He flew back to Malawi and gave me his address. I decided to bus it to Malawi. I took the ferry to Dar es Salaam and then a bus to Mbeya the next day. I then took a combination of minibuses, taxis, and bicycles to get to the border crossing. That was an experience in itself. I crossed just above Karonga. As soon as I crossed the border into Malawi, the atmosphere was completely different. Malawi is often referred to as ‘the warm heart of Africa’ because the people are so friendly. This is the main reason that I liked Malawi so much.
I made it to Livingstonia to meet the guy I met in Zanzibar. There was not exactly a warm welcoming party ready to greet me. I stayed for a couple of days and then decided to move on. I headed south to Nkhata Bay. On the bus ride, I started a conversation with a very nice man that turned out to be the local agriculture agent in the region. I could not believe my luck. He agreed to meet with me on several occasions but I could tell he did not necessarily enjoy it. I stayed in Nkhata Bay for a couple weeks and then headed south once more. I hitchhiked to Lilongwe with a very nice Zimbabwean man. We had a very sobering conversation about the current state of Zimbabwe. The country’s currency at one time was valued higher than the British pound but now inflation is over 1000%. There is no food, running water, or electricity in most parts of this once booming country. The economy is so bad that the money actually has an expiration date. He gave me a $100,000 note that expired July, 31 2007. I finally made it further south to Blantyre. I was able to negotiate a reasonable flight to Johannesburg, but it did not leave for a week. I decided to fill the week by hiking Mt. Mulanje in southern Malawi. It was an incredible hike, which deserves its own entry.
I loved Malawi and was sad to leave. Although I did not have much luck with my project, the local people made my stay very enjoyable. I just never felt threatened or hassled like in Tanzania. For instance, when I crossed the border into Malawi, I shared a taxi with three locals. After travelling for 15 minutes, we came to our first police checkpoint. I had a very bad experience in Tanzania with a corrupt immigration officer and since then always cringed whenever I would hand over my passport. The officer simply handed me back my passport and with a smile said, “Have a nice day Mr. Long and enjoy your stay in Malawi.” That first encounter set the tone for the rest of my stay in the wonderful country.

Manyara Ranch

2007-11-03T12:53:00.001Z

The Maasai sheperd takes a break at the watering hole on the way to the grazing fields for the day.

IMG_0987, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

I met many amazing people while living in Longido. My best friend was definitely Faraja. He was a driver, which is a very good job. I ended up eating one or two meals a day at his house. His wife, Mary, was an amazing cook and their three-year-old son, Arnold (named after the Governator himself. No really, I asked!), was always trying to make me laugh. Their house turned into my home away from home. Another good friend I met in Longido was Dr. Steven Kiruswa. He is probably the most amazing success story that I have ever personally witnessed. He is a Maasai man that grew up in the neighboring village of Engarenable. He was forced to attend school by Tanzanian mandate where he performed very well. He somehow made it to university in Nairobi and then to Regent University in Virginia Beach. He now works for AWF (African Wildlife Foundation) in Arusha. He could spend his time and money doing many things, but he prefers to help the Maasai in Longido District. He has formed an organization called Loocip to help fund Maasai children’s school fees, raise AIDS awareness and tackle many other problems in the area. Most of the time he would be late or cancel our meetings because he was so busy helping other people in their time or crisis. He is an amazing success story, and I hope to raise money for Loocip one day.
Dr. Steven helped me secure a bed at Manyara Ranch, which is funded by his company, AWF. Manyara Ranch is a progressive farming operation that is trying to combine wildlife management with a working cattle farm. It is located on a vital migratory route between two national parks, Taranguire and Lake Manyara National Parks. There was an abundance of wildlife on the ranch, often grazing side by side with the cattle. The ranch hires local Maasai men to shepherd the cattle during the day to protect the herd from predators. I spent about a week on the ranch in total. I divided my time between the livestock manager and the shepherds. Every morning we would go to each cattle kraal to vaccinate the sick cattle. They did not have the proper infrastructure to properly doctor the cattle. So, instead of fences or even smaller pens to work the cattle, the Maasai shepherds would grab hold of the sick cow’s tail and hold on for dear life. Depending on how big and/or how sick the cow was determined the duration of the fiasco. Basically, one shepherd would grab the tail, the cow would then begin to run, while the others shepherds, including myself, would try to knock the cow in its side. It turned into quite a show with all of us laughing and chasing the cows around in circles. It made for a very eventful start to the day.
I spend two days with out in the fields tending to the cattle with the Maasai. I originally planned to stay longer, but it was just too unbelievably boring. The day consisted of herding the cattle 10km to the grazing grounds, stopping by the watering hole on the way, then finding a shade tree in order to take a nap. An hour or two of this would have been fine, but the nap often took 5 to 6 hours. It was hot, dusty and I finished every book I brought with me. The highlight was on the second day when we came across a pride of lions. We were making our way to the grazing grounds when one of the shepherds tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed at three yellow dots about 150km away. I asked, in my broken Swahili, what they were, and he simply replied, “Simba”, which is Swahili for lion. That is when I had an “oh shit” moment. Meaning, I had a walking stick and I was between lions and their food, the cattle. It is when I said, “ Oh shit, what do I do now.” As we approached the lions, to my surprise, they quickly got up and moved away. I guess they have learned to fear the Maasai after being hunted by them for so long. I thought that was a good day to end my visit. I returned to Arusha the next morning: tired, smelly and worn-out. I decided to go on a two-day safari. Ngorongoro Crater was the most stunning place I have ever visited. The landscape and wildlife were simply amazing.

