Linguistically hoping

As many of you know, I am deeply geeky. I put up a good front most of the time, but, in my heart, I happily roll with the Trekkies and the grammar nerds. I genuinely enjoy sci-fi. I like knowing useless bits of information, the more esoteric the better. I understand that admitting this throws my mainstream credentials as a literary person into question. A friend of my mom's, a former university president, visibly winces when I mention the unique and valuable lens sci-fi provides to society today. He'd rather talk about the other books I've read. You know, the normal ones.

So with this disclaimer, I want to tell you about a book I read recently that set my geeky heart singing. It's a normal book about a truly nerdy subject. See, something for everyone!

If you haven't read In the Land of Invented Languages by linguist Arika Okrent, go out and get it this minute. It is a fascinating overview of the concept, history and reasons behind the world's invented languages. You've probably heard of Esperanto, but did you know that medieval nun Hildegard of Bingen was the first to invent her own language back in the 12th century? Since then, people (mostly really geeky guys) have been giving it a go for a wealth of reasons. During the Enlightenment, it was about controlling the illogical, irregular beast of language, taming it into a more orderly, scientific creature. In the 19th century, Esperanto and many other less famous attempts were meant to heal the violent rifts caused by the rise of nationalism. Today, language inventing is as popular as ever, but folks do it for artistic reasons. They craft languages in the shape of their own worldviews or for worlds of their own creation. JRR Tolkein, who essentially wrote Lord of the Rings to provide a home for his several invented Elvish languages, is considered the founding father of this era.

But what brings language inventors of all eras together is an abiding desire to change the world through one of its most fundamental mediums. These are people who think big. They understand that language shapes thought, expression, reason and emotion, along with culture, so they want to shape the ultimate shaper. And all of them seek to do so for exclusively constructive reasons: they want to improve clarity of thought; they want to bring peace; they want to express themselves more fully; they want to create community; they think it's incredibly fun. And they do it on the level of grammar, syntax, even phonemes. The work involves total submersion into language as a concept and a concrete tool. The fact that most of these people are amateurs doesn't stop them from professional-level study of what makes communication work at its most basic level.

So what, you might be saying. Why bother? Who actually speaks an invented language? Who has even heard of someone who does? (Actually, I took Esperanto lessons in the summer between 6th and 7th grade, not that I remember any of it.) But that is another cool thing about Okrent's book. She opens the doors of the invented language subcultures and invites us in. We get to meet the people, quirky and quixotic, who insist on doing this work despite raised eyebrows and open ridicule.

We meet the small but passionate Esperanto culture that exists to this day, and which includes its own rock music, literature, poetry and a very small number of native speakers (children raised by Esperantists). We hang out with speakers of Klingon, uber geeks even by Trekkie standards, who have translated Hamlet into a language invented for a TV show about an alien race that doesn't exist. (At least not in the way the writers of Star Trek envisioned.) We see how a pictographic language called Blissymbols changed the lives of children living with celebral palsy. We witness real people engaging in a kind of escapism, yes, but a kind of escapism that results in actual transformation. The invented becomes concrete through the actions of real people in the real world.

In this way, it's not fantasy; it's the opposite of fantasy. Fantasy is looking at a Vogue cover model or that cherry-red Ferrari in the window. Though these two "ideals" are real, they will never enter your reality. Klingons don't exist, but their language does because people have brought it into being. I will never walk the red carpet at the Oscars in the latest by Chanel. But I can speak Klingon, if I care to learn. (I don't, but I love that some people do.) I can change the real world by making something invented my own. In this way, something as "normal" as the contents of People magazine becomes the true exercise in bizarre wish fulfillment. At least learning Klingon is possible.

