Where E'er You Walk

For me the beauty of music is epitomized in the aria "Where e'er you walk," the exquisitely lovely song from Handel's opera "Semele."  Here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83zpLsWMoFc.   Is there any more haunting love song?

Where e'er you walk

Cool gales shall fan the glade

Trees where you walk

Shall crowd into a shade.

Classical music has always been an important part of my life.   My performing career started when I was five and a choir boy in our local church.  I wore a black robe with a white cassock, a wide white collar and a floppy bow tie.   My solo career came when I was seven and singing Handel's "Halleluiah Chorus."   At the end there are three halleluiahs followed by a dramatic pause and then a final halleluiah.   I lost count and in the dramatic pause I bellowed "HAL".  Everyone looked at me in shock.

I sang in the high school glee club, the Harvard Glee Club (first tenor) and the  University Choir.    Have you ever heard a sixteenth century motet sung by a men's choir?   Such music would turn an atheist into a believer. Here is a recording of  " O Magnum Mysterium": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeKvNxYMDxE   The main functions of the choir was to sing in Memorial Church seven days a week.  One of our less glorious moments came when we were invited to perform for the Harvard Club of Boston.   Our hosts put us in a holding room with a huge vat of margaritas which we dipped into generously.   When it came time to sing we were all loopy.   Somehow we got it together and out came the deeply religious medieval motets.   No one guessed our conditions.  

In grad school I taught myself the recorder and played with a recorder club,  Then at Putney School, where I went to teach  English, I taught recorder to the children at the local elementary school and formed a recorder club with Putney students.   We put on two full evening concerts.   I was also the tenor soloist in the school's madrigal group.   The music director at Putney, a wonderful man, liked to rehearse to the point my voice became hoarse.  The thought of singing solos with a hoarse voice was so scary I had the habit of running ran off and hiding until my voice returned all the while avoiding the music director.  Then, wearing my only suit and work boots I stood at the front of the orchestra and sang the first of many arias of Handel's Messiah "Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people."  In the audience of several hundred parents were, gulp, some famous musicians.


Not all my recorder performances were greeted with applause.  When I was a hitchhiker in Mexico City, during my young and restless days, I played the recorder on the streets with my hat on the pavement, to support myself.   I was doing quite well, but, as luck would have it, the police got wind of my activity, and arrested me for working without a permit.   I was jailed for five days in solitary confinement and was eventually deported..

Fast forward to the 1990's: we started our son, Thabie, who was 10, on the piano, using the Suzuki method, and our daughter, Palesa, on the piano, using the traditional method.   Palesa soon discovered her passion was the flute.   As they flourished they gave recitals, giving me a chance to accompany them on the recorder.  Thabie played annual concerts at my mother's retirement community with me playing along in the Bach minuets.   When my mother passed away, Thabie, Palesa, and I played at her memorial service.  My mother, who taught me my love of music, would have been pleased. 

 

Thabie, Palesa and I play a Trio Sonata at my mother's retirement community

Palesa gave a high school senior recital where I joined her in a Handel trio sonata.  Since then Thabie has become a professional musician with a Master's in music and a flourishing piano studio.   Palesa played in the orchestra for a Harvard production of Mozart's "Cosi von Tutti" but then became involved in other interests.

 

Thabie in recital in the mid-90's

 

Palesa (with piccolo) marches with the high school band.in the Homecoming Parade

I remember hearing "O Magnum Mysterium,' O Great Mystery, about the birth of Jesus, sung by a men's octet at George Mason University (where I was an usher) and thinking how could I ever have had doubts.   I remember hearing the slow movement of Bach's third orchestral suite played by the Boston Symphony and marvelling that any music could be so beautiful.  But these are mere words. Music is a universal language that needs no words to express our deepest feelings: joy, sorrow, mystery, love. It acts as unifying thread through the different chapters of our lives.   It is a language understood equally in Germany, Russia, or India, understood " where e'er you walk."

Fist Bumps, Interrupted

After my fist-bump activities in Brooklyn, Harper's Ferry, and the Outer Banks, I said to Qenehelo, my wife, that I needed suggestions for more physical challenges.  She proposed hiking around Lake Fairfax in nearby Reston.

So off we went a couple of Saturdays ago on the 3 mile scenic trek.   I managed well including going over some steep, short rises infested with tangles of exposed roots and rocks.  When we finished it was again fist bumps all around.

This is the half way point around the lake.

Alas, in the middle of Saturday night (early Sunday morning, actually) I woke with my left knee so sore that it wouldn't support my weight.    Apparently I had injured myself going over the exposed roots.   A visit to an emergency clinic with diagnosis of KNEE EFFUSION and few days of ice and my knee began to feel better.

But not so fast.   On Wednesday I developed a severe pain in my right hip. It took six days to get an appointment with an orthopedist who diagnosed not my hip but spinal stenosis.   I mention all this in the interest of full disclosure.   Right now I'm controlling the pain with Tylenol and doing exercises given to me by a physical therapist. 

Oh the frailty of man's body.   It's clear I ran up against some physical limits.   But I'm working on getting back in shape and looking forward to more fist bumps in the future!



Harper's Ferry Fist Bumps

What do Harper's Ferry and Brooklyn have in common?     Brooklyn is highly urban with store fronts and restaurants, topped by apartments on the higher floors.  Cars and cabs vie for street space and crossing the streets on foot is hazardous.  Harper's Ferry, by contrast, is bucolic, set on the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers.  The mid nineteenth century village is located on the eastern tip of West Virginia with Virginia across the Shenandoah to the south and Maryland, across the Potomac to the east.  The town exists as it did over a century and a half ago and is famous for John Brown's daring raid on the U.S. armoury in 1858.  As you stand in the village everywhere is up.  So what could they possibly have in common?