The Maasai

2007-09-20T16:18:00.001+01:00

The Maasai, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

(I want to be the first to point out that living in Maasailand for two months in no way makes me an expert on the Maasai. I will try to sum up what I have learned from my experiences.)

The Maasai are a cattle people who believe that all the cattle on earth belong to them. Cattle form the basis of their entire culture, being the main form of sustenance, wealth and power. The strong bond formed between the Maasai and their cattle has necessitated a semi-nomadic way of life for them as they follow the seasons in search of grass and water for their herds. This classifies the Maasai as pastoralists. Pastoralism as a whole is under threat from climate change, shifting global markets and increased competition for land and other natural resources. All of these effects are very evident in Longido.

The past few years have been increasingly difficult for the Maasai in Longido. Severe drought killed hundreds of cattle just in the last two years. Electricity is coming to Longido soon. The village is also on the Nairobi road which is becoming a vital connector for trade. With these factors combined, the land prices are rising as the village is growing. You would think that the increase of business would be a good thing but it is not. Currently, every shop, restaurant or food market in Longido is not owned by a Maasai, even though Maasai account for over 90% of the population in the area. Other tribes have moved in to exploit the less business savvy Maasai. The growing village takes up more land and water that are both precious commodities for the cattle.

The main problem taking place today is the traditional beliefs clashing with modern society. Throughout their history, the Maasai have fought to maintain their traditional way of life. Today, however, they can no longer resist the pressures of the modern world. For example, the elders would traditionally drink alcohol heavily. Traditionally, this was accepted because once they become elders their responsibilities become solely advisory. The beer did not cost anything either because it was the local brew. Today, at any given time in Longido you can find numerous elders falling over drunk. The problem arises when the traditional family structure is still enforced today. Traditionally, all of the money a man’s wives and children earn must be handed over to that man. Today, elders are still drinking heavily but beer costs money. I have witnessed a man passed out in a bar only to be wakened up by his wife to give him money to buy more beer. She probably earned this money selling extra milk or jewelry. On any given day, the wives do 95% of the manual labor, the young boys tend to the fields, the morans have to find work as night watchmen (which pays very little), and the leader of the family is often drinking away all of the money being earned by his family.

The survival of the Maasai culture has ceased to be a question, in truth, it is rapidly disappearing. The culture is in a transition phase right now which made it very hard for me to understand it upon my arrival. If you ask five Maasai the meaning of a certain ceremony, you will get five very different answers. Some Maasai have adapted better than others to modern society. Education is the first step which many have finally realized. Noonjuma (the elder that took me to orpul), for instance, has sent every one of his children to school. He pays a moran from a different family to shepherd his goats and cows during the day. This is a relatively new phenomenon that many people are adapting. It is good because the children are in the classroom instead of the fields. It is a start.

