Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
Diplomatic Life: Back to School
When I left my position as ambassador to Cambodia in
2005, I was being considered for the post of ambassador to East Timor.
Unfortunately, the political appointee who had the job had other ideas – some of
which might have been related to not caring a whole lot for me being the one to
replace him, but that’s another story – and he put pressure on to stay. The
State Department, never one not to run from a Washington bureaucratic fight,
dropped me like three-day-old fish wrapped in toilet tissue, and offered me the
position of diplomat-in-residence. Now, to many people, this might seem like a
place to dump people who can’t get other jobs, but the DIRs as they’re called,
recruit, talk to average Americans about foreign affairs, and mentor people
applying to come into the Foreign Service. They start the indoctrination
process, Jack, and that’s important. I’d always wanted to do this, so I jumped
at the chance.
I chose University of Houston, because I grew up 190
miles north of Houston and hadn’t lived in Texas since I left in 1962 and
joined the army.
The more I learned about my new job, the more I
liked it. For instance, my exact duties were a matter for me to negotiate with
my host department at the university. Some DIRs do a full teaching load, some
part time. In my case, the History Department at UH didn’t have any
international relations classes for me to teach, so other than making myself
available as a guest speaker for the professors, I pretty much scheduled my own
day.
I did a lot of walking around campus, introducing
myself to anyone and everyone. Did an interview on campus radio and for the
campus newspaper. Had office hours in the afternoon, where students could drop
in and chat about careers. I also did job fairs all over south Texas, spoke to
local civic groups like the World Affairs Council, interacted with the large
foreign consular corps in Houston – some 80 establishments, second to New York,
and spoke at secondary schools in the region. I also worked with a
state-federal task force on human trafficking, which was interesting and
sobering at the same time. Learning, for instance, that thousands of underage
girls from areas affected by Hurricane Katrina were on the streets of major
Texas cities, forced to engage in prostitution, is a hard pill to swallow.
Some of my greatest times were speaking to young people.
Once, the principal of a catholic high school asked me to speak to a group of
ninth graders about international relations, but in a way that they could
understand and relate to. I was at something of a loss until I noticed the
sneakers a couple of the kids were wearing, and I went off on a long speech
about how the components of those shoes come from all over the world, are put
together by Vietnamese workers in a factory brought to Vietnam from China,
under the supervision of Korean managers. On and on, etc. It became my ‘Sneaker
Diplomacy’ lecture, which I was asked to deliver to even college students. I
even once had to stand in for the Secretary of State, who had been asked to
speak to a group in Houston, but couldn’t make it – so I was sent instead.
My wife and I drove through New Orleans on our way
to Houston, a few weeks before Katrina, but we were in Houston for Hurricane
Rita a few months later. It was her first hurricane. I decided we were better
off staying in the city than getting out on the overcrowded roads. So, of
course, I was designated the senior federal official in the city for emergency
relief coordination. I had no communication, and couldn’t even get around, but
orders are orders, so I used our hand phones to do my calling. I was so tired,
I slept through Rita’s landfall, some sixty miles east of us. The trees around
our apartment didn’t even lose any leaves.
It wasn’t a full year – just an academic year. We
went in August and left, going back to DC, in June, but it was fun, fun, fun.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Saturday, June 15, 2013
New Mystery Now Available
When Elwood Tucker, a collector for mob boss Seamus O'Grady's loan sharking operation allows his sentiments to cut a customer a break, he's targeted for death. He goes to Al Pennyback for help. Al is reluctant until he learns that O'Grady exploits young girls for prostitution. He get's flaming mad, though, when O'Grady kidnaps his assistant, Heather in order to put pressure on him. Now, it's personal. Al teams up with retired CIA agent Carlton Raine and the war is on.
The newest Al Pennyback mystery, Kiss of Death, is now available in paperback.
https://www.createspace.com/4325054
For those who like e-Books, the Kindle version will be available in a few days. Stay tuned.
The newest Al Pennyback mystery, Kiss of Death, is now available in paperback.
https://www.createspace.com/4325054
Friday, June 14, 2013
RICH MEYER: REVIEWS AND RAMBLINGS: Kneel Before Zon!
RICH MEYER: REVIEWS AND RAMBLINGS: Kneel Before Zon!: One of the new big things that a lot of the fear-mongers have focused up lately is the fact that Amazon, on their forums and in e-mails, ha...
Get "The White Dragons" Free for Your Kindle!
Now that the hot weather is here, it's time for a new free e-Book that's also HOT! Get The White Dragons, a novel of international intrigue, free for Kindle, June 17 - 20!
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I'm an Artist, Not an Artisan
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| Paint Example (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
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| Paint since 1978 (Photo credit: dogwelder) |
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| Supply (economics) (Photo credits: www.mydoorsign.com) |
Now, there's a reason for this that my neighbor doesn't understand. First, I worked for the US government for decades, and most of my jobs required extensive travel. After completing a long plane flight, the last thing I wanted to do was mow the lawn. I finally got the wife to agree to hiring a lawn service. I do trim the hedges, walk the dog, rake leaves in autumn, and take out the trash and recycling. When my wife spot paints, I hold the ladder for her. That's our division of labor, worked out over many years because of my travel schedule - and, even though I'm retired now, my speaking engagements and consulting has me traveling almost as much as before, and I'm in to full time writing, which takes a lot of time. It was also worked out, though, because of our personalities.