The thing they have in common is that in each I learned I could do  more than I thought I could.   I chronicled my earlier adventures in the "Browsing Brooklyn" post.   A couple of weeks ago Palesa and her boyfriend Jeff came to visit and we decided one day to go to Harper's Ferry.  My plan had been to sit on a bench while the more hardy explored the village but somehow I got started up the main street and for some reason I then decided to try to ascend "Jefferson's Rock."  the highest point.   With my cane in my right hand and daughter Palesa holding my left, up we went.



Here we are starting up!

At the top is a view that Thomas Jefferson famously described as "worth crossing the Atlantic for."

Here I am near the foundation of an old church with son Thabie and daughter Palesa.

And finally on our way down after sharing fist bumps all around.   Kindly ignore the impression that Jeff and Palesa are half carrying me!   I did it after all and I'll admit I felt pretty proud of myself!

After Jeff and Palesa left, Qenehelo, Thabie, and I drove to Kill Devil Hills on North Carolina's outer banks where, flushed with my activities at Harper's Ferry, I undertook what for me were more physical challenges.   The first was at the site of the Wright Brothers first flight in 1903.   The flight took off from the top of a hill which I climbed up unassisted, albeit with Thabie at my side.

Here I am at the bottom of the hill.   The little specks at the top are people.

 

 And here I am at the top where the first plane took off.  Pay no attention to the small kids who doubtlessly scampered up with ease.  

The next day we went to Jockey Ridge State Park, where the second highest dune on the Atlantic is located.  Hang gliders launch themselves from the top.   It was a slow slog through soft sand but again I made it!





Here I am near the top of the dune with hang gliders in the background.

My wife Qenehelo and I near the Bodie Island lighthouse.

Finally we went to the Elizabethan Gardens, a ten acre botanical paradise, the functional equivalent of Brooklyn's Botanical Gardens where I tooled around in a wheel chair.   This time it was just my two feet.   In an earlier time these would be modest exploits, but now they taught me that if I think I can't do something, give it a try.



Assisted Living

Have you ever visited anybody in an assisted living facility?   It's where they put people who can't take care of themselves: they can't dress themselves, go to the toilet without help, remember who their friends are, know when it's time to take their medications.   Some of the people at a facility I visited, I admit, did indeed seem to be enjoying themselves.   When I asked a group of Jingo players what was the differende3 between Jingo and Bingo, one old lady chirped: "the name!" The experiences, however, seem to be quite variable.

During the last two years of her life, my mother had suffered a series of transient ischemic attacks and suffered from dementia as a result.   She knew who we were, but clearly couldn't take care of herself.  When he was in high school my son Thabie gave piano concerts in assisted living facilities.  The residents whimpered for their cookies and kool aid while Thabie was playing.  Nurses tend to talk to them as if they were children.   It's still a place you go to only when all other options have been excluded.

A friend of mine, who is just a year older than me, was put in assisted living by his son who thought his dad should not be living alone.   My friend didn't really need to be in assisted living but there were no independent apartments available in the retirement complex.   We visited him there four or five times and walked around where we saw old people playing bingo or sleeping while watching TV: a thoroughly depressing place.   He said the upper floors were filled with people suffering from decrepitude or dementia.   My friend said he was depressed, especially in the morning when he would wake up with nothing to look forward except sitting in his chair. 

For this guy there was a happy ending as he was able to move into an independent living apartment with a gym with trainers, clubs and speakers, a library, doctors and dentist offices.   The majority of residents were tooling around at good speeds in their walkers.  My friend was much, much happier and we were happy for him.  He drove his walker like a teenager in a sports car.

These visits made me ask myself, how do we spend our final years?   It seemed that the people in assisted living were essentially sitting around waiting to die.   Nobody should be doing that.  Everybody, no matter how decrepit or demented, deserves to be treated with respect and dignity.   Everybody, as far as possible, should be engaged in meaningful social interaction and individual creative activity.  Our final years need to be as important as years in our twenties or thirties, filled with activity we find valuable.

I confess that my own inclination has been to spend too much time reading in my living room chair
My recent trip to Brooklyn (see my post "Browsing Brooklyn")  was one successful effort at moving around more and soon I'll be trying to hike the easy trails in Shenandoah National Park.

Winter in the White Mountains: An Adventure Story

Old guys, like me, when we look back, we recall stuff we've done that seems risky and immature.  With our current maturity and wisdom, we never would have done such a foolish thing.  In today's post, I recall such a scary adventure.

In the 1960's I worked at Putney School in Vermont where I was an English teacher and Head of Trips.   In the latter capacity, I ran the fall and spring camping trips that all the students went on as well as a couple of optional winter climbs in the White Mountains.   This story involves a climb of Mount Adams, the second highest and most challenging winter climb in this mountain range.

With my friend Bob, the biology teacher, and me as leaders, we left school after class on Friday, and went to my cabin in Crawford Notch where we spent the night.   Up at 4 a.m. Saturday morning, we had breakfast and took a short drive to the trailhead where we put on snowshoes for the arduous climb through thigh deep snow to Crag Camp, a cabin at treeline where we spent Saturday night.   After breakfast Sunday we put on crampons (a set of  metal spikes strapped to the bottoms of our boots) to allow us to navigate the ice above timber line. 

Mount Washington is famous for having the world's worst weather and the same if true for Mount Adams.  As we climbed upward the wind grew stronger and stronger.   By the time we made the summit the wind was howling so loudly that we had to yell in one another's ears to be heard.   I later learned that the temperature was 30 below zero and the wind was 100 miles an hour, readings taken by an Appalachian Mountain Club expedition (they had also set out on the same day and had turned back wisely).   The standard formula is 30-30-30  meaning at 30 below with a 30 mile an hour wind, exposed flesh freezes in 30 seconds.