A part of me admires the Maasai culture and their conviction to try to keep it intact. I also understand that because of this conviction they have begun to suffer. Maasai boys are forced to leave their homes in search for low paying night watchman positions where there is no hope of promotion. There is some hope for the future and as I said before, education is the first step. Many have realized this and have sent their kids to school instead of the fields. It is a step in the right direction.

My Orpul

2007-09-10T11:47:00.001+01:00

The goat meat being stored during the orpul.

originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

I took a 2-day safari with an organization called MEDA giving out vouchers for malaria nets. We covered about 250km in two days on dirt roads and sometimes no road at all. It was eye-opening and I soon realized that Longido was a very large town rather than a tiny town which was my first impression. We visited six Maasai villages in the Longido district and many were extremely poor. Most of the have never seen a Mzungu (white person) or many cars so we drew a crowd. I was very happy to be back in Longido to start my orpul.
As you can see by my previous posts, I have been fascinated by orpul. I decided that I wanted to participate. I went to three different morans and they all laughed at me when I asked if I could orpul with them. I then asked an elder named Noonjuma. He agreed after many hours of discussion with his son as a translator. I agreed to buy a goat (a cow was too expensive) and he agreed to take me. I knew it was either a really good idea or a really bad one but I was excited.
I arrived in Longido at 5PM from the safari and headed straight for the mountain. I knew which valley my orpul was in but that was all. I wandered around and finally found them. Noonjuma and two morans, Kilusu and Daniel, had already constructed the kraal (a circular structure made of cut branches and bushes to serve as protection from wild animals) around a tree that provided protection from above. They started cooking the meat upon my arrival. It was dark soon after my arrival. I knew that I did not want to drink or eat many of the things they gave me so I strategically placed myself in the darkest corner in the kraal. Good decision. I quickly learned my goat was a male as they cook the testicles for me to eat. I discarded quietly. Then came a cup of goat blood and again, I discarded quietly. They were amazed that I would eat and drink these things but I was soon worried about the morning when my gig would be up.
Four layonis joined up during the night. I slept on a cow-hide with two morans and a layoni. I did not get much sleep. A hyena came in the middle of the night to scavenge the bones left outside. I awoke with Noonjuma already tending to the fire to scare off the hyena. I really didn’t get much sleep after that.
The day was spend eating, sleeping, eating some more and then sleeping again. They made a soup called Mtori many times. It was dreadful. I did not have the cover of darkness to discard so I had to refuse after taking a small sip. Mtori is made from water, olvera root, juices from a boiled piece of meat, blood and lots of goat fat (The used pieces of the stomach like a balloon to store the fat and to cook it) Mtori was basically boiled fat, blood and water. They each drank gallons throughout the day. I stuck to my bottled water.
News quickly spread throughout the ridges that there was a Mzungu at an orpul and all of the young layonis herding goats came to see for themselves. At one time, there were over 5 layonis with over 300 goats around our orpul. We gave all of them meat and Mtori which they devoured. We finished the goat by the end of the day. I had never eaten so much meat in all of my life. Goat meat is very bland and chewy. I learned to like it after eating it for 24 hours straight.
Living on the mountain for a day gave me a new perspective of the Maasai and their culture. I have been constantly thinking of how backwards these people are and how they can’t survive in modern society. I thought I was getting the hang of things by the end of the second day. I was using a sharpened stick to eat the meat and was getting along pretty well. Noonjuma was constantly laughing at me as I would occasionally drop a piece of meat on the ground. I drop two pieces of meat in a row and he finally took the stick from me. He sat down with his machete and a piece of firewood. In five minutes, he carved a wooden spoon for me to eat with. I learned very fast that in the bush I am the one that cannot survive. I can’t build or make anything without detailed instructions from the industrial manufacturer. The Maasai live in an arid, unfriendly environment with some of the biggest predators on the planet. I grew to respect the culture during my orpul.

