About adaptation, mitigation, floods and the need for information
[i-Punjab farmer on dam]
Climate change adaptation and mitigation in agriculture is more than merely “the need for better seeds”. It needs a way to exchange information so we can re-apply proven solutions rather than re-inventing the wheel every single time….
In a wide, slow gesture, Gurbachan Singh shows me a panorama of lush fields. It is as if he hand touches the abundant, young wheat sprouts from afar. They are bright green, showing a promise for a plentiful harvest. Wide fields are bordered with tall poplar trees whose leafs softly whisper in the light wind, chasing away the early morning mist.
“All of this”, says Gurbachan, “All of this was gone. Flooded. As far as you can see. All of it. People had fled to higher grounds, but the twenty-four hours notice we had before the flood, was not sufficient to evacuate all live stock. Most buffalo and cows drowned. The harvest was lost.”
We are standing near the village of Bhoda in Punjab, North West India. From a large dike, made of sandbags, probably five metres (15 ft) high, we see the river, flowing slowly beneath us. It is hard to imagine that in July last year, this small stream had swollen with a mighty force, digging a hole in the dike, half a mile long. (...)
Read my full post on the CCAFS blog
Mobile phones for farmers in Africa:
Myth or reality?
[i-Kenyan shack by the road]
My first trip to Africa, goes back to 1994: Angola in the midst of the civil war. I "left" the continent end 1999, moving from Uganda to Kosovo.
Through my five years in Africa, I travelled extensively throughout. I was a first-hand witness of the mobile phone networks rolling out in different countries. From the old AMPR system and 2 kg mobile phone/walkie talkie bricks in Congo (then Zaire), to the new generation MTN-types using the latest technology, huge bandwidths, and connectivity of "a certain reliability".
Still by the time I left, end 1999, mobile phone connectivity was still pretty much limited to the capital cities. Even though, in just a few years, GSM had completely taken over the old 'copper' landline market in African cities, it seemed there was quite a hurdle to get the connectivity "upcountry".
Not only was the support infrastructure - electricity, security - often lacking to spread mobile phone towers in remote areas, but it seemed like the companies doubted if there was a real market...
That was back then, in 1999.
Since then, I have always been very reluctant to join the highly enthusiastic crowd propagating mobile phone technology as one of "the" key means for rural farmers to be "informed". "Informed" about the weather forecast, seed fertilizer and crop prices, and agricultural support.
I still remember saying "those farmers hardly having ends meet, without electricity in their homestead, often illiterate, ain't gonna use mobile phones"...
And then, last week, during my first trip to Africa in 12 years, we are in Karurumu village in Central Kenya.
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Karumu is about an hour's drive from the nearest provincial town. In other words: Karumu is, euh... remote. Here are some of the notes in my mind:
[i-Kenyan couple]
We are sitting in the shade of a mango tree, on the yard of Celeste's farm. Celeste is 88 years old. He fought the English colonizers "way back when". He has 10 kids. He says he can't remember exactly how many grand children and grand-grand children he has.
Celeste speaks slowly and stresses every word. We are listening to his story of how he built up his farm from nothing to the 30 acres it is now. How he was blessed with his children. Some who lived on his farm. He points out a house, a few meters further up. The house is locked up. It belonged to his son and his daughter-in-law, a doctor. Both passed away. Celeste and his wife Julia are now taking care of their grand children.
[i-interview team Kenya]
We are pulled into the story of Celeste and Julia, a story which is so common in Africa: children being raised by their grand parents. A generation being wiped away. Bart, our camera-man, keeps the focus on the sound and the ever changing intensity of the sun. Jan, the radio-reporter, is taking mental notes on what he would like to discuss further with Celeste. I am sitting on a stool, with Julia, Celeste's grand-grand child on my lap. Julia is fascinated by the sound an elastic band makes when you pull it like a guitar string.
In short, we are all pulled into the story, into the moment.
And then, all of a sudden, a mobile phone rings. Celeste, 88 years old, farmer from Karurumo village in Kenya, stands up, says "Excuse me", reaches into his pocket, pushes a button and starts talking into a Nokia.
[i-Kenyan farmer with mobile phone]
It is the driver of one of his five trucks. He is held up loading fertilizer on a farm a bit further up.
Celeste calls the driver of his other truck, informs him of the delay and orders him to pick up a load of firewood from another farmer.
As he puts the phone back in his pocket, Celeste, 88 years old, farmer from Karurumo village in Kenya, sits down, and continues his story about the price of fruit tree pesticides and the market price for a bag of maize. As if it all was the most normal thing in the world.
The picture of Celeste, answering the phone, stays with me. The sur-reality of a mobile phone ringing in the African bush.
Have I really missed a lot during my 12 years absence in Africa? Driving around for five days in Kenya, I think not. The overloaded trucks are still the same. The accidents are just as grave. People still die needlessly of diseases we find common in "The West". Nothing changed except one thing: Mobile phones are now everywhere. Farmers call each other with information, with questions, they are more informed, and stay 'connected' to each other.
I will be curious to see if I find the same giant leap into rural connectivity when travelling through Mali, Ghana, Niger, Burkina and Senegal in November.
One thing is for sure: I will not make fun anymore of those enthusiasts saying the mobile phone connectivity makes a big difference for rural farmers!
Picture interview team courtesy Willemijn Drok
The fox and the grapes
One hot summer's day a Fox was strolling through an orchard till he came to a bunch of Grapes just ripening on a vine which had been trained over a lofty branch. "Just the thing to quench my thirst," quoth he. Drawing back a few paces, he took a run and a jump, and just missed the bunch. Turning round again with a One, Two, Three, he jumped up, but with no greater success. Again and again he tried after the tempting morsel, but at last had to give it up, and walked away with his nose in the air, saying: "I am sure they are sour."
Lesson: It is easy to despise what you cannot get.
Picture courtesy Lit2Go, with thanks to my Friend E. Read the full post...
Living in Italy - Part 12: More on Italian appointments
[i-Italian hairdresser]
As I came back from my failed “appuntamento” (appointment) with the garage, I headed for the centre of Rome. We were early July, schools were already in their summer break, so traffic was a breeze. I arrived almost an hour early for my appointment with the physio-therapist. I wanted him to straighten out my back before the start of the holidays…
I walked a couple of blocks and found a bar. Don’t get me wrong, yes- it was early in the morning, about 9:30 AM, but a “bar” in Italy is more a coffee shop than a place where you buy alcohol…
As I was sipping my café, I noticed a “parrucchiere”, a hair dresser, next door. The lady was standing outside, smoking a cigarette, so they could not have been very busy. I needed a hair cut badly.. I asked her if she had time, did not need much of a designer cut, so fifteen minutes would do it.. She looked at me, and said she did not have time now, but I could make an appuntamento for 11:15. That synchronized nicely with my appointment with the physio session, so I agreed eagerly.