Mt Adams, New Hampshire, Winter

I knew we had to get off the summit quickly and so I chose an alternate route down the east side of the mountain so we could be out of the fury of the howling wind.   I had the habit as leader of regularly looking back to be sure everybody was with me.   The second time I looked back I saw that only four students were behind me with the other three students and Bob nowhere in sight.  We yelled but heard and saw nothing.  I decided we would have a major disaster if we spread one by one to look, so I took my four students down to the col,  the low spot (still above tree line) between Mounts Adams and Jefferson.  I arranged the four in a tight circle with ponchos on the outside to trap the warmth.

With my students relatively protected I started back up the summits alone to look for Bob and the three students by myself.   As I climbed I kept looking back at the circle of four protected by their ponchos.  At one such look back, the students, then no bigger than ants, started gesturing wildly and pointing.   Sure enough, around the bend came Bob and his three students.   I hurried back to find out what had happened!

What I discovered was an incredible feat of heroism on Bob's part.   The crampon on one of his student's boots came off, the strap broken.   Hiking above tree line was impossible without two crampons.   Bob had somehow managed to get string out of his pack and fashion a makeshift crampon strap.  Remembering the 30-30-30 (on this day actually 30-100-10) rule, I have no idea how he managed to do this.

The rest of the descent was uneventful.  The only minor casualty was with 6'4" Garrett who could never find ski pants that were long enough and so had a pair on that did not fully cover his ankles causing him to acquire nasty frostbite.   Because of this, Garrett had to miss our annual ski trip to Stowe, Vermont, but he proudly declared from the school's infirmary, "It was worth it!"

In retrospect, from my current vantage point, I should have turned back.  But it's an open question: which is preferable, my youthful spirit of adventure or my "mature" caution.

Browsing Brooklyn

When I began this blog last February, I pontificated to the effect  that the past was history, beyond our control.   The only events over which we could exert control were the present and the future; therefore, don't fret the past.  I then proceeded, over some eighteen blogs, to ruminate on things long past: my hippy days, my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer, and my foreign service experiences.

Today: back to the present or very recent past.  I had made up my mind that, due to declining energy levels, travel was something I could no longer manage.   Specifically and painfully I would see my daughter Palesa's apartment in Brooklyn only through emailed pictures. I even thought maybe if I fly it would be easier!  My wife, Qenehelo, son Thabie, and daughter, Palesa, all  argued that all I had to do was sit in the front passenger seat of the car, tilt the seat back and take a nap.  Finally I was persuaded, and by George we made it!   And in good shape.

Not only that, I actually tooled around Brooklyn on my two feet.   We went to beautiful Prospect Park, across the street from Palesa and Jeff's apartment where we walked to the edge of a lake. 

Qenehelo and I in Prospect Park

                                                                                                    

Palesa and me in her apartment

                                                    

The next day we went to Coney Island, where the rides were shut, the effects of Hurricane Sandy were still evident but the board walk had lots of traffic.   I could hardly believe I was doing this stuff.

Thabie at Coney Island

                                                          
Then we went to the Botanical Gardens, my personal favorite place where, we borrowed a wheel chair and I tooled around, the energy supplied by Palesa.

Here I am tooling around the Botanical Gardens!

The next day we were off to the Brooklyn Museum, again on my own two feet, African art, ancient Egyptian stone carvings, Rembrandts, contemporary American art.   I had had a stereotypical notion of Brooklyn as a place of run down apartments and not much else.   Wrong!  Botanical gardens, parks, museums, and more.   Not the borough I had conceived of. On the next day we walked four or five blocks to an outdoor concert of African music near Metro Tech Center Commons where people were dancing and I struck up an acquaintance with Daryl from Harlem.

Music at the MetroTech Commons in Downtown Brooklyn

    
                                                                       

Here I am with Daryl

I realize that all this sounds like the tedious scribblings on travel post cards.   But the main point was that I was actually doing it.   A week earlier I would have said that all this was the stuff of dreams, nothing I could actually do.  The lesson for me was that I could do a lot more than I thought I could, thanks to the encouragement of Qenehelo, Thabie, and Palesa.  I  feel so much better for having gotten out of my chair, gone to Brooklyn and acted like any tourist!

Octogenerians Rejoice

Friday's Washington Post (May 24) included the usual sadly depressing litany of people killing one another:  the page 8 world news digest included " 5-day death toll at 16 after frightful night" (Lebanon);  Rickshaw bomb killed 13 in Baluchistan"; "7 Iraqi soldiers shot dead at checkpoint." 

Then at the end a short note on an astonishing event: "Japanese man, 80, becomes oldest to scale Everest."   The paragraph notes that "an 80-year old Japanese man who began the year with his fourth heart operation became the oldest conqueror of Mount Everest. . . even with an 81 year-old Nepalese climber not far behind him."

This is the mountain that for the first half of the twentieth century the world's greatest climbers, in the prime of their lives failed to conquer, until Edmond Hillary and Tensing achieved the feat in 1953.   And they were young and in top shape.  Many octogenarians, myself included, consider it a challenging climb to walk upstairs in our houses and here are two men in their 80's, one of whom had recently had his fourth heart operation, on top of Everest!   It's almost impossible  to believe.

Mountain climbing has long been one of my favourite activities.  I've hiked the Green Mountains in Vermont, the White Mountains in New Hampshire (including several winter ascents of Mounts Washington, Adams and Lafayette, with some of the world's worst weather), The Rocky Mountains, the French Alps, and even  the Himalayan foothills.   But never have I aspired to try the great Himalayan Peaks. 