Orpul (Olpul)

2007-08-29T10:06:00.001+01:00

orpul, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

The orpul (also spelled olpul) is a Maasai traditional ceremony where morans (warriors) basically just eat meat. I have been to three orpuls and they have all been very different. My first orpul took place during the wedding, another on the mountain and my third was at the circumcision ceremony. The orpul is carried out by morans with a few layonis (boys not yet circumcised) present to do most of the work. An orpul can be with 2 men or 30 depending on how long the orpul will be and how many cows (Traditionally the Maasai always use cows to orpul but as the Maasai culture is changing, so are the ceremonies. Goats are sometimes substituted for cows in an orpul today.) are slaughtered. The reason for an orpul traditionally is to prepare the morans for raiding other tribes for their cattle or therapeutic reasons. The Maasai soup that is drank at an orpul is a a mixture of water, honey, and different combinations of 45 various herbs and roots grown in the area. I tried some at the big orpul on the mountain and it tasted aweful. The Maasai believe eating meat and drinking the Maasai soup with cure any illness. I have been told by my fellow teachers that the orpul can cure gonorrhea, syphilis, malaria and many other illnesses. These are men that have been to school and are considered educated telling me this. I was dumbfounded and tried to logically explain this could not be true but they just laughed at me. I asked them about aids and they conceded that it does not cure aids. They did believe it cured aids originally, but they admitted people continued to die so it was not a cure.
The big orpul that I visited was with 6 morans and 2 layonis, The morans each took one cow so there was one cow for each of them to eat. When I visited, the morans had already been in Orpul for a month and were eating their last cow. They tried to get money out of me to eat meat and to go into the orpul. I was so fed up with everyone asking me for money that I repeatedly said no. I then told them that I had cattle in America. They were amazed but I was even more amazed at theri next question. One moran replied, “Do you know 50 cent (the rapper).” I said, “Yes, I have met him.” I then started singing a 50 cent song and he was so happy and excited that he let me go in for free.(50 cent is HUGE in Africa. So big that some children are just called 50) I was trying not to laugh but it was very hard.
To break the orpul I visited down to a basic explanation: 6 men take 6 cows and 2 boys to a random point on the mountain, kill the cows, find the herbs and roots to put in water, and just eat meat. When I ask, “What do you do here for month?” They just look at me confused and say “We eat meat!” The men will stay there and not leave until they have finished eating all of the meat from all 6 cows. It is believed to make them strong in order to carry out their duties as a moran. Today, the morans no longer raid other tribes or take care of the cattle. As with most Maasai traditions, the orpul is mostly ceremonial.

1 Month

2007-08-29T09:57:00.001+01:00

In Kimokouwa, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

It has been over a month now living in Longido. I have learned to appreciate simple pleasures in the absence of the amenities we take for granted in America. There is no running water so a shower is cold bucket of water once a week and toilets are out-houses or wherever you are at the time. It is amazing how good a warm Coke can taste after a long day and if was a bad day then a warm beer. These are a few of the many daily activities that keep me going.
I have been teaching 2nd grade Maasai children mathematics. Teaching children math is hard enough but when you combine the other variables; English is their second language, I am one of the only Mzungus (white people) they have ever seen, I refuse to hit them which is how every other teacher maintains discipline, and the education system itself is backwards, it is a very long morning in the classroom.
The first day the children were trying to add something like 155+270 and after grading their papers, I took a survey of who could add 2+2. Only about 10% knew that 2+2=4. We started all over again and am proud to say that after a month they are much improved in addition and subtraction.
I have good days and bad days. Whenever I think I understand something or have seen everything, I am brought back down to reality very quickly. I was handling the extreme culture shock reasonably well until I had a serious reality check this weekend. I slept in a temporary boma and went to a two-day circumcision ceremony and finally began to understand what was happening around me. I had to leave the boma multiple times to try to hold back tears.
Summation of the month: I have felt my first 7 earthquakes, descended 140m into ruby mines, watched countless African sunsets that are breathtaking, successfully stopped two attempted thefts, fell victim to robbery (from my room and I have since moved), dealt with my first corrupt government immigration official, seen giraffes, zebras, Thompson gazelle, gerenuk, greater kudu, monkeys, ostriches and baboons, seen the night sky in the southern hemisphere where the Milky Way is dominant and shooting stars are very frequent with some so big they end in giant balls of fire, been constantly depressed but quickly bounce back with my amazement and wonder of Africa I have seen and done a lot in a month. I will try to make separate posts for different topics in an attempt to explain everything the best I can. I can’t upload many pictures because the internet is very bad. There are hundreds just waiting on my camera so they will be posted in a couple months.

Everything and I mean everything revolves around COWS!!!