My wife is a perfectionist. If I spot paint, and the paint on an edge is off by an eighth of an inch, it drives her crazy. I paint, watercolors, acrylics, oils, etc., and the occasional accidental drip of paint results in a better picture. Not so when you're painting a window frame. I used to garden, but again, her perfectionism caused me to give it up. I once planted grape vines near the back deck. Tended the damn things for years until they were finally bearing fruit. One day while I was at work, she decided she didn't like them where they were, so she dug them up and moved them. They died. That was the end of my gardening. She's not being mean either. She once planted a little herb garden and tended it faithfully. When it threatened the health of her pepper plants, though, she uprooted every one of those suckers. She walks around the yard picking up every stray leaf because they offend her sense of order.
So, I'm an artist, not a craftsman or do-it-yourselfer; so, sue me. That's just the way it is. My wife, on the other hand, is definitely the craftsperson type. I once got her to take up painting. She got the base layer of a painting of a vase of flowers done, and then asked me to paint in the flowers and details of the vase. That's not art, it's a craft project.
Other than the jobs I mentioned above, I hire professionals to do work around my house. They need the work, and they know what they're doing. It's cheaper to hire them in the first place than it is to hire them to fix the mess I'd make.
So, to my fellow male suburbanites: sorry, but I won't be joining you in your weekend trek to Home Depot(TM), or any other hardware or building supply store. I am just not mechanically inclined. I know the difference between a flathead and a Phillips screwdriver, but it doesn't mean I know, or care, how to use them properly. Hell, I know the difference between a Formula One racer and a Prius, but you won't catch me driving either. If you need me, I'll be in my upstairs office, working away on my next novel.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Diplomatic Life: A State Department Yankee in the Defense Department's Court
After completing a tour of duty as
diplomat-in-residence at the University of Houston, I spent the summer of 2006
chairing a State Department promotion board. Finally, in September, I received
White House approval and was appointed Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense
for Prisoners of War/Missing Personnel Affairs, with concurrent duty as
director of the Defense POW/Missing Personnel Office, an independent defense
agency.
I’d been offered the job in a roundabout way; the
previous person in the position had fallen ill and been unable to work, and finally
had to resign his duties. I’d been asked by Anne Mills Griffith, executive
director of one of the main Southeast Asia family of missing groups, if I knew
anyone who could fill the job. When we couldn’t come up with a name, she
mentioned in an email that if not for my senior rank in the State Department, I’d
be the person for it. After a few days of thinking about it, I got back to her;
I didn’t think my rank would be an impediment, and if the family groups and the
Defense Department would have me, I’d take it.
The process of being interviewed by the White House
Personnel Office – and, this was during the time when often ridiculous
questions were asked of candidates, such as ‘do you agree with all of the president’s policies?’ – I almost
blew it with my answer to that one, but I guess the senior guy (not the one who
asked the question) saw how inapplicable the question was, so I was approved.
I took the job at a time when the relationship
between the office and the family groups was probably at an all-time low.
Families didn’t feel they were listened to, and were understandably angry.
Another problem that was quickly apparent; the organization had been in
existence for more than 10 years, its mission had more than tripled, but it was
still operating with the same budget, and there was little internal budget
discipline.
It turned out that, while my prior military
experience was helpful in communicating with the military organizations,
families of veterans, and veterans groups involved in the mission of accounting
for missing personnel from wars back to World War II, it was my diplomatic
experience, gained over 24 years in the Foreign Service, that was most useful.
That, and some good old fashioned leadership.
Establishing budget discipline – using techniques
developed by my deputy Air Force Colonel Dave Ellis – and enforcing some
control over policy formulation across a widely scattered community; I had
responsibility for personnel recovery (which includes search and rescue) as well,
were relatively easy tasks compared to the diplomatic tasks that we faced.
First, I had to reestablish relations with the
family groups. This was done through frequent and patient contact with each and
every one of them. We did a dog and pony show eight times a year in various
regions of the country, and two major presentations in Washington, DC for
families, and I opened almost every one of them during my three years on the
job. Not only did I make the opening remarks welcoming people to the meetings,
but I stayed around for the whole show to talk to individuals who often just
wanted to know someone was listening and cared. Sometimes, it was intensely
emotional and personal, for me as well as them, like the time I spoke with the
sister of a missing man who had served in my outfit in Vietnam in 68-69, doing
cross border recon missions into Cambodia, and who had gone missing a month
before my tour ended. I don’t know if my words comforted her, but I do know she
appreciated that someone who had known her brother was willing to take the time
to talk to her, and more importantly, to listen to her.
It took a lot of negotiating skill to work the
Pentagon bureaucracy, with dozens of offices assuming they have a stake in what
you’re doing, and willing if you allow it, to block anything they don’t like or
understand. Sometimes we were successful, sometimes not – but, we won more than
we lost. Like the request for a budget adjustment, which many on my own staff
thought was a useless exercise. Turned out not to be. We made a good case, and
got a budget increase.
