Friday, August 24, 2018

On Safari: The Maasai

Being in the backcountry of Africa had presented some incredible opportunities to witness things I never had. An elephant charging our car only to be shouted off by a tiny (by comparison) man with a big attitude. A patient cheetah stalking her prey for what seemed like hours, finally scoring a meal for she and her three cubs. A pride of lions encircling our camp to close in on a clever water buffalo who knew her best chance at refuge was to walk amongst the world's foremost apex predators (and in the meantime worrying many of the American variety of these apex predators). It was stunning to witness these things unfold in the land which these creatures called home. To watch them behave as they have behaved for the millennia in which they have dominated the Serengeti plain. This land is nearly unspoiled by man, far away from the rapid development of the last few hundred years and barren of the resources which have caused many other areas of the continent to be mined, drilled or scraped of its character.

But perhaps the most foreign element of all to the entire trip was not the elephant the lion nor the cheetah, it was the people. Living among these wild creatures all around the Serengeti are the Maasai. They have learned to coexist with nature here and live a primitive and nomadic existence on the vast plain, shepherding their herds of goats and cows from place to place as their resources dried up or become more abundant elsewhere. They would leave behind their humble circular Shambas made of cow dung and sticks as they moved, only to recreate the same village again to put down temporary roots after each time.

These people were those that made up our guides, our spotters and the camp staff. To even quantify their existence based on the money they lived on in a day seemed silly, as none of them took part in an economy which saw any need for currency. They lived, breathed and existed for each other and for their cattle: eating their meat, drinking their blood and milk. The Maasai did not even need water as they could bleed and milk their cows and goats over and over again. In a remote plain where clean water was hard to come by, this was a key to their existence on the Serengeti: as long as the herd was healthy, they survived. They wore shoes made of recycled car tires or cow hide and richly colored robes and beads crafted by the women of their tribe.  The men all carried a seme, not much more impressive than a broken lawn mower blade, and this was their all purpose tool throughout their lives. Here chopping through underbrush to make a way to a waterhole for their cattle, there fighting back a lion from entering the gates of the Shamba at night and terrorizing the goat herd.

These men of the most humble existence I had ever seen took great pride in their way of life. In their early teens they were inducted into the warrior class, growing out their hair and charged as being protectors of their Shamba.  Sometime in their 20's then becoming junior elders, being circumsized without anestheisia in front of the elder council and officially entering into manhood, having proved themselves as protectors and worthy of a spot in the village and a woman (or several) to call a wife. And through all of this hardship; amid all of their humble surroundings; they looked at us like we were the ones to be pitied. They laughed and found it utterly ridiculous that we could not throw a spear straight and far. They could not understand how we could sit in a open vehicle a mere 200 yards from a camouflaged lion crouching in the grass and not see it clear as day. As entertaining as it may be for me to see one of them attempt to type a vlookup formula in Excel was the level of ridiculousness they likely saw in our western ways. How could we have gotten so far in life without having developed such essential skills as knowing the proper way to protect your family, friends and neighbors? To be able to spot a predator coming in enough time to develop a plan to evade or prepare for a fight?

In college as an Econ student I learned much about the West's efforts to 'enrich' the third world through foreign aid: World Bank or UNICEF grants and programs, designed to westernize these 'backwards' civilizations and often war torn or oppressed people. But I can recall being challenged in this thought when meeting and talking to some of these 'backwards' men and women. If I could flip a switch and westernize them... would they be better off? They would objectively have more money, yes. Better shoes. An education which would allow them to be a viable player in today's global economy. But really.. better off?

In economics we are taught that the rational individual sets out not to maximize their profits, their money or their wealth, but their 'utility'. It's the jargon-y economic term that basically means happiness. All rational decision making stems from this simple framework. We all strive to be happy, whether that be in amassing wealth, moving to that Thoreauesque cabin in the woods, or standing with a spear watching the sunset on the Serengeti. Some of us in this search find we have been pursing an incorrect course all along in order to achieve this utility, but we are all striving to get there nonetheless.

I couldn't help but think as I looked at these proud men that flipping that switch would have robbed them of all this utility and replaced it with a pursuit of happiness which was not at all in line with their own. The elephant dung (figuratively speaking) that I step in on an average day in the office is likely far less palatable to them than the elephant dung (literally speaking) which makes up the walls of their tiny homes on the Serengeti plain.

