Follow down

I felt I needed to follow up on a few things. So in all ernestness, I try to satisfy that subversive dark side and hence I will follow down.

* * *

Writing adventure:

With all my ranting about numbers, you'd've thunk I'd get them right myself, or at least use some consistant reporting format. Last time I mentioned my progress, well I screwed it all up. So, in fact I am 0/4, awaiting results on 1 submission. Some time back I wrote 4/5, which doesn't even make sense. (Even less than the double contraction in the phrase "you'd've thunk.")

To those of you who are new, that means I have entered 5 writing contests or competitions of somesort, I have not won any of them and I am awaiting the results of 1.

The sixth event is in view. It is not a contest at all I don't think, so maybe I won't count it in the tally, but it is a writing event in which I will participate. Stay tuned for mid-October. (Thanks for the tip, Sophie.)

Not very good results, but half way through my adventure, I think it is really hard to win these things. Who knows what "they" are looking for. Who knows who I am competing against. But I do know one thing, I am having fun and it is making me write more.

As for my ego, it is happily enjoying trying to make my blog better.

* * *

Life adventure:

Maybe the events of the past few weeks is why I feel the need to follow down, rather than up. Earthquake. Floods. Mouse in the office.

There was no major damage from the earthquake (a few things fell down that were already falling, I thought that someone was kicking my bed). More significant was the way it made people feel.

Summary Data: Magnitude 4.4, 3 minutes to verify it by a USGS siesmologist, 3 more minutes to get my own GPS point from my phone, download the KML file from USGS, plot the points in GoogleEarth and make the following map. 19.2 miles from me (as the crow flies). I love it. How cool is that!

The bias is clear. How me-centered is all that data? Hiesenberg... not sure how he fits in, but he must. By making the map did I affect anything? I spent a few minutes with the gaurds showing them the map. They may have thought I was nuts, but they seemed to enjoy the company.

And then the floods and winds came down from heaven with great wrath, and many of the 8 (9?) month old ramshackle tents and tarps got blown to shit. Billboards flew around among the power lines. People died. And how did it affect me? The office went into overdrive. Very exciting and good learning from some talented folks.

But the mouse in the office was the real emergency, and like all big storms, he got a name. Murphy the WASH Cluster mascot mouse.

Oh boy do I sound... jaded? tired? twisted? I assure you, I am all of those things.

* * *

For you folks at home, I do not live in a tent anymore. When I am not in Port au Prince, I live in a 2x3m room in a metal shipping container. Quite safe in an earthquake and in a storm. When I am in Port au Prince, I live on my friends' floors. Still a hobo singin' that lullaby.

Indicators

The answer is 42.
But what does 42 mean, really?

Remember two things: Heisenberg and Bias.

* * *

Dirty old Heisenberg

If you look my way
I might smile or scowl
or curse
depending
on who you might be
friend or foe
or dirty old man.
Even when I seem
to do nothing
know that ignoring you
is a calculated reaction.

* * *

Inherent Bias

We wear yellow glasses. We are looking at a blue world. We see a green world. If we know our glasses are yellow, then hopefully we will remember that the green world we are looking at is actually bluer than that which we see as green.

* * *

The problem of measurement or observation or knowing is not new. Heisenberg was mentioned and there is Schrödinger and his poor cat or the quantum suicide scenario, which are more obtuse discussions about observers and the observed, whose practicality is questionable.  I am a scientist and aid worker, so that’s what’s practical to me.

An interesting and practical discussion about the perspective of being outsider on the Tales From The Hood blog rung true with me in certain situations, but he left something out.  He is right, sometimes an outsider can filter out a local bias, but sometimes an outsider can exaggerate a local bias as well. The important thing is to be aware of one’s effect and one’s biases and the situation and the complex interactions therein. We can never eliminate these things, but we can at least be aware of them.

* * *

Intelligent scientists and aid workers alike know that by measuring something you do indeed affect it. We also know, despite not being quantum physicists, that we will never know the exact value or position or whatever. Whether numbers or simple observations, we are careful to minimize these things by triangulation, awareness and thoughtful measurement methods.

An example: Hydrogeologists poke holes (i.e. dig wells) into aquifers and in doing so disrupt what was once, and in being aware of that, we accept it because it is good enough to understand the system. It is that, in fact, our goal in observing anything: to understand what is going on. 

When we do science in aid work, we are still scientists and indeed report a range of values or other interpretations that reflect uncertainty. The methodology (how these numbers are arrived at) is rigorous and has been peer reviewed, published and duplicated by experts. The documentation of such methodology is available, transparent and clear, even to someone outside the relevant technical field who has basic mathematics background, some curiosity and half a brain.

An example: We measure a certain number of randomly sampled children to represent a greater population which is very specifically defined and say, for example, that for this defined population there is an 80% chance that we are beyond the emergency threshold of global acute malnutrition or that the level of X problem is Y% with a 90% confidence interval of +/-Z.

* * *

On NOT understanding Heisenberg: The danger in science and in aid work is when people do not take the time to understand what a number or observation means: how it was measured, the constraints and limitation inherent in it, some people don’t even know the units associated with that number (e.g. 42). Without some knowledge about the mechanics of the observation, you will never know what anything actually says about the system or population or, really, about anything.

On NOT understanding Bias: This can be your bias (your yellow glasses), as well as the bias of the presentation. The most dangerous and common thing of all is to talk about a number or to compare two numbers that are not related at all and then draw some wide-sweeping conclusions from them. There are many particularly worrying examples of this. Some examples of this are well intentioned but careless, and some straight-up-dirty manipulation of data.

Back to practicality. We make observations to come to conclusions. I hate conclusions. They are usually wrong because they depend on a complexity of things. But alas, conclusions are a necessary evil.

Understanding Heisenberg + Bias = better conclusions. Knowing what the number or observation means helps filter some bias, but can’t get it all. By being aware of bias, and especially the bias of the audience, and by trying to take off or lighten the yellow glasses makes the conclusion stronger, more realistic and inherently better.

* * *

One problem with my argument is that it is too idealistic and simple. Bad science, bad measurements and bad observations are rampent. Which makes pretty much any view of them moot. (But can you expect me to address everything in a single blog post? Really?) And the point is, by using the noggin a little and not just accepting what you read, you can identify this "badness."