This is also exactly the reason I'm a geek. I love it when people go against the grain to create alternative realities because the one we're living in leaves much to be desired. It's weird, but it's hopeful. It's creative in the strictest sense of the word. (NB: In most invented languages, I would not have to draw your attention, as I just did, to the shades of meaning in the word creative. There would be a separate word for creative meaning original and innovative, and creative meaning relating to the process of creation.) It's not that I long for an alternative to the languages we have. After all, they were invented, too, by all of us over the centuries, and they get the job done, more or less. It's just that there is something so fascinating about striking new ground in a realm we take for granted, for having the will to break out of the mold in such a fundamental way. Some of the most interesting conversations I've had in the past year have been with K about what it's like to walk the rocky road to fluency in a second or third language, as they have. It is not a road I've traveled very far along, despite my best efforts over the years (starting with Esperanto and moving on from there). But there is no doubt about the power of the experience. From what I can tell, it becomes impossible to look at meaning and self expression in quite the same way. Imagine, then, attempting to express your world view as an invented language, where the goal is not the journey to fluency but the creation of a whole new expressive realm.

Unsurprisingly, as Okrent writes, it becomes the life work of most who attempt it. You could argue there are more important tasks to spend time and energy on. Or you could be thankful, as I am, there still is a small space in the world for linguistic Don Quixotes and their dictionary-sized dreams.

Chaperoning wonderland

Last week, I chaperoned my first middle school dance. You might be wondering how I could have taught this age group for nine years and only just found myself standing, arms folded, in a dimly-lit cafeteria full of blaring music and runaway hormones. Well, two of those years I was in Cameroon, which has a cute youth day once a year (sort of a talent show on steroids), but no dances. Then I taught at a school with a lot on its mind, but busting a move did not rank high. We did have a dance at one point, but I somehow escaped monitoring duties. I recall being incredibly relieved. Even last year here in Abu Dhabi, I managed to elude the call when the dance I was scheduled to watch was canceled. Not this year. This year, I was stationed on the sidelines for Winter Wonderland 2009.

It was in the cafeteria, which is a windowless cavern-like room underneath the gym. The student council had hung strings of lights and gotten their hands on some stand-alone strobes that flashed different colors at irregular intervals. The kids were instructed to wear all white, snowflakes being a universal cause for celebration (as opposed to any one religion's winter colors). It made them easy to see. My fellow chaperones and I took our places along the edges of the dance floor. The principal and student council adviser guarded the door. A gaggle of parents sold food coupons while others distributed KFC Twisters, ice cream sandwiches and tiny cans of Sprite

Middle school dances haven't changed much since you were 13, in case you're wondering. There was lots of giggling, running around, the casting of meaningful looks (that may or may not have been noticed) and more giggling. In addition to separating by gender, the kids divided by grade level. Imagine the rectangular, low-ceiled cafeteria divided into thirds (8th on the left, 6th in the middle, 7th on the right). Each third was, of course, split into a boy huddle and a girl huddle. The 8th graders mixed the most; the 6th graders the least. In fact, the 6th grade boys soon took refuge behind the speakers while the 6th grade girls joined hands and spun around together, ring-around-the-rosy style, to most songs. The 7th graders at one point looked like they were playing an unintentional game of Red Rover. They stood in two lines facing each other (one made up of girls, one of boys). Though they kept strictly to their third of the cafeteria, occasionally one girl or one boy would "come on over" to the opposite 7th grade line, have what looked like a drive-by conversation, and scoot on back.

We chaperones spent a lot of time talking about how glad we were to be decades distant from our middle school years, especially during the one slow song where a total of two 8th grade couples danced (along with the twirling 6th grade girls). What we didn't do was spend a lot of time worrying about sex and drugs amid the rock n roll (or Euro-style techno and R&B). Senorita C, one of the chaperones, talked about patrolling the darkest corners at her former school, breaking up make-out sessions and discouraging bootie shaking on the dance floor. The closest we came to that was when the PE teacher (a hilarious Brit) started making faces over the shoulders of the two slow-dancing duos, surely scarring them for life.

At 9 p.m. sharp, we turned on the lights, cleared the floor (mostly of the 6th grade Energizer bunnies, who could have gone for another three hours) and sent the kids into the cars of their waiting parents.