Being there was important in dealing with the
bureaucracy, too. I went to the field to observe the teams doing excavations at
sites in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia; talking with the men and women who worked
tirelessly under some of the most arduous conditions you can imagine.
I also had to deal with foreign nations: the countries
of Southeast Asia, Korea, China, Japan, India, Russia, Colombia, and Israel.
During my tenure, we signed an agreement that allowed us access to the Chinese
army archives to work on World War II and Korean War cases. Leading a group of
my staff and some senior people from Hawaii, I was the first foreign official
allowed in the archives. The Chinese pulled out all the stops, taking pictures
and making a video of the visit. They even put our picture on the cover of
their official brochure. I was invited by the Chinese government to speak at a
salvage and rescue conference on Hainan Island, the first American official on
the island after the P-3 incident, when one of our surveillance planes had to
make an emergency landing there after colliding with a Chinese MIG.
The most memorable moment for me was being invited
to speak at a memorial service on Iwo Jima Island attended by the Japanese and
American survivors of that terrible World War II battle. Walking the volcanic
sand beaches of that island, looking up at Mount Surabachi towering over the
beach, I could almost smell the smell of cordite, and hear the cries of dying Marines
and soldiers.
There were a lot of moments like that – none quite
that moving – during my three years. When it was over, I was sad to leave. I
was honored to be able to help Americans gain some sense of closure regarding
their lost loved ones. I have to admit, I also liked the perks. I had my own
suite of offices in the building in Crystal City that has a Metro station, so I
only had to get off the subway, go up an escalator and down a hall, and take
the elevator to my office on the 8th floor. When I had to go to the
Pentagon for meetings, as a deputy assistant secretary, I could call for a car
from the motor pool. I had my own public affairs and congressional relations
shop, and could contact members of congress whenever I felt it necessary, and
didn’t have to ask ‘Mother may I?’ like I did in my State Department jobs.
During my three years at Defense, I traveled
approximately every four to six weeks, either domestically or overseas. I
visited more countries as a Defense Department official in three years than I’d
done in the previous ten years at State – often as a guest of the government.
It didn’t hurt that I’d served previously as an ambassador. The Pentagon folks
liked being able to parade their ‘ambassador’ around for folks. It also didn’t
hurt that I was a State weenie who’d previously served in the army, so I could
act as an interpreter between the two groups.
There was only one drawback: after three years of
being relatively independent, getting back into the restrictive State harness
took me a few months to adjust to, as those who read the first installment
might have guessed. In my next article, I’ll talk about the year I spent as a
diplomat-in-residence at the University of Houston.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Diplomatic Life: It's Not All Parties
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| A zebra on the game preserve owned by an American couple in Zimbabwe. These and other animals are threatened by land grabs by greedy and corrupt officials, and it's often only the action of the US embassy's FSOs that keep this from happening. (Photo by Charles Ray) |
The deaths of Ambassador Chris Stevens, along with
three other American officials and several Libyans in the attack on the US
facility at Benghazi on September 11, 2012, and the untimely death on April 6,
2013 in Afghanistan from an IED attack of 25-year-old Foreign Service Officer
Anne Smedinghoff, brought home to Americans in stark fashion the perils America’s
diplomats face around the world.
Sadly, these are not the first US diplomats to be
killed in the line of duty. The American Foreign Service Association (AFSA)
plaque that honors Foreign Service Officers who have given their lives in the
line duty has 244 names dating from 1780. Nor, I fear, will they be the last.
The world will remain a dangerous place, more so for
representatives of the world’s main power, than for many others, and absolute
security is unachievable if they are to do the jobs they are sent abroad to do.
The really sad thing for me, having spent the last
30 years of my life as a Foreign Service Officer (FSO), and the 20 years before
that in the army, is that most Americans give little thought to the unarmed men
and women who serve abroad on the country’s behalf, and frequently go into harm’s
way, until there is a tragedy like the ones previously mentioned. Little or
nothing is known about the work they do routinely, work that often impacts the
daily lives of us here at home.
A lot of what people think they know about diplomats is either outright myth or highly
distorted. The myth that all diplomats do is attend receptions and dinners, for
instance. Sure, they do attend these events, but not for fun, I assure you.
This is how the contacts that are essential to carrying out our mission are
made. Life abroad, though, is not a continuous round of cocktail receptions.
And, those they do attend are usually in the evening after they’ve already put
in a 10-12 hour day doing other things.
What, you might ask, are those other things?
Diplomats negotiate trade and other agreements that
help US companies, US citizens, and affect US national security.
They help Americans in distress abroad in numerous
ways, from issuing replacements for lost passports to offering comfort for
Americans who find themselves on the wrong side of foreign laws.
They observe and report on local affairs to help
Washington policymakers better understand the country to which they’re
assigned.
And, equally important, they explain Washington
policy and US society to foreign audiences.
Along with these duties, they do all manner of
things that Americans are unaware of and would probably be surprised to learn.