So I have no envy of Yuichiro Miura.  I have only incredulous awe of his feat and vast admiration.  At a time when I'm dealing with reduced physical capacities, he's climbing Everest after his fourth heart operation.  What a guy.  I'd love to shake his hand some day. 

Young and Reckless in Nambia

You might think that after sampling a week behind bars in a Mexican jail, I wouldn't go near any more jails. Wrong!   (See my post of March 5).   During a school break when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Lesotho, a fellow teacher, Richard, and I decided to visit Namibia, which was then called Southwest Africa and controlled by apartheid South Africa.   How does one get from Lesotho to Southwest Africa without a car?  Hitchhiking, naturally.

Using this method we crossed the subcontinent and arrived in Southwest Africa, well south of Windhoek, the capital.   Our destination was Etosha Nationals Park in the extreme north, bordering on Angola.   Where would we, on volunteer budgets, stay during the nights?  Richard had read somewhere that if you went to the local jail and they had a free cell, you could bunk down there.   One problem solved.  We spent several nights in unlocked cells, not the Ritz, but a roof over our heads. .The other problem was that there was a war going on between the South African army and the freedom fighters of SWAPO (Southwest Africa Peoples Organization).  Well, we'd just have to be careful.  The jail idea having actually worked well, in due time we arrived in Windhoek.

In Windhoek we learned that all speed limits were off to the north to give motorists the chance to evade the war.  We rented a car in the capital and started off.   We encountered South African army patrols going through the woods and figured that all would be well once we got to Etosha.  So we had a pleasant few days watching the big game, confident we didn't need to worry about civil war.   There were no other visitors. Only later did we learn that SWAPO was using Etosha as its headquarters.

We made it back south where Richard and I parted, he going to Cape Town and I going back to Maseru, Lesotho.  When I arrived in Bloemfontein, the bastion of apartheid, it was evening and I had in my pocket enough money only for dinner or a hotel.  I opted to eat and afterwards made my way to local jail, where I was asked to wait for half an hour.  

Eventually someone showed up and said "I'll show you to your quarters."   I thought that sounded promising until I was put in a cell and the door was looked.   They had never locked the doors in Namibia.  "Wait!   I'm not a criminal!"  "It's for your own safety.  You'll be released in the morning."  Around 11 p.m.  the door was unlocked and a wildly drunk man, yelling and thrashing about, was pushed into the cell with me.   I immediately set about trying to calm him down with minimal success.  I may have slept an hour or two.

Sure enough, the guard opened the door at 6:30 a.m., where there was woman from the Salvation Army, handing out religious tracts.   "God bless you, my son," she said to me.

Later, when I was a Foreign Service officer in Lesotho, I told this story to the king who roared with laughter at my naiveté in thinking I could mosey into a jail in Bloemfontein without consequence.

Around the World in Thirty Days

I realize there are climate-change deniers, evolution deniers,and  birthers, but I doubt there are too many flat-earthers.   Undaunted I decided to check out the theory by circumnavigating the globe in thirty days.   As you will see this was a very bad idea.

It happened on my second annual visit to South Asia, as Country Affairs Officer.  I flew first to Pakistan, where I went to four cities where the US Information Agency had posts: Islamabad, Peshawar, Lahore, and Karachi.  I learned at a Peshawar diplomatic reception that cabinet ministers, when asked by the bartender what they would like to drink, would reply "oh, something refreshing," meaning something alcoholic.   In Lahore, at a minister's house, the host got out scotch, vodka, gin and the like.  All this in an officially teetotaling country.

I next went to Katmandu in Nepal, where, contrary to what you would expect, the city was shrouded with smog (thanks to the profession of motorized and poorly maintained rickshaws spewing exhaust) and most people went around nursing respiratory infections.  The Public Affairs Officer took me on a long drive into the countryside so that I could actually see the Himalayas.   Then on to Dhaka, where business men walked around the city in boots because of the mud and flooding.

Here's where it got interesting.  I theorized that if I was in Dhaka, it made no difference whether I went east or west on my way home. ,   Why not go east, visit Hawaii for a couple of days and then on home?  To justify my visit to Hawaii, I arranged for consultations at the East-West Institute, a cooperative academic venture.

My first stop was Bangkok, where I visited a friend who was Public Affairs Officer.  I had dinner at his house and asked to go to the airport hotel where I had a room.  My friend said there was no point in going until later at night because the traffic gridlock was overwhelming.   So we walked around visiting functioning crematoriums and I didn't get to me room until midnight.

Boarding for my plane was 2 p.m. giving me a mere two hours sleep before setting off on my foolhardy adventure.  We flew several hours to Narita Airport, outside Tokyo, where I had a seven hour layover.    The plastic seats were scientifically designed to prevent rest and the international boarding area was devoid of distractions.

Finally, still with only two hours' sleep,  I took off for Hawaii.   On the way, we crossed the international date line, putting the finishing touches on my disorientation and exhaustion.   Was it Tuesday or Wednesday, morning or evening?   I had no idea.   When we arrived in Honolulu,  I checked into my hotel headed for the bed, but no.   Mt hosts informed me that they had scheduled wall-to-wall appointments at the East-West Institute.   So I sat through scholarly discussions of oil pipelines through South Asia and similarly soporific topics.

I actually wandered off to Waikiki Beach where I utterly failed to appreciate its beauty.  Ultimately I was off to Detroit and finally back to Washington, arriving in total exhaustion.  The smart thing to do would have been to accept that the earth is spherical.   There's no need, believe me, actually to check it out.

How to Stop Some Wars

As you look around the world, do you notice how many conflicts are based on religious or ethnic differences?  In Iraq, especially, and throughout the Middle East, we see the Sunni and Shia factions of Islam killing each other.  There are the Hindus and Muslims fueling the India-Pakistan conflict over Kashmir, the Israelis and the Palestinians so wary of each other that they seem unwilling to negotiate.  We have the Hutus and Tutsis in central Africa, the Africans, Indians, and whites in South Africa.