After my vertebrae and joints were all cracked back in place, I went back to the hair dresser. I was fifteen minutes early, so she asked me to wait for a bit. I took out my laptop and started working outside, on a bench right in front the shop. “I will call you when I am ready”, the hair dresser nodded..
The next time I looked at my watch, it was 1:15 PM… I had been sitting there for two and a half hours and forgot all about time. Laptop in hand, I stormed back into the shop, to find it filled to the brim with ladies. And two sweating hair dressers… One of them looked at me and shook his head.
- “No time today!”
- “But I have an appuntamento for 11:15”
- [nod] “No time today!”
- “But I came here at 9:30 and we made an appuntamento for 11:15. I have now been waiting here for two and a half hours.”
- “What can I say? No time today!”.
- “But could you not have told me earlier?”
- “What difference would it make? I told you, I have no time today. What more do you want me to say? I – have – no – time – today…”
- “I – say – bollocks – bollocks – bollocks -…”
I gesticulated wildly, raised my voice, and then retreated in apathy, to the great amusement of the dozen later-aged ladies. Who all confirmed what the parrucchiere said: “He has no time today”…
That day, I had three appuntamente. One with the garage, one with a hair dresser and one with the physio-therapist. Only the latter worked out. And he is Belgian.
More about Living in Italy on The Road
Picture courtesy J.Cangiano
Living in Italy - Part 11: The concept of appointments
[i-my Smart garage in Rome]
I drive a Smart in Italy. This small two-seater is made by Mercedes, so you think of German Grundlichkeit – thoroughness and professionalism – when you would deal with a Mercedes garage. In Italy, think again...
My Smart’s air-conditioning broke down, waaayy back. With the temperature climbing to 30 dgrs C, it got a bit too hot.
So, I drove to the Mercedes garage and asked to book a repair. The Mercedes garage looks like the entry of a luxury bank or furniture store. Classy people in uniform, design sofas, people at individual desks talking with customers..
Only... I could not book a repair, as I needed to make an ‘appuntamento’ with a ‘consulente’ first. Only THEN I could book for a repair.
I was not going to brushed off like that. I made clear my car was hot, and I needed it repaired. Even more so, I wanted to drop the car early in the morning, and pick it up in the evening otherwise I’d have to hire a car to drive home. Taxis don't want to go where I live. Too much out of their way..
Escalating my request and raising the tone of my voice, I got promoted from the girl at the reception, to a junior consulente, to the senior consultant, and ended up with the boss of the designer garage joint.
He agreed with me, but I had to make an “appuntamento” with a “consulente” weeks in advance, to make sure they could reserve a mechanic for a day. And I had to book an appointment via their toll-free number. A bit of an adventure, as nobody spoke English on the other end of the line. After 30 minutes of discussions, we had a deal.
Weeks later comes G-Day, “Garage”-day. The day whose evening would be blessed with me, stepping out of the car looking like a cool dude, without a shirt dripping with sweat. “Cool” would be a keyword from then on. And even better: "G-Day" was a "Fri-day", so I would have a cool car for the whole cool weekend!
[i-my Smart garage in Rome]
Early morning of G-day, I drove to the garage. Waited for the consulente while seated in the designer sofa. As if I’d be checking in my car in a luxury clinic. The appointment with my consulente was at 9:15 apparently. I was 45 minutes early.
Felt like going to a dentist, so I got steaming a bit, as the only thing I wanted, was to drop off the keys: I had already explained everything to the boss, and to the lady at the toll free number. So why would I need to queue up with a ‘consultente’. On top of that, I had my friend “E” waiting to give me a lift back to work.
Anyways, forty minutes later, the consulente decided it was my turn. We filled in heaps of paperwork, went over to look at the car, noted every dent and scratch. Checked the car’s chassis number and registration papers. I explained in my best Italian “what is the matter”, and he confirmed everything in his best English. Luckily “air-conditioning” in English is “air-conditioning” in Italian.. More papers to sign. Something with a privacy act. Then he types everything into his computer, and smiles at me while saying:
- Okay, done. Please give us a call somewhere next week to check if the car is ready…
- Next week?!! You guys said it would be fixed in a day ?!
- ???? Noooo.. (He laughs like this was the joke of the week).. We have no time today. Anyway, this can not be fixed in a day.
- Why not? I talked to the boss, he said it was fine. I waited for weeks so it could be done in a day?
- Which boss?
- There the one in that office… (And I point to the office which has a big sign “Manager”)
- Well you will have to wait until he arrives then. Discuss it with him, because I can not help you…
- When does he come in?
- Ooogh, around 11 probably.
- But it is 9 now.. I need to go to work.
- I am sorry, but there is no way I can help you. We don’t have time to finish this work today. And we will have to order spare parts… Which will take days to get here. (I remembered my friend E’s Smart which indeed was immobilized for five days for a spare part to come from Milano to Rome. Probably someone walked it over..)
- How about you guys take today to check what is wrong. I pick up the car in the evening. You order the spare parts and I drop off the car for a one day repair again next week? (Try to say that in Italian, hey? Amazing what I can do when I am annoyed)
- Oh, sir, but we don’t have time to even LOOK at the car today…
- …
- …
- … Let me get this right. I had to wait for weeks to make an appointment to get the car repaired within a day. You let me come on a Friday, and now you tell me you won’t even look at it until Monday morning?
- …
- So why do you let me come on a Friday, then? Why would I keep it here over the weekend, knowing you guys would not work on it?
He looks at me with pain in his eyes and a sad smile on his lips. He whispers “It is worse than Africa is it not?”.
In the end, I agreed I would drop the car off the week after. I’d be on holiday for one month. He thought there'd be a reasonable chance to repair the A/C within a month.
More about Living in Italy on The Road
Why I am a humanitarian aid worker
They ask "So what do you do for a living?", cocktail drink in hand. When I answer "I am an aid worker", there are two kinds of people: Those that roll their eyes and those that say "Really?".
For the first, I don't do an effort to go any further. Either they are not interested or it goes beyond their level of imagination.
For those that look me in the eye, I know I will have a hard time to explain what exactly I do. And why.
Over the years, luckily many people has asked me why I do the work I do, far fewer have rolled their eyes.. So what do I answer?
Well, let me tell you a story. Quite a time-appropriate story actually, as it is related to events that happened exactly ten years ago, in the Balkans.
It is a slightly reworked version of the shortstory "Scene of War", published in my eBook.