In the coming weeks, I’ll be doing a series of
articles on life in the US Foreign Service from the perspective of my own 30
years of service, and in those articles I’ll focus primarily on the other things that I routinely did.
Because it’s fresher in my mind, I’ll start with my
last assignment before retirement; my three years as U.S. Ambassador to
Zimbabwe. Let me start by addressing another myth about American diplomats;
that they live abroad like kings. Sure, as ambassador, I had a nice house. It
did, after all, represent the American people, and oh, by the way, I paid 2.5%
of my salary toward its upkeep, so I didn't live free as some people wrongly
believe. And, the roof of the residence leaked for two of my three years in it,
and the power routinely went off several times a day, sometimes for hours at a
time. When the power went, the electric water pump also stopped working.
Imagine if you will standing in the shower one morning with your hair and face
fully soaped, and the water cuts off and doesn't come back until noon. Not a
pretty picture, believe me.
Okay, I got that off my chest. Now, what are some of
the other things I did as an
ambassador?
On my first visit to the provincial town of Mutare
to open an American reference center in the town library, I had a milkshake
with the son of a woman who ran a café in town. He and I talked about what life
is like for a diplomat. I was the first diplomat he’d ever met, and he was
thrilled that I’d take the time to sit with him.
When government hardliners began blocking my
meetings with Zimbabwe’s youth, my staff scheduled a series of live Facebook
chats. This was the first time many young people there had ever interacted with
a senior official, from any country, and it became so popular that within a few
months over 4,000 young Zimbabweans had signed on to my personal Facebook page.
I chatted with them every day, often staying up until well past midnight to
answer their questions.
When a group of American medical volunteers were
arrested on trumped up charges, it created a furor in the United States. My
consular staff was doing a good job of handling it, but as it will often do,
the Washington bureaucracy tried to manage from afar and a bureaucrat (who I
won’t name) insisted that I personally and publicly meet the arrested Americans
to ensure them that the US Government was concerned about their situation. That
was totally unnecessary, as one of my consular officials was with them almost
constantly, and potentially dangerous, as it could have inflamed local
hardliners and caused them to escalate things. We solved it by having my
consular officer escort them to my residence when I was hosting a youth concert
– part of a series of art and culture events we hosted. I spoke briefly to
them, as I did to all the other guests. They were thrilled to be invited,
Washington was placated that I’d complied with their ‘instructions,’ and the
situation stayed calm long enough for us to get the bogus charges dropped.
At the last July 4 reception I hosted at my
residence, we had a young Zimbabwean singer do the National Anthems of both
countries, to everyone’s delight.
We had few Americans caught up in Zimbabwe’s land
grab, but those that were appreciated the embassy’s intervention. I visited a
game preserve owned by an American couple who were under increased pressure
from corrupt local officials. During my visit, I spent several hours sitting in
blinds (once at night trying to catch sight of a leopard) watching the preserve’s
local game. The important thing about the visit, though, was that it sent a
clear signal to local officials that the US Ambassador was watching them.
These are just a few of the many, many things I did
on a daily basis, things that are seldom if ever mentioned in movies, TV shows,
books, and articles about diplomats. I worked a 10-12 hour day routinely,
sometimes 6-7 days a week. On occasion, my day went up to 18 hours.
There were receptions and dinners, often until late
at night – but, my day didn't end with the after dinner drinks. I then had to
go home and spend time transcribing the notes of my conversations for the
reports that Washington would be sure to demand.
Was it tiring? You bet your boots it was. But, it
was also exhilarating and important.
That’s my three years in Zimbabwe, in quick, broad
brush strokes. Next time, I’ll talk about what it’s like to be a State
Department Foreign Service Officer serving in the behemoth Department of
Defense.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
My Case Against Durian
I can’t stand durian.
For those readers who’ve never been in Southeast
Asia, I must explain that durian is a fruit native to that region of the
world. Often called the ‘King of Fruit,’
it’s distinctive for its size, knobby appearance before being peeled, its
strong odor, and its distinctive taste. Durian’s odor, when ripe, is noticeable
even before the fruit is peeled, and that odor lingers in the air for a long
time; it’s for that reason that Bangkok hotels and other public places ban it.
During durian season, if you walk through a parking lot, you can easily pick
out the cars that have been used to transport the ‘king of fruit,’ even a week
later, because of the odor emanating from their closed trunks – yes, the odor
even gets out of metal enclosures.
Now, I have to put this scenario into further
perspective so you’ll understand the true significance of my dislike. My wife,
who is north Asian (Korean in fact) loves
durian; strange taste, strong odor and all. When we lived in Cambodia from
2002 to 2005, she would often sit in our garden while I was at work and eat the
damn thing. I could always tell, though, because the odor would still be in the
air when I got home at five pm.
But, enough about that; this started with why I don’t like durian. Considering my past
history – as a soldier, and Special Forces trained at that, I’ve been exposed
to all kinds of strange foods and drink, and I’m not usually put off by the
taste or odor; at least, not completely. But, durian just got to me the first
time I encountered it in 1989. It triggered an aversion response like no other
food has done. It took me a while to figure out why. In order to understand my
revulsion, you have to go back a few years.