2007-08-29T09:54:00.001+01:00

Everything and I mean everything revolves around COWS!!!, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Every aspect of Maassai culture is influenced by cattle. The entire social structure is based on the herding, milking, protection and management of cattle. A Maasai man will have cattle, goats and donkeys. Donkeys are viewed as a "car" as they carry water and sick people, goats are just viewed as meat, and cows are the currency. They do not invest in land, houses, banks, any kind of exchange market or even businesses. If they need money they sell a cow and any extra money goes back into buying more cows. The number of cows represents the man's status within society and his wealth. If a man has 50 cows but a very nice house he is considered poorer than a man with a 100 cows and no house. This is based solely on the number of cattle he owns.
To be considered successful in Maasai culture you must own as many cows as possible. The more cows you have then the more wives you can afford and need. The Maasai are polygamists have usually as many wives as they can afford. The man needs more wives in order to milk all of the cows that he owns because that is a “woman’s job”. A major problem arises because each wife must have many children as it is custom. Most wives will have between 6 to 10 children. The “richest” man in Longido that I have heard of has about 1,000 cows, ??? goats, 10 wives and 80 children. The “richest” man I have heard of in Maasailand has 6,000 cows, 10,000 goats, 15 wives and over a 1,000 children. They are both living the “Maasai Dream.”
All marriages are arranged traditionally with a dowry being paid by the groom-to–be to the bride’s father, of course, in cows. There is no set number of cows paid as the amount is negotiated. Let us say for now the men negotiate 10 cows to be paid as a dowry. There will be a down payment of the negotiated amount of cows. In this case, let use say 5 cows as a down payment. After the bride produces the agreed number of children, the remaining portion of the dowry will be paid. If she does not produce the set number of children, then the remaining cows are not paid or it is again negotiated. The system perpetuates itself with there always being too many children that cannot be supported. So, they run around with a single piece of cloth wrapped around their bodies.
Things are changing slowly with the next generation moving away from some of the traditional beliefs and customs but many still want to be the grandest cattle herder of all with the most wives and children to go along with it.

Journal Entry

2007-08-29T09:49:00.001+01:00

Where will W&L take you?, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

This is an excerpt from August 6 in my journal. It is when everything became overwhelming.

It is amazing how one 15-minute walk can summarize my two week stint in Africa. I leave the mission with 100 screaming children all yelling “Bye Mzungu Bye Mzungu” (Mzungu means white tribe). They swarm me as I walk all wanting to grab my hand or just simply touch my skin. The very young children still cry when they see me, but not today. I make it out alive and start my hike. There is a Maasai women staring at me along the path. I am used to it by now because everyone stares at me.
There are 6 or so men building the district commissioner’s house along the way. They all stop what they are doing to stare at me. One yells, “Hello,” and I reply, “Habari.” (Hello is Kiswahili) They all laugh and continue to stare until I am out of site. I think I am in the clear when I see two young Maasai boys running on a path the intersect mine just ahead. I know what is getting ready to happen and I know what they want, money. They put their hand out and start saying, “give me money, give me pen, give me, give me, give me.” I say no many times but they proceed to follow me picking up rocks along the way. I know what is going through their minds… “We can take this Mzungu”. Keeping in mind these boys look about 5 or 6 years old but they look about 10 because almost all of the children here are anemic. I stiop walking and tell them to put down the rocks and to go back to their ingishu (cattle) they are herding up the mountain. About that time, their little brother comes running up the path. He couldn’t have been older than 4 years old. He is wearing a tattered piece of cloth that is wrapped around his body with no shoes, under garmets, just one piece of cloth. He has snot pouring from his nose pooling between his lips which is quite common with most children his age. When I see the young boys coming, one of the original two says, “Look, good picture, very sad right, give me money.” There is no shame in any of this.
This weekend I took the Dolla Dolla (bus) from Kimokouwa to Namanga with my friend Luka. I had slept about 4 hours the previous two nights in a boma with 2 morans (warriors) on the same bed of sticks covered with goats hides. I had went on a 12-hour hike up the mountain to orpul the day before and needless to say was is a terrible mood before I even got on the bus. I crammed into the bus with people being packed on top of other people. We manage to squeeze 22 people into a van the size of a Volkswagen van. The Maasai lady to my right and the two in front of me had very small babies on their lap. They all smile and start begging. Two of the three stop after I repeatedly say no about ten times but one continued. She then took her baby from her lap and put her on my lap. The baby was maybe 1 year old with snot pouring from his nose and water running from his eyes which could be the early signs of river blindness. I was filled with guilt, sadness and anger. Guilt that I have been so very fortunate, sadness at the very dim future that lie ahead for the child, and anger at the l;ady for having no shame in using her suffering child for a handout.
Back to my walk, I made the boys drop the rocks and go back to their cattle. I continue to hike with many foreign sounds of nature causing me great fear and wonder. Lizards are everywhere ranging from an inch to a foot long. Baboons are calling to each other ahead signaling my arrival. Many birds are chirping melodies I have never heard before. The ridges are filled with cattle and goats and their bells give a constant background tune to blend in well with the wild birds. The cow-bells give a slow and steady ring while the goat-bells have a much quicker pace. Combined, they transform the red dirt, acacia trees, huge volcanic boulders and brown grass into my retreat from the constant depression I feel below.
Hiking is my retreat from constant depression and eyes constantly fixed on me. No matter where I am at, people just stare at me. Here on the mountain, upon a volcanic boulder about 50 ft. high suspended in air, I am happy and at peace. I can hear the sounds of Maasai boys above me singing songs as they tend to their cattle. The sounds of the bells still fill the air and a warm breaze is blowing up the valley. I am tired, sick, depressed, homesick and scared most of the time but moments like this make all my troubles disappear…