[i-returning to kosovo]
June 1999.
Richard, Alf and I are standing on a mountain pass, at the border crossing between Albania and Kosovo. The view is breathtaking. It is part of a movie, projected in 360 degrees around us. Better than a movie.
A long, slow moving stream starts from far behind us. We can hear it, the random noise. It passes right next to where we stand, and follows bends and curves for as far as we can see. A stream, a steady flow.
[i-Kosovar refugees returning home]A stream not of water, but of people. Tens of thousands. Refugees returning home. Whole families on tractors and donkey pulled carts, with all their belongings stacked as high as they can. Mattresses, cupboards, tables, chairs, cardboard boxes… Mothers holding on to babies, brothers and sisters walking hand in hand. Elderly men with deep grooves in their faces, walking with a stick in their hand, or pushing a wheel barrel.
A massive flow of people. Each with their own horror story to tell, moving steadily back to their homes. Homes they fled a couple of months ago after militia and special forces wrecked their lives, burnt their crops, raped their mothers and daughters, killed their brothers, sons and fathers. As the stream of people tops the mountain pass, they see the same scenery as I do. I wonder what goes on inside them.
In between the mountains tops, capped with tree forests, scarred by cluster bombs which Nato blanketed over them, lay the valleys. Valleys with a fresh green colour of spring grass and young leaves on the trees. For as far as the eye reaches, we can see plumes of smoke coming from the valleys, like candles on a cake, which have just been blown out. Plumes of smoke, going up in the air and dissolving into the clear blue spring sky. Smoke of houses, cars and farm sheds burning, for as far as we can see, dotted over the valleys. The militia and break away paramilitary forces looted and burned everything as they retreated. It looks like the whole country is still burning. People's lives are burning. And yet the expression on the faces from all who pass us, is not one of desperation, but one of hope. They all smile. Sadly, but they smile. They look at the same scenery as I do, but they think of hope. Hope of starting afresh. They wave at us. They wave at the Nato military trucks and tanks maneuvering in between the stream. "The liberators and the liberated?".
It is yet another scene of war, another scene of misery and hope, another scene of destruction mixed with hope, of a past and a present. Will it ever end? Will we ever learn from our mistakes?
Two F16 fighter jets blast low over our heads. Instinctively, everyone pulls their heads down. The fighting is not over yet. We hear the remote muffled thunder of a bombing raid. Very far away. The misery is not over yet.
[i-Kosovar refugees returning home]As I get into the WFP car, my eyes cross those of a young girl, sitting on her mum’s lap, on the back of a tractor. She looks at me and I look at her. I smile and she smiles back, hesitantly raising her arm to wave to me. Her mum searches who the girl is waving to. She finds me. She whispers something in the girl’s ears. The girl looks up, kisses her mum on the cheek, and looks back at me. She throws a kiss at me. I throw one back and wave. She laughs. Her dad, driving the tractor looks back and waves at me too.
Would they know I am thinking of my daughters? Would they know she has the same eyes, the same hair. Would they know this is why I do this work? Because she could have been one of my daughters, sitting on my wife’s lap?
This could have been my family, my life. But destiny has put them there and me here. Sheer luck determined those who suffer and those who never realize enough how lucky they are. Sheer destiny determined those who need help and those that can help. I can help.
And that is why I am an aid worker.
Pictures courtesy Arben Celi (Reuters), Getty Images and Tom Haskell (WFP)
Do you want to be my second wife?
Afghanistan[i-Afghanistan]
A bitter-sweet story from Pyjama Samsara, one of the blogs I follow:
Back in Australia, I have been regaling friends and family of tales of my (mis)adventures. There is one tale I hadn't blogged about at the time, as it was all a bit raw and close-to-heart. But now, three years later, with some distance, it's time to tell the tale.
It was early 2006, and I was in Afghanistan. My estranged husband had e-divorced me. No other relationship seemed to work. I was 32, and was convinced that I would never find love again. I would sit at my desk in the frigid office I shared with three Afghan staff, and tears would fall from my face. My colleagues were worried about me. "Is there a problem? Are you sick?", they would ask. "No", I replied. Trying to explain things in Afghan terms, I explained, "My husband left me, and I am growing old. I don't know if I will be happy again". News spread fast. Before I knew it, all the women in the office were praying for me. Much to my horror, others were trying to matchmake me to brothers or cousins.
One morning, when we were alone in the office together, an Afghan colleague came up to me and said, "I have spoken to my wife. We would like to propose marriage to you. You are a divorced woman, and are now too old to marry. You can be my second wife. My wife is pregnant, and will give birth in one month. We can give the baby to you because you are too old to be pregnant. Also, it's already her fifth child. We live on a hill and the well is at the bottom of the hill. But do not worry, we will not make you carry the water".
I only wish I was able to meet his wife to thank her for her generosity.
This story brings back memories from my time in Afghanistan. One of my most vivid recollections, I described in the short story In Pace. Read the full post...
Rumble: The first signs of fall
I left Rome on Friday evening. It was 37°C. I came back last night and it was 16°C. People tell me it rained cats and dogs over the weekend. Would summer be over?
Two weeks ago, on Sunday August 31, I wrote a piece about the first signs of fall. Now would be a good time to post it.
Lasts days of summer in Fregene[i-Lasts days of summer in Fregene]
The First Signs of Fall.
I made up my mind this morning: I am going to the beach. I live 200 metres from the edge of the Mediterranean, and can hear it, smell it and feel it through the bedroom window in the morning. But I don't often go to the beach in the summer. It is crowded. Italians flock to the beaches in the summer, seemingly enjoying huddling as closely together as possible, occupying every possible grain of sand. They don't seem to mind to queue up in the traffic jams together with thousands of like-minded, escaping Rome in the weekend. No matter they have to snail up from the toll booth as they leave the highway, all the way to their favourite beach spot on the Lungo de Mare. Only to end up on a crowded beach with crowded restaurants. And to queue up all the way back to Rome in the evening. This to say: it is crowded. And I hate crowds.
But I love the sea, the beach, the endlessness as I watch the sailboats slide over the horizon line. So today, I made up my mind: I am going to the beach! My feet did not touch the sand since the girls were here several weeks ago. It was peak summer then. With hot days and humid nights. The days are still hot now, but the nights are cooler. The beaches are still crowded as if it were peak summer. And yet it is not. I know it will be two, three weeks more before it will all be history.
Alicia, the girl behind the bar at the 'stabilimento', the beach club, reminds me of the ending of summer, as she greets me in French - she knows me from the past weeks when we came here with the girls-: "Hey, how are you? This is my last day, here today!".
I remember she had mentioned to only work here during the summer, and thought of moving to Paris in fall.