There were notable exceptions to this showing themselves among the tribe: on the one hand those that were indeed pursing the course of joining ranks with the westernized world. The young man wearing Levi jeans and a polo on break from studying law in Nairobi, but not ready to abandon the culture and traditions of his people. His face and mannerisms blending in with all of his tribesman, but with an appearance that would not have you look twice walking down the streets of New York City. He vowed to fight for the Maasai not with a seme, but in the government buildings of Kenya to bring state funds for building schools, roads, fresh water pumps

But on the other hand, there were those that have been forced into a sad existence from this fascinating culture: the women. I am not so naive as to be blind that taken out of context, traditions, cultures and lifestyles can seem strange or even objectively incorrect to a foreign observer. But it was hard not to gather that the women of the Maasai were little more than objects of their men. These women with their beautiful white smiles so bright against their deep dark skin had eyes that just looked beaten. Not in the physical sense,  but one of defeat. Despite being illegal under national law, the Maasai are among many people groups in Africa that still practice female genital mutilation - a dangerous ritual that (without going into details, not that I could even if I wanted to) has been shown to have lasting psychological effects similar to PTSD and diminishes the capacity for sexual desire at a very young age (often around 10). I found myself torn between viewing this just being one more interesting aspect of a culture I did not understand, or reaching for that switch and finding it a tragedy that the West had not come to rescue them from it.

You will many times over course of your lifetime see the lion, asserting that he is the master of his (if small) domain in the zoo. You will see many a bull elephant sauntering around his enclosure, lapping up water and feeding himself bails of hay with his mighty trunk. This at least gives one the perspective of the size and behavior of these beasts, to see them more or less as they look in the wild. But there is nothing comparable to seeing the Maasai. To see the men gather in the center of the shamba at sundown and watch the warriors face-off in how high they could vertically jump for sustained periods of time, the women chanting and the men all cheering them on. They cut an impressive and intimidating figure, their long beaded hair flying up in the air and their faces fierce as they fought to prove their manhood. They encouraged our group to join but I hid behind my camera and made the excuse that I could not trade participating for capturing it on film. This was true, yes, but I also could not help but recall that for what they lacked in Microsoft Excel prowess they made up for in stamina, a 30" vertical and a pretty damn scary war face; the inevitable result being me totally put to shame. I'll stick to the Excel.

As we left the shamba that night, the clouds had briefly broken on Kilimanjaro and provided a setting too perfect to seem true. We'd been told that "Killy" only peeps her head at twilight before the haze of the plains sets in daily in this season (and I'd woken up each morning in a failed attempt to capture this elusive sighting). Against this backdrop I thought of how I was but a few minutes Jeep ride back to a fully furnished tent which was worlds more comfortable than even their homes. From there I was a few hours drive and Cessna flight back to Nairobi, a bustling city which though clearly third world in many ways would have blown the minds of many of the humble Maasai. And finally after that: a 22 hour trip on a jumbo jet back to Denver, Colorado which I call home; doing chores around the house, in a few days getting back to work, and intaking as from a firehose the bombardment of mass media, talking heads and the sounds and smells of modern machinery everywhere in sight.

The desktop background of my work computer I set to be one of those photos I took of a mother cheetah perched on an anthill looking out on the Serengeti plain contemplating her next meal, but also I'd like to believe totally content in her surroundings. In a small way it takes me back there, helps me cut through all of the banality of a desk job... and I sometimes find myself thinking... I wish the Maasai would flip that switch for me.

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Friday, July 27, 2018

#23. Mexico. Olmecs and Pool Decks.

As a child, I was fascinated by that show 'Legends of the Hidden Temple'. The one where the Silver Snakes battled the Blue Barracudas in super cool obstacle courses to uncover treasures while being hunted by hidden bloodthirsty native warriors. You know it if you are a kid of the 80's. I'd hold my breath the whole time in anticipation of the feathered barbarian to pop his head out and take one of the kids' three chances to get through the course. I wanted to be Kirk Fogg, the explorer, guide and/or host of the show costumed in tucked-in dad jeans and a fanny pack, to the point that I had my mom buy me a cargo pack so I could run around in my back woods being chased in my imagination by those Olmec warriors (this may also explain why I was so late in life to develop friends).


