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Jambo Bwana 7: A Week with Elephants

Monday, June 27
Ithumba Camp
Tsavo East National Park
Makueni, Kenya

We wake up at 5:20am, which gives us just barely enough time to throw our clothes on and make it to the trucks leaving at 5:45 for the 15-minute drive out to the relocation unit. It’s just before dawn, still pretty dark, and as we near the top of the hill where the watering hole and stockade are located, we notice large, very large, slowly moving forms and shadows in the misty, gathering light. As my eyes become accustomed, I realize it’s a herd of elephants. Big, wild elephants of all sizes. They are here, it seems, to hydrate at the two water holes and greet the orphans as they are released for the day. We spend some time watching them in the gathering light before and after the orphans are let out of their enclosures. The sun rises soon after six, and we begin to see more clearly a large number of variously sized elephants scattered among the two water holes.

Some of the elephants are wild, some ex-orphans who have returned to the wild, and after some kibbutzing around the water holes and the hay strewn near the stockade, the orphans and ex-orphans and wild elephants head out for the day together, accompanied by the keepers, who walk with them. They will wind up at about 11 a.m. at the mud and watering hole a few miles south and then back to the enclosures at 5 p.m. for the night. The elephants spend the rest of the day roaming, grazing and learning from the others how to survive in the wild.

Benjamin Kyalo is project manager of the Ithumba Orphan’s Unit, and he explains to us the process that allows the elephants themselves to decide when they want to leave for the wild herd. I immediately trust him, and we will spend the next four days watching this incredible story unfold under Benjamin’s expert direction.

We get our first view of a baby named Wiva. She was born to Wendi on October 15, which makes her eight months old. Wendi was brought to the Trust as a newborn left for dead in the Imenti Forest in 2002 and was hand-reared at the nursery in Nairobi. After coming to Ithumba, she made the transition and is now one of about 30 ex-orphans who remain in the area and are now part of the wild herd. Watch a video of Wiva and her guardians here.

She is an example of an elephant raised completely in captivity but now free, and she remembers the keepers who raised her and is friendly with them, even with the baby around. Elephants love baby elephants, and Wiva is tended by at least five other females, but we are introduced to Wendi right away, because Wiva is looking for mama’s milk. We will see them many times in the next few days. Geoffrey points out two wild dogs at the edges of the elephant gathering, but neither Billie nor I can see them.

Up close, we can see and feel their scaly bodies, hard yet somehow soft, too, and built to hold together their weight and withstand the rigors of the Kenyan outback. We can also observe up close the temporal glands behind their eyes, which secrete chemicals that we don’t fully understand yet but we are learning that it has to do with their emotions.

The mudhole at Ithumba was used by all the elephants at one time or another.

Their ears are almost paper thin, and the skin behind them very soft. One stops over to show us her trunk and how cool it is. We can also hear their deep, rumbling voices. Elephant researcher Dr. Joyce Poole has observed that “greeting rumbles or bonding rumbles, in particular, show an extreme range in the frequency of calls.” And many of their rumblings are too low in frequency for humans to hear. Elephants have also been found to “hear” rumbles from long distances through vibrations they feel in their feet.

There are probably 30 or 40 elephants here, and the big ones soon head over for the lucerne next to the stockade. It is meant for the young ones, but today the bigger elephants push the young ones out of the way, grabbing huge chunks for themselves and taking off to munch without interruption. Soon, they are heading off down the road in small groups before disappearing behind a ridge, and we climb back in the trucks for the drive back for breakfast.

Lois stopped in to our tent to talk about how the safari was going, and we have a good conversation. Overall, we tell her we are delighted at what’s happening. We are completely comfortable with the way things are transpiring. Breakfast includes eggs over easy with bacon, alongside cereals and fresh fruits, juices and coffee. We sit and watch some wildlife coming through the camp until 11 a.m., when we are driven out to where some of the wild elephants are again waiting for the orphans at the mud hole.

The water trucks were busy every day at the various waterholes.

Tsavo East is pretty dry, and it’s winter, so the Trust has built water holes of stone for the elephants around the area. They need to be cleaned and refilled, often more than once a day, and the Trust keeps them serviced with a truck that drives up to the water hole right into a herd of larger males. The elephants are obviously used to this, and they stand around waiting. The water truck is a constant companion here, either at one of the water holes or at the stockade or heading between them. The wild elephants are patient as the attendant fills up the holes.

We spend an hour just watching. The mud hole here is much larger than the one at Umani Springs. It’s a real mud hole, and there is elephant action everywhere: I’m standing looking at the mud hole, a pond with maybe a twenty-yard circumference and mud all around it, and elephants are splashing and throwing mud everywhere. At one point, the young orphans are coming in for their bottles stage right while the big males stand at left at the water hole silently gazing over at us.

It’s an amazing scene, the elephants throwing gray sludge on their backs until they turn a darker shade of grey. There is a kind of pecking order going on, with elephants waiting for others in some cases and not in others. At certain points it seems that some of the larger elephants are holding a class in mud slinging for the orphans to show them how it’s really done.

One friendly guy, taller than we are, walks right up to us. He’s an ex-orphan and friend of Benjamin, who’s also standing with us, and this male elephant is right next to us, checking us out with his trunk and talking with Benjamin while larger males eye us from about thirty feet away and another line of elephants passes just beyond us. I’m surrounded by elephants and as happy as I’ve ever been in my life.

A busload of Kenyan schoolchildren in their blue outfits are standing around the orphans, and some of the more adventurous get to feed the young orphans their bottles. Education at a young age is an important part of the Kenyan conservation effort, and I wonder to myself how many of these children’s families might be involved in poaching, or which of these kids might become poachers themselves, given the right economic circumstances. It’s a vicious cycle, and I find it hard to blame the local Kenyans hired to kill elephants for ivory, none of whom are the main beneficiaries of the wealth that comes from those tusks. (Watch the mudhole scene here.) On our way back to the compound, we pass a jeep with six rangers, all armed with machine guns, just a reminder that we are not in Disneyland and the elephants here are not necessarily safe.

Later in the afternoon, back at the stockade watching the young ones coming back in, I ask Benjamin if any keeper has ever been hurt by an elephant, and he says no. Elephants always announce their intent before charging, he says. And the keepers learn each of their vocal mannerisms so they can tell if an elephant is expressing pleasure or displeasure. Elephants, he adds, are smart and observant enough to know which humans to trust and which to avoid.

Wiva is a wild elephant born of Wendi, a Sheldrick orphan who returned to the wild.

A group of twelve comes walking in, a reddish stain running along parts of their backs. Six head right into the stockade for their bottles, and the keepers direct the others, probably ex-orphans, out to the water holes. I spend some time just watching one of them drink. I love the way the trunk can just suck up water and then deposit it in her mouth or anywhere else she wishes. One of the keepers says that larger elephants can take in up to five liters of water at a time into their trunks. He sucks the liquid into his trunk, then lets it rise above him, drops it into his mouth and then dips back down into the water. Very elegant.

Besides the milk formula and acacia bark, pellets form a big part of the orphan diet. I think they’re made of alfalfa, too, and they seem to be the same or similar to the ones we let the giraffes take out of our mouths or that horses eat in the states. The elephants love these little pellets. I spent a lot of time just watching them eat every last one they can get their trunk on. It’s time-consuming to keep grabbing one or two at a time, but they don’t seem to mind. This afternoon, one orphan moves quickly to chase another one off some pellets – she isn’t nice about this – before a keeper brings calm to the situation. God, do these ellies love their pellets.

And as I’m caught up watching one of them scrounge up the pellets, another one outside the compound comes up behind me waving his trunk. The others warn me of his approach, but I’m standing right next to a road grader, and with two steps I’m behind it in time to get a movie of the waving trunk before a keeper comes up and restores order by moving him toward the water hole. Hard to say, but he seemed pissed.

Later, the wild elephants move away from the water hole, and a lone baboon and a couple of warthogs take their turns, watching carefully and purposely in all directions each time before dipping their heads into the hole.

I wind up sitting and talking with Mondaii and Geoffrey about Trump – they can’t believe him, either — and about how much they want to come to America. Mondaii wants his youngest daughter, now five, to have the chance to be educated here. Geoffrey doesn’t have a specific reason, but he wants to see what America is all about. All they know is what they see on television.

On our way back to dinner, Mondaii drives us over to the water hole, where a couple of wild elephants are throwing water and mud over themselves as the sun is setting. It’s completely quiet, the only sound is the water falling around their shoulders in the fading light. A warthog behind them on the far shore completes the picture.

As we sit up on the balcony looking over Tsavo East with a glass of Amarula, it’s dawning on me the scope of what we are seeing. Wow.

Our stay at Ithumba continues here. Watch more videos of the elephants here.