Maasai Wedding

2007-08-28T11:01:00.001+01:00

Maasai Wedding, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long

The wedding was a very interesting 48-hour period. The ceremonial dancing starts the night before the wedding. There was a full moon that night which gave a great atmosphere once the singing and dancing began. This was only my third night living with the Maasai so I was still a little nervous and naïve about what was going on. The morans started dancing around 8PM. They continued to dance until around 10PM when everyone crammed into the largest boma. The boma was about 15 feet long and 10 feet wide, but we managed to fit about 40 people into the boma. It was very hot, smoky and loud as many elders were very drunk. An elder blesses the marriage and hands a calabash of milk to the groom. The groom takes the first sip and the bride has to finish it. While she is finishing the milk, everyone inside the boma yells out their wedding gift for the couple. Some give a cow, goat, or donkey along with various other items. I thought this was great, After someone would yell out what they planned to give everyone celebrated. Moses, who was my host for the wedding, was behind me. I was minding my own business and heard him yell something. The next thing I know every person inside was staring at me yelling something in Maa that I could not understand. Moses then yelled something else and that is when my heart stopped. Everyone in the boma mobbed me. They were rubbing my body, yelling and singing. I was terrified because I did not know what Moses said, what the people were saying or what in the hell I was gong to do.

I later found out that Moses originally promised a coke for the bride and groom from me, but then changed it to a case of coke for the whole village. We had not discussed this beforehand and I was just as surprised to be giving a case of coke as everyone else. The elders seemed to be impressed by this and made me sit next to them. They brought out a 5-gallon bucket or honey beer. I really did not want to be drinking the Maasai local brew but there was no getting away because I was surrounded. They poured about a liter of the honey beer in a rather large cup and gave it to me. I looked like urine, smelled even worse and there were pieces of leaves and roots floating in it. I tried to refuse but the drunken men got very mad. So, I closed my eyes and took it down with one big gulp.

Ten minutes later, my head was spinning and I was very drunk. This is usually how horror movies begin and I was uneasy. Finally we left the smoky boma t o head toward Longido. Only we were not going home. About 1km from the boma, we came upon 30 morans eating meat. Of course, we had to eat meat with them. After eating Moses went back to dance some more and I walked home with two other morans. I was drunk off Maasai local brew and wandering through the bush after being in Tanzania for five days. It was a great beginning to the trip.
The dancing went until 4Am and then we arrived the next morning at 10AM to continue dancing all day. I tried my dancing jumping skills and ventured into the middle of the circle the jump. I almost fell the first time but then I got the hang of it. It was a great day and I stayed until dark.