Another problem with my argument is that I am guilty too, I sometimes draw conclusions too fast, I have biases, I have a sick sense of humor that gets the best of my biases. But sheesh, I am human. The point is not that I know best, it is that I am thinking about it and you should too.

* * *

Did I bore you? Confuse you?
If so, read it again.
If not, enjoy lighter side of indicators.

* * *

In every niche there are standard, quantifiable indicators. For me professionally, this often boils down to things like the prevalence of WASH related diseases, number of people per latrine, liters of water per person per day, fecal coliforms per sample etc. We also have qualitative indicators which may give another, less number-full view of the situation, but equally valuable.

I have come up with a few indicators of my own, which mean nothing, are not scientific and are most undoubtedly influenced by my sick sense of humor and biases. The ones I will present here relate to the level of development of a place, mostly the economic development of that place.

I hoped I didn’t have to say this, but I guess I need a disclaimer: In all seriousness, these are really complicated subjects. Please realize that by presenting these ridiculous indicators, that I am demonstrating exactly the danger of this entire discussion. My apparent hypocrisy is intentional. I am a sarcastic person and I intend to remain that way.

* * *

Fire: And god said let there be light, and it was good. And man discovered fire and flint. And then matches were available on the local market. And then lighters. And then lighters with flashing lights inside. And then lighters with flashing light and a button to make those flashing disco lights be projected onto a close wall or floor.

Beer for your buck: The bigger and cheaper the beer, the more dire the economic situation of the country.  Can the average cost per swig of beer be positively correlated to the average income of a household or somehow be an inverse proxy indicator for GDP? You find big, cheap beers in Congo and Guinea; smaller, expensive beers exported from Europe. Do note that Budweiser has a pretty cheap, twenty-two ounce beer. America is going to shit.

McDonalds for peace: Some people claim that there are fewer wars and less strife in countries with McDonalds. Clearly a chicken-vs-egg argument should ensue, but in my recent history I have lived in countries with relatively high levels of strife and not one had a McDonalds. (Not my own idea, just one I thought was worth sharing.)

Gambling as an indicator of early recovery after displacement:

I see Haiti eight months after the earthquake. Life is not normal here and won’t be for a long time, but it is transitioning back slowly. With this bias, I look for signs of normalcy. I search them out. And I found one. The lottery is up and running, people are gambling again, so one can conclude that this place is getting back to normal.

The lottery kiosks or shacks or buildings are newly painted. They say “BANK – LOTTO- CHEZ TITI.” Other types of kiosks haven’t been repainted, even if they are starting to reopen. Not the water sellers. Not the pharmacies. But indeed the lottery bosses are back in business. Folks are crowded around the blackboards on the walls and doors which are updated twice a day with the winning numbers. A clear early warning indicator of recovery.

So my boss asks, can you assess Maya Camp, where people are re-settling?  How is it there? I visit. I don’t even have to get out of my air-conditioned, white Land Cruiser to draw my conclusion. I see that a Chez Titi kiosk is up and running within the camp and I know that these people are ready to get back to normal. They are doing fine.

* * *

Perhaps I can solicit Paul Collier and his army of ingenious grad students to run an in depth retro-analysis on existing data to check the validity of my new-fangled-sarcastic indicators.

* * *

On inspiration: This post was gourbled out of my head, somewhat, by checking out the aforementioned blog, and in particular his post about Skynard and simplicity, actually many of his posts. Clearly I dig this dude’s style and outlook on aid work. Take some time to check out his posts.

Editorial note added afterwords: Hey number-geeks and aid-workers, here is some interesting questions posed by statiscians dealing with the MGDS. It's a start. (Thanks Trish, for pointing this out to me.)

Geology rocks

I admit that I sometimes mock tourists, but today hypocrisy bit me in the ass: I couldn't help myself and so I took fifteen minutes to be a tourist. To my credit, I was a geologist-wanna-be tourist, which is way cooler than obnoxious Americans or teenagers of any nationality.

I stopped at my new favorite place - where the biggest fissures I have seen are. Every so often we have to slow down because there are dips or drops in the road. All from the earthquake. But this point just blows me away. The driver laughed when I tried to explain how impressed I was. It's a little hard to explain, even here, in English.

I am such a geek. I dare not show my lack of actual geology knowledge, despite my degree (I studied the water in the rocks, not so much the rocks). Of course I studied basic geology too, and saw photos and learned about faults and earthquakes and the wrath of plate tectonics. I lived in California where you have the San Andres, but the signs of creep I saw there are nothing, I tell you nothing, compared to this.

Geologist friends, please enlighten us.

Holy shit. (Expletives! YAY!) There is nothing else to say. I mean really? This happened in seconds. Imagine.

On the left you see the driver looking into the crack that opened up. This is close up, but the fissure goes on forever. See the photo on the right is only about half of it. (And yes, it is full of trash... we are eight months after.)               

These two are looking the other way up the road. The crack on the right side of the pavement is the same fissure as above, from the other direction. But that is not what I am trying to show here: you see how it is wavy. This used to be flat. Flat. Flat. And now, it's wavy. Awesome.

I am reminded of an ironic geology bumper sticker that encourages us all to "Stop Plate Tectonics!"

Pissed off

This may be my most explicit post. I do hold back and usually keep it pretty clean. But not this time. It's not that I am having a bad day, it is just that today I will share my judgment and rancor.

* * *

Looking up, the remnants of tropical storm Gaston makes the clouds churn, black and full of rain over the mountains, while towards the bay is white and puffy. Not unique, simply a beautiful, complex sky.

Looking down, the steep street is dirty and the smell of urine flows uphill. Urine in the street is ubiquitous, not unique to Port au Prince (see posts about Kabul and Kenya), and today is no different than any other, except that I have to blame someone.

I blame the men around the world who whip it out and piss along the concrete walk.

I drove about an hour to a meeting and (just like any other day) along the way I saw at least seven men pissing in the open. Not behind a tree, not tucked away somewhere, not in the woods. Along the street. I could see the streams of their piss sparkle in the sun.

They disgust me.

* * *

The bitch with black spots,

her white coat brown, rough and crusted,

mangy red teets swing, panting

while she squats

over discarded plastic,

rotting fruits and a flat styrofoam box.

The man with oil stained jeans,

has no coat, steps over that same debris,

and shields just his cock, pausing

while he pees

upright, upon a busy street

exposing his sequined stream.

* * *

One could attack me as a hypocrite. And that is fine, perhaps I am. But an honest one.