June 21, 2017   1 Comment

Jambo Bwana 6: A Week with Elephants

Sunday, June 26
Ithumba Camp
Tsavo East National Park
Makueni, Kenya

After an early breakfast, we left Umani at 8:45 a.m. for the drive to Ithumba. Though it is no more than 60 kilometers as the vulture flies from Umani to Ithumba, our route takes us 240 kilometers, most of that distance on dirt roads of varying degrees of quality. That allows us to stop in a little village on this Sunday morning and then to meet Peter and Jambi at a point along the way to transfer the food (and more importantly, the Amarula! – we have all gotten a taste for it) for the four days in Ithumba. It takes us about four hours on thoroughfares that ranged from mediocre pavement to almost non-existent dirt road. For awhile, we are on the infamous A109, the Mombasa Highway, the main road between Mombasa and Nairobi. It is narrow, super busy, super hazardous, and even on Sunday morning clogged with huge trucks, cars, four-wheelers and motorcycles.

Beyond Nairobi, the two-lane A109 links the Kenyan coast to the land-locked countries of Burundi, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Rwanda, Uganda and South Sudan. More than half of all goods traded in the East African community come via this highway. Dangerous? In 2013 alone, 3,179 people lost their lives in traffic accidents on the combined Mombasa–Malaba Road. That’s ten times the number of highway deaths in the entire U.S.

This is along the main street in Kibwesi, a hub town on the Mombasa highway. The irony was not lost when I saw this.

We stop in Kibwezi, described by Mondaii as a hub town upon which smaller villages rely for goods and services. I would hardly consider it urban. Population of about 5,000. As we walk up the main street, many locals are decked out in their finest duds – it reminds me of going to church in the 1950s in America when everybody dressed to the hilt for services. We are the only white people I see during our short time there. After almost an hour, while some of the women in the group are buying dresses and material, my back is going out. Somehow Mondaii shows up with one of the rovers so Billie and I can rest our bodies.

There is no pavement nor sidewalks, and you can see by the large gouges in the red dirt that when it rains, it just takes out more of the street. We pass shops advertising everything from a butchery (with a dog sitting outside the front door) to a photocopy shop, nail salon, electrical and electronic supplies, propane gas tanks, banks and clothing booths. Many advertised that they accepted M-Pesa, the phone-based money transfer service exploding in Kenya and Tanzania. Many Kenyans have cell phones, but there are few smartphones. Bars and restaurants line the streets, and there is a huge open area where people are walking and meeting and kids are playing. As we sit in the car, a huge herd of sheep pass along the way amidst the general clamor.

Another shot along the main street of Kibwesi.

At one point we are accosted by a thin, emaciated fellow with bad teeth who hadn’t taken a bath in awhile and was hefting a piece of metal pipe in his scrawny right hand. He is obviously not happy with our presence, and Geoffrey immediately takes him aside and reads him the riot act as we walk on. Mondaii also talks to him after he continues to shade us, and I watch later as he skulks around the outer edges of the group. Later the drivers tell us that he was an addict and upset that we weren’t giving him money. We are cautioned not to take pictures of people because they will ask for money.

We get back on A109 and head south, more heavy traffic in both directions. Mondaii talks of his wariness about the growing Chinese influence in Kenya and other African and Asian countries today. The Chinese government is providing funds to rebuild the historic railway, and as we head south we begin to see evidence of the train construction all around Manyani Junction as well as a rejiggering of the intersection with new infrastructure.

I had read about hijackers along the highways, and Mondaii said that a few years ago, when he was driving a van/type bus on A109, that thieves on the side of the highway threw rocks at him, which made him swerve and crash the bus. Although nobody was hurt in his case, these kinds of attacks happen here often, we are reminded. The thieves don’t mind killing people just to loot their bags.

When we stopped for supplies at Manyani Junction, we heard the Shiloh Tabernacle choir on Sunday morning.

Manyani Junction is where we hook up with Jambi and Peter before heading north to Ithumba. It’s a wonderful moment. You can see the new railway being built here, giant infrastructure changes and heavy equipment. Vans like the one Mondaii was driving when attacked, are lined along one side of the intersection, and Chinese motorcycles pass us in all directions. People are gathering at a restaurant on another corner. The highway is slowed in both directions. Across the access road is a large tent with Kenyan worshippers singing what sounds like American gospel music in Swahili harmonies. Large vultures with enormous wings take advantage of the winds above us. I manage to get a video of the junction before we climb back in and head for Ithumba. (Watch a video of our stop at Manyani Junction here.)

We leave the bustling highway, and from there it’s a long, quiet drive through the countryside, punctuated by encounters with lots of smiling people who wave as we pass. It reminds me a lot of the drive from Belize to the Tikal ruins in Guatemala. Mondaii is an experienced driver, carefully treading in some places where the road has washed out. I forgot to get a picture, but we went by one building that advertised itself as the World Trade Center. As we get closer to Tsavo, we begin to see strange volcanic rocks jutting up from the landscape like giant stalagmites. It is winter, and Tsavo, though not that far away, is a much drier climate than Umani Springs.

East Tsavo is a large park, 8,000 square miles, and it includes Kenya’s principal elephant population, currently numbering about 12,000. It’s the only park in Kenya that offers the space elephants need for any real quality of life.

Mondaii also stops a couple of times to show us baobab trees. It’s the most widespread of the Adansonia species, and he shows us a couple examples of their immensity and also to note that the wood is not as substantial as it appears, though they live a long time. They are symbolic in many ways of Africa, and they will become a presence in Tsavo in the next few days.

From the second floor of the Ithumba central building, you look down over the entire countryside over West Tsavo to the hills that finally point to Mt. Kilimanjaro, and it was easy to notice the baobabs sticking above the rest of the canopy of greyish, dry shrubs and bushes. No matter where you look here, you always see the baobab, filled with the legends and myths and mysteries of Africa.

The camp is great, much more like what I imagine a safari camp would be than Umani Springs, though it’s pretty cool to have both experiences. (And we learn there is another, newer Sheldrick camp on Ithumba Hill that is more modern and includes a swimming pool and higher views over the park.) Our tent sits off the ground, has nice rugs on wood floors, a thatched roof built over the tent, an area behind the beds to store gear and a zippered entrance to an outdoor bathroom with a six-foot stone wall surrounding it.

We loved our outdoor facility at the rear of our tent at Ithumba.

I was kind of dreading the outside toilet facilities. I get up at night, and I was concerned about sitting on the throne outdoors in an area where we know baboons, monkeys and other animals pass through day and night. But it turns out to be pretty neat. Taking a shower is a real pleasure, the water always perfect and Ithumba Hill looming behind, and our little enclosure makes a fine bathroom. Plus, we can see the Milky Way while sitting on the toilet. That just doesn’t suck. And we didn’t see any baboons, at least around our tents.

A thirty-second walk takes us to the large, open-air building that serves as dining room, living room and second-floor deck, a place where we can eat, relax and literally and figuratively, technically and mentally, recharge our batteries. Taking all these movies of the elephants eats the iPhone’s battery at a prodigious rate, but I’m able to keep ahead by recharging between each session and transferring the .MOV files to the laptop, and, so far, it’s been pretty easy to keep both phone and computer ready for all occasions. I wind up taking way more film than I planned. I’m still looking through it. But I’m really glad I did.

We go out to meet our new orphan friends for the first time at 5pm. This facility is a lot different from Umani Springs. The topography is completely different – there is no hint of forest here. The Ithumba Unit is one of two places (Voi is the other) where orphans reunite with wild elephants and other ex-orphans and make their way back into the wild. After they are transferred here, they continue to spend the nights in the stockade and days in the wild. It can take several years, but finally each one will one day decide to leave the stockade and not return. (Watch Sakuta greeting us here.)

The first group of five saunters past us into their pens for their bottles, all moving at a steady clip, and a couple of minutes later another group of five comes into sight and follows them into their pens for their milk. This is going to be fun. We get to spend time just watching them in their enclosures eating their pellets and stripping the bark from the saplings left for them to enjoy, which they certainly do.

The care of these orphans is an amazing, 24-hour-a-day process. Baby elephants need their mother’s milk to survive. After years of trial and error, Daphne Sheldrick came up with a formula that included cocoanut oil. To make these elephants welcome again after the trauma of losing their family and friends, the keepers feed them at three-hour intervals day and night, keep their colorful blankets and food available, play with them, console them and get them ready, ultimately, to become a wild elephant.

We aren’t quite as pampered here as we were by Peter at Umani Springs, but that’s not a complaint. The beef with several different fresh veggies are all prepared just right and are perfect after a long day on the road. And Lois and Renae, who each bought a colorful African dress in Kibwesi, give us a fashion show. Amarula and early to bed.

Our stay at Ithumba Camp continues here. Watch videos of our Kenya trip here.