"Hey, Alicia, are you still going to try your luck in France?"
"No, I will be working in a kindergarten in Rome as of next week!", she smiles.
As I walk to the restaurant, Karim, the Tunisian waiter, passes by and stops for a chat.
"Alone today, sir?", he asks, remembering the girls were with me last time. "Where would you like to sit?". He looks around and smiles, pointing his chin to a young lady sitting at a table by herself. "Next to some pretty company?".
"Rather not! Alone and love to be alone!", I joke back.
"Last day for me!", he says, as he prepares a table for me in the corner.
"And where next?", I ask.
"Ah, going to see my mum in Tunis for a month, and afterwards, I want to try my luck in the North of Italy, where the ski resorts will open up for the winter soon. We'll see. I am flexible."
All signs that, even though it is over 30°C, winter is just around the corner. A few more weeks and Singita, my favourite beach bar, will close up, packing up its wooden bar-bungalow in tarpaulins. A few more weeks, and the beach boys-slash-life guards will no longer unpack the lettini, the beach chairs, in the morning. Nor will the men with tractors drive the pallets of chairs to their night-shelter in the evening. Everything will close down for the winter, leaving the beaches clear to be littered with storm debris: tree branches, broken buoys and pieces of rope and nets, rather than the plastic water bottles and tubes of sun screen the summer guests leave behind in the summer.
Just a few more weeks. Everyone knows, and everyone lives through it, still enjoying the last bits of warmth, the last bits of summer. As I doze off in the sun, with the salty wind brushing my hair, I wonder if this is how it must feel to get old. Enjoying the last remains of the good life, knowing the cold is near. And in one's imagination, still hearing the laughter your children, like little drops of joy. And the nearness of your wife, bronzed, smiling at you with her bright blue eyes, in the beach chair next to you. All knowing that it is far in the past, even though it seems only hours have gone by since they were right there.
Just as this summer was long awaited, and hoped to last forever, a youngster hopes for his adult years. And just like this summer seemed to have lasted only for minutes, so must life be. Would in the end, one think: "Hey, this only lasted only for minutes, this life?". At least I have one thing I am happy for: I enjoyed those minutes of life. I enjoyed my moments in the warmth of summer.
feet in the water[i-feet in the water]
Rumble: Talks with a security guard
link[i-link]A story from my friend Enrico, who works in Bor, South Sudan:
I was leaving the UN compound heading to the office. The security guard who had just opened the gate for me, asked me for a lift into town since his shift was over. He hopped in.
Even though the drive took just 10 minutes, but I felt obliged to keep a bit of a conversation going.
Me: “Have you received any security training?”
The guard: “Yes!”
Me: “Can you give me an example?”
The guard: “How to switch on the security lights”
…
Me: “What would you do if you saw a thief in our compound?”
The guard: It’s like when you hunt a wild animal: stalking and attacking”
Me: “What if he’s armed?”
The guard: “I’m not allowed to use a gun myself, it’s against the rules, but I have the stick I use to kill the snakes at night!”
Read more stories from Enrico about life in Sudan.
Picture courtesy Ulrik Pedersen
Rumble: Mohammed wants baksheesh
link[i-link]On the road from the hotel in Cairo to the airport, we took a local taxi. The concierge had warned us: "70 Egyptian pounds, not more!"...
Our driver took off, cutting off a roundabout by driving in the wrong direction. He rolled down his window, snorted up and spit whatever came up from deep, deep inside his throat with a well expressed Arrghaaat-[spit]. Mafoud, my colleague sitting in the back behind the driver, pulled away from the open window, hoping the snot would not hit him.
The driver introduced himself as Mohammed and asked if it was OK if he would smoke. We are all smokers and of course we did not mind.. We joked around with the little English he could understand, and the little Arabic Mafoud could come up with. We cursed at the bad drivers (the other ones), laughed at the near-hits as Mohammed cut off other cars, cheered as we passed yet another taxi, but loudly protested as he pulled in at a gas station to join a queue of twenty cars. "Petrol, petrol!", he smiled at us. We answered. "No petrol, airport, jalla!" So he reversed, with two pedestrians trying to avoid hitting us, and Mohammed continued to the airport.
He explained he had ten kids, was a poor man, and needed "baksheesh". "Baksheesh" is a word you often hear in the Middle East, and South-West Asia... It means anything from a fee, a tip or a bribe.... Somewhere a way to pay for services rendered, let's say.
Mohammed did not mean the negotiated 70 Egyptian pounds, but money on top... We kind of liked the guy, and agreed on 30 pounds baksheesh.. He seemed happy as he kissed us goodbye when we arrived at the airport... I think next time we will pay 40 pounds and ask him not to kiss us. (I don't know how you women can do this.. Yak!)
The Driver's License
link[i-link]A few days later, I arrive in my new Southern Sudan duty station and receive a warm welcome from one of our local drivers…. For the rest of the week, I end up without any drivers. I am the only one in the office who knows how to drive. The nice chap who picked me up from the airstrip seemed to have disappeared and all other drivers are on field missions. I assume the policy “to always use a driver” was more of a “general guideline”. “Maybe I should start thinking of a driving licence. Just in case…”, I think.
link[i-link]It is a thought that recurs when one of the young drivers comes back from his walk-about. I ask him why he had disappeared for a week without permission:
- “Nothing special.” he tells me, “A chap wanted to marry my younger sister, but couldn’t afford the dowry of 35 cows we’d negotiated. So, he decided to kidnap my sister. My family and I chased them up. We –euh—‘renegotiated’ the dowry and they’ll soon be married,” he concludes, nodding with a satisfied smile.
- “So, do you have more unmarried sisters?” I ask.
- “Three more” he says.
- “Good for you. That is a lot of cows!”, I compliment him
As I walk away, I am thinking to myself: “I really, really need to get me a driving licence!”.
The next time I visit the regional capital, Juba, I fill in the application for a local driving license.
- “Not a problem, sir!” says our Juba head driver. “You only need to pass an eye test!”
He takes me to a place which looks nowhere like a hospital or even a place where they practice medicine... He explains this is where eye tests are carried out. A middle-aged lady takes me to an empty room. Our head driver and the lady exchange a few words in the local language. She fills in a form, stamps it and gives me the receipt.
- “Let’s go, sir!”, the head driver announces abruptly.
- “How about my eye test?” I protest.
- “It’s all done, sir! She looked into your eyes and didn’t see anything wrong.”
A few days later, I am the proud owner of a legal Sudanese driver’s license. Now I can drive legally, while my drivers are out chasing their future brothers-in-laws.. Procedures are followed, my eyes are fine and life is good.