And so it goes.   We tend to lump people together into groups and say, in effect, I don't need to know those people individually and personally because I know what people in that group are like.  But that's just what we do need to know.

My focus today is the little known, small island of Cyprus, in the news recently because of its precarious finances.  Reading the stories you'd think the Greek-oriented government was the government of all Cyprus.  In fact  since 1974, Cyprus has been a divided island with the Greek-Cypriots controlling the southern two thirds and the northern portion controlled by the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, protected by 30,000 Turkish troops.  There is a border between the two which is difficult to cross.

When I retired from the Foreign Service I had the good luck to get a job with AMIDEAST, a non-profit promoting educational exchanges.  I was assigned to the Cyprus-America Scholarship Program.   We monitored academic progress and visited several students twice annually.   But an important aspect of our program was promoting understanding between the two sides.   When I started on the program we had Greek- and Turkish-Cypriots on the same campus who didn't bother to talk to each other.

As a result we organized week-long conflict resolution workshops held at Coolfont resort in West Virginia.   The students lived in cabins in the woods and spent their time in a series of role-playing exercises run by the Conflict Management Group of Cambridge, Mass.   One game I recall: groups of Turkish Cypriots were asked the imagine they were Greek Cypriots, and a group of Greek Cypriots
were told to pretend they were Greek Cypriots.  Then the "Greek Cypriots"(actually Turkish Cypriots)  were asked to say what they thought of Turkish Cypriots and the reverse.  It was a way of seeing the others' point of view.

After classes the students socialized as one homogenous group, taking meals and playing sports and outdoor games together.   They formed a circle with a blindfolded student in the center.   He leaned back untl he started to fall, but was caught by other students.   He had trusted them.  then there were the high ropes with trip wires.   Below are two pictures of the students talking and listening to each other.

After a week together, the students were hugging each other and singing together.  The camaraderie continued back on the campuses where if a student got sick, he/she was sure to be visited by both Greek- and Turkish- Cypriot friends.  What the students had learned was that whatever cultural, ethnic or religious differences exist between people, their common humanity draws them together.  Before all, we are just people, wanting to make something of our lives, needing to be loved.



Adventures in Pakistan

After fourteen years in Africa, I returned to Washington where eventually I became Country Affairs Officer to South Asia, responsible for Afghanistan, Pakistan, Nepal, and Bangladish.   I supported and oversaw USIA activities in these countries and, once a year, I visited to check out their programs and meet relevant government officials.

Reading the newspapers these days, you might well conclude you didn't want to go to Pakistan what with suicide bombings and sporadic attacks by the Taliban.  My first visit to Pakistan was in 1993 when things were less volatile, but not without adventure.  When I arrived in Islamabad I checked in at the Holiday Inn, a familiar and comforting presence.  Around 5 p.m. a delicious looking spread was laid out in the lobby and where I, a vegetarian, tucked into the fresh salad makings.

A bad mistake.   In a few hours I came down with a major case of gastro-intestinal infection.   The next day wall to wall meetings with ministers and the like lay before me like an obstacle course.  The challenge was to try to focus on substantive issues all the while wondering if I could make it through an hour without needing the rest room!

I next went with some USIA officers to Peshawar close to the lawless west and various warlords.  I checked in at the Continental Hotel (since blown up by terrorists) where a large sign in the lobby read, "Gunmen!   Please check your weapons at the front desk."  What?   There were gunmen staying at the hotel?  I had noticed driving through town that almost everybody was carrying a weapon and recalled a US Consulate officer intoning that an armed society is a civil society.

After the usual round of meetings with Pakistani officials,l my hosts decided a trip to Khyber Pass would give me an idea of the section of the country not controlled by the central government.   Khyber Pass was officially closed but a special exception was made for the visiting Washington official.   The government assigned a soldier with a rifle and a sash of bullets, ostensibly for my protection, but possibly to keep an eye on me.   We drove up a long, narrow winding road past the fortresses of warlords to the top of the pass overlooking Afghanistan, which was definitely closed to us.   Large trucks, probably loaded with contraband, seemed to be crossing the border into Pakistan virtually uninspected.   As a momentum of the occasion, I was photographed with my protector.  Afghanistan is in the background.

In the picture directly above, he has handed me his rifle, presumably to impress my friends.  

The next item on my getting-to-know-Pakistan tour was a trip to a village, rural certainly, but the home of a rich man.  A nice outdoor lunch was spread out and we ate peacefully with our hosts.   But not for long.   The after-lunch entertainment was. . .shooting off machine guns at the sky to wild yelling and cheering..   I hate to think of where the bullets came down.

Finally I arrived in Karachi, a violence plagued city.   I checked into an international hotel and thought what I really wanted was a cold beer.   I called room service and in due time a man showed up with a bottle of beer, a chilled mug, and a bag of potato chips.   First he had to inspect my passport to be sure I wasn't a Pakistani in this officially teetotalling country.   Next I had to sign an affidavit:"I certify that this beverage is for bone-fide medical purposes only."   But of course.   Welcome to Pakistan!



Village Life in Lesotho

As I venture on this topic, I'm keenly aware there are experts in Lesotho - Kaybee, Lineo, Lipalesa, and Sebitsa - my nieces and nephew, who know far more than I ever will and who may be reading my blog.  So, let's rephrase: these are the observations of someone who grew up in a suburb of Boston on the beauty of Lesotho's rural life.

We have gotten into the habit of dividing the world into developed and developing nations, implying that becoming developed is the goal of developing nations.  But this was not my impression after living in Lesotho, my second home, for nine years.