June 21, 2017   1 Comment

Jambo Bwana 5: A Week with Elephants

Saturday, June 25
Umani Springs Camp
Chyulu Hills National Park

We wake up at 6:20 a.m., too late to make the early elephant visit – and the only obe we miss all week. Happy to report that Billie is feeling better. At breakfast, everyone says that the morning visit had a completely different vibe from yesterday, when the animals were friendly and quiet. The wild elephants in the forest visited the stockade last night, which apparently upset the matriarchs. Two females, Sonje and Murera, have become matrons to Mwashoti, and as soon as they were let out of their enclosures, they bolted to the young one, flaring ears and letting everyone know of their concerns.

The Umani facility is for elephants with special needs. Several, like Mwashoti, have been caught in snares, which limits their ability to stand up. One leg down makes it more difficult, but the Trust is still hopeful these elephants will someday return to the wild. After watching a video of the snare wound that Mwashoti endured just a few short months ago, it is amazing to see that this vicious wound is hardly visible except in a limp by now.

Elephants love their mudbaths.

We’re out for the 11 a.m. feeding and mudbath. Watching the orphans’ enthusiasm is just as exciting as yesterday, and I get that overwhelming feeling of great joy as they begin to accelerate to make it to their bottles of milk and the way they noisily make their way through the five liters and get a second. Though I have seen this before on YouTube and yesterday in the flesh, it’s still something that makes me so infinitely happy. And alternately, very sad since when these guys and girls get back into the wild, they might be hunted for their tusks, which become more prominent each and every day. One of them trumpets just before getting his bottle, and the unthrottled roar pierces the quiet. It is magnificent. (Watch this scene here.)

Researcher Joyce Poole writes of elephant trumpets: “The sound quality is highly variable and might be described as squealing like a pig, screeching, roaring, shouting, yelling, crying, and even crowing like a rooster.” (Carl Safina, Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel, p. 83) This one sounds like the squealing pig. We will hear many of the others throughout the week.

On the way back we pass the cement pond and finally spot the crocodile, a small fellow, who’s sunning himself along the edge. He slides into the murky water before we can get very close, but Angel got a photo that authenticates that it is not a monitor lizard. Our question has been answered over lunch today, the Kenyan version of pizza, with a crisp crust.

Geoffrey and Mondaii are worried about tsetse flies being around in the area of a planned nature walk, which would have gone up another side of the large hill where we went last night for the Sundowner, so that is cancelled, and we all spend some down time in the afternoon. At one point, I’m kinda lethargic in my swing. Idly scanning the mud hole area with binoculars, I spot Julia trying to get cell service. Nodding off, I wake up and, scanning the area again, see the big baboon we keep hearing at exactly the same spot. I wonder, “WTF,” before finding out Julia is now sitting nearby and fine.

Sometimes elephants can just be ... funny!

The 5pm feeding is great fun, and I get some videos of the gang arriving, and spend some time talking with Philip, the head keeper, about the animals here. As several of us are filming a group coming in, a baboon brouhaha takes place in the forest close to us. It’s really loud and sounds vicious and spiteful and nasty. With baboons, we find out, you never really know. As someone mentions, baboons will squabble about anything.

At one point, we allow the ellies to pick up pellets from our open hands, which gives you a sense of the power of the trunk, which has two main lobes, those “fingers” inside. I never tire of watching them incorporate these appendages, which they use much the same way we use hands and arms. Not as efficient, perhaps, but they have learned how to make the most of them. And maybe, they are more efficient than ours.

At the Sundowner everybody talks about their favorite moments of the day while we watch the mongooses and bush babies and the genet grab their snacks in front of the lights. I find out later reading Dame Sheldrick’s book that feeding these animals is a kind of tradition here – they do a similar thing at Ithumba.

Dinner includes some great mushroom cream soup. (A note about Kenyan soups. We are served cream soup every day, generally some kind of veggie turned into cream, and it’s always yummy.) Today’s menu includes pork spareribs and more of those fresh, crispy veggies, as always, exquisitely prepared. We find out there is a national school for safari chefs, which is not so surprising, since safari is a big source of income for the country and its citizens. Afterwards, we are all singing again before we retire, the three songs Mondaii is teaching us, especially “Jambo Bwana.”

The flashlights appear again as we begin to walk to our lodges. It’s so wonderful to be so well taken care of, and we are sad that we must leave Peter and Lefty and the others tomorrow, but happy to continue our journey with Geoffrey and Mondaii in the drivers’ seats of the Land Rovers.

We head for Tsavo East National Park here. Watch videos of our adventures here.

June 21, 2017   1 Comment

Jambo Bwana 4: A Week with Elephants

Our first morning with the Umani Springs orphans was pure magic.

Friday, June 24
Umani Springs Camp
Chyulu Hills National Park
Kibwesi Forest, Kenya

People go on safari for different reasons, and there are enough to accommodate diverse palates. The most common and best-known are the “Big Five” or “Big Six” safaris. In Kenya, that means going to the savannahs of the Masai Mara or Amboseli National Park and spending the day in trucks marking off the Big Six list: generally, lion, leopard, rhino, elephant, buffalo, hippopotamus. It’s similar to what we did in Yellowstone in the years we spent watching wolves and grizzlies.

(Mondaii tells us a great story about a group that wanted to see the Big Six. It took him less than an hour to find examples of each. They took photos and were ready to come back to the camp and hang out the rest of the day.)

This week is different. Instead of trying to see all the animals, on this safari we get the chance to see one species up close and personal. (The second week of the safari heads to Masai Mara, where you get those amazing photos of the sun setting with a giraffe or lion standing before it.) And when I first realized, while riding to and from the elephant stockades, we wouldn’t be going on game drives or seeing other animals, I was a little disappointed. But not for long.

We have done adventures before, with mind-bending results. In 1999 and 2000 we traveled to Brooks Falls and McNeil River, respectively, two areas in southwest Alaska where dozens of brown bears gather and tolerate each other and the humans gawking at them while they fatten up on the salmon bounty at both areas. We spent a total of eight days over two trips in the wild with the great bears in their native habitat doing what grizzlies spend most of the time doing, and I learned that it doesn’t include chasing and eating people – unless provoked by said humans.

We felt privileged to sit among brown bears at McNeil River and Brooks Camp in Alaska in 1999 and 2000.

And we spent half a dozen Octobers in Yellowstone chasing the wolves in the early 2000s after they were re-introduced into the park. We were able to observe animals in a pack and how they relate to their surroundings and each other. One incredible, cold morning, on a hill overlooking the Lamar Valley, we watched for an hour as a mother grizzly and two cubs overcame seven wolves and took over an elk kill site. Powerful stuff.

So the chance to see another species, especially the largest land animal, up close was persuasive. Like brown bears and wolves, elephants dominate their ecosystems. I had left Alaska understanding that humans, especially since the advent of the repeating rifle, are the apex species – no doubt about that – but that we might not be the smartest in the sense of how we have adapted to our environment, and we loved seeing that kind of thing in nature.

Brown bears just want to be left in peace. Any so-called “attack” is nothing more than a living being protecting itself and its family or near enough starvation to actually entertain consuming a human. Brown bears can and do kill people if necessary, and so do elephants, but both, for the most part, are pretty docile. And when there is conflict or competition, animals always pay the price for their actions.

The final reason why I succumbed didn’t dawn on me until later. It goes back to seeing those first films of those orphans run for their bottles and watching their absolute joy for life as they went through their day. It reminded me that I was orphaned young, too, and how much I hated that word, how much I wanted to rid myself of its stigma, of that dread feeling of not being part of something. Seeing them become reintegrated into society with family and friends is a big part of it for me.

We’re up early today, and I grab a quick cup of strong Kenyan tea Peter has ready for us so we can be out at the elephant stockade at 6am as the guys and gals are let out for the day to roam the forest with their keepers. Just before we get in the Rover, I notice that a bunch of ants had gotten into my left shoe. I spent a little time ridding myself of the intruders, and it was the last insect incident of the trip.

When we get out to the stockade, I notice that the bark has been perfectly stripped from every tree limb that was placed inside their enclosures last night. They head off in a line, and as we leave the stockade behind the elephants, they all turn left at the gate and head for a small clearing the keepers have filled with lucerne, or alfalfa, which has nutrients that the ellies love.

Standing there in the forest in the hay, we have our first experience actually up close and personal with them, and it is amazing. (Watch the scene here.) Dawn is creeping into the forest, and here we are, eight tourists, two drivers, six keepers and 11 elephants in a pretty tight area. And we just walk around among them in wonder, feeling their trunks, scratching their ears, looking into their eyes, watching and listening to them eat, asking questions, learning to stay out of their way and just marveling that we are actually in the wild more than 9,000 miles from home communing with another species. This is what we came to do, and it feels soooo good.