In 1978, I was assistant public affairs officer for
the 18th Airborne Corps at Fort Bragg, NC, which is also home to the
82d Airborne Division, the Special Warfare School, and a host of other
deployable units. We were often called upon to assist in natural disasters,
such as the blizzard that blanketed northern Ohio earlier that year. In the
South American country of Guyana, a place I’d never heard of, a phony prophet
from the Midwest, James Jones, had set up a branch of his communistic People’s
Temple. Jones had been operating in the San Francisco area, but when the heat
of publicity about his activities became too much, he and several members of
cult fled to what was known as Jonestown – an area that the Guyanese government
had allowed Jones and his people to settle.
There had been reports that members of the People’s
Temple were abused and that their assets had been taken away. In Jonestown,
some people became disillusioned with Jones’ incessant propaganda and wanted to
leave. But, the place was surrounded by miles of jungle and patrolled by armed
guards. Jones’ permission was required for people to leave – and he wasn’t
granting it.
U.S. Representative Leo Ryan from San Mateo,
California; where many Jonestown residents came from; heard of the problems at
Jonestown, and decided to take a firsthand look. He took along his senior
advisor, an NBC film crew, and some relatives of Peoples Temple members. Ryan’s
visit went well until someone passed a note to one of the film crew with names
of people who wanted to leave. It became apparent to Ryan that some people were
being held forcibly in Jonestown. The next day, November 18, 1978, he announced
that he was willing to take with him anyone who wanted to leave. A few people
accepted his offer and got on the truck with his group. At the airport, a group
of Jones’ gunmen attacked Ryan’s group as they waited to board the plane,
killing him and four others.
Jones then ordered everyone in the temple to commit
the ‘revolutionary act’ of suicide because the US Government would retaliate
violently against them for Ryan’s death. A vat of grape-flavored Flavor-Aid
laced with cyanide and Valium was provided, and there were men with guns and
crossbows to encourage those who resisted. On that fateful day, 918 people, a
third of them children, died, either from the cyanide-laced drink or from
gunshot wounds – Jones died from a single gunshot wound to the head.
A few days later, as the news of the tragedy
unfolded, units at Ft. Bragg were alerted to go to Guyana to recover the
bodies. I was the public affairs officer for the task force. I’ll never forget
the radio chatter as the helicopters flew from the Guyanese capital of
Georgetown, over the jungle toward Jonestown. First, there were the reports
that you could ‘smell the place’ from several miles away. Then, reports from
the first people on the ground as they encountered corpses that had lain for
three days in the steaming jungle. At that stage of putrefaction, the flesh
begins to liquefy. As they began retrieving the bodies, the count, which at
first we’d been told was around 200, began to rise as they discovered bodies –
often small children – beneath the bodies of adults. The number went from 200
to 400, then 600, no, 700, and finally 900 or more. It’s been more than 30
years, and I still have nightmares about it sometimes.
But, back to durian and why I can’t stand it. The
first time a ripe fruit, nearly ten pounds and about the size of a football,
was put in front of me and I spooned up some of the flesh, the image of
Jonestown popped into my head. That damned fruit wasn’t much smaller than a
tiny child, and the combination of smell and texture was more than I could
take. I pushed it aside, mumbled some lame apology to my host, and that was
that.
It’s not rational, I know. The orange color of
durian is nothing like rotting flesh. The smell is close, but not exact, and
frankly, overripe mango has a similar texture. Doesn’t matter. My mind made the
connection, and it will not be swayed.
Keep your durian, thank you. It might be your ‘king,’
but to me, it’s more like the ‘devil.’
Monday, June 3, 2013
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Ebogo Tourist Village: Cameroon's Model for Sustainable Development
As the countries of sub-Saharan Africa struggle with
endemic poverty and chronic under- and unemployment, it will be necessary to
find methods of sustainable development and job creation to deal with
increasingly young populations. One route to development that plays to the
continent’s strength is creation of a vibrant tourism sector, with a focus on
eco-tourism. This creates jobs, fosters economic security, and encourages
protection of the environment, all necessary elements for solid economic
growth, and essential if the countries of Africa are ever to pull themselves
out of poverty and aid-dependency.
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| Comfortable bungalows on the banks of the Nyong. |
In Cameroon, there is some modest effort to develop
environmentally sound tourism, and the tourism village of Ebogo, located 60 km
south of the capital city of Yaounde on the Yaounde-Ebolowa highway is just one
example of what can be achieved when government works with local communities to
institute sound economic development programs.
Ebogo, supported by the Cameroonian Ministry of
Tourism and the UN’s World Tourism Organization (WTO), is one of the country’s
most visited eco-tourism sites. Located on the banks of the Nyong River, the
second longest river in the country, Ebogo’s 600 residents have developed an
attraction that contributes to the preservation of the area’s natural heritage,
as well as their own economic self-sufficiency. In addition, the site supports
the economies of Akoumbeguesi and Soasi, two nearby villages.