I grew up peeing in the woods, I pee in the bush on a long car ride, I am an expert and rarely wet my feet. I also have no aversion to excreta (that's my job) or even to the smell of urine (which is in fact sterile). But there is something disturbing about city-scape, concrete laden, public man-pissing. Some of what bothers me deeply, perhaps, is seeing the pee raining down without regard to the throngs of strangers who are forced to watch this display. Forgive my sexist tendency, but no woman anywhere in the world would take a piss on a busy street. (Yes okay, indeed if she is ill or completely wasted.) There is something to be said for respect and dignity.

Double rubble trouble

Writing contest update:  nothing to report. still 0/5, awaiting 1.
The adventure is neither gone, nor forgotten. 

* * *

Ego update: How do you like my new domain name? Pretty cool, eh? Pretty egotistical, if you ask me, but still pretty cool. I will be fixing some of the formatting and making it better, slowly by slowly. Feedback is welcome.  In other ego-news, I was featured in a "local do-gooder" story from the newspaper where I went to high school.

 * * * 

Today's front page.

Not all the graffiti is artistic, though it all seems to be idealistic.

On the walls that stand or slump, amongst the graffiti, there are stenciled and spray painted signs in green, yellow or red. They read "MTPTC" and then a number. MTPTC means "Ministère des Travaux Publics, Transport et Communications." The number, I assume, relates to an inspector or zone. The color indicates if the building is safe, needs repairs or is unable to be repaired. I can't wait to see the final maps. An utterly fascinating and impressive endeavor.

Today driving to meetings, we passed teams of people in yellow t-shirts with Haitian flags upon them. The people each had a bucket. Some were lined up passing one bucket to the next up a narrow hill. In the bucket was rubble.You can't get machines in to many places, but you can get buckets.

Up to 20 million cubic yards of rubble is a lot. If each bucket contains half a cubic foot (only filled a little so they can be lifted), that makes over a billion buckets (hope my math is right, it is a little late). Of course some of that will be moved with machines, but still, that's a hell of a lot of rubble.

Men climb the skeletons and crimped bodies of buildings with pick axes. They slam and crack, little by little, separating the concrete from the re-bar. The concrete adds to the rubble. The re-bar is sold and recycled. They are strategizing on how to use the rubble. Inventors bring in hand powered machines to break it up, sort it by size, make ballast, aggregate for new concrete mixes and new houses. The rubble fascinates me almost as much as the fissures.

As usual, to save the world you have to focus.

* * * 

People sometimes ask if I live in a tent. For the past two weeks, yes. Military style tents within tents. Hot water with pressure that will take your skin off. This place is Camp Charlie and, like fissures and spray paint, is fascinating.

* * * 

For a more informative view of this situation, check out Jesse's blog that I linked to in the last post. He has an interesting perspective and is much more factual than I.

What was once

What was once upright
rigid brightly painted or gray
is resting
tired
from a violence
absent of aggression

* * *

I can not claim to know what was once. Here.

From one perspective, I gape at walls and floors and ceilings draped over one another. I stand upon, step over fissures in the road. I listen to stories and gasp, knowing that I am only an observer, but not the only observer.  My own perspective quite the same as many, except that I am probably more intent than most on getting a good picture of the fissures in the road to impress my geologist friends.

From another perspective, this event has been measured by standard metrics: Richter, deaths, displacement of people or earth, monetary value of infrastructure destroyed.
 
Heisenberg was right. Absorbing light off the white rubble changes its direction, phase, superposition, tint, interpretation. Putting a number on this scene affects it.

* * *

I have seen the palace and the jail, the cathedral and the bridge. Each of them have split in half and what was once proud is crass.
I did not enter convinced by ghosts and twisted iron bar that locks inside some stories that only come from far.

Secondhand stories

I had another enjoyable day chatting in traffic with the driver. Today it was not the banalities of life, but rather the turning upside down of a regular day.

I heard stories about the earthquake.

I do not mean this post to be sentimental. Or sad. Or exploitative. Just simple. I mean to tell these stories as he told them.

* * *

"Everyone knows someone, near or far, who died in the earthquake."

* * *

Sometimes the ground vibrates. This time it did not vibrate, it rolled and rolled. My house rocked back and forth, back and forth. He showed me with his hands, tilting his vertical palm to and fro. A friend of mine was sitting in her car in traffic when the quake happened. She said that the earth looked like the giant snake in the movie Anaconda when it was under the soil.

* * *

This driver is often the driver of the big boss. He told me of the man who used to wash his windows everyday. He worked hard washing, quickly rubbing, clearing the glass for the boss and VIPs who visited. He fed his family this way. He eventually bought a motorbike. He kept on washing windows. The day of the quake, he went out to buy some food on his motorbike and never came back.

* * *

There was a man and a woman who had moved to the states from Haiti. They had 3 children there and made a good life. When it came to retirement age and their children were grown, they decided to return and enjoy their retirement here. They returned, all their children with them to help with the move. The day of the quake they were having a big party. All the neighbors and cousins and aunts enjoying and celebrating the retirement and the return of the family. They ran out of ice and so the father went out to get some. He returned to find them all dead. The old man walks the streets talking to his family who are all dead. It made him loose his mind.

Hobo's Lullaby

I am officially a hobo. I have spent about two months living out of my bag in the US, and have embarked on three more of the same in Haiti. I live on about thirty kilos (including my computer), and that is still too much stuff. 

* * *

The Van. Oh the van. I had so much fun and a great learning experience. Here I am, dressed up for a wedding.

At first I was a little apprehensive or nervous about living out of the van. It was a little claustrophobic. It is a little tricky to park over night. The radiator leaked. The solar system wasn't working perfectly. But there was water, shower, stove, toilet and a lot of dust.

So first I cleaned. I scrubbed. I used bleach.
Then I got three gallon jugs,  ready and waiting to add to the radiator at any moment. I got into a rhythm and knew how long I could go before needing a refill, and never even overheated.
Then I figured out that my old campus during the summer is a great, safe place to park over night where no one bothers you and you can pick up a great wireless signal.
Then I went camping on the coast. Parking was not as easy as on campus, and I ended up paying to camp in Butano state park - which is five minutes from the beach and five minutes from Duartes restaurant and the San Gregorio country store (with music in the mornings), and which facilitated the burning of my leftover firewood from my northern escapade.