The keepers seem as gentle as the elephants, able to communicate with words and gestures, keep order and put up with our insistent questions, and we have many. They are always calm and collected; I never see one of them panic at any time. Philip, head of the Umani unit, is the first of two keepers to tell me that elephants are as smart as humans, maybe smarter, and yes, the keepers get very attached to the animals, and yes, the animals get attached to certain humans. These elephants have been traumatized. Some were rescued while circling their dead mothers and screaming, “WTF?” and then brought back to an unfamiliar place, the nursery.

Think about it. These animals have no good reason to trust humans, knowing our treachery, and here are these men who walk with them, talk with them, feed them, sleep with them, comfort them when they’re lonely in the darkness, in effect becoming their surrogate family. Keepers are moved around in sleeping quarters so animals, or keepers, don’t get too attached to each other. We are witness to so many instances of the marvelous interaction between these humans and animals. I don’t believe in reincarnation, but I would seriously consider giving up the ghost right this minute if I could come back as a keeper in a green Sheldrick tunic.

By the time we return for breakfast, dozens of vervet monkeys have taken over the lodge area, playing and jumping around in the bushes, along the edges of the swimming pool and out on the lawn. Scientists have studied vervet communication, and the species, which is widespread in Kenya, has been found to incorporate extensive patterns of communication. Young ones learn vocalizations from older relatives and siblings, which one to use to say “watch for a snake,” for instance, or “watch for another predator.” No doubt all this is taking place, but for us, it’s just thirty minutes of sitting and observing the entire troupe, which must number at least fifty, sweep through the area, over the deck chairs and around the pool, often with little outbreaks of action, before finally dispersing into the trees.

After breakfast we take an hour-long hike to the actual Umani springs, the underground aquifer that supplies the water here, before heading over to the mud bath in an open area a short walk from the lodge at 11 a.m. Soon, we can see the orphans at the edge of the forest, each one spotting the keepers and beginning to run for the milk formula bottles. I’ve said it before, but watching the pure joy emanating from every ounce of these creatures as they head for their prize are still perhaps the best moments of the entire experience. It connotes unabashed, overwhelming enthusiasm for life itself, and it just overwhelms me. Some of them get the bottles from the trainers and then hoist them with their trunks, others pick them up themselves and suck in the full five liters – it takes about thirty to forty seconds to drain one — before trumpeting for another. Orphans finding their way back into real life. (Watch the orphans run for their bottles here.)

Then they make their way over to the mudhole, where the orphans step in and slap mud onto their bodies. One just splays himself out into the natural sludge and works his limbs clumsily while trying to cover his body. The hole is not that muddy, and it’s not easy for them to cover themselves. But once they do, they walk over to a pile of dirt nearby and throw it on themselves happily before disappearing with the keepers back into the forest.

One of the keepers mentions again that since these animals can be here for a few years, the keepers switch off so that the animals don’t become attached to one trainer over another, which can be dangerous for the animals and complicate their return to the wild. It’s hard on the keepers, too, to keep from becoming too close to the animals for whom they are father/mother/matron/friend/companion. When I ask about intelligence, he says, “very intelligent, more so than humans.” No arguments here, so far.

The cement pond: Did a crocodile or a monitor lizard slither into the cement pond? Inquiring minds need to know.

Back at the lodge, lounging around before lunch, I look up just in time to catch something slither into the little cement pond on the front lawn. Some of the others got a longer look and identified it as a crocodile. At lunch Mondaii argues that it was a monitor lizard, which I never knew would have existed here, but they do. Peter, the chef, contends that it was a crocodile, and at dinner it becomes a kind of meme for the group: Step up and give your opinion: Was it monitor or croc? Most are going with the latter. I’m not the only one to think Mondaii is putting us on.

One thing we notice is that Peter, besides cooking great food, also makes our napkins into animals, a different one each meal – he tells us later that he has 30 choices so he can do a different one for every meal for longer than a week. Lunch today is a ham sandwich, spinach lasagna and a dessert made of raspberry and mango with the same salty chocolate cookie we got yesterday with vanilla ice cream. Billie is a little tired and doesn’t come for lunch. Peter is concerned and takes her a plate of food.

The Kenyans’ general warmth, friendliness and gentle ways are infectious. We get the chance to really get to know Geoffrey and Mondaii, our two drivers. Geoffrey is 33 and has been a driver/guide since he was 19. Mondaii is 49, with a wife and four kids, the youngest about kindergarten age, and who he really wants to be educated in the United States. Since I’m the only other male in our group of eight, the three of us develop a pretty close bond, and I like them immensely. Miss them both.

Not a bad place for a shower.

There are a couple of swings hanging from the acacia trees that surround the main building, and I take advantage any chance I get to just swing. During the afternoon siesta, I keep hearing a loud male voice outside coming from different locations. I’m guessing that it is the caretakers keeping the elephants in line, but I learn at dinner that it was a large male baboon out near the mud baths trying to find his mates. On our ride out to Umani, we had driven past a small village that had a dozen baboons running through the area, and we are getting used to expecting animals to be around. Baboons are known thieves, and someone tells us that they will run from men, but not from women. Huh?

It still feels surreal to be in a place so nice and modern. Umani Springs was opened just a few years ago, and apparently one of the British royal family has stayed here. Lois says it’s nice enough that some people get here and don’t want to see animals just because it’s such a nice resort. I could see that. But the Trust runs this as an adjunct to the orphan rehabilitation area. In order to stay here, you must pay for the entire resort, which allows only eight people, and bring in your own food, which is prepared by a safari chef trained for this experience. In that regard, Peter is the best, serving us an array of dishes that are tasty and plentiful.

At 5 p.m we are back at the stockade for the arrival of the orphans. I spend some more quality time with Mwashoti, and he seems to warm to Lois and I, sticking his trunk out to check us and letting us pet him and talk with him. I get so caught up in filming him taking his milk, that I’m not paying attention and quickly turn around to another group coming in right behind me, passing on their way to their pens, milk and saplings. Two of the “troublemakers” follow the others into the wrong area, and the keepers bark at them and point him in the right direction while we scramble to stay out of their way as they find their own enclosures. (Watch the whole scene here.)

Our Sundowner tonight takes place on a wooden deck that faces the Chylulu Hills, a volcanic mountain range and national park that fills the sky to the south and west as the sun sets. The hills are volcanic and considered still active, the last eruption in 1856. The hills separate the Tsavo plain from the Amboseli plain to the west. We’re looking at the eastern flanks. The western side is operated by the West Chyulu Game Conservation owned by the Maasai.

The drive to the deck is brutal, even for Kenya. At first it’s almost straight up, with the Range Rover lurching and digging desperately for any traction during the first few minutes of the climb before it finally levels off nearer the deck, which is about halfway up the hill. At one point, the angle seemed so great, it appeared we might flip over. But Mondaii keeps the tires digging into the soil, and it’s worth it. The deck looks down into a gorgeous valley with the hills across from us, and the drama of the sun fading behind the hills as they turn different shades of blue and gray is just wonderful.

Peter has set up a table with snacks, drinks and ice that was packed in an old-fashioned looking wooden box. Very Out of Africa. What I called Amaret last night is actually Amarula, a South African liqueur with an elephant on the bottle, and it really catches on with everyone and becomes a big part of this trip’s lore. And we were so happy to find it’s available here in Boulder, too. Every time I sip it, I’m back on the deck here or on the second floor of the main building at Ithumba.

But the view also clearly shows that we’re not that far away from the rest of the world. As I find out later on Google maps, Umani Springs, as the crow flies, is only a few miles from the Mombasa Highway to the north and east. Giant power lines bisect the valley below, much as they do across the American West and many other wild landscapes we have visited, which gets the group into a discussion about landscape photography.

Lois explains both sides of the argument, how some photographers would eliminate the power lines from their shots, even by manipulation, to present a more wild picture, while others, like Edward Weston, would never alter a photo. I subscribe to the second view, since the power lines are important to understanding the landscape, too. But with cellphones and apps, that’s all kind of inconsequential by now—people can modify their photos simply and instantly. Later, we will find a poorly disguised cell phone tree on a hill overlooking Ithumba. And we’ll see more power lines bisecting the wilderness miles away on our breakfast trip to Tiva River there in a few days.

The Chylulu Hills are a perfect place for a Sundowner.

The drive down is sometimes almost straight downhill, but much more pleasant than the ride up. Dinner tonight is lamb with veggies, potatoes, green beans, carrots, all fresh and prepared perfectly. Dessert is a nice, fruit mousse, and afterwards, we sing quietly, with Mondaii and Geoffrey leading us: “Jambo. Jambo Bwana.” The crocodile/monitor meme goes viral with the group and will continue until we unravel the mystery of what’s lurking down there in the cement pond.