My middle school dances took place in the Boys and Girls Club of the small beach town where I grew up. This was fortunate because it meant I could attend, even though I didn't go to the local junior high, which hosted the events. The dances weren't held in the gym (which was large and roomy). Rather, they cleared the floor of the "club" area, normally home to pool, air hockey and Foozball tables. It was packed with kids (boys on one side, girls on other other). The year was 1987. I remember wearing my first miniskirt, white pantyhoes and an Espirt top, and hanging close to the girls from my street. I slow-danced with BrianB to "Crazy for You" by Madonna, and all I could think about were all the people who were looking at me. The horror. I wish I had enjoyed it more. And I'm relieved (to this day) that the PE teacher wasn't making faces over my shoulder.

Aren't you glad you're not in middle school anymore?

Breaking news: it is #@&$ pouring here

I think of this blog as more Harper's than CNN, but I have to interrupt this in-depth feature vibe with some breaking news: it has been raining here for the last 48 hours! (This street looks a lot like the one right outside my window!)

The streets are flooded. The ceilings are leaking. The kids practically had to wade to their lockers in several hallways today. The gutters sent sheets of water onto the pavement and yards. The fields are drowning and the server room (of all places) shorted out. As of right now (7:30 p.m., Sunday, Dec. 13) the parking lot outside my building is a lake, and the clouds still haven't cleared.

No one expects rain here. Which explains the lack of street drainage and the pitiful state of the roofs. And you can't really point any fingers when 365 days of the year for years on end, there might be an inch or two of precipitation. The heaviest recorded rainfall in UAE history is 77 mm in one day back in 1967. I wouldn't be surprised if we broke that today. Stay tuned... (A classic Abu Dhabi taxi--not slowing down for anything...)

Blowin' by the wind

There is a Polish expression that roughly translates as: look where the wind has blown us. K and her mom used it with smiles on their faces during a recent road trip to Oman. It's handy phrase for moments like that, when you look around and think, 'Wow. Here we are--imagine that!' The nearest English equivalent I can think of is, 'We're not in Kansas anymore.' But the Polish phrase implies much more amazement, even gratitude. Look where the wind has blown us! Isn't it cool?

I thought of the phrase last night at the annual school choir concert. It was impressive and well done, as these things often are. The last number was a beautiful medley sung by the high school, middle school and elementary choirs about peace on earth. As the kids stood up in the soft glow of the spotlights, they represented about 45 different countries and half as many languages. It was a poignant moment that made me feel the sheer chance of being in Abu Dhabi at this moment in time with this particular group of students singing so sweetly.

I have been trying to characterize the community at my school for over a year now. It has proven elusive. Students and teachers are friendly and seem comfortable and well adjusted. There is very little tension or other strong emotions. On the surface, it appears stable, healthy and secure. Yet there is not a particular sense of closeness or deep bonds. The congeniality is not false--it's just not deeply rooted. But why should this be with so many genuine people gathered in one place?

Then it came to me. Almost every single person in Abu Dhabi, from grocery store clerk to CEO, is windblown, swept into town by choice or by chance. We live in a city of leaves, not trees, despite the emirate's attempt to green the desert. People arrive, they work, they look around, perhaps amazed and grateful for the opportunity, and then after awhile, they blow away. Back to where they came from or onto the next adventure. The school is the same. The choirs that sung last night will never sing together again (several students are leaving at the end of December, and more will be arriving). The same could be said for almost every quarter of the school at every level. The wind blows in, the wind blows out, and the community sways, swirls, reconfigures and moves on.

This week I officially decided to catch the wind back to the States this June. At the end of the day, my decision to leave Abu Dhabi after two years is related, in part, to the ephemeral nature of the place. I have a need to sink roots into a school where colleagues and students are committed to a common mission. For me, that mission needs to involve serving students who need it most, standing side by side with colleagues who feel the same way. I knew how important the first part was to me before I left. I didn't realize until I came here that the second part is just as crucial. As I've mentioned before in this blog (see several of the June 2009 entries), uniting with the adults in the community to care for children is one of the most powerful functions of education (and human experience, really). Being anchored by a common goal helps create this dynamic. Being windblown doesn't, especially when the children involved are grounded instead in families that can happily provide for their needs.