Then I listened to my dad's advice.
I enjoyed days with the doors wide open in the Baylands nature area and my new set of binoculars and the birds. Cleared up that claustrophobia and made for good hikes.
I cooked. I visted with my dad. Two of us in our little RVs parked, in his cause it is bigger and has the satellite TV. We watched the news and old school sci-fi where Leonard Nemoi was an alien from the Stratosphere.
He showed me how to maintain the toilet (and I thought I was a toilet expert).
When I tripped the inverter on the solar panels, he guided me by phone to reset the panel controls (involved wires) and then I figured out how to reset the inverter on my own.

I told my dad that I wanted to paint the inside. He agreed that it needs a coat. I suggested flowers and some artsy stuff. He laughed and thought that might make it look like a closet homosexual case: blue and manly on the outside and all flaming girly on the inside. Sounds good to me.

Totally sweet.
Totally free.
Dug it.
Will do it again.

* * *

I had a window seat from Miami to Port au Prince. I have seen the photos and knew what to expect: rubble, tents and a city made of plastic sheeting, but - maybe because it is more impressive in real life or maybe because I am getting better at not having expectations - the view surprised me. It wasn't much more than the rubble, tents and cities of plastic sheeting... but there were people too. People who I can't describe yet, people who I have not met, people just the same.

The office is a bunch of air conditioned, pre-fabricated, plastic containers. I spent my first day bursting in and out of cold, dark offices into blinding sunshine on white rocks and back again. I visited each of the following departments more than once, usually 3 times: movement coordination, human resources, security, planning, finance, ICT (forget what that stands for, but it is the dudes who give you a phone, a radio and a computer, but no mouse) and of course my new boss. I didn't get too lost, thanks to the friendly people.

My role is to support the Government in the coordination of all things WASH, but I don't work for the government. Right now in Haiti is an interesting time of transition from the initial emergency phase of the response to the earthquake to more long term, stable and sustainable interventions.

Originally I was destined to support the regions south of the capital, but since we are under staffed, I will also liaise with several of the municipalities in the capital. That should be interesting because I will get to interact with other sectors. That should also be a little overwhelming because it used to be (and maybe soon in the future) one and a half or two people. I should also put the disclaimer that it is my second day, and all that may change or I may have misunderstood the expectations of my boss...

Today I needed a mouse. I mean needed one, bad. I can not deal with the little touch button thingy on the IBM laptop they have given me. So, I tagged along in a car to find one. I found a mouse, but driving around was better than the mouse itself.

Graffiti: The shape is a map of Haiti, not a penis.
The artist, "Jerry" apearently, has done many of the best.

We went up high, low, through tiny streets with more potholes than concrete. The roads are lined with rubble. Tent cities are on every corner and open space, save the cemeteries. The graffiti is the best part. There are simple messages "votez pour" X candidate for Y post, and, in a country known for its artists, there are fabulous caricatures of Haitian faces: children, women and old men. Some hold signs that say "I (heart) Haiti." And there are other signs as well, in sloppy hand writing and not as optimistic: "We need help. Food. Water. Doctors."

I chatted with the driver, always a good source of information on the banalities of life in the place you are. Where to buy what, the hours what kind of shops are open, why those hours, how to get the cheap charges for international phone calls. I learned a lot in a few hours.

I am a little timid to take photos yet, but stay tuned.

Pretty sweet so far.
Although not free in any sense of the word.
Whether I dig this or do it again needs more than two days to figure out.

* * * 

Also, my friend Jesse from Peace Corps is here in Haiti and he has a blog too. It is quite cool. It gives an interesting first impression of the country from his perspective.

* * *

*This blog is only an expression of me and in no way represents any other agency mentioned herein.

Shifting stances

I'll try to keep it short, but the stream is moving and I am going with it.

* * * 

Business first.

So on the contest front, I was 3/5, awaiting the results of two contests. Now I am 4/5, awaiting 1.
Contest #3 results are in and, as I predicted, I didn't win. This does not break my heart because this was a high level competition. Students in professional writing programs are nominated. You can't see the poems on the site yet, but I am sure one or two of the poems will blow my (your) mind.

During my off-time I have gotten to see so many old friends, and with some I have had the pleasure of chatting about this adventure in writing contests or writing in general. I am blessed to be friends with poets, editors, dreamers like me and my mom. I was hesitant in all this. Professionals confirm it is hella competitive. Friends are honest.  Moms are always encouraging.

I said: I don't want to say my goal is to write a book, because - what if I don't or I can't?
Friend: But by saying it, you might be more motivated. And your friends will care and encourage you.
Mom: And if you don't that's okay too, just do what god makes/lets/encourages you to do. 

That's pretty paraphrased, but I kind of agree with all of that.

* * * 

Breathe out.
I am headed out.
New country.
New adventure. New organisation. New role.
Same me.
How will it all combine and entwine and rewind?
To become my life?

* * *

More to come about the past two weeks which have indeed been learning for me in a small van, with fog, with sunshine, with micro climates and with...

All I ever wanted

Adventure: a new and exciting experience.

Adventrue: a known and exciting experience.

My vacation is ending and a new adventure will begin (stay tuned). I am lucky. I have had many adventrues, but none so sweet as getting back. And within that adventrue are many. The poem in my last post came from home, an island and its memories. Here are some new ones mixed with old, because you can’t really separate them.

* * *

the incredibility of tidal standing waves washes over

cradled kelp heads green pink anemones speckled seals

these sound straight channels are never full never empty

twice a day they still rise fall whip around steady rocks

discreet violence that harbors flotsam memories

* * *

* * *

I am still seven inside and slept only three hours the night before, excited for the journey. But things do change. I am not seven, but seven times five; and while the child was eager to go, I am eager to come home.

Welded steel rattles, strains and pushes its mass against cormorant laden pilings and the rocky mainland; the same old rusty ferry sliding deep into the early mist caught between the islands. Breathe deep, exhale and let the salt spray drizzle muck up your glasses or you won’t make the transition in smoothly.

Sleepy legs under heavy bags push up the tarpaper boardwalk and find a spot for me to wait; the cold stone wall where I lean back on my warmed pack above the fuel stained creosote dock. I take in the busy view. I know the boat when it rounds the point. I rest, watching her come in.

I am the only passenger back. After hellos, we settle into comfortable silence and skirt the shores before crossing the channel. The waves are small, constant and graceful; dancing with bull kelp among familiar carved conglomerate; lifting then dropping sea birds just a foot; slapping the metal bow just hard enough that my knees bend and straighten in time.