Julia took a photo at the mudhole, where you can sometimes get cell reception, and she showed us a leopard track that was yuuugggeee, larger than a human hand. Last night we heard lots of strange noises around the resort, including a couple of hyenas. We find out that someone watches the camp all night, both to make sure we are out of harm’s way and, perhaps just as importantly, to keep the roaming animals off the grass lawn, which they love and will destroy quickly if allowed to linger. Billie still isn’t feeling well, and Mondaii suggests we serenade her after dinner, which we do before retiring. It’s a nice moment to see her wave back at us while we’re singing.

Sunrise over the cement pond.

Our elephant adventure continues here. Watch videos of our trip here.

June 21, 2017   No Comments

Jambo Bwana 1: A Week With Elephants

Oh papa, don’t you say I can’t
I just want to see the elephant

-James McMurtry

Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Karen Blixen Cottages
Nairobi, Kenya

It is overcast and a light rain is falling as we arrive at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi. It’s 6am local time. Stumbling off the plane, I see Robert is there holding the Bustani Safari sign, and though we are dead tired, confused and jet-lagged, he shepherds us through customs, and we sign some forms, hand over our cash and obtain our Kenyan visas without hassle. We hook up with Nancy King, one of the six other members of our tour group who was on our flight and is also spending the first two nights at Karen Blixen Cottages. It’s misty and grey, but the breeze is warm as we step outside the main terminal to wait for the car that will take us to the hotel. It’s winter in Kenya.

Stanley, a smiling, 30-ish Kenyan with dreadlocks partially covered with a safari hat, is our driver, and we pepper him with questions as he patiently negotiates the intense lines of traffic on the four-lane boulevard in and out of the airport. It reminds me of the congestion in Denver and Boulder except that in Kenya, a former British colony, they drive “on the wrong side of the road.”

Actually, in Kenya, they drive everywhere. There are no middle lines or shoulders, and cars, trucks and motorcycles are turning in front of each other and switching lanes, much as we do here, only backwards. It’s really crowded, and some vehicles pull out behind us, drive along the shoulder and then pull back in front of us. Motorcycles are dashing in and out of traffic from all directions. Drivers taking incredible chances to get one car ahead. Just chaos. But somewhat amazingly, even though people are doing irrational things, nobody is honking. Stanley is the personification of driving patience.

To our left, just outside the craziness of the vehicle traffic, we get quick glimpses of Nairobi National Park in the gloomy mist. I have imagined, in my almost total ignorance, that this 43-square-mile national park, Kenya’s oldest, established in 1946 and located just a few kilometers from the city center, would be a jungle. Of course, it is nothing of the sort. It is a savannah, a grassy plain with a few trees, and the mist and the fence make it look even more exotic. Nairobi guidebooks say there are more than 400 species, buffalos, giraffes, lions, leopards, baboons, zebra, wildebeest and cheetah, out there in the grassland gloom, and they showcase dazzling photos of giraffes silhouetted against skyscrapers. But we see neither buildings nor animals this misty morning.

Somewhere in the park, just two and a half months ago, Kenyan President Uhuru Kenyatta set fire to huge pyres, turning a total of 105 tons of elephant ivory, 1.35 tons of rhino horn, exotic animal skins and other products such as sandalwood and medicinal bark into billowing smoke and ash, an in-your-face protest against ivory poaching, which is threatening the wild future of both elephants and rhinos. Ten percent of the entire world’s supply of ivory was torched that day, the fourth such event in Kenya since 1989.

Stanley is explaining that sometimes giraffes and lions come up to the fence along the road. Recently, he added, a lion made it across all four lanes of this airport highway and into the city. It’s not an uncommon event. We see no wild animals, but we do notice large numbers of pedestrians walking along muddy paths on the sides of the road and crowding the occasional pedestrian overpass. Sidewalks are non-existent. Mostly, there are just paths worn down through the shoulder weeds. Sidney says that people are going to work.

It takes about 45 minutes to reach the Karen Blixen cottages, a small group of one-story duplexes in a lush, tropical setting. The cottages are located in the midst of one of the oldest formal gardens in Kenya, once part of Blixen’s huge estate, and the grounds are thick with well-established, huge jacaranda, candelabra, cactus, bottlebrush and other trees.

This was just outside our suite at Karen Blixen cottages.

Just before we walk in, I notice a wonderful statue of an eagle on the surface of a tiny pond in front of our suite. Inside, there is a gift bag on the bed for each of us from Bustani Safari, our Kenyan shepherds/hosts for the week, that includes bottle openers, small flashlights and safari hats for each of us and a card welcoming us to Kenya and the cottages. A nice way to start to unwind and get ready for this adventure.

The Karen Blixen Cottages guidebook tells us they were designed after the Swedo House, a hunting lodge built around the turn of the 20th century on the property, and each duplex features Scandinavian-style hi-beam ceilings and fireplaces and stone floors, indicative of the early structures built by Europeans who settled in Kenya.

The Karen Blixen Cottages were a wonderful place to land after a series of cattle-car flights to Kenya.

As we check out the place, Billie notices lots of photos and paintings of cheetahs on the walls, and indeed, we find that we are staying in the Cheetah Suite. We stow our gear, and notice that breakfast is still being served on the grounds in an open-air area with a roof. We stroll down and are treated to an omelette with sausage on the side and a table with all kinds of breakfast goodies, including an abundant fruit plate that has fresh papaya and mango slices, two of my favorite foods, among the offerings. Soon we are eating and talking with Nancy and admiring the gargantuan plants on the cottage grounds. It’s like they’re on steroids. It’s misty and cloudy but nice, but there are a few well-placed portable fire pits that are moved around to ward off the chill. Much-needed showers in our beautifully tiled bathroom, and then we sleep.

Waking up in early afternoon, we are confused. We join Nancy and meet Renae and Angel, two other members of our eight-person safari, and as we’re all walking up to the main building talking about this, we run into Jambi.

It’s one of the best moments of the trip. Here is the person with whom we have been corresponding by e-mail for months, our safari contact on the Kenya side, and she immediately eases any and all of our concerns. We come up with a plan for the afternoon and evening. Her smile and demeanor are instantly comforting, and from that moment, I completely trust Jambi, which turns out to be the right thing to do. All we have to do for the rest of the trip is show up.

Brian, another likeable young Kenyan driver, is there with Jambi, and we head off to exchange money and visit the Karen Blixen house, now a museum, where we spend about an hour touring the grounds. The home is in wonderful shape, and it includes many of the personal items and furniture that Blixen brought with her.

Karen Blixen, aka Isak Dinesen, a Danish baroness and author, is best-known for Out of Africa, a memoir of her time in Kenya, where she lived, running a coffee plantation here beginning in 1912. The autobiography, especially her affair with Denys Finch Hatton, was featured in a film of the same name that starred Meryl Streep and Robert Redford.

Inside her home were lots of personal items Dinesen brought with her to Kenya.

At one point, we see, neatly folded on a hangar in a closet, the actual trousers that Robert Redford donned in his role as Hatton in Out of Africa. We know this, because, as it turns out, Nancy’s husband teaches tennis, and Redford plays at the same club and they are good friends. Nancy had found out that the trousers were here, and when she told Redford, he couldn’t believe it. There is no photography allowed, but when she asks for an exception to get a shot of the pants for Robert Redford himself, the guide acquiesces, watching the door to make sure nobody sees her taking the photo. It’s a funny moment, one that will never go viral on Facebook or Twitter.

Then we hit Utamaduni Craft Centre, a cool, local marketplace nearby with a dizzying array of small, high-ceilinged rooms filled with artists’ work, clothes, trinkets, books and souvenirs of all kinds. I manage to grab a guidebook for the animals of east Africa, which I figure might come in handy, but I lose it in my luggage and never find it again until we get back home.

It’s been misty and grey all day, and I’m thinking we are going to need the rain gear we brought. The drivers are all complaining about the “cold.” Located just below the equator, Nairobi’s winter season feels almost exactly the same as the late spring/early summer weather we just left Boulder on Sunday. Highs in the 70s, lows in the 50s. Nice. Winter.

By late afternoon we have driven all around Karen, a suburb of Nairobi which is on the higher end of the city’s economic scale, though it wouldn’t be considered that here. Some say Karen is named after Blixen because much of the area was once part of her coffee plantation, but there is some disagreement about that assertion that’s not worth getting into here. The dominant color is green, the vegetation varied, thick, dense, moist and pungent.

We see a lot of semi-modern apartment buildings, and many of the private residences and properties are large, and all share high stone walls with barbed wire strewn across the top. Almost all businesses and apartments have gates and gatekeepers. Dozens of tiny, make-shift businesses in tin-roofed shacks line the main intersections, where you can buy everything from fast food to cell-phone accessories during the day.

We pass the famous children’s orphanage and a hospital that Jambi says is pretty high quality for Nairobi, but we also see people walking everywhere along the sides of the road. A line of motorcylists crowds the corners of every major intersection and little shopping areas at cross streets looking for riders.