A poor American child about to be slain by an Olmec warrior
What am I getting at, you may ask? An autobiographical sketch of my early childhood? Maybe in part, but moreso: this, similar to many Americans of my generation, was my introduction to Mexico. Exotic. Dangerous. Ethnic. Full of native warriors and large stone heads in the jungle. This was the land that lay to the south, scorched by the sun (which many of them they still worship, I think) and full of mystery and adventure. This caricature of a vast land began to be engrained in my mind to the point where it became my reality. I'd seen that show, read that book. I got Mexico. 

High school classes taught me of the Gadsen purchase, the noble financial exchange in which diplomats of the United States of America met with Mexican gentleman to purchase the lower half of what is now New Mexico and Arizona. We learned of the Zimmerman telegram, when the Germans scandalously reached out to Mexico in an effort to have her betray our allegiance at the onset of The Great War. But she didn't. We were pals after all.

Then in college, the time when good wholesome young minds become corrupted and indoctrinated, I began to learn more of this ever increasingly complicated relationship between our two countries. I learned of the principle of Manifest Destiny, that midcentury 1800's American politicians decided the territory of the USA should reach to the Pacific from the Puget Sound to Baja Mexico, regardless of who laid claims there. How we systematically went about taking it for no apparent reason other than that we were able to. College is all about critical thinking, so I suppose all of this I took in with a healthy skepticism that my professor probably just hated America. 

Mexico was so simple when it was about the Olmecs and Kirk Fogg guiding excited children through ancient shrines and tombs. Little did I know that behind those Olmec Warriors were murderers and rapists also laying in wait to kill those innocent American children*. Thank goodness this was on Nickelodeon who I presume dutifully censored all of this from view. 

Let me pivot. Why is he talking about kids shows and murderers? My goodness. This is a travel blog! And yes, I traveled to Mexico. So I'll tell you a little about my experience. 

Mexico was serene. We arrived in the airport in Cabo on a Southwest flight with a mom and baby who were happy to be on the ground and to see Nanna and Papa. They greeted us with a big car, sunglasses and smiling faces. We drove through the dusty landscape for several miles making our way down toward Cabo - it's a journey that many American tourists have made, with visions of Cabo Wabo, body shots and late night hookups on their mind. The bar full of bros at the airport who could not wait to pregame before their drive down confirmed this stereotype. But this was not the Cabo we were to have. 

Mr. Jacob liked the pool, especially the short one where he could practice standing up, and I was proud that he slept so well in the bathroom away from all that he was familiar with. The beachside condo we were in was bright, comfortable and full of family that made the trip in want of nothing. Jacob was a little offset by the ocean, its waves and sand offending his baby sensibilities. But other than that, this version of Mexico seemed to totally suit the Grimes family. No Olmecs warriors laying in wait, not a rapist or a murderor in sight. 

Mexico passed quickly for us. And never did we leave sight of a fully Americanized version of it. But the exotic picture engrained in my head of this place made me feel a little different here than if I were in Key West or Laguna Beach. It gave me the feel of being on a little American island in the middle of an exotic and dangerous wasteland. That those Olmecs were still out there lurking; that to leave this oasis may cost you one of your three runs through the temple. Some illusions never die. 

*On the off chance that this post outlives the reference here (Donald Trump, Announcement Speech 2015); I should comment that it is of dubious factual merit that Mexicans actually rape, murder or otherwise perpetrate violent crimes at a higher rate than their northern neighbors. 


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Friday, June 15, 2018

#22b. France. The Moveable Feast.

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast. - Ernest Hemingway - A Moveable Feast

For a nostalgist like me - Hemingway's time in Paris seemed the perfect life. Living a humble existence with his young wife and small son on a street near the Luxembourg Gardens. Waking up and going to the review office for a few hours, then making your way to a cafe patio to write into the late morning and in the late afternoon to the basement of the American Club to box. Getting by with doing what you loved, but still just getting by, to the point that after your bills were paid you chose between buying 'pictures' or 'books' because that's what really mattered (or so Papa would have us believe... many biographers have pointed out he was making the equivalent of $60k while living this 'humble existence' in Paris - quite enough for pictures and books and even a drink here and there). When evening came, surrounding yourself with a group of friends living the same life as you: Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein. Doing it all over again the next day, only to be split up by the occasional trip to Pamplona, Milan, or Chamonix. I've followed him on some of these journeys: to the town of Burgette in Northern Spain where he brought wine skins and stored them in the Irati river while fishing for trout before the bullfights... to the plains of Amboseli, Kenya where he served as game warden and wrote True at First Light and developed his lifelong passion for safari and Africa ... but I'd never followed him to Paris - his home base throughout all of this adventure. And now here we were. 