But things do change. The dock is taller but the dockhouse is the same, although shifted to where you can not leap, and so the resulting difference in jumping height is similar. The water seems colder and trees seem smaller, although they’ve grown. Cell phones work, making logistics simpler, but not simple.

By three boats I landed on three islands, each dock smaller until none, just a gravel beach in a protected rocky bay. The second run brings friends, flowers and spiced beans; the beginning of festivities no one can dispute. I smile, breathe, exhale and clean my glasses.

* * *

I am alone and quiet, snuggled into the orchard, thankful for the clearing. Cassiopeia rises, her W matching the jagged tree line. Breathe, exhale, my glasses were already off so I stretch and lay back. I spy a shooting star and watch its long fall. It burned, lit and then exploded in the atmosphere. Alone in the silence I whoop, hands up in appreciation, and wonder who else saw it.

* * *

Many good hugs hello don’t make up for one goodbye.

2 to 2

Contest #2) So, not really any news cause I didn't win the contest, but they finally put up the poems for the public to see, so I thought I would provide a link here so you can check it out. None of the judges put any comments, which I was bummed about, but that is okay. This poem I had shared with a friend and my mom, neither loved it.


To A Poet Laureate

Dear Sam,
I once wrote eight page
letters to your son, quickly
placed inside the cedar shake box
punctuating
your driveway lined with alder saplings.
I pumped my bike up one, two, three
straight hills to Sawmill Corner
hoping you and Sally
never knew that it was me.

A round faced nine, ten, eleven
year old, I once bound blank
diaries during art, which you
the printer, must have taught.
Boring holes through stacked sheets with
needles, the blunt end cut my finger
making it hard to tie thin thread.
Somehow three small bundles became a single
tome, glue beaten with a wide stubby brush
into paper we must have made
from fresh pulp.

Inside, I once wrote eight line
poems, invented words in colored
pen, punctuation
revised with wild insects flying round
kerosene lamps, flashlights and blue
computer screens.
I completed only one, quickly
placed inside the cedar shake box
hoping you and Sally
might think that it was me.

Back to backsides

And so the tally stands as is. 0/3, waiting on 1/1 and not so optimistic (I aimed a little high).

Contest #5) Is not a contest, but is competitive. The goal in this is to motivate me to just see what's out there, not winning, but exploring. So cause I found something I thought was a pretty interesting idea, I thought I'd include it. Cause I can. I submitted a poem to "IsReads" an outdoor journal: "The concept of the outdoor journal is to put short poems in unusual places, like on abandoned buildings and in shopping carts."

Regarding contest #1) Helium. I find it depressing and poor today. The one reason I liked it at first was that it seemed open and democratic, but I found that to be its weakness. The content of some articles against which mine compete are just wrong. Maybe it's me not being open enough. Who knows. I will continue until I have made 25 dollars. Fine. Currently still have the two stars, which is good, but my poems fell to having only a bronze medal from silver.

* * *

And my vacation will continue.

Stateside besides

Don't let it fool you. Negativity isn't negative. 

It is simply down. It is a valley. Drainage.

* * *

California business: Threw out 15 years of bank statements and nice skirts that will never fit me. Dug out my high school writing which led to some rare, fictional fun (that's the teaser...).

California fun: Joined my dad and his cat in Big Sur. We passed Bixbey Bridge and watched sunsets from the best lookout along the coast. Wildfires 2 years past could not stop the beauty here. If not for fog, one could see 180 degrees from San Francisco to LA. (As a science geek I have to admit that the curvature of the earth may hinder more than the fog.) I climbed to Cone Peak Lookout and could see 360. If I were a lizard I could enjoy this view each day.



After two weeks, it was time to head north.  Golden rolling hills become cooler and greener. Fewer grasses, more bushes and trees. The ones I remember picking... ferns, mustard, thimble berries, salal, douglas fir. The hills become steeper up, the bays become wider across, the sky becomes gray. Today I arrived in Washington. When Luis and Clark arrived here in 1805, it was overcast too and December (not July). They too could not see across the Columbia in this dank drizzle that defines the Pacific Northwest. Ah.

* * *

I must have written this around 1992 as a high school creative writing assignment. It is a fable and it made me laugh.

The Lions

Far, far away there was a huge forest that was ruled by a great, beautiful, old lion. He had a great golden mane and a beautiful roar that filled the forest like the wind when he spoke. He was charismatic as any leader of the free world, yet he had little wisdom. But being a good lion at heart, not hungry for power, he left the general ruling of the forest to his Royal Council of Owls. 

One day the old lion fell extremely ill. His mane looked dull and his voice was soft. Seeing this the Royal Council of Owls decided to send word throughout the forest to summon all of the old King's many sons. (For in his more vivacious years head been quite the ladies lion fathering many children.)

The first of his sons to arrive had the greatest, most golden mane any lion had ever seen. When the sun fell upon it, golden reflections scattered about. As he reached the entrance to the Royal Lair, the guard dogs stared at his great, golden mane and bowed their heads as he walked through the door.

The Owls complemented his mane, and asked him a riddle:
"What is beautiful, but not conceited?"
"What is wise, but not arrogant?"
"What is compassionate, but not lenient?"
The young lion shook his mane, almost blinding the night-loving owls.
"His current King, His majesty." He said, trying to gain points.

The second son to arrive could roar so beautifully that when he sang, every animal sopped what he was doing to listen. When he reached the entrance to the Lair, he roared loudly as if to prove his relation to the dying King. The guards lowered their heads as he passed.

When he was asked the same riddle, he cleared his throat showing off the strength of his voice.  But his response was the same, he too trying to gain popularity with the owls.

When the last son arrived, the guards barely noticed him. He was handsome, with a sweet voice, but he did not flaunt his royal lines. The owls were tired of the parade of lions, but asked him the riddle:
"What is beautiful, but not conceited?"
"What is wise, but not arrogant?"
"What is compassionate, but not lenient?"
"That is what I wish to be," the last son answered quickly.

The last son was crowned King by his dying father and they all lived happily ever after in a well-run forest. Except the old King of course, who was dying and did not live very long. The first son found happiness as a successful model and the second son launched a singing career.

The wallow

Today is loser day, in which I will wallow. I try not to let that damn Super Ego get in the way, but sometimes you just gotta give him his time to say his piece. He is embodied by the neighbors to my office window who are beating their dog.