My wife, Qenehelo, grew up in the small village of Tsoe'ng.  As a young girl, she fetched water by walking a fair distance downhill to a spring, filling a large bucket with water, and carrying it back on her head.  During dry seasons she had to get to the spring before dawn because the spring dried up early.   She fetched cow dung from the fields and brush from the mountain for cooking.  So meals were cooked outdoors and water had to be used economically.

Most of the dwellings were mud huts (rondavels) with thatched roofs.    Qenehelo's family had a round house for cooking and a rectangular house for sleeping. There was no electricity.  At the top of a hill was a large building (mud walls and corrugated iron roof) which served as a school room during the week, a church on Sunday mornings, and a concert hall on Sunday afternoons.

Outside the houses chickens clucked about and in the kraals cows, sheep, and pigs mulled around.

Because the houses were small, people left their doors open all day and visiting neighbors was the main way of spending the day.   The contrast with my current neighborhood, where we speak pleasantries across the street and close our doors is striking.  Qenehelo's mother, 'Matiisetso, one of the kindest, most generous people I have known, was a wonderful example of neighborliness.   When she was cooking, village people might loiter about the door.  'Matiisetso would always bring them a plate of food.  Once a neighbor came saying she has no money for her daughter's school uniform; 'Matiiesetso without hesitation went to her teapot where she saved money for sugar, tea, and the like, and handed all her money to her neighbor.

At risk of over romanticizing, the village seemed like a family of two hundred people.  At weddings of village girls, everybody joined in the procession to share the joy; at funerals the whole village joined a procession to the church and then to the burial site to honor the person's life and to see he or she was buried with dignity.   After the funeral, everybody went to the home of the deceased, first to wash their hands (removing death), and then to join in a feast.

Even the names by which others are addressed reflect the sense of family: a woman is called "'Mme" (mother), a man is called "Ntate" (father), a girl is addressed as "ausi" (sister) and a boy a "abuti" (brother).   These names are for everybody, not just members of one's family.

I don't want to imply that there wasn't both good and evil in Lesotho.   There was.   But the societal norms favored sharing, neighborliness, and a sense of community.  The heart and soul of life in Lesotho lay in the villages, where most people live, where neighbors look after neighbors. 

Getting out of the Easy Chair

I know that lectures on the need for exercise are tedious and annoying, so you won't get any from me.   But have you seen the reports on the 102 year old man who still goes to the gym working on weights and the rowing machine?  Three cheers for him.   He may not be typical, but he's sure great..

 

I'm nowhere near his age bracket but I still go to the gym everyday.   When I wake up in the morning I sure don't say to myself "I can't wait to get to the gym!"  It would be much easier to loll in bed sipping coffee and reading the paper.  I go because it's time to go: I do it every day.  I keep count of the number of consecutive days I've gone as a way of motivating me.   (I'm now at 72 days , but  once made it to 259.)  Above is a picture of me on my way to the daily wortkout.   And hey the other day a woman at the gym asked me "Are you 70 yet?"   Oh yeah!   Never mind that I left 70 behind years ago.  It made me feel it was worthwhile.

There are plenty of other ways to get out of that chair.   From my teens on, I loved to go mountain hiking, an activity I had to give up a couple of years ago because of my stiff knees.

 

 

Here I am with my daughter Palesa in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia's Shenandoah National Park.



And here are wife Qenehelo, friend Jeff, and Palesa about to set off on a 5 km. race.

 

 

And here I was in the Colorado Rockies on home leave from the Peace Corps.   So my thought is, go hiking or running if you enjoy it or go to the gym to get yourself into shape, if you are so inclined.

My Friend, the Queen





My Friend the Queen:

I first met the Queen of Lesotho when I was teaching English at Moshoeshoe II High School in Matsieng, the royal village.  Everything about her showed she was a woman of the people: she got down on her hands and knees with the gardeners to weed the flowers; she invited all the village children to the birthday parties of Mohato, her son, and Seeiso, her daughter.   (Mohato is now in his forties  and is King Letsie III, but I remember attending his 12^th birthday party.)  The Queen was also famous for dancing with the village women.     There was nothing pretentious at all about her.   No wonder she was universally loved as a symbol of all that was good about the Basotho people.

When I returned to Lesotho later as a Foreign Service officer, the ambassador decided she should go to the United States under our international visitor program.   When the two of us went to the palace to invite her and before we could say anything, she smiled broadly and said “I accept!”

The picture above shows us in Matsieng in front of the king’s village house.  I had gone thereto discuss her U.S. program focused on meeting groups that promote women’s issues.   As we were talking, she blurted out, “Oh, Ntate Bill, I’m losing my hair!”   “Well so am I,” I replied.   “But you’re a man.”  Can you imagine any other queen in the world making such an unpretentious comment?

Her visit was covered by the Voice of America and when she returned she invited Qenehelo and me as well as several women friends to the palace for dinner where she excitedly recounted her adventures in the US.   A true woman of the people.

The Unfamous Meet the Famous

Like most people, I'm not famous. I can walk down the street and nobody, except for an occasional friend, recognizes me: no hands to shake, autographs to sign. In the Foreign Service, however, we sometimes get to meet the truly well known; they're visiting our country and we in the embassy orient them, set up appointments, provide transportation, and so forth. It's a brush with fame without the inconvenience of fame. Here are some that I've met.







In 1988, around Christmas time I was de facto chief of mission in Gabon: the ambassador was on vacation deep in the bush, and the Deputy Chief was on home leave. One day I received a call from the Foreign Ministry asking what were my plans for the Jackson visit. What Jackson visit? It turned out that Jesse, unannounced, would be arriving in three hours. I called all the embassy staffers who were around and we quickly arranged a welcoming party in coordination with our Gabonese hosts. I managed to contact the ambasador who asked me to set up ma reception while he hurried back. Jackson turned out to be most gracious, patient, and knowledgeable. In the picture above, I'm posing with Jesse at the ambassador's residence.