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| Getting ready for a pirogue ride. |
The Ebogo site includes several modern, electrified
bungalows, a restaurant and meeting room, and a concrete dock where guides keep
pirogues (canoes) for tours of the Nyong and the surrounding equatorial forest.
Fees for a pirogue ride on the Nyong and a guided tour of the forest, where one
can see a 1,175 year-old tree, are modest. Guides keep 20% of their fees and
deposit the rest into a fund for community development. Under the government’s
Sustainable Tourism for Eliminating Poverty (STEP) Program, the government
provides 70% of the funds for infrastructure development, while the community
funds the balance. When I visited Ebogo in May, 2013, Tobie Abah, president of
the Ebogo Community Development Organization, said that there are plans this
year to pave five kilometers of the eight kilometer road into Ebogo from the
main highway. “We plan to leave the last three kilometers unpaved to give visitors
a taste of the bush experience,” Abah said in his sing-song French.
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| This tree, in the equatorial forest around Ebogo, is 1,175 years old and 8 meters in diameter. Now, that's a big tree. |
Except for the government infrastructure subsidy,
Ebogo is relatively self-contained and self-sufficient. Villagers, typical of
West Africans, grow a lot of their own food, and the Nyong provides a rich
source of protein. The river also provides the signature dishes on the
restaurant menu, including poisson du fer,
or viper fish, a local delicacy.
In 2003, Ebogo had just 300 visitors. Abah said that
in 2012, the village hosted 5,300 tourists. Typical activity includes a lazy
pirogue up the Nyong, followed by a guided tour of the equatorial forest which
is home to a rich variety of plants unique in the world, including the
thousand-year-old tree which has a diameter of more than 20 feet. After being
regaled by the guide’s stories of the various trees and plants, you ride back
down river to the dock and enjoy a light lunch, washed down with ice cold ‘33’
beer in the garden restaurant.
At the end of the day, riding over the bumpy dirt
road back to the Yaounde-Ebolowa highway for the trip back to Yaounde, one can’t
help but think that this is the key to survival for most of the continent. With
the majority of its population under 35, Africa needs to grow jobs in order to
grow and prosper. Eco-tourism along the Ebogo model ensures that the
environment will grow as well.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Free Al Pennyback Mystery for your Kindle - June 3 - 7!
Get a free copy of The Day the Music Died for your Kindle, June 3 - 7 to celebrate spring.
Al Pennyback is hired to be a bodyguard to an up and coming young singer, Cindy Caton, who is also receiving death threats via email. There's no shortage of suspects, from her agent-manager, Conrad Bierbaum, to three frustrated singers who are jealous of her exclusive contract with Bierbaum. Al lets himself be atlked into accompanying the singer and her band to Colombia, where he has to contend with poisonous snakes in bed and an unfortunate Cindy Caton look-alike who winds up with a knife in her back. Back in the US after the tour, he's under pressure to catch the killer before Cindy becomes the next victim. Problem is, he finds himself quickly running out of suspects.
http://www.amazon.com/Music-Died-Pennyback-mystery-ebook/dp/B0089C9PUC/
Al Pennyback is hired to be a bodyguard to an up and coming young singer, Cindy Caton, who is also receiving death threats via email. There's no shortage of suspects, from her agent-manager, Conrad Bierbaum, to three frustrated singers who are jealous of her exclusive contract with Bierbaum. Al lets himself be atlked into accompanying the singer and her band to Colombia, where he has to contend with poisonous snakes in bed and an unfortunate Cindy Caton look-alike who winds up with a knife in her back. Back in the US after the tour, he's under pressure to catch the killer before Cindy becomes the next victim. Problem is, he finds himself quickly running out of suspects.
http://www.amazon.com/Music-Died-Pennyback-mystery-ebook/dp/B0089C9PUC/
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Eating My Way Through Cameroon.
When I was invited to join a Canadian-US media
delegation sponsored by Montreal-based Afrique Expansion Magazine to
attend the 38th Unity Day celebrations in the West-Central African
nation of Cameroon, I expected to see a long military parade and perhaps get a
chance to see some of the country’s tourist sites and new industrial
developments.
Well, I did see the parade – several hours of
military and civilian groups marching past the reviewing stand along a broad
avenue in the heart of Cameroon’s capital, Yaounde. I also got a chance to see
some of the countryside from Yaounde west to the Atlantic coast to the country’s
largest city, Douala and points south, had an enjoyable visit to a village that
is prospering from eco-tourism, and was introduced to Cameroon’s efforts to
prevent extinction of its primates through the work of the Primate
Sanctuary located in Chefou National Park, south of Yaounde.
The highlight of my visit, though, wasn’t what I saw
– it was what I ate, or saw others eating. Cameroon has a national cuisine that
can only be described as varied and exotic. A francophone country, it has, of
course, been heavily influenced by its French colonial heritage. The western
part of the country was, after German colonies in Africa were seized after
World War I, was English, and there is some English influence there. Overlaying
all this is traditional West African cuisine with a unique Cameroonian touch.
Sitting as it does as the crossroads of the north,
west, and center of the African continent, Cameroon’s cuisine is one of the
most varied on the continent. The national dish is ndole, a stew made from fish or beef, nuts, and bitter greens.