In response to that damn Super Ego, my Ego has been procrastinating this entry by doing my actual job, by telling myself I am so busy and generally ignoring the fact that I am 0 for 3 in my contest endeavour. I admit I should have updated this about a week ago when I got the results, but I was feeling a little down with my lack of success. I am still feeling silly in this 10 contest adventure - simply because I am sucking.

* * *

Contest #1) Essay. Didn't win. Totally tanked, in fact.
Contest #2) Poem. Didn't win. I guess the cyber democracy populous didn't dig my style. Don't really have any indication of the level of my sucking.
Contest #3) Poem. Awaiting results. I stick by my odds in the last post.
Contest #4) Article. Not purchased. Didn't win.

* * *

Art. From 2002.

(Thanks for scanning this, Don and Kathy.)

* * *

In other news, I will be jobless in about a week. This is by choice and I feel blessed to be able to make that choice and I am looking forward to it. Although it may not last. I will take some time (after this excercise in self-pity today) to enter more contests, to get back my positivity on this writing thing and to revel.

One must take time to revel.

For the Id.

The Second Tanking

- Contest results so far - Self-soothing - Photos and a poem -

* * *

Writing contest summary statistics
Contests entered: 4/10
Contests complete: 2/4
Contests won: 0/2

Contest #1) Didn't win.
Contest #2) Awaiting results.
Contest #3) Awaiting results.
Contest #4) Not purchased. Didn't win.

My Super-ego is a little upset.
My Ego has authored the next section.
My Id still having fun, still learning and still has lighthearted expectations.

Any wagers on the 2 contests in progress?
I will give you odds of 1/300 for #2 and 1/10,000 for #3.

* * *

Sometimes victories are not found where you are looking. Sometimes they come and tap you on the shoulder; you turn your head and are pleasantly surprised by what happened to your right. Sometimes they fly in from the far left and knock you over.

The first minor victory that makes me happy is explained in my last post. (You should be aware of my bias: I value the opinion of Google as the most-awesome search engine out there.)

The second victory is on Helium. Despite the 2 failed contests, there has been some progression since my last analysis of the Helium sphere. First, I achieved 2 writing stars with only 9 eligible articles (I have 11 now). The calculation of this I can not explain, but it is a measure of the quantity and quality of your Helium articles. Most users seem to get 2 stars after 30 articles and since I did it with only 9, I think that is good. Second, I mentioned back in April that my essay percentage was only 48%. Today, after reading and revisions, it is a big fat 92%. I guess I can say I have learned a bit how to write to this audience. Small, but it soothes.

* * *

I just returned from 1 week in Garbatulla. My last week in Garbatulla. My contract is complete on 30 June 2010. I have a long history with the Kenya Mission of ACF. I started here in 2006, came back in early 2008, and then came back again in July 2008 to be the WASH Coordinator, which I have done for the past 2 years. I am happy. I am nostalgic. I am ready to go.

I see many countries out the windows of Land Cruisers. Going a little too fast:
Mis-spelled signs.
Half built cement buildings. Half falling apart mud buildings.
Goats. Camels. Cows. Sheep. Skinny, fat, pregnant, as the seasons change.

Dusty men pissing. Dirty men pissing. Men pissing. The most common sight. Disgusts me. I don't want to see the stream of your piss. I don't want to smell your piss on the wind. I want you to have as much dignity as the women.

Dusty, wrinkled, calloused women. Bent forward with straight backs, always lifting up the house. Her faggot; heavy strapped to the head. A pile of grass, only legs are visible. Yellow plastic jerry cans of water. A child.

A Kenya Picture Poem:

Kenya is iconic Africa

Savannah grasses

Flat topped trees

 Elephants lumbering through vines

Silent only becuase we didn't stop to listen.

Communities
make thier houses out of white dust
and iron sheets.

The mother cracks stones

hammer on old truck parts

pliers prized possesion

sorting saphires on a worn mat.

Because
the left hand is stagnant

while the right hand evolves
and the head is on backwards
this country
explodes

in a thousand directions.

pure ego

I confess that more than once since 1999 I have googled my own name.
If you haven't googled yourself (but you know you have...) you should: it can be fun.

Where do I stand? 
I now know there is an electronic musical artist named Mark Trayle.
I was disappointed when Trayle.com started: a travel diary site. Thieves.
It used to be that you had to wade through all those sites and references to find anything about me or you had to google my full name - in quotations.

Today, I googled just my first name.
No Kulshan. No quotes. No "and... bla bla bla."
Just my name.
And hell if my blog- this blog- is not first on the google list.
This is some kind of egotistical victory.
I am basking in googletistical glory.
And I am okay with that.

Note that this of course is not a constant, tomorrow or the next I might not be first on the list, but still this was cool! And just shows an evolution. A progression. A change.

Thanks for visiting. Please come again.

4 for the score

 Contest #4) I may be cheating on this one, but I think it is okay. On Helium they have what they call a "Marketplace" where publishers post articles titles they want written to. Then in theory, the publisher will choose one of the articles to publish - and they pay you money - 32 big ones riding on this one. Nice. Also, I think the turnaround time is quite quick, so my poor ego will quickly be either slightly hurt or 32 bucks richer. This is not a contest, per se, but it is a competition - so I'm letting the rules slide.

The really moving article title is "Garden gifts for Dad this Father's Day." How mundane is that? But this is part of the challenge. I have no authority here. My dad neither gardens, nor gives a hoot about gifts. He is way too cool for that. Let us continue.

One must be able to write about anything. I remember in college, one of the senior members of the lit mag staff said: "If you can write a poem about a cup of tea, you can be a poet." I did write that poem; it probably sucked and who knows where it is now... I may have to try again.

Do check out my Helium article on "Recipes: Great ways to cook muskrats."

 * * *

In more exciting news... On my drive "up-country" from Nairobi, I saw an ELEPHANT! In the wild, my friend, au natural. Moving so slow as we zoomed by, it moved me a little. Just hanging out by the side of the road. I got a photo of its butt, which I will post (in all it's anti-climatic glory) but the internet is by cell modem for the next week, so I am slightly handicapped. I saw baboons too, but they aren't quite as magical as an elephant. 

There was also a boat in a tree and roofs without walls...

I am also working on my manifesto. Mario, my husband, and I are involved in a friendly manifesto competition (we are truely made for each other)... but I won't count that as one of the contests.