Story by Enrico Pausilli. Edited by “E” and Peter Casier
Pictures courtesy Ulrik Pedersen
Continue reading The Road to the Horizon's Ebook, jump to the Reader's Digest of The Road. Read the full post...
The Forces of Nature
In most parts of the world, people have learned how to curb the forces of nature. However, there are still places where this has not taken place yet.
link[i-link]Recently, I was invited by the Government of the State in South Sudan I work in. The Governor reminded everybody that a good administration should always follow a bottom-up approach and that consultations should take place in the “bomas”, the small grass root communities, first. Then, in the counties and finally, at the state level where the final consolidation is done.
After pausing for an instant, he looked around the table and noticed that the commissioner, the ministers and the general directors were all from the capital city.
The governor then said “Well, there are always exceptions and our State is one of those. Due to the floods caused by the heavy rains, large parts of the country are still isolated and everyone has problems travelling to and from the capital. This is why WE are using a top-down approach.”
Story by Enrico Pausill, edited by “E” and Peter Casier
Picture courtesy Ulrik Pedersen
Continue reading The Road to the Horizon's Ebook, jump to the Reader's Digest of The Road.
The Theory of Relativity
link[i-link]A young man came to me with a request for a salary advance at the end of another day in the ‘deep field’ - a day full of nuisances and challenges. The form bore two signatures, which gave me some reassurance the request had gone through some initial screening process. I asked him for his name and what he did for WFP. The answer didn’t come immediately, so I repeated my question. After some seconds of hesitation, he uttered a few words in Dinka, the local language. Being Italian, I had no difficulty in using my body language to make him understand to come back with an interpreter which he did.
His name and function though, did not match those on the form. I asked the translator, one of the two signatories, why the name on the form was not the same name as that provided by the young man.
- “Well, because that’s his brother’s name”, the interpreter replied.
- “And where is his brother?” I queried.
- “He deceased a couple of months ago!” he said.
- “This is not a family position” I growled, “We only employ people through a selection process based on competencies and relevant work experience. Ask him how he was hired..”
- “Well, he inherited his brother’s family so he took his brother’s job to maintain them.”
He certainly had a point and I was about to mellow out.
- “So, what type of contract have you been given, my son?”
Without hesitation the interpreter offered the answer:
- “None!”
I held my breath for a moment, thought to answer, but could not but smile. I closed my laptop and called it a day.
Story by Enrico Pausilli, edited by “E” and Peter Casier
Picture courtesy Ulrik Pedersen
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Twenty-Four Hours in Aweil.
I have twenty-four hours in Aweil to build a concrete base for the office satellite communications dish. This system enables us to cut down the communications costs dramatically, so I really have to get it up and running before the plane picks me up again. And I only have one day to do it. The challenge is to find casual laborers to help me build the concrete base. The rest of the work, I can do by myself.
After hiring a dozen of them who resign minutes after they have taken the job, I am introduced to these Darfur refugees who accepted my terms and conditions: work through the night until the concrete base is done, load the gravel, the bricks, the iron rods and transport them to the site. They take the job.
We work from 14:30 and complete the work the next day at 03:00 in the morning. At 08:30 we continue, plastering the bricks. This is when I take a picture of this man. This daily labour is a refugee from Darfur. He has little or nothing. Not even a home. He lives in a camp. He worked through the night and still, he smiles. It is comforting to see this smile.
[i-A smile from a man with barely nothing, but his heart]
When I pay them in the evening, they look at me like someone who just gave them an award or a present. And yet, the salary is their right. They are thankful while yet they did ME a favour!
I leave wishing I could be more of help to them another day. I realize this is what I enjoy about working in this part of the world. In all of my actions, I get the chance to see its immediate impact on the people, on the beneficiaries. I will never regret having chosen to work here. Here I get what a big salary or a promotion cannot give me: the feeling that I have been of help to a human being.
Story and picture by Cyprien Hiniolwa (Camp Juba, Southern Sudan).
Edited by “E” and Peter Casier
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How Deep Is the Deep Field?
link[i-link]Just before leaving our Rome, I met a colleague who’d just come back from a “field” mission. “Where to?” I said. “Khartoum” he replied. Khartoum, an as-if non-family duty station, is considered by the UN to be an adverse place, bad enough to make you earn the famous hardship allowance. Khartoum, with its international airport, renowned university and air-conditioned houses and shops, is indeed considered a daunting destination by most HQ colleagues waiting for their reassignment. For me, Khartoum was just the first of two transit points on the way to “The Real Deep Field”: my final destination and the frontier to civilization.
Once I reached Khartoum, the perspectives rapidly changed. Colleagues based in Khartoum felt privileged to be there and looked down upon their unfortunate colleagues who had been chosen for Juba, my second and final transit point and its sub-offices. A colleague from Khartoum confessed to me that he jokingly used “A mission to Bor” as a powerful ‘threat’ with his staff: “How bad could Bor be?” I wondered. Khartoum wasn’t that bad, after all …
Juba[i-Juba]The flight to Juba was pleasant and without surprises. Juba, the capital of South Sudan and one of the three WFP coordination centres in the area, had a more “familiar field look”: a poorly developed place, with loads of challenges. But still a place where the bare necessities could be found. Half of my colleagues were still living in tents. Offices were housed in air-conditioned containers. There was no local infrastructure, rough hygienic conditions and a volatile security situation. But all types of food, drinks and a bit of night life were available. In my first few days in Juba, I felt this was the level of isolation and hardship I was ready to tolerate.
At the mention of the word “Bor”, most colleagues in Juba squirmed, compassionate enough not to unveil the final surprise but kind enough to give me some indispensable tips that would prepare me for what was yet to be revealed. Despite it all, I was quite anxious to go to Bor and was still a bit optimistic that at least something was going to be good. Well, my optimism was soon to be betrayed.
When I reached Bor, I felt this was the end of the “known world”. This must be the “Real Deep Field”, I thought. The office, located in a compound on the west bank of the White Nile, did not comply with any of the standing security and operational standards. Food, sanitation and basic living conditions were a mere illusion. I really felt depressed.
Within 24 hours however, I discovered a new world. This was not the “Deepest Field” yet: Bor, is the capital city of Jonglei state, the vastest of the ten South Sudan states, five times the size of Denmark. Bor has its own governor, ministers, a parliament, a police force and a local market where a few basic items could be bought. Those excluded fruits, vegetables and cleaning material, though. It also has a wannabe all-weather airstrip and a hospital run by Doctors Without Borders (MSF).
link[i-link]All of this wasn’t enough to brighten my spirits until I spoke to one of our field monitors. She was about to go on one of her usual food distribution missions with ninety kgs of luggage. “What are you carrying?” I asked. “A tent, clothes, gum boots, water, basic food for thirty days, charcoal and a few other indispensable items.” she replied. “Why food for thirty days if you are going on a 3-day mission? And what are you doing with the gum boots?” I said. “Well, during the rainy seasons the areas where we operate get flooded. So sometimes, the plane cannot land for weeks and the gum boots are essential to walk in those swampy areas, although sometimes the water reaches more than one meter.” Then I noted she did not have any means of communication and that her tent had holes.