Brian tells us they are boda boda, motorcycle taxis common in east African cities like Nairobi that have sprang up as alternatives to Uber and Lyft for Kenyans. The Chinese have invested in cheap, rather garish-looking motorcycles and selling them at low prices on credit to Kenyans, and like cannabis in Colorado, it’s given young people another way to make a living and, he says, a way to show off for their friends and girls, too. The motorcycle carriage business is also, for the most part, unregulated, and traffic accidents involving boda bodas are reportedly on the increase. We saw some that seemed to be carrying enormous, off-balance loads on that back, others that had girlfriends hanging on to the driver for dear life as they darted in and out of traffic. Babe magnets, those motorcycles.

There isn’t much speeding because the roads are so clogged, and it’s difficult to go very fast. Quite often, especially around schools and public buildings, there are really hard-assed speed bumps. These aren’t the kind like in Boulder meant to slow traffic in neighborhoods that most cars can glide over at 10 or 15 mph without much trouble. These force you to a complete stop and then a gentle plop over before starting up again. There are three or four bumps every 50 feet to negotiate in some places, like the hospital, which slows everybody down considerably.

The infrastructure is especially primitive. If you think right-sizing Folsom Street in Boulder was a nightmare, you wouldn’t believe Nairobi. In neighborhoods, there are only two-lane roads, no paved shoulders, nary a bike lane in sight, and we never saw a stop light and just a few stop signs in Karen. This means cars and trucks and garish motorbikes and bicycles are crossing in front of one another in outrageous ways, especially at the many roundabouts and intersections.

But again, this insanity goes on without the frenzy or indignation of Highway 36 commuters, and our drivers show a restraint that I immediately feel I should emulate when I get home instead of getting frustrated and screaming in traffic. Not once do any of the Bustani drivers show any propensity for irritation or annoyance.

And we get into the first of many conversations about the Chinese influence here. Besides motorbikes, China is invested heavily in Africa, building roads and even a major railroad that will link Mombasa, the country’s second-largest city on the Indian Ocean south and east of Nairobi, with the capital. (Later in the trip we will see parts of this ginormous construction project.) The country is investing in, to environmentalists’ consternation, Kenya’s first coal plant. China does $200 billion in trade annually with Africa, and many people, including all Kenyans we talk with about it, are very skeptical and afraid of China’s pledge not to interfere in politics or internal affairs. For them, it’s like the 21st-century Chinese version of The Ugly American.

We stop for a bite to eat after driving around all afternoon in the Blixen Cottage bar, where I get a smoked-salmon appetizer and Nancy and I enjoy our first Tusker, a Kenyan pilsner stronger than but much like Beck’s or Heineken, and perfect for my beer palate—Billie got me a Tusker t-shirt at Utamaduni. Though it is chilly – it’s winter, remember — there are those little portable coal pits that staff keeps moving around that keep things quite comfortable. I think I’m going to like it here.

The Karen Blixen Cottages were once part of Dinesen's huge gardens.

We freshen up, do a little internet through the Blixen Cottage server, which is slow enough to remind of the days when you twiddled your thumbs waiting for the dial-up to happen, before Brian picks us up for dinner at Jambi and Peter’s house. They are an interesting couple. He’s American, just a couple months older than me and retired; she is Kenyan, from an old family near here, and they live in Berkeley half the year and spend the other half here in Nairobi, where they run Bustani Safari, among other things.

We all have a great time talking and eating in an outside area just off the main house with colorful banners on the ceiling. All our safari companions are here together for the first time, and we get acquainted with Lois, our host, and the other members of our group, too. A chef has prepared lots of steaming, wonderful Kenyan dishes, a kind of first-class introduction to what we’ll be eating all week, but I’m still too jet-lagged to fully appreciate the feast.

Still, we are all sitting on couches in this little outdoor area decorated with large, colorful quilts. The air is chilly, but a firetender in one corner stuffs an oven with branches that helps keep us all clear of the chill. I’m listening to Peter explain why he, like everyone else who can afford it, has a large water tower just opposite the house. He explains that the city only supplies water from a line on their street once a week, so each residence has to have a water tank to store its water, a precious commodity that we take somewhat for granted in Boulder. And meeting their five dogs briefly is a real treat before Brian drives us back. We’re in bed early, my dreams of jet lag and confusion amidst gigantic plants in lush gardens.

Part Two continues here. Watch videos of our elephant journey here.

June 21, 2017   No Comments

Palo Duro Canyon: The Heart of Comancheria

October 28, 2014.

After breakfast, we went up to Ft. Sill and spent some time at the museum on the original square there. The fort was on the highest point in the area, and as we drive along the square you can see the lower elevations below on the east. We find the old fort cemetery, which contains the remains of Quanah and Cynthia Ann, finally together, prominently buried alongside American soldiers he fought and some of his chiefs and friends.

Quanah Parker's gravestone in Ft. Sill Military Cemetery. (Click to enlarge.)

As Gwynne relates, Cynthia Ann Parker, Quanah’s mother, was one of the most unfortunate individuals to walk the earth. In 1836, at the age of nine, she was taken with four other captives by the Comanches during a raid on their family compound in a dangerous area of west Texas, and watched as the Indians raped the other women and tortured, scalped and killed others before she was led away into Comanche territory, where she was integrated into the tribe for 24 years, rose in stature, married the chief, Peta Nocona, and had three children, including the first-born Quanah and brother Peanut.

Cynthia Ann and her younger daughter Prairie Flower were recaptured by Texas Rangers, including future cattle baron Charles Goodnight, in December, 1860, and spent the last ten years of her life trying to return to her Indian family, the rest of whom she never saw again. Prairie Flower died in 1864 of pneumonia, and Cynthia Ann, distraught and disillusioned, died of influenza and malnutrition in March of 1871 and was buried originally near Poyner, Texas. It’s a story that, like the Alamo seige, have become part of Texas history and myth.

Her journey wasn’t over yet. In 1910 Quanah had her body moved to Post Oak Mission Cemetery several miles west of Cache. When he died in February 1911, he was buried next to her, but it wouldn’t be their final resting places. Their bodies were moved in 1957 to the Fort Sill Post Cemetery.

From that cemetery, we took Quanah Parker Road outside the fort a few miles to the Apache Cemetery, where Geronimo and many of his family, friends and warriors are also interred. We also drove through Rucker Park, a nice area that looks like an old-time park like Swope Park in Kansas City, inside the fort.

The grave of the great chief Geronimo is located in the Apache Cemetery outside Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. (Click to enlarge.)

Wednesday afternoon we drove to Canyon, Texas, just a few miles west of Palo Duro Canyon, our final destination, about three hours west of Lawton. This was our chance to drive into the area once known as Comancheria. The tribe commanded a huge swath of what is now the American Southwest. At its peak, Comancheria included much of the western part of Texas and Oklahoma, the southwest portion of Kansas, southeast Colorado and the eastern half of New Mexico.

Most of it is rolling, mostly flat plains, but we skirt the southern edge of the Wichita Mountains, declared a wildlife refuge after T.R. visited. Mostly this end of the “mountains” is a series of volcanic cones sticking out of the rolling prairie for 40-50 miles along the highway. We drove through Altus and Hollis, both in Oklahoma and both looking down on their luck, with boarded-up, historic downtowns and a Subway that was open 24/7.

The crossover into Texas offers no change in scenery. Small towns, depressed for the most part, and a Subway in every one. Clarendon was especially loaded with huge white crosses every couple of blocks and other reminders about how Jesus saves while the rest of us will lick hellfire.

Mile after mile of plains. No wonder white people were swallowed up in Comancheria and never came out. As flat as it is, and with the route we take, we never really notice that we are leaving the rolling plains and entering the Llano Estacado, the “Staked Plain” that begins in the middle of the Panhandle and extends west into eastern New Mexico. Quanah, before his surrender, commanded the Staked Plain and the Palo Duro canyon, a giant fissure that cuts through the Llano Estacado, which we will visit tomorrow.

We pull into Canyon after dark and find the Best Western almost immediately. There is a restaurant, Thundering Buffalo’s Grill and Saloon, next door, and after depositing our stuff in the room, walk over for dinner. The food is mediocre, and my fried catfish has heavy breading and some strange blend of hot sauce. But even more interesting, we’re in “dry country.” I have to fill out a form to become a member of the restaurant in order to get a drink. Texas leaves this to counties, and this county only has one restaurant/liquor license — Thundering Buffalo’s. Yes, we are back in a place where businesses stay closed on Sunday and everybody drinks at home.

The next morning after breakfast we visit the Panhandle Plains Museum on the campus of Western Texas A&M (they’re the Buffaloes, too) and tour it for a couple of hours. A truly amazing place, one that we will return to tomorrow. We walk for hours and never really find everything. One of the best museum experiences I have ever had, hands down.