Other staples include cassava, rice, plantain, maize, beans, and millet. Fish
is the main source of protein for most of Cameroon’s people, whether they live
in the city or the countryside. Another source of protein is bush meat,
including pangolin, snake, porcupine, and a species of giant rat.
Unfortunately, there is also a large demand for the meat of primates, including
some endangered species such as chimpanzee and gorilla.
 |
| Our hostess, Beatrice, with a traditional Cameroonian lunch she prepared. |
My introduction to Cameroon’s gastronomic largesse
began on the second day, when our group was invited to lunch at the home of Afrique Expansion’s in-country
representative, where we were treated to ndole,
cassava, chicken, and fish. That was followed all too quickly by a late dinner
at the home of one of the country’s traditional chiefs where more ndole, cassava, chicken, and beef were
served. It was at this dinner, though, that our tour de cuisine took a unique turn. At the end of the buffet line
from which we served ourselves was a large bowl of dark roasted meat that our
host hinted we might not want to try. Some probing revealed that the bowl
contained monkey meat, at which point it was tactfully decided not to ask what
species of monkey. We were, after all, guests in his house.
On our third day – after a day of Unity Day
activities – we explored the countryside south of Yaounde. Along the way, we
observed eating establishments in small settlements offering everything from brochettes to boa meat (yes, the serpent
variety). At the village of Ebogo, we saw the varieties of fish from the Nyong
River, including the poisson de fer, and a small variety of
catfish that is absolutely delicious when pan fried. Along the road, we snacked
on dried plantain and fish.
 |
| Boa on the menu at a roadside resteraunt south of Yaounde. |
Our final stop was the coastal city of Douala, the
country’s largest city and a regional hub for shipping. At our hotel, the Akwa
Palace, the food was mostly European, but local restaurants offered menus
ranging from the mundane to the unbelievable. Sorrento, for instance, which
bills itself as an Italian restaurant, offers pizza, steak, wild boar and
crocodile tail. They even had a passable version of chili con carne, served
with Mediterranean style bread. Entertainment was karaoke, with French pop
tunes and American rock and roll, and a singer who filled in the spaces when
the customers didn’t feel like singing.
I left Cameroon with fond memories; fantastic
scenery, friendly people, and a sense that the country is trying to progress into
the 21st century. But the most lasting impression is how it has
blended the old and new, alien and native cuisines
into a gastronomic experience that is unforgettable.
Me as Grand Marshal of Dearborn, Michigan's 89th Memorial Day Parade
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| Pausing with Dearborn Mayor John O'Reilly and US Senator Carl Levin before the start of the parade. |
Friday, May 24, 2013
I'm Ba-a-a-ack
It probably passed without notice, but I just want to let everyone know that I've been away from this site for over a week. I just returned at mid-day today from a week-long trip to Cameroon. I was there as part of a Canadian-US media delegation to cover the national day, and we had a chance to see some of the country around Yaounde and Douala. I'll be writing more detailed accounts of the trip - including a visit to a Primate Sanctuary and a trip along the coast to see a waterfall that pours directly into the ocean. Just to whet appetites, below are some photos from the trip.
 |
| Lobe Falls near Douala on the Atlantic Coast. |
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| Vendors on the beach. |
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| Chimpanze at the Primate Sanctuary south of Yaounde. |
Monday, May 13, 2013
Rescued By Angels
http://www.dialogo-americas.com/en_GB/articles/rmisa/features/special_reports/2013/05/10/feature-ex-4139
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Gun Violence in America: Are We Abdicating Our Moral Responsibility?
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| National_Rifle_Association (Photo credit: ChrisWaldeck) |
Members of Congress cowed by the National Rifle
Association’s (NRA) lobbying power, and its extensive war chest, which it uses
unashamedly against legislators deemed ‘soft’ on gun control issues, continue
to do the association’s bidding. The ‘Gang of Fear’ came together recently to
defeat proposed legislation for enhanced background checks for gun purchasers.
As it does with all legislation designed to bring rationality to the purchase
and possession of firearms, the NRA’s knee-jerk reaction to the proposed law
was that it was a ‘first step to confiscation of our firearms.’
This argument seems to presuppose that there is,
somewhere in government, a group that sits in a room plotting to relieve ALL
Americans of ALL of their guns. Shudder! A truly scary thought; except that it’s
so far from the reality of how our chaotic, short-term focus bureaucratic and
political systems work, it’s laughable. Anyone who thinks the U.S. Government
does this kind of long term planning has only to look at our recent experiences
in Iraq and Afghanistan.
But, I digress. Let’s get back to background checks.
The intent of the legislation, as I understand it, was to establish procedures
that would go a long way to keep guns out of the hands of felons, the
emotionally or mentally disabled, etc.
News reports and surveys indicate that over 80% of the American public,
including a significant number of NRA members, supported the proposed law. One
has to wonder, then, why the leadership of NRA and the Gang of Fear so
adamantly opposed it. But, I’ll leave that for others or for another time.