An Optimistic Pre-quel

Back in 2006, I arrived in Kenya and was on my way to the wild northeastern bush- Mandera. I didn't know much about Kenya or Nairobi and, more importantly, I didn't know much about Mandera... just that it was dry, there was a strict curfew and nothing to do anyway but sit on the roof and gaze over the hills at Ethiopia or Somalia. I'd need some entertainment.

In preparation, I dutifully went to the bookstore downstairs from the movie theater and started picking stuff up.

It was here that I discovered "Kwani?" - the Kenyan literary magazine.

It is full of fantastic writing in English, Kiswahili and Sheng (an evolving slang language of the youth). Okay, let's be honest, I can really only say the English is entertaining, I can't read Kiswahili or Sheng.
It has poetry, stories, cartoons and other sort of creative stuff.

It has a pulse.
It is political.
It is gives an insightful perspective into the thoughts of Kenya and - to me personally - a bit of optimism for this country.

Since the post election violence at the end of 2007 (see Kenya Quickie)- Kwani? has sponsored and lead some of the most moving efforts at showing and questioning what really happened to people, as well as peace building and reconciliation through art. Take a look around thier site.

So there I sat on my way to Mandera with the 2005 edition of Kwani? in hand, in a yellow, 7-seat, twin-prop plane. There were plasic jerrycans of fuel stored in the nose and wings of the plane. The fumes wafted back. The big people were spaced in the plane to balance it out. Someone's daughter was on the lap of the Head of Mission. It flew low but finally did make it. The flight was 5 hours long (or more?) and I didn't read a page. An interesting beginning to my relationship with Kenya...

Since then, there has been at least 3 more Kwani? published, as well as some feature length books, some of which I bought - and then at some point I seemed to have lost or given away somewhere.

(And a historical note, it was on my way out of Mandera when I started this blog.)

My first buck

* * *

Business, first:

Contest #1) Helium… That's where it started, and it will apparently continue into oblivion, but is none-the-less an interesting background to my adventrue in writing. I haven’t submitted anything new here since the last posting, but I am earning good money. To date: $1.05, at this rate I'm going to need a piggy bank! The biggest earner by far is my masterpiece on beauty tips- more than 1/3 of my total earnings are from this article alone. How about that. Deep. Fufilling. $1.05.

Contest #2) Poetry contest for charity… 2nd round of cyberetic-domocratic judging completed. The quality of poems is better in this round, so I guess that should give me confidence in the merit of the contestant-come-judge approach. There is no feedback from the contest organizers if you passed to the second round or not, so I have no idea what people thought of my poem. I will only know if it passes to the final 12 in the next few weeks. If not I will never know how far it went. Oh woe goes the fragile Ego who sits atop her fence.

Contest #3) The more professional poetry contest… No idea. The contest is closed, and if I don't win then I don’t expect any feedback. Wish I had a clue. Wish I had a chance.

Both #2 and #3 should have results in July. I am honestly pretty nervous at the idea of the outcomes. Discouragement? Depression? Elation? Egomaniacal striation?

 * * *

Writing, second:

So, the artist. Is so deep. Is so idealistic. The process is supposed to be moving and personal and involve a muse. The artist is not supposed to create for the audience or for appreciation, but for the pure and simple joy of creation.
Creation of any sort seems to involve some evolution.
And evolution involves some reflection and adaptation and revision to improve upon that creation. And sometimes that involves some sort of opinion that is not your own. Which by definition is involving the audience and by-passing the muse and maybe isn't so deep. But it's still being an artist, I think.

So here is some creationist evolution by an amateur artist who is perhaps not so idealistic.

Here are two versions of something. Which do you think came first? Which one do you like better? Did it evolve at all? Should it have even been created?

*

Shifting nomadic sporadic emphatic
transient walking with steps automatic
a basket a bundle a trundle crate casket
reflective packing with questions to ask it

I tell myself I am not in the race,
not influenced by the incompetence
of the electoral college, not capitalist, not racist, not American.
I tell myself I am not in the bottom,
not affected by the incompetence
of taxes called inflation, not corrupt, not tribalist, not African.

*

I tell myself I am not
in the race, not
influenced by the incompetence
of the electoral college, not
capitalist, not racist, not
American.
I tell myself I am not
in the bottom, not
affected by the incompetence
of taxes called inflation, not
corrupt, not tribalist, not
African.

*

Here is my answers to my own questions: I sort of like the two part one because it is more playful, but it doesn’t seem finished yet, needs more to make it strong. The bottom one seems to take itself too seriously, trying to be deep, trying to speak for everyman - but could be complete as it is.

* * *

Personal, third:

We are moving. My next 3 months are pretty unclear, but (as life seems to keep on going whether or not one has a plan) the next month promises much more excitement in my life than just the outcome of the second two contests. I will definitely leave Kenya by mid-July. I might get a job. I might not. I might go surfing. I probably won't. Either way, there will certainly be some interesting blog posts. Currently I am a little bit reflective, as one tends to be upon the brink of leaving 2 years of inspiration, frustration and fun.

There is no fastlane

where 

potholes appear

with overnight rains, 

where

streetlights are standing

with bulbs dark, 

where

I saw a dead man

hit last new years eve.

Adventrue Numba 3

I broke the promise consciously,
left it without regard.
I promised pictures and rancorously
left my honor marred.
Can I make up for my mistake
with this stupid rhyme?
My life is dull, I could not take
an adventrue in this time.

* * *

Well the Helium experiment (from Contest #1) continues. I have learned that the first essay I wrote will never be removed from that site, and I will never be able to improve it! Damn, says my ego. Good for ya, says myself.

Still, the experiment continues. I have submitted a few more essays, just for practice. I have earned the first form of Helium-based validation - a "writing star" which means that I have reached some quantity goal while maintaining some quality of standard based on how the masses view my articles (poems don't count).

I have learned that when I write about stuff I do not really care about or about subjects in which I am not an expert, the ranking of my articles is much better. I am trained as a hydrogeologist and I am a weird and not-too-girly woman, but my articles about aquifers and water are apparently shit and my best ranked articles are about how to cook and put on makeup.

I suppose I must admit, in public, that I do love to cook (my stress relief) and I find getting all kinda nice-looking fun. I guess I am a little girly.