Photography is encouraged, and there is an interactive old west town as well as an area that celebrates the oil industry, with a giant drill rig they brought in and another area that lets you feel like you’re working in an oil production area. Pretty amazing stuff. And in the midst of the paleontology and oil exhibits, students had put up shrines to everybody from Michael Jackson to Robin Williams, which made the whole area even more surreal. Dinosaurs, Comanches, Western towns, Texas Rangers, oil barons and pop star shrines. Oh, my.

Overlook into Palo Duro Canyon near the Main Entrance. The canyon, most of it private land, cuts a jagged swath 130 miles along the Llano Estacado. (Click to enlarge.)

We drove out to Palo Duro Canyon in the early afternoon. Seeing part of a deep canyon that stretches for hundreds of miles along the Llano Estacado makes it easier to understand why the Comanches utilized the area and why, within a year of Quanah’s surrender, it would become a major portion of Charles Goodnight’s famous cattle empire. We stop for a bit at the gift shop, which rests rustically along the canyon’s rim at a particularly scenic overlook.

Inside, there are some wonderful films with a lot of Comanche history running in places throughout the gift shop, alongside the books, chimes, jewelry and Palo Duro paraphernalia. I find a “distressed look” canyon cap. We drive to the end of the road and back and decide to return at sunset and see if the light is better. Just as we’re ready to leave, we find three beeves, Texas longhorns, grazing in the tall grass near the entrance, reminders of the Goodnight ranch that quickly replaced Quanah’s hide-out the year after he surrendered.

Miss Billie and Miss Sookie along the Gypsum Trail inside Palo Duro Canyon. (Click to enlarge.)

The canyon is only ten miles almost directly east of our hotel, ten miles of seemingly endless, exceedingly flat land severely disrupted by the canyon. We head out again at sunset to see if we can get some colors we couldn’t get at midday. We don’t succeed as much as I had hoped, but driving down in the canyon again is wonderful, and we hit a road we hadn’t found earlier. The canyon area accessible to us is mostly for campers and hikers, and we decide that tomorrow we’ll leisurely hike a few of the trails and get a better feel for the canyon from ground level.

Looking up out of Palo Duro Canyon at one of the buttes. (Click to enlarge.)

Thursday we headed back to the canyon after breakfast and hiked three of the many trails. All were great. One took us through an area of gypsum rock along an idyllic stream. Another passed by an old homesteader’s earthen home. We spend the rest of the afternoon at the Museum again. I found several areas I hadn’t yesterday. Another fun way to spend two hours. We eat dinner at Feldman’s Wrong Way Diner, a goofy place that had miniature trains running above our heads.

Friday morning we find ourselves at dawn at the Cadillac Ranch west of Amarillo. We head north and find Lockhart for breakfast and rush hour in Denver before finally disembarking in Boulder. Comancheria has been good to us.

A stop at dawn at the Cadillac Ranch near Amarillo, about 25 miles northwest of Palo Dura Canyon. (Click to enlarge.)

December 25, 2014   1 Comment

Another Great Book About What Happened on 9/11/01

Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the mastermind of the 9/11 attacks, in custody at Guantanamo.

Much has been said and written about the hunt for Osama bin Laden, which even has its own feature film. But about Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who actually planned and executed the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon in 2001? Not so much.

That’s what makes Terry McDermott and Josh Myer’s The Hunt for KSM: Inside the Pursuit and Takedown of the Real 9/11 Mastermind Khalid Sheikh Mohammed> such a compelling read and major addition to 9/11 history. It tells the story of the loose terrorism network that finally hooked up KSM and bin Laden, and the decade-long search by a few intrepid FBI investigators to track down the man who conceived and carried out the attacks before they happened. KSM was finally apprehended in 2003 in Pakistan and, after being tortured by the U.S. on numerous occasions, is incarcerated in Guantanamo Prison in Cuba.

I’m not trying to lessen Osama bin Laden’s part of the story. He was the kingpin, providing money and logistical support to a plan brought to him about blowing up iconic American buildings, and his part of the story is told elsewhere, in Lawrence Wright’s The Looming Tower and several of Peter Bergen’s books about al Qaeda.

But KSM, whose nephew, Ramzi Yousef (aka Abdul Basit), planned the 1993 bombing of the WTC,  and then spent more than a decade crisscrossing the globe hatching plots of mayhem and death in far-flung places (thank him every time you remove your shoes because of the Robert Reid attempted footbomb, among other plots, including one to blow up several jets simultaneously over the Pacific in 1994.

KSM came to bin Laden and al Qaeda with the crazy idea of taking down the World Trade Centers using airliners as bombs. The book explains how they conspired to pull it off, but as it makes clear, KSM wasn’t actually an al Qaeda operative or member, just a like-minded terrorist whose interests coincided with al Qaeda’s at a critical moment.

The book provides plenty of evidence of the stupendous inefficiency the various agencies involved in American security displayed in the years leading up to the attacks. At one point, they came within a few minutes of apprehending KSM in 1996, and then he disappeared for seven years.

As always, I invite any of my friends who suspect or believe that 9/11 was an “inside job”  to read this book. We still don’t have all the answers, but books like this are beginning to provide a better understanding of what happened that day. More on my views about 9/11 Truth here.

January 21, 2013   No Comments

About Pot, the Feds Have a Scheduling Problem

4-20-11, CU campus Smoke-Out. CU spent $278,000 to try and end it in 2012.

Much of the problem with marijuana is its current designation as a Schedule 1 drug by the federal government. The government’s persecution of marijuana goes back at least to 1935, when the newly created Bureau of Narcotics, needing some narcotic to fight, created a campaign of disinformation intended to make people believe that pot was directly related to crime, violent behavior, insanity and sexual deviance. Which led to the Marihuana Tax Act of 1937, which considerably restricted the usage, distribution and production of cannabis products. (For much more on the government vs. marijuana back in the 1930s, here’s John Lupien’s master’s thesis on that subject.)

But it was the Controlled Substances Act of 1970 that codified the War on Drugs, President Richard Nixon and Attorney General John Mitchell’s misguided plan to stamp out psychotropic drugs in the United States.

The Office of National Drug Control Policy says that the government will spend about $15 billion this year trying to keep people from smoking marijuana. 15 billion dollars. Multiply that by 40 years, take into account that marijuana is easily available to anyone in America who wants it, and you have a policy of utter failure. (I get these numbers from the Drug War Clock, which uses government figures.)

According to the act, Schedule I substances must include the following characteristics:

1) The drug or other substance has a high potential for abuse.

2) The drug or other substance has no currently accepted medical use in treatment in the United States.

3) There is a lack of accepted safety for use of the drug or other substance under medical supervision.

I won’t argue point one today except to say that any drug has a potential for abuse. Marijuana’s is less than most. How about another cup of coffee? And “high potential” is completely subjective. No one has ever overdosed on pot.

But with a host of studies suggesting marijuana’s medical benefits and 19 states (including the District of Columbia, which proves that Congress and the Justice Department can’t even control it in their own district) allowing medical patients to purchase and consume cannabis for pain or symptom relief, marijuana’s current status seems ready, if nothing else, for a second look.

This story has been told before, but let’s not forget the circumstances of marijuana’s Schedule 1 status. The Controlled Substances Act was aimed at the marijuana/LSD menaces Nixon and Mitchell perceived, much as the Bureau of Narcotics had 35 years earlier. Remember, the hippies were running wild and naked and fornicating all across America with blunts of the dreaded reefer sticking out of their mouths.

Anyway, Nixon dispatched a former Pennsylvania governor, Raymond Shafer, to study pot abuse in America and come up with some “wink, wink” proposals. Shafer’s National Commission on Marijuana and Drug Abuse took the charge seriously and recommended the decriminalization of marijuana for adults in small amounts. It’s a document worth perusing. Here’s one paragraph that, given all the surveillance over citizens these days, all Americans should ponder. “The criminal law is too harsh a tool to apply to personal possession even in the effort to discourage use. It implies an overwhelming indictment of the behavior which we believe is not appropriate,” the report states. “The actual and potential harm of use of the drug is not great enough to justify intrusion by the criminal law into private behavior, a step which our society takes only with the greatest reluctance.”

Nixon and Mitchell roundly rejected the findings and put pot in Schedule 1, right up there with heroin, LSD, Ecstasy, mescaline, Quaaludes, peyote and psilocybin. Cocaine, because of its limited medical use, got a Schedule 2 classification, considered by the federal government to be safer than marijuana. Even before the commission’s report was released, Nixon told Shafer he would only embarrass himself and that they would pay it no heed. Read about this and other hallucinatory Nixon conspiracy theories involving marijuana, homosexuality, communism and Jews in this Gene Weingarten Washington Post column.

Now, 42 years later, two states, for starters, in November called the Justice Department on its bullshit hypocrisy. Given the mood of the electorate and, happily, the lack of concern today’s younger generation has for legalization, we won’t be the last.