So after all, maybe Bor isn’t the “Real Deep Field!”
Story by Enrico Pausilli, edited by “E” and Peter Casier
Pictures courtesy Ulrik Pedersen and Ben
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Murphy's Law in Sudan
Here you are in the bush. Finally, your one week holiday has arrived and you can go back home to see your family. You get into the car and after a little difficulty you manage to insert the worn-out key. The engine is running, but the car is not moving. Gee, a flat tyre. And of course, the spare is flat as well! You control your murderous instincts and get into a second vehicle.
It is raining. No, it is pouring. The road is very muddy and slippery. The pickup slides all over the road. You get out of the car to engage the axle lock on the front wheels. After ten minutes, you are soaked, but you can’t get the lock engaged.You have not given up hope yet, so you engage the 4-wheel drive, and drive the best you can. The worst that can happen is that you end up in a ditch. You can’t give up. You really want to get out of that place. You keep driving at 10 mph.
You finally get to the airstrip, step into the sheltered area and wait. The sky is dark and heavy. Rain pours down. The plane is late and you swear. The airstrip looks wet but “landable” to you… Or maybe you’re just being optimistic. You wait, until you hear the pilot’s crackling voice on the HF radio, announcing the approach from the plane. You look up at the sky and start believing again that a God does really exists. After a couple of unsuccessful landing attempts, the plane turns around and disappears at the horizon. “Airstrip unlandable”, says the pilot over the radio…..
You are depressed, exhausted. You sit down on an empty fuel barrel and think of quitting this job once and for all. Then you think of the people you are helping…and your mortgage. All of a sudden, you come up with a brilliant idea: There is a road that can take you to the next airstrip. If the weather is not too bad you can still make it. It is only 5 hours’ drive. The road though is on security level-4 and requires a military escort, but not all is lost. It is Friday and halfway, there is a scheduled convoy that you can join.
You start driving and keep wondering whether you are still sane to travel in these weather conditions on a security level-4 road, but you drive on. Two more hours later, you finally reach the convoy meeting point. The convoy should be there by noon. You wait and wait. The convoy is not there. Still, you are hopeful…. Three hours later you are told the convoy has been cancelled. The next one will be on Monday!
You drive back for three hours. Get into your tent and sit on your bed, with the rain gushing down on the canvas. Everything is damp. You feel miserable and hope for a better day. One without Murphy following you around.
Short story and picture by Enrico Pausilli
Edited by “E” and Peter Casier
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News: The 2007 Funniest News Stories
link[i-link]Okay, on a happier note then... Here are the world's funniest and strangest stories of 2007 according to AFP. A selection:
- The CNN TV network had to apologise to US presidential hopeful Barack Obama after it confused his surname with the first name of the world's best-known terrorism suspect. A sequence on the whereabouts of Osama Bin Laden carried the caption "Where's Obama?" (full)
- An Australian bank was embarrassed when it emerged that it had issued a credit card to a cat. The owner of Messiah, a ginger tom, had put in the spoof application to test the bank's security system. (full)
- A 100-year-old woman in Germany moved out of her retirement home after six weeks saying she found the other residents not only boring but also "too old". She returned home to her cat.
- Switzerland's army inadvertently invaded the tiny neighbouring state of Liechtenstein. A unit on manoeuvres got lost at dead of night, officials said. (Full)
- The Norwegian government abolished a regulation that had allowed strip-clubs to claim exemption from sales tax on the grounds that their performances were an art form. (Full)
- A British man claimed the dubious distinction of making the first ever mobile phone call from the summit of Mount Everest. "It's cold" were his first words. (Full)
- Fishery officials in China restocked a river with 13 truckloads of live carp, only to realise that thousands of residents from a nearby city had immediately swarmed to the banks a short way downstream and caught most of them. (Full)
- Transport officials in Australia try to discourage men from driving too fast with a series of TV ads featuring attractive woman suggesting that speeding males were trying to compensate for inadequate virility.
- A town in South Korea which spent some 140 million dollars to build its own airport was then forced to admit that no airlines actually wanted to fly there.
- The Chinese capital Beijing began a campaign to improve its signposting in English ahead of the 2008 Olympic Games. Among signs in need of correcting were ones for "Pubic Toilets," and "Deformed Men" -- the latter indicating facilities for the handicapped.
- A US man who ordered flowers for his mistress sued the florists after they sent a note to his home thanking him for his order -- thereby informing his wife of his infidelity.
- An African medicine man dived into a river in Tanzania after promising his fellow villagers that he would bring back revelations from ancestral spirits lurking underwater. He drowned.
- A child maths prodigy who started university in Hong Kong at age nine, said he found the courses too easy, and rather boring.
- A Belgian prankster reacted to a prolonged political crisis in his native land by putting the entire country up for sale on the Internet auction site eBay. The company halted the bidding.
- Dutch anglers were up in arms against immigrant workers from Poland, who also enjoy fishing in the many local lakes. The problem being that the Poles actually eat the fish they catch, whereas the Dutch believe in simply putting them back in the water.
- A posh food store in New York was embarrassed after an employee, who was clearly not Jewish, stuck a "Delicious for Hanukkah" sign on hams. Jews, for whom Hanukkah is a religious holiday, do not eat pork.
Stories courtesy AFP. Post found thanks to Digg. Picture courtesy encircling.us ...
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Shit No Go, We No Go!
When the Akademik Fedorov, our Russian pick-up vessel (the largest in the Antarctic by the way!) arrived at the island three days ago, the sky was covered. After they landed their big Mil-8 helicopter near our expedition camp, we loaded it up as much as we could, but the mist came in from above the sea and in minutes. The visibility turned real bad. So bad that the pilot had to fly on radar trying to find the ship back. The evacuation was aborted then. Three days we are now waiting to get off the Antarctic. On the ship, a few miles off shore, hot showers and proper meals are waiting for us. But it could just as well have been thousands of miles away, so un-obtainable it seems to us.