You've probably sensed now that I have an obsession. If I had not been forced against my will to read Old Man and the Sea in 11th grade it may have even began earlier. As a high schooler I remember how dry it was. His simple straightforward writing style about a not all that interesting topic in a totally uninteresting setting was a bore to me. It wasn't until much later that I came to appreciate how all of this illuminated the ordinary things. How it made one find romance in a trout stream or an old wooded cabin. Coming to Paris marked the next and probably most significant chapter in this search for Papa H, and there were many chapters to this book by now. 

So naturally, on arriving in Paris, I tried to recreate his idyllic and romantic time here. Oh hey! Nice little patio to have a drink and enjoy people watching, sure, we'll sit down! Two hours later after bad drinks, poor service, and a mediocre hamburger (yes, hamburger), I often found myself disappointed with my little recreations. But then I managed to convince Jenn to walk far out of the way to visit Closerie de Lilas one night (she had after all dragged me to all the best known bakeries all across town). Closerie was his favorite place in Paris, where all of his first serious works began to take their shape... Up In MichiganIn Our Time, The Sun Also Rises... it kept warm in the winter and the patio was pleasant in the spring, or so he said. This was the Hemingway equivalent of Da Vinci, Edison or Michelangelo's workshop . So we went and sat down one evening on the patio. The menu had a big picture of Hemingway on the inside cover. O.K... Cheesy. But it was tastefully done and I can't say if he would have loved it or hated it. I ordered a drink that he would have liked (read: any of them) - and the nerding out was underway. I remember at some point telling Jenn that this was my version of Disney world, all the while spewing out to the poor girl all of the useless Hemingway trivia I could remember. The patio was clean and nice and well lit. They had good cheese and a very decent piano player. And that's all Hemingway would have said about that.

The rest of Paris was very much a series of boxes to be checked seeing as it was my first time in there, and there are certain things you just don't miss if you only spend one time in Paris. Versailles. Which made me so disappointed in my lawn upkeep. Even today when I trim my bushes I am never far from the thought that I would be making Louis XIV so, so disappointed  Then the Lourvre, with its people. And all the paintings I learned about in art history class. And its people. And the Mona Lisa. And the people crowding the Mona Lisa. Did you know it would probably not have been so famous had it not been stolen once? This was a fun tidbit our Scottish guide shared with us. Then there was the Champ de Mars which we visited at night. At the top of each hour after sundown the Eiffel Tower glitters with a light show which is nice especially when enjoying it with your wife and a cheap bottle of Champagne in a plastic cup. There is some magic to the place that exists only in Paris. 

While living in Las Vegas a few times I'd gone to "Paris" before work, walked to the street-scape and ordered a cafe au lait and a croissant dreaming of this day that I would be there. These mornings my illusion was normally foiled by overweight 40 something women in Viva Las Vegas shirts stumbling about  with yard margaritas, but nonetheless I enjoyed the illusion while it lasted. So after the light show and some carefully composed night time exposures with the camera (none of which turned out well)  we got in an Uber, chatted about Israeli politics with the driver and returned to the hotel.

I have to imagine that Paris has lost some of its romance and charm since the 1920's when Hemingway roamed its streets. But to quote the always wise Woody Allen.. Nostalgia is denial. Denial of the painful present. The name for this denial is Golden Age thinking - the erroneous notion that a different time period is better than the one ones living in - it's a flaw in the romantic imagination of those people who find it difficult to cope with the present. I don't know if he believed this, as it was voiced by Paul, the pretentious know it all in his comedy Midnight in Paris, and I have to image Woody is a nostalgist himself.  But it's difficult not to be when walking those streets. How they inspired not just Hemingway but generations of writers, artists and scientists who we still benefit from today. For the rest of my life, it will stay with me, for as someone once said: it's a moveable feast. 
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