In 1982, when I was Cultural Affairs Officer in Zambia, then Vice President George H. W. Bush visited the country. One of his events was a reception and talk at the American Cultural Center. I asked Jonathan, our staff photographer, to be sure to take a picture of me shaking hands with the Vice President. I greeted Bush as he came in, but Jonathan was looking in another direction. I again shook Bush's hand at the reception, but, alas Jonathan had been distracted. However, I was in charge of Barbara Bush's program and here we are at one of her events. I'm at the right, confirming that indeed my hair was receding.

And who is this gentleman that I'm greeting effusively? It's General Kekhanya, head of the army of Lesotho and leader of the coup that elevated my friend the king as head of state. I talked about this on my post about the king and I.

Finally in Gabon, where our American Cultural Center library was named after Martin Luther King, I welcomed Coretta Scott King where she donated a collection of books on her husband. I'm not in the picture, because I took it! Some fond memories of my transitory brush with fame without any of the inconveniences of actually being famous.

Gospel Music in Gabon

One  of the really good activities of the US government is "Arts America," a program sponsored by what was then the US Information  Agency.  American musical groups, one of the most popular of which were gospel singers, were sent overseas as a way of sharing our culture.

 

While I was in Gabon, I learned via cable that a group called the Stars of Faith would be arriving in a month, giving me four weeks to turn a hitherto unknown ensemble into national celebrities.  I did this via TV (I had a sample tape) and radio interviews.  I persuaded our ambassador, Warren Clark, to propose to President Bongo a concert in the presidential palace to which ministers and other dignitaries would be invited.   When the idea was accepted, I knew we had a first.

 

On the evening of the event we were all gathered, Ambassador Clark,embassy officers, ministers, generals and the like with the president's daughter acting as hostess.  The Stars of Faith came on stage: four women singers and a male pianist.  But when they started to sing, it became obvious something was wrong with the pianist.  Whereas he had played well during rehearsal, he was now banging out irrelevant and discordant chords.  While we wondered what was going on, he fell off the piano stool and crawled on all fours off stage.

 

The Stars of Faith quickly switched to a Capella songs.   Then, towards the end of the concert, the pianist reappeared on stage dragging a chair and resumed "playing."  As the group stood to bow, pianist and singers, the pianist fell off the stage to "oohs and ahs."   It turned out he was full of drugs and alcohol and there we were, the ambassador and staff, to absorb the embarrassment..

 

The Gabonese carried on with an after-concert reception, complete with Dom Perignon, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, ministers and generals shaking hands with us.   In the picture above with me smiling and bowing obsequiously, I'm shaking hands with the president's daughter (the lead singer is on the right) with Ambassador Clark in the background and Deputy Chief of Mission Ken Scott on the left.  

 

In the aftermath, I sent cables to all the posts on the singers' schedule describing what had happened, the pianist was sent back to Paris, and the gospel group, all professionals, completed a very successful stay in Gabon, relying solely on their a Capella repertoire. 

 

We were fortunate to have had such gracious Gabonese hosts.

 

 

 

 

"War Tales" from Zambia

A conventional view of life in the Foreign Service is that of officers living in fancy houses, and hobnobbing with the local elite while wearing pin striped suits. This is true of our activity about 90% of the time, but it’s the other 10% that’s really exciting. Here are a couple of scary events that happened shortly after my arrival. In 1980, two months into my tour in Zambia, while I was officially a Junior Officer Trainee, my boss decided a trip into the hinterlands of western Zambia was just what I needed to orient myself to the country. So I set off in an embassy jeep with Dave, the newly arrived consular officer, and Goodwin, one of our longest serving and most trusted Foreign Service Nationals, the title we gave to our local staff. All went well, calling on local officials and giving talks in schools to the effect that Ronald Reagan, our newly elected president, was appointing moderates so there was no need to worry. As we travelled farther and farther into the bush we appreciated the vast diversity, actually fragmentation, of a nation with some 80 spoken languages. Near the Angolan border, far, far from any central authority, we stopped at a folksy tavern, bought soft drinks and ate lunch. Locals were lounging on the porch with their beers. Dave thought that would make a great picture, something to remember our trip by. So he pulled out his camera and snapped the shutter. Immediately we were surrounded by angry men, one of whom opened the door to our jeep and climbed into the backseat with Dave, demanding that he turn over his camera, which Dave refused to do. I was in the driver’s seat and the guy behind said “I have a gun and I’ll shoot you if you try to drive off.” Apparently they thought we were South African spies intent on destabilizing Zambia. Help! How could we get out of this jam with our lives? Goodwin was calmly explaining we were from the US Embassy and Dave had the idea of showing our travel orders and his diplomatic passport. Our captors grudgingly agreed we weren’t South Africans and let us proceed, Dave still in possession of his camera. It was quite a while before my nerves settled down. Back in Lusaka, the capital, I was installed in a nice house whose walls were largely glass. I had been in the house a few weeks when on a Tuesday night the alarm went off, indicating an attempted break in. The sound scared off the intruder but made me feel rather vulnerable. In response the embassy added a second guard. Two days later, I was awakened by the crash of breaking glass. Two guys with guns who fortunately ran away. The guards had prudently hightailed it over the back fence and my boss said over our radio I could spend the rest of the night at his house. The next morning I went to the ambassador, a generally intimidating man, pounded my fist on his desk and said, no matter what, I wasn’t spending another night in that house. It was located on the path to the city’s shanty town, crime-ridden home to thousands of working poor. So I was installed in what I later discovered was a CIA safe house, where the male house cleaner in residence regularly pilfered my food, not the best , but a big improvement over glass houses and break-ins. Just two examples of the 10% of our time. In the Foreign Service we call these “war stories,” tales we love to swap when we get together.