Sleeping crampled in the kitchen tent. Ralph found the best spot: the kitchen table![i-Sleeping crampled in the kitchen tent. Ralph found the best spot: the kitchen table!]And each day we wake up, we hope for the fog to clear up, but it does not. Luckily it does not storm anymore. For weeks on end, we have been fighting against the storm, the snow, the cold, and now, everything seems quiet outside. Dead quiet. Since we landed here, the only sign of life we have seen is a few birds which seem to nest at the bottom of the glacier, hundreds of meters below our camp. The only connection to the ‘other side’ of the world, the ship, we have, is our radio.
Willy’s voice comes crackling through the speaker. “Peter I, this is Fedorov, over”. Ralph takes the microphone, and answers the call. “Sorry, still no chance for helicopter flights”, says Willy.. Martin and him are the only two from our crew of nine who got onto the one and only flight we Two remaining shelters[i-Two remaining shelters]had to the ship. Three days ago. Three days. We are bored. After the excitement of landing on the island, building up the camp, setting up the radio stations, and in two weeks, breaking the world record – we made 62,000 radio contacts from this island, 10,000 more than the previous record- and the excitement of the first sight of the Fedorov, our pickup vessel, we have nothing to do anymore, but to wait. Wait for the weather to clear up. Reading a bit, making coffee, eating some of our survival rations, sleeping, reading, eating,… We can not do much else. But to look at the grey sky of course.
The Mil-8 helicopter from the Akademik Federov is landing. See the orange smoke?[i-The Mil-8 helicopter from the Akademik Federov is landing. See the orange smoke?]In the afternoon, as by miracle, we start to see a faint sun through the clouds. The cloud cover becomes patchy. Would there be a chance? Willy calls us on the radio saying they will give it a go. As if we were bitten by a snake, everyone jumps up, and gets dressed. Indeed the clouds are breaking up. At times we can even see the sea. Somewhere the ship is there.
Half an hour later, we hear the roaring noise from the big helicopter. We fire up a smoke signal, and turning the low hanging clouds into orange. The pilot spots the signal and very slowly descends, touching down onto the snow. As by magic, the clouds disappear. While the pilot keeps the turbine generators running, the back doors open up, and the heli crew jumps out. They make signs we have to hurry. We drag boxes, crates, bags towards the helicopter, and stuff as much gear as we can into the haul. Half an hour later, they lift off.
We take a break, hoping the weather stays clear. And it does. In no time, the gray-orange helicopter hovers above our camp again, approaching our landing site. Again we drag all we can, The Mil-8. But you also see how foggy it is![i-The Mil-8. But you also see how foggy it is!]as fast as we can to the helicopter. Some stuff is too heavy to carry, so we drag it over the snow, pushing and pulling with all the weight we have, with all the force we can handle. If we don’t make use of this break in the weather, god knows when the next opening would come.
Digging out crates[i-Digging out crates]And we have plenty of gear. Tons of it. Masts, tents, antennas, boxes of radio equipment, personal stuff, left-over food rations, heaters, fuel barrels, gas bottles, generators, tools. All of it is carried, dragged, to the helicopter.
Three hours and several flights later, there is nothing left, but two tents and a survival kit. Now is the critical moment. If we take down our last two tents, we have no more shelter. If a storm comes up, we will have real difficulties to set it up in the wind. Would almost be impossible to put Loading up the cargo haul of the helicopter[i-Loading up the cargo haul of the helicopter]the huge heavy-insulated covers over the metal frames. Ralph, our expedition leader, looks at the sky. “Let’s do it. Let’s break it up”, he shouts. Like animals we ‘attack’ the shelters. In no time, the covers, frames, wooden floors are all dismantled and stacked up, bagged and tied.
The last helicopter flight comes in. We stack all material in it. The last things to go are the white trash bags, with our human waste. We promised the Norwegian authorities who gave us the landing permit for this isolated island, we would take everything off. And everything has to go. Even the human waste. The pilot looks at the bags we carry. He opens one of them and looks inside.. With a disgusted face, he says “Njet”, making signs as if we are crazy. We start a discussion. In the end, I shout, trying to lift my voice above the noise of the engine turbines, in my most simple English: “Shit no go, we no go!”.. The pilot smiles, and gives in. We dump the bags of frozen waste into the helicopter, and get on board. The engines rev up and the huge propellers start turning, chopping into the air. With a deafening sound, the huge thing lifts up, and before we know it, we hover several meters above the ground.
Through the small windows, we gaze at our camp site below. There is nothing left to witness our presence on the island. Nothing but our footprints and two square imprints of where our last two shelters stood, soon to be wiped away with the fresh snow. Soon our presence will be covered, erased from this island’s memory.
Is this symbolic to our presence in the world? Is all of it just temporarily setting our footprints on the earth’s surface, and the moment we go, the moment we leave this existence, those prints are wiped away, to be forgotten? We come, think we can conquer it all, but still, all is temporarily… As I look at the pensive faces of my companions, I smile… At least on this ride, we also took our shit with us! Hopefully they will not ask that from us when we go to heaven. And if so, would St.Peter at heaven’s gate have the same look on his face as the pilot? And would we answer the same to him too: “Shit no go, we no go?”
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Ham Radio, Anyone?
November 2001. Somewhere on the road between Bagram and Kabul.
Offloading the C130 earlier that day.[i-Offloading the C130 earlier that day.]I curse, check another frequency they sometimes use, but still nothing. The radio room is not answering. It is Ramadan, and this time of the day, the radio operators in Kabul, twenty kilometers away, are probably gone praying, or are already at the Iftar, breaking their fast. We just flew in a C130 cargo plane full of food, and I went with a convoy to pick it up from Bagram airport, few hours truck-drive from Kabul. We can’t use Kabul airport yet, as a one ton unexploded bomb sticks out of its runway. And we don’t have any deminers in yet. Nobody is allowed to come into Kabul, except twenty expatriate aid workers. I am one of them. And the only one on this road. The only one outside the Kabul safe haven. I must be crazy to do this. At any time, I expect to see the flare of an RPG coming straight at us, as rumours say there are still rogue Taliban roaming in this area. We desperately need to get hold of "someone" in Kabul to inform them this convoy is on the move, and that "someone" needs to monitor us, just in case something would go wrong.
“What to do? What to do? How on earth can I get hold of Kabul.. Hmm let’s see.” I dial another frequency on the HF radio in the car. No UN frequency, but a ham radio call frequency this time. One push on the auto-tune button and in a few seconds, the radio beeps and displays: “14.195.0 – Antenna Tuned”.
I push the button on the microphone and ask “Frequency in use?” Not a beep. I wonder if this radio is receiving or transmitting at all. Maybe that is why the radio room did not copy me. Even though all worked well before we left.
- “Frequency in use?”. Nothing again. Hmm.. Ok, well… let’s try.