Moses' Boma in Longido

2007-07-25T18:11:00.001+01:00

Moses' Boma in Longido, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Hello all, the Maasai village was amazing and I think I have set something
up to stay in the town Longido (name sound familiar). The Maasai boy that I met is named Moses and he is now a good friend. He has helped me in many
situations were people are trying to take advantage of me. I slept in the
boma (hut) behind me in the picture. I may have slept for an hour but the
cows outside kept me up. I slept on a board covered with leather which they
called a bed with two Maasai warriors (Moses was one and I don't know the
others name. They are not allowed to sleep in a boma without another
warrior present. I had an amazing couple days at the Maasai village and plan
to go back and heard cattle with them. I am going to a Maasai wedding with Moses.
I will take pictures. I will leave you with what just happened to me walking
from one end of Arusha to the other in search of a internet cafe.

NOISE!!! There are tons of street vendors selling everything from
cellphones, ties, American sports shirts, and my favorite corn. On every
street corner, there is atleast one lady cooking corn on a makeshift grill
made of a trash can lid with mangled clothes-hangers sitting on the ground.
The corn makes a crackling sound but there are numerous safari guides
yelling "you need safari" but then about that time the Muslim call to prayer
went off all over town which also wakes you up in the morning. Then there
are buses flying around on the wrong side of the road. Each bus has a man
that works in the back hanging out of the window yelling names of cities in
Swahili. There are dozens of them and they all go very fast and honk their
horns at everyone they and they all must be very popular. Then two french
teenage girls approach me and say there is someone following them. It turns
out there was and i yell at him loud enough for the cop to hear on the other
side of the street. he runs away. Then I find myself safely into the
internet cafe.
It was a bizarre 10 min walk in Arusha. I think I really like it here...

Tanzania

2007-07-23T09:03:00.000+01:00

I made it. There were some very interesting people along the way. Some good and some weird. I staying at way too nice of a hotel last night and have found a cheap place to stay for now. It is similar to European hostel with all backpackers staying there. I am staying at the Meru House Inn in Arusha. My first night was rough. The hotel I was staying at was right across the street from the bus station and a club. It was very noisy and hot. It was a very long night.
It is so poor here. I thought I knew what to expect but I was so wrong. I have met a Maasai boy walking down the street. He says he wants to practice his English to become a tour guide. He wants to take me to his village that is 55km from Arusha. I have called Ole Kuney and he says he will be in town in a couple days. The maasai boy's sandals are shocking. They are a piece of rubber cut out of a tire. He has the Good part of Goodyear on the bottom. I told him what Goodyear was and about the blimp and he started laughing. I don't have much more time on the computer so I have to go.

Ready to Leave

2007-07-19T21:55:00.001+01:00

Another Picture of my farm, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

Well, I leave in two days and am ready...I think. I know there are going to
be hard times along the way but I will make the most of every situation. I
fly into Kilimanjaro airport July 22 around 8PM local time. I have no idea
where I plan to stay the night. That will be the first challenge of many
throughout the year. I will then travel south 27km to Arusha to meet Dr.
Moignet Ole Kuney. He gave me a phone number and said to call him once I get to Arusha. I have no idea what to expect. He spends weeks in the bush of
Tanzania at a time and I hope to tag along with him??? "Hope" is the key
word in many of the countries I plan to visit. If everything works out, I
will not be able to post anything for a couple months but I will try to keep
everyone updated. If anything exciting happens in the states, feel free to
drop me an email. I only ask that you not ruin Entourage for me. I plan to
watch it upon my arrival back to the states in a year. Other than that feel
free to drop me an email. Bye America!

West Virginia

2007-06-18T19:41:00.001+01:00

West Virginia, originally uploaded by Benjamin Long.

I added photos that I have taken around my farm in West Virginia. I plan to travel to some of the most beautiful places around the globe, but I will be hard pressed to find a more beautiful place than the Greenbrier Valley. I plan to depart from the US July 21. My first stop will be Tanzania for two and a half months. I have just gained my first contact in Tanzania (cutting it close I know). I don't know what kind of computer access I will have the first couple of months but I will try to atleast post journal articles from time to time. After Tanzania, I plan to head to South Africa for two and a half months which will make five straight months in Africa. I like to say this is the most excited and terrified I have ever been in my life. It will be an adventure to say the least.