Right now, I’d like to put another issue on the
table – one that I’ve not seen discussed – liability. Are those who block rules
that would curb access to guns by people who clearly should not be allowed to
have them liable for the harm such people cause? Now, I seriously doubt such an
argument would stand up in a court of law. After all, efforts to hold gun
manufacturers liable have gone nowhere, so a case like this is unlikely to ever
be brought. But, it does raise an interesting ethical and moral issue. Are you
morally and ethically responsible if your actions help create conditions that
inflict harm on others?
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| English: United States Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords at her desk. (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
Would it have been useful to have enhanced
background checks that would have limited the ability of Virginia Tech student
Seung-Hui Cho, who had been previously diagnosed with a severe anxiety
disorder, from obtaining the weapons he used on April 16, 2007 to kill 32
people and wound 17 others on the school campus? Or Jared Loughner, a disturbed young man who
bought ammunition on the same day he attempted to kill U.S. Representative
Gabrielle Giffords during a constituent meeting in a supermarket parking lot in
Casas Adobes, Arizona, near Tucson. The January 8, 2011 shooting claimed the
lives of six people, including a nine-year-old girl.
 |
| Assassination attempt of U.S. President Gerald R. Ford by Sara Jane Moore. Location: San Francisco, CA. Description: Reaction of Secret Service agents, police, and bystanders approximately one second after Sara Jane Moore attempted to assassinate President Gerald R. Ford. 22 September 1975 (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
Going back further in time, would stiffer
backgrounds have made it more difficult for Lynette ‘Squeaky’ Fromme, a member
of the disciple of murderous cult leader Charles Manson, get her hands on the
.45 caliber automatic which she waved at former president Gerald Ford in
Sacramento in April 1975, or Sara Jane Moore, who shot at Ford 17 days later in
San Francisco? We might never know, because those opposed to rational controls
over gun ownership also try to block debate and discussion of the issue, hiding
behind the Second Amendment.
These are but a few of the incidents of clearly
disturbed individuals being able to acquire arms and ammunition under our current
regime of lax and haphazardly applied controls.
It’s not a Second Amendment issue. In my humble
opinion, it’s an issue of stepping up to the plate and assuming moral and
ethical responsibility for the violence that has become endemic in our society.
More than 80% of the American public gets it. When will the Gang of Fear?
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Review: "Framed: A historical novel about the revolt of the Luddites" by Christy Fearn
In the 19th century, English textile
workers, known as the Luddites, protested the labor-saving machines that had
been introduced into factories, enabling the hiring of less-skilled, lower-wage
laborers, leaving them unemployed. No one is completely sure of the origin of
the name Luddite, but it’s generally believed to be after Ned Ludd, a young man
who in 1781, allegedly smashed two stocking frames in the factory in which he
worked. Rather than being anti-technology, as is commonly believed today, the
Luddites were really protesting chronic underemployment and exploitation of
workers by the capitalists who controlled the factories.
In Framed: A
Historical Novel about the Revolt of the Luddites, Christy Fearn gives us a
look at the so-called Luddite revolution through the eyes of one family. Facing
the possibility of unemployment because of the introduction of new machinery,
they decide to take matters into their own hands – and the smashing begins.
Fearn does a good job of showing how individuals might have reacted to the
chaotic economic conditions of the time. She has her textile workers using
French on occasion, and while I can’t say this would have been the case in
1811, it comes across as credible, given the way she describes them. There is
also a lot in Framed about clashes
between the militia and the rebels; again, showing the human side of it. After
all, most of the soldiers came from the same socio-economic background.
A novel of action and suspense, of manners, and of
great psychological depth, that goes beneath the surface of setting and
characters, revealing what lies beneath. If you like historical fiction that
rings true, you’ll like reading Framed.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Review: "Scotland's Guardian" by Katherina Gerlach
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| Edinburgh, Scotland's capital and second-largest city (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
Fourteen-year-old Bryanna McConnaichie, while riding
a bus home, receives a cryptic warning from a strange woman with webbed hands, “Your
father’s time is running out.” She doesn’t understand why her father, cryptozoologist
Angus McConnaichie, should be in danger until he’s kidnapped by another strange
woman right before her eyes. In her quest to rescue him, Bryanna finds herself
moving between Scotland and Alba, and encountering strange creatures that,
until that time, she had thought to be mere figments of her active imagination.
During her search, she learns that her father is the Guardian protecting
Scotland and the ‘other’ worlds from all manner of evil, and that she’s a
half-blood with magical powers. She encounters Kaylee, another half-blood, who
might be a friend – but, who also might be a deadly enemy.
In Scotland’s
Guardian, by German writer Katherina Gerlach, you’ll find non-stop action
from page one, written in an engaging and entertaining manner that will keep
you on the edge of our chair. Gerlach brings creatures from Scotland’s rich
history of mythology to life in a way that makes you believe in them. Her
characters are believable, and, even the bad guys elicit sympathy.
A crisp tale, told in Gerlach’s unique style, this
is a definite must-read for anyone interested in fantasy and myth. In fact, it
just might be the book to interest those who’ve never read a fantasy novel
before.
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