So instead of Gov. Hickenlooper seeking “clarity” on marijuana from Justice – a truly laughable notion in itself — he should be asking why marijuana continues to be listed as a Schedule 1 drug when cannabis is grown and sold for medical uses in almost forty percent of states, including his own and the District of Columbia.

December 14, 2012   No Comments

Miller No Longer Racing Through the Dark

Want to know why cyclists dope? It's all here. So is the story of how David Millar found redemption after being banned from the sport he loved.

David Millar is a Scottish professional cyclist who was arrested by French authorities and confessed to illegal doping in 2004. After serving a two-year ban, he returned to cycling in 2007 and now races for the Garmin-Cervélo team based here in Boulder, Colorado.

His memoir, Racing Through the Dark, came out last year, but it didn’t really catch my eye until all the latest revelations about doping came to light when Lance Armstrong decided against fighting drug charges and facing a long line of witnesses who testified before the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency, essentially admitting his guilt (though still denying it, of course).

It’s easily one of the best books on professional sports you’ll ever read. Millar’s story is in so many ways compelling. A gifted young athlete who loved to party, Millar’s first drug experiences came with sleeping pills, an addiction those who ride the peleton easily find, given the rigors of life on the road and riding more than 100 miles every day for three weeks. Millar came into the sport staunchly anti-dope, and if you want to understand how that attitude changed and how and why riders do drugs to compete, it’s all here.

Like most athletes, Millar got into the sport because he was supremely athletic and it was fun to compete. He became a star and team leader at an early age, winning stages in the Tour de France and other major races. His team, Cofidis, expected him to compete and win. As it became his “obligation,” injecting vitamin concoctions (called recup) after races to recover from three-week tours escalated to signing up with certain “doctor/trainers” with whom you would prepare for big tours by shooting Erythropoietin, or EPO, a hormone that occurs naturally in the liver that produces red blood cells. EPO is used by skiers, endurance runners and extreme athletes, but it has been especially prevalent in cycling. Eventually that activity landed Millar in a French jail cell.

Racing Through the Dark exposes the complete hypocrisy of professional cycling teams, most of whom end their obligation to the drug culture by having riders sign a form that promises they won’t dope. When any are caught or confess, the teams wash their hands immediately of the stench. The buck stops with the athlete. This is the same hypocrisy we see in professional sports in the United States. Just this week Major League Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig announced that even though Melky Cabrera is serving a 50-game drug-related suspension, he could still win the National League batting title if his percentage is the highest.

That’s why Millar signed with Garmin, the American team started in 2007 by Jonathan Vaughters, an admitted ex-doping cyclist whose ambitions as a team owner to clean up the sport coincided with those of post-dope Millar. Vaughters’ radical ideas, spurned by much of the cycling establishment in Europe, include drug-testing his own athletes regularly to create blood profiles.

So far, it’s worked pretty well. Garmin-Cervélo fields one of the most competitive teams in the sport. It includes other riders who, like Millar, doped back in the day and are devotedly clean now. One of them, Tom Danielson, lives in Boulder and, post-dope, is again among the world’s top cyclists. Another, Christian Van de Velde, won the Tour of Colorado last month.

There are those who say that the past is done, and there is no need to return to it. But as Millar makes clear, cycling (or baseball, or all other sports) have to face the truth before it’s able to move on.

Which leaves us with the elephant in the room. In a sense, he already has, and I’m not suggesting he go all Oprah on us, but Lance Armstrong needs to stop living the lie everybody knows about now. Armstrong is a legitimate hero for many people, me included. Billie and I started watching cycling in 2003 after watching a particularly memorable Armstrong moment when he carried his bike across a field to catch the other riders after the stage leader, Joseba Beloki, slid and fell on the hot pavement. His books on his battle with cancer are inspirational, powerful works, and his organization is a bulwark in the fight against that disease. It takes nothing away from any of that for him to finally tell the truth and move on.

September 21, 2012   No Comments

Seeing God in Municipal Auditorium

This photo was taken from the Folly Theater building at 12th and Central, where I worked on a renovation project 1977-79. (KC Public Library)

I was forwarded the Scotty Moore website (Moore was the guitarist for Elvis Presley), which included a page with information about Municipal Auditorium in Kansas City. Presley and Moore played there in May 1956, and the page includes a wealth of post cards, photos and information about the building itself. (Thanks to Mike Webber for the forward.)

Reading it brought back a flood of memories on this Labor Day. Built in 1934 as part of a ten-year plan to bring the city up-to-date, Municipal Auditorium, by the time I first began showing up, was only 20 years old. Its art-deco style, subtle lighting and quiet elegance really impressed me, and I loved going there. Some of the other buildings created at this time, including the Jackson County Court House, City Hall and the Power and Light building, are equally mysterious and enigmatic. Another thing I liked about the Auditorium was that it wasn’t built on a flat surface. Standing at Wyandotte and 14th Street, it looked like it had been built into a hill to the north. You couldn’t tell from the inside, but you certainly could from the outside.

I can’t remember the first time I was there, but it was probably a large church event. I remember being in the Main Arena, which seated 10,000, and our local Lutheran choir joined with dozens of others to raise our voices to heaven – it was incredible.

As a child, I also went there for the special Philharmonic concerts for kids in the more intimate Music Hall. I really loved these. It’s where I found out that a hymn I knew as “What Child is This?” was based on the traditional English song “Greensleeves.” The melody haunts me to this day. Another time the power went off during the performance, and the Phil, undaunted, just kept on playing, something I wouldn’t see again until Joe King Carrasco and the Crowns pulled the same trick at Parody Hall in the early 1980s.

Billie and I caught a couple of Barnum & Bailey shows there, before we stopped doing the circus-as-entertainment thing. The arena was large enough (the blog says it was 92 feet floor to ceiling) to hold even the gigantic tank that a horse jumped into during the finale of one show, or the guy shot out of a cannon at another one as well as the many trapeze and high-wire acts that dazzled us.

The arena has an interesting ceiling lighting arrangement. This was the late 1950s, when nuclear paranoia was very real. When the sermons or services would fade into the background, I would stare up and imagine people above the ceiling, watching us from their perch. You know, the people who run the world only we don’t know it. And this was before psychedelics.

The interior of the Auditorium is drop-dead gorgeous. (KC Public Library)

The Moore site includes a photo of a concert by Louis Armstrong Nov. 7, 1964, that I attended. I had escaped Kansas City to attend St. Paul’s Lutheran High School down the new I-70 in Concordia, Mo. Our class took a field trip to Kansas City that Saturday, and we somehow got free tickets at a Katz drug store downtown. Sitting high behind the stage, we watched the musicians in their dressing rooms (which were just partitions) smoking and laughing in between songs. I thought they were smoking cigarettes at the time, but after learning more about Armstrong, I’m sure it was probably something else.

“Hello Dolly” had made #1 in March, and he sang it three times that night, something I wouldn’t see again until almost 12 years later, when Willie Nelson did “On the Road Again” three times July 23, 1976, in the Arena with Tompall Glaser and the Flying Burrito Brothers as opening acts.

Other memorable concerts there included a special British Invasion reunion in July 1973, with the original Herman’s Hermits line-up as headliners with the Searchers, Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, Gerry & the Pacemakers and Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders. I remember they looked so old. Good acid. Good time, and I thought again about the people who control us all above the ceiling.

Blue Oyster Cult did a great show in January of 1978, with Black Oak and a third act, Millionaire at Midnight, who turned me in the direction of the burgeoning local music scene. I was forced to review Foghat/Bachman-Turner with Judas Priest opening. Ugh. The first time I saw Jethro Tull there, people were celebrating Independence Day by throwing fireworks. The second time, when I gave my ticket to be seated, I was told that the seats “didn’t exist anymore.” He wasn’t kidding; all the seats were pushed back and it was an early mosh pit out in front of the stage.

Neil Young brought his Time Fades Away tour to the Arena with Linda Ronstadt in 1974. Riverrock and Emmylou Harris and the Hot Band opened for Jerry Lee Lewis in the Arena on May 4, 1979. When he asked rhetorically at one point, “who’ll play this old piano when I’m gone,” a woman right behind us stood up and said, “Nobody, killer, nobody but you.”

The last time I was there was in the early 1980s to see the Kinks. Beginning in 1974, they had became an annual attraction at Memorial Hall and the Uptown Theatre. But that particular time they almost sold out the Arena, and I saw a younger generation, the children of the Kinks’ original fans, singing along with every song. Absolutely wonderful.

They were with Arista at the time, and I was friendly with the rep, who was traveling with the band. After the show, in the dressing room, Ray said, “I want to meet the obituary editor and music critic,” and we talked for a couple of minutes. I always hoped he would write a song about the obituary editor who wrote about rock and roll. So far, he hasn’t.

September 3, 2012   No Comments