- “CQ 20, CQ 20, YA5T/m YA5T/m YA5T/m , CQ 20 and by.”, I launch my call. "YA5T is my callsign in Afghanistan. With the prefix "YA", the hams will know what country I am transmitting from.
And the world explodes on this tiny radio. Dozens of hams answer my call. From Europe, North America, Asia. Shivers run down my spine. I can not believe this. Here I am sitting in a car, driving on what once was a road, with probably dozens of Taliban waiting to take a shot at me, in the middle of bloody nowhere. And still, with this small piece of hardware, I have the world talking to me… You have no idea how this feels. YOU HAVE NO IDEA…!
It takes me one minute to get ‘ON4WW’-Mark, my friend in crime on frequency. He is at home in Belgium, I am in a car in Afghanistan, but his radio signal booms in. I pass him the satellite phone number of the control centre in Kabul –just in case something would happen- and he remains on standby for the next two hours until we safely reach Kabul.
Even though in the middle of nowhere, we were not alone. I had hundreds listening in. From all over the world. Weird stuff, hey, ham radio? How do you explain that to outsiders? How do you explain not only what ham radio is, but also what it meant to you, in your life? How it changed the course of my life in many ways? Last year, I started to write down some of these stories in my eBook.
Ham radio. A sharp bend on the road of my life.
ON6TT at AH1A - Howland Island 1993 expedition[i-ON6TT at AH1A - Howland Island 1993 expedition]As I wrote down these stories, I started to realize - it does sound rather melodramatic, but it is true to state - that “ham radio has changed my life”. If no ham radio, I would not have done the Clipperton expedition in 1992, I would not have experienced the adrenaline kick that operating from a remote Pacific island gave me. I would not have done the expedition to Howland the year after. Then I would not have met Paul, F6EXV. Paul as co-operator then, and as one of my ham contest partners at John-ON4UN’s home. He would not have received the telephone call –during that contest- offering him a job at the UN in Congo. He would not have explained me what that work was all about, which raised my interest.
Less than year and one expedition (Peter I island in the Antarctic) later, I flew to Angola, for the Red Cross, on my first humanitarian mission. My job had nothing related to my education – I am a graphical engineer – nor with my professional experience – I was an IT manager in my last ‘normal’ job-, but I was to install radios. I did work which was solely based on my experience as ham operator. In the end, there is no difference between going on an expedition, fiddling around with generators, debugging antennas and raising masts, if it was on Peter I island, or in the middle of Africa. Well, true, they did not shoot at us on Peter I… But for the rest, there was no difference.
Angola, where I operated as ham with the calls D2TT and D3T later on, was my first mission in the humanitarian world, to be followed by hundreds of missions, to over a hundred countries. Never kept count how many. I did keep track how many countries I operated from. 85 so far…
ON6TT as 5X1T in Uganda 1996-1999[i-ON6TT as 5X1T in Uganda 1996-1999]Over the past 14 years, there were many exciting and memorable moments. Many are explained in stories on my website, and often have a mix of an exotic location, work and ham radio. Being the first to transmit ham TV signals from Zaire (now DRC), during the midst of the Kisangani refugee crisis. And a few months later to be the first on ham TV from the Vatican City. Or the 60,000 radio contacts I logged from our home in Kampala as "5X1T", in between power cuts, baby sitting, bombings and evacuations. All the friends I made when on mission, and hooking up with people I have spoken with hundreds of times, but never met. I met them while on mission, and they welcomed me in their homes. Be it in El Salvador, Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, Nepal, South Africa, Tajikistan or dozens more)… And even more so, they often gave me a head start for my work, providing me with much needed connections to the local PTT officials or trustworthy local telecom repair shops where I could find that long-sought-for cavity filter…
There is not one single memory that stands out. They are all different in their own way. But if there was one time where I felt *really* lucky I was a ham radio operator, it was that one night, in the midst of nowhere, in Afghanistan, just a few weeks after 9/11 !
Peter, ON6TT
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Doing Good to Others
link[i-link]As we steer into the anchorage, we put the kids below deck, drop the sails, and start the engine. Tine goes to the bow, ready to drop anchor. I steer the boat right in-between the other anchored ships. The rain gushes down. Visibility is only ten meters, sometimes even less. We loose sight of the other boats. Even though we motor slowly, sometimes an anchored boat pops up through the curtain of rain, out of no-where it seems, when it is almost too late to avoid a collision. The wind is strong and gusty, shifting often 90 degrees. A sailboat, and certainly one like ours with a short keel, and very beamy – flat wide bottomed – gets easily pushed around by the wind. Once the boat starts turning with the wind, there is no way to stop the momentum. Then you just HAVE to turn.. It makes it difficult to maneuver between anchored boats, all swinging on their anchor chains, in the stormy wind… But we do well, find a proper spot, and drop the anchor in one go. Phew!
link[i-link]It storms and rains the whole night, but the next morning is bright and sunny, revealing the small paradise we are anchored in. Hardly any clouds left. The sea is clear light green-blue, several fishing terns are gliding high up in the sky, without moving their wings. A soft breeze moves through the leaves of the palm trees bordering the beech of bright white sand. Paradise once more.
In the afternoon, while having brunch on the deck of the boat, we spot two young local fishermen in the water, dragging what seems to be a white surf board. I get a bit suspicious as it does not look like they are having fun, rowing wildly with their arms, barely keeping their head above water. Through the binoculars I can see a black thing on their surf board. Maybe a large plastic bag or a net. As a rain squall comes closer, they seem the more anxious to get ashore. It is all a bit weird: what are they doing in a channel between two islands, on a surfboard? I take our dinghy, and motor to them, only to find that there is no surfboard, but they were dragging a small white wooden boat filled to the rim with water. The black thing I saw earlier is an outboard engine they had unscrewed and put inside the boat. “Mista, you help us, mista?”, they ask. I throw them a rope and tow them ashore. They drag their boat onto the beach, crawl onto the sand, and lay on their back, exhausted. Barely waving their hands to thank me.
link[i-link]When I get back to our sail boat, Hannah, our youngest, stands on the bow of our ship, shouting and dancing “My dad is a superhero! Superdad in action! My dad can do anything!..” Lana gives me a hug. “Dad, I am proud of you. The people on the other boats were just watching, but you DID something… Did you those guys give you anything to thank you?” I tell them when we do good to others, somewhere we will be rewarded by something good ourselves..
In the afternoon, when we scuba dive, and find some astonishingly beautiful cone shelves, Lana says “You see, we are rewarded now. We did something good, and now we are rewarded with these beautiful shelves. We will take them with us, and put flowers in them. As a reminder to do good to others!”.
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