Islands in the Sun: My Adventures in Sao Tome

Islands in the Sun:  My Adventures in Sao Tome

My third Foreign Service posting was Libreville, Gabon, on the west coast of Africa and right on the equator, a welcoming environment for a host of tropical diseases from malaria on down.  I was also accredited to Sao Tome and Principe, two small equatorial islands about 300 miles off the coast of Gabon.   Sao Tome was a former Portuguese colony and cocoa plantation with the indigenous people doing all the work.

I flew out there four times a year (on a rickety airplane with no seatbelts run by Equatorial Air) for two or three days.  I’d get interviewed on the national radio, speaking French (with a Portuguese voice over), call on the editor of the newspaper and organize a reception at the island’s one hotel.  Fairly routine stuff, except for the scary plane ride.

Once when the US Navy show band was visiting Gabon accompanying a US military official for talks on cooperation, the band decided to go to Sao Tome and give a concert.  We arrived at 3 P.m. and my job was to locate a venue and publicize a totally unannounced concert in four hours.  In the distance I heard an ompah sound and located the Sao Tome military band, dented instruments and, all in a stadium.  There was the venue.   Then I went to the radio station to publicize the event.  My hope was that people would hear the sounds of the band and come out of curiosity.   We got there, started playing and soon the stadium was full.   I was the MC, speaking in French with a Portuguese interpreter.  The whole event was a roaring success.

Another visit, however, was far from routine.   The US Ambassador to the UN at the time, Vernon Walters, was visiting Libreville for Gabon’s independence anniversary and indicated he wanted to visit Sao Tome as well.  The word was that he collected countries he’d been to and Sao Tome would be an addition to his collection.  I was asked to accompany him.

The day before we were to go, there was an “invasion” of the islands.  The “invasion” consisted of six guys in a row boat who were promptly detained.   Still even though Sao Tome was on high alert we decided to go ahead with the visit.  When we landed at the Sao Tome airport, I noticed the landing strip was surrounded by Angolan soldiers, who provided military support to the islands.

The president of Sao Tome had retreated to a hideaway in the hills, as a precaution.  Ambassador Walters and I set off.  When we arrived, we found more Angolan soldiers, presumably protecting the president, following the “invasion.”  My job was to photograph the ambassador and the president and step outside while the two talked.   I got my picture and moved out to sit down when I was promptly surrounded by the Angolan soldiers all pointing their rifles at me.   I couldn’t speak Portuguese to explain that I was with the president’s visitor.  The thirty or forty minutes I sat out there looking down the barrels of the guns were frightening.   If I tried to get up and walk around, they stiffened and motioned with their guns that I should stay put.   “Hey, I’m not a threat,” I wished I could have said.  Eventually Walters emerged and I breathed a sigh of relief as we boarded the ambassador’s car and headed back to the airport.

Libreville, Gabon, with all its tropical diseases, had suddenly become a welcome haven of safety.

 

My Friend the King and I

After Zambia my second posting in the Foreign Service was to Lesotho where I was Public Affairs Officer and Director of the American Cultural Center.  Shortly after I arrived the ambassador hosted his annual Fourth of July reception where the King was an invited guest.  At the end, when I went to shake hands with His Majesty, the king whispered in my ear: “Bill let’s not let protocol interfere with our friendship.”

What was he talking about?  When I was a Peace Corps Volunteer at the high school in the royal village, the king, who was patron to the school, attended faculty meetings and we became friends.  So my wife, Qenehelo and I found ourselves invited to the palace in the capital for lunches and dinners as often as twice a week.  The king was so informal that he once greeted my wife with “Hello, gorgeous!”

 US policy toward South Africa was not popular at the time, but the local ANC leader and future Minister of Constitutional Law said “Bill’s a brother.”  After dinner discussions with prominent people were the norm but the topics were as informal as to whether it was OK for husbands to beat their wives.   The king once asked for my views on policy toward South Africa.   When I started rattling off official policy the king replied “I want to know what you think.   If I want policy I’ll ask the ambassador.”    So we were friends.

Then, without warning, the military staged a coup in 1986, and installed the king, formerly a ceremonial figure, as absolute leader.  The dinner guests I had known suddenly became ministers and I was on a first name basis with over half the cabinet.

One of the American speakers I invited to Lesotho was Ed O’Brien, leader of a “Street Law” program in DC.  The idea was to teach students that when they walked the streets, the law was in effect and applied to everybody.  Who better to host a seminar with Ed than the king?  He had majored in law at Oxford and was patron of the high school in his village.  So Ed came and presented his program in the palace with ministers in attendance.   After Ed left the king called me and said he wanted to set up a street law program in Lesotho.

I was subsequently called to the palace for a one-on-one with His Majesty to discuss how we could work together.   Foreign Service Officers dream of situations like this, sitting down with a head of state to talk about democratizing their country.   So our Street Law program for Lesotho was born.  I sent a law professor from the national university to the US to study street law and when he returned to Lesotho he worked with an American specialist, Margaret Fisher whom I had invited on a six month working visit to Lesotho.

The American lawyer and the Mosotho professor worked together: a textbook on the law of Lesotho was created and introduced into the classroom, and a mock trial, featuring student “lawyers” and presided over by an actual high court judge took place.  The whole program was a first (and only) experience for me.

Since those heady days the king was killed several years later in an auto accident.   But there hangs on our wall in northern Virginia a lovely Basotho weaving, the king’s parting gift to us when we left the country in 1987.