I will always be grateful for blowing over here for so many reasons (which I will write about in subsequent posts). And I always knew I'd leave eventually (as should be obvious from reading the paragraph above). In the meantime, I'm looking forward to swirling around for a few more months in the city of leaves.

Sheikh Zayed on a keychain

The end of November is a special time in the UAE. The date palms sway in the breeze, the sun smiles gently from the sky, and the workers of Abu Dhabi begin weaving long tubes of twinkly lights into decorative shapes and displaying them at regular intervals along the roadside. The shops fill with celebratory items, and most houses and cars are awash in red, green--and black. Yes, black. It's not Christmas being celebrated with such enthusiasm. It's the UAE national days on Dec. 2 and 3.

I was going to name this post "Pimp My Emirate" but I thought it'd be a little much. It would also be descriptive. The UAE goes crazy with national pride as the beginning of December approaches. This year our favorite federation of Gulfside city-states turns 38. If it's not a number to be proud of, don't tell that to my neighbor whose car is festooned with Emerati flags and plastered with stickers of Sheikh Zayed and sons. The aforementioned roadside light displays proclaim the birthday number every 10 feet or so, alongside the magic number seven, representing the seven emirates that make up the nation. In my favorite grocery store, one can buy Sheikh Zayed posters, tea towels, mouse pads, buttons and key chains, along with UAE-themed sweat bands, sundresses, scarves, bracelets, necklaces and several varieties of hat, including those super-tall baseball caps like they wear at Hotdog on a Stick. Only in red, green and black, of course.

Buildings get in on the act as well. My gym has the UAE flag in lights along the outer wall, and twinkly strands snaking up the palm trees in the parking lot. The skyscrapers downtown turn their floodlights to green and red. One enterprising organization projects a slideshow of UAE history 15 stories high. Featured prominently is everyone's favorite sheikh and photos of the fishing villages of Dubai and Abu Dhabi in the goat-hair-hut days of yore.

Or 38 years ago, whichever you prefer. Happy birthday, UAE!

Rain, rain, come and stay...

As most of you know, I just spent a week with the whole 6th grade touring the ancient Greek and Roman ruins near Selcuk, Turkey. It is a fantastic experience by any standards and meshes perfectly with the social studies curriculum. Kids learn the history and then they see it first hand. They even do in-depth research on a particular site, be it a temple, amphitheater, fountain, triumphal arch or stadium.

This year, however, the desert flowers of Abu Dhabi experienced a lot more than the wonders of the ancient world. They lived through a week of honest-to-goodness weather. And it was hard to tell which excited them more.

It all started back at school when we were preparing for the trip.

"It might rain," I said, in the tone of voice teachers use when delivering bad news.

"Yeeeeeessssss!" they all replied, to a kid, sounding like a nest of enthusiastic snakes and making the Jim Carrey fist pump.

I was a bit surprised. Rainy field trips, as both a teacher and a student, have all the appeal of a soggy sandwich.

"It may also get cold," I continued.

"Yeeessssssssssssss." More fist pumps. Some kids even slapped each other high fives.

"Will it snow?" piped up a kid from Norway.

Haven't you had enough snow? I wondered. "Probably not in Selcuk," I admitted.

"Awwwwwwwwwww."

"So, you want it to rain," I said, finally getting a clue, but not quite believing it.

"Totally/oh my gosh/how can you even ask?/yes/of course/duh," replied the kids. I heard a few whisper to each other about umbrellas and ponchos.

"It never rains here," a Korean kid explained. "So when it rains, it's special."

"It's wet," I pointed out. "And damp."

"Yeeesssssssssss."

Then we got to Turkey, and the first few days it was perfect. Sunny, warm, at least 80 degrees. We went to the beach. We frolicked among columns, Doric, Ionic and Corinthian. One of the drama classes did their play under the dome of the sky, like the ancient Greeks intended. We got back to the hotel every night, hot and sweaty.