I also must somehow question, not the quality of the Helium site or the writing there, but it's purpose. I guess it is not meant for public enlightenment on scientific issues and that this is not the venue to achieve the goal of trying to convince stupid people that climate change exists. Which, you may observe, is leaving me somehow frustrated because there are so many crappy articles there arguing that climate change and global warming are myths. There are articles that are supposed to talk about aquifers, but go on and on about the "groundwaters" with heaps of wrong information. Arf.

I seem to have started that paragraph sensibly enough, but it degenerated into a rant. Drama can be good. But really it just proves what I said before, is that I guess popular writing is figuring out what your audience wants.

I feel some subversive energy coming on here.
I want to use bad english to explain the glory of science and all its uncertainties!
I want to use incomplete sentences to subtly insult creationists!
I embrace bad spelling because sometimes it makes life an adventrue!
Is that so wrong?

(Source: Adventrue is a brilliant slip that I have stolen from my mother.)

* * *

So Contest #2 is closed and I am now participating in the cyber democratic voting process. So far I have had to read 12 poems, in which I ranked my top 4. There were some good ones - as well as some true crap, which one will undoubtedly find where ever one endeavors to read anything remotely poetic. I think the winners are announced sometime in July. I will keep you posted on how the competition stacks up in the continued rounds of judging... I might not be so quick to use the word "crap" next time.

* * *

Contest #3) So, in all transparency I must disclose that between now and 20 May 2010 I will enter another contest. This one is also for poetry. It is different than the last in that it is judged by professional poets at a literary magazine. While a supporter of the cyber-democracy voting process of which I have been a part in the first two contests, it is my duty to choose contests with varied challenges.

As this is a pretty high level contest, I doubt I will have any chance and feel a bit foolish and freaked out. That said, my ego thinks it would be damn cool to get a nod from a professional, even if I don't win. I mean, I got to go all out and day dream.

So, on this one I enlisted a friend and a mom (my own mom) to rank some of my poems to help me choose which ones to enter. They also gave me some useful feedback on how to make them better. I was surprised to find they both had the same favorite, and it was not my favorite. I liked the one that was more personal to me I guess. I trust them on their judgment of the best.

After the contest, I will tell you which contest it was (with a link to the winners etc.) and I will also post the poems that I entered. I am not sure on rules, but it may be better to leave them off the blog until it is over. Same with the last contest. Frankly, I am not at all clear on what means the word "published," as to me a blog ain't exactly respectable literature. But who knows, the words are out there.

* * *

Fine. I give in. Here is a photo or two. My consciousness is not, in fact, rancorous.
But be aware, I am forced to recycle a bit for lack of adventrue.

This is me between 2 big ass tanks on some rocks in Garbatulla. Just doing my job. I was just looking, we didn't build these, the ministry did.

This is just a strange image that I like.

These are my new glasses. That may be as close to my recent medical adventrues as you will get without me totally grossing you out. But that would've been more fun wouldnt it?

Wanna be

Editorial Note: Africa heat poem has been removed temporarily.
Here is a replacement that is posted elsewhere.

I enjoy the warmth beneath
your purple cotton shirt
your double chin beneath
straight spiky hairs
your arm between
rough polyester
airplane seats.
I enjoy the stinging fear
of this surprising
intimacy.

* * *

I wanna be Bob Dylan. Not even original, but it's true. I enjoy most things in life, but sometimes I fall in love.  Once because of him. Last thoughts on Woody Guthrie is a masterpiece. Like "Tonight" below, it is better read aloud. Maybe that is true of all poems that move.

* * *

I am writing on the Mac today. My own computer, which ironically I am not used to. The keys are quiet and the screen doesn't flip quite to the right angle when I put it on my belly. But it's lighter. And looks cool with its little glowing Apple derrier.

I am using here to spit out words until they become a better poem. Sometimes feeling like someone else has read it, even if untrue, makes me want to revise something and make it better. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't. If you look at the poems on my Helium page (explained below) you will find that most of it is revised from here.

What's with the lack of photos? Eh? Promises, promises, my dear. Okay. Fine. Next time.

21 cents and a poetry contest

So recently I may have said that I was "puttin' myself out there" and that I would enter 10 writing contests. Despite tanking on my first try, I will carry on. I will... (Ah I wanted to quote "Californication," but it’s definitely not appropriate, so I will simply...) continue.

I am having a great time at this. I have learned you need write to the right audience and I may be a better poet than esseyist.

Contest #1 (the tanker) was through a site called Helium, where you set up a profile (check me out, click on "articles" tab to see the writing) and you submit articles. Your articles are then rated by the other members against the others anonymously, double blind. Part of my duty as a member is also to fairly rank others against each other. Democracy. There is apparently like 400,000 members or some such mad number. So everything you submit is ranked by "the masses."

My conclusion about poetry is related to the rankings of my poems on this site. So far, I have submitted 4 essays and 4 poems. My essays are ranked at 48% and poems at 95%. Go figure. I didn't find my essays THAT bad! A little boring, maybe, but more factual than some of the competition... to be continued. You haven't seen the last of my science-geek-essay-writing-ass!

The other semi-interesting thing on this site is that they share their advertising proceeds with members (to be a member is free). I have, so far, made 21 cents. Does that make me a professional?

Contest #2) I have entered a poetry contest (MAG Poetry Compitition 2010 on PoetRepublic.com) which costs 6 pounds sterling and benefits MAG, a de-mining organization, which is a worthy cause which I believe in, especially having lived in Afghanistan. The poem must be unpublished and less than 42 lines long. It doesn’t have to have anything to do with Afghanistan or mines. Since it is a contest, I can not put the poem here on my blog until it the contest is done. The winners are announced in July. The judges are the contestants in another web-domocratic-double-blind-manner. So I am a judge. Wish me luck on my poem.

On anther interesting side note, this writing adventure has brought me a little closer to a friend, of course re-discovered through facebook, but who is sorta like me in exploring writing and who is very cool.

And to bring it full circle, her sister just started blog about bees, which is pretty funny. Why would you need 14,000 bees? But you just might.

* * *

I went to Oslo, where I went to the ICE BAR. eh. over rated. over priced. Cool to be in a freezer, but not worth 30 bucks.

* * *

I also went to Garbatulla again, which was very nice now that we have something to do!

Relentless. 

This photo shows

Drought, 

Flood, Drought

upon cornstalks.

Kenya is beautiful. From a distance.

Somehow I kept looking like a fat pirate.