What did we hear from the kids? Whine, whine, whine.

"I thought you said it was going to rain?" "When am I going to be able to wear my jacket?" "Isn't it autumn here?" "Why isn't it cold?"

Be careful what you wish for, kids.

The next day it poured. Buckets. It thundered and lightning. It wasn't that cold, but, boy, was it wet. And no one was prepared because when we left the hotel, it looked like another sunny day. I had left my rain jacket in my room. So had almost everyone else.

No sooner had the bus pulled into the parking lot, then it started.

"Ms. R, can we go outside?" "Can we play in the rain?" "Can I splash in the puddles." "Do you want to share my umbrella?" One kid even had one of those umbrella hats, honest to god, and his classmates thought it was the coolest thing they had ever seen in their entire lives. The kid looked like a grandpa at a golf tournament, but everyone was green with envy over his umbrella hat. He couldn't wait to try it out.

We stomped around the site in the pouring rain. It got colder. It got damper. The kids had enough of the water-from-the-sky thing after their shoes soaked through and their hair started to drip down their backs. But they were troopers, and didn't complain at all. Not like they had about the brilliant sunshine and balmy Mediterranean breeze of the day before.

"At least we're experiencing the rain," Umbrella Hat said solemnly, in the same tone you or I would say, 'At least we're experiencing these ancient monuments, which we may never see again.' It amounted to much the same thing.

The next day, it rained again, but got much colder. This time, the kids were prepared. Out came the hats, mittens, scarves and boots--clothes that spend months in the back of the closet until a ski holiday or perhaps a trip north for Christmas finally saw the light of day. We had a bright orange poncho, the kind for camping ("Don't you have a raincoat?" "No, why would I?") and a panda bear-inspired hat (complete with little ears) with a built-in scarf with matching mittens. Everyone wanted to wear it, but it lasted about 10 seconds in a real downpour. ("I guess it's not really waterproof." "No, honey, it isn't." "But it's cute, huh?")

When we got back to school and reconvened this week, kids talked about the rain as hardened vets recounting battle stories. Unfortunately, the 7th graders were having none of it. In their part of Turkey, it had snowed.

"Whoa!/Cool!/That is so incredible!/Can you believe it?/Oh my gosh," came the chorus from the 6th grade as they heard about the below freezing temps, piles of slush, stuck buses and frigid hikes of the 7th grade trip to Cappadocia.

And then the inevitable question, "Do you think we'll be that lucky next year?"

(I have purposely chosen photos from our trip that are somewhat blurry and that don't show the kids' faces clearly. But you definitely can get the idea of what it was like to tour in the pouring rain (in Ephesus) and in the beautiful sunshine (in Priene).)

Turkey cool

Last week, I once again skipped down the Road to Ruins with 70 6th graders, assorted chaperones and two excellent guides. We clambered over broken columns in Priene and watched the drama class perform in the great theater of Miletus (frequented by Pythagorus and mentioned by Homer). We braved rain and inclement weather to tiptoe around the Tetrapylon of Aphrodisias and gape at the library of Celsus in Ephesus (pictured left). On the last warm day of fall, we played on the beach of the Aegean. On the first chilly day of winter, we visited a Turkish school that had prepared a fantastic program for our kids (to be nice, and so their kids could practice English). As the seasons changed before our eyes, we saw some of the best of what Turkey has to offer.

I've now been to Turkey three times: twice as a teacher and once as a tourist. I've been to Istanbul, Cappadocia and the Izmir region (aka: the road to ruins). I've seen three of the coolest places in the country--but certainly not all the coolness there is to be seen. Nonetheless, in honor of turkey day, fast approaching, I feel totally qualified to offer the following list of Turkey cool.

Apple tea: Go anywhere in Turkey and you will be offered apple tea. Fall in love with the sweet, apple-y flavor, tarter than apple juice but not as thick and cloying as apple cider. Then buy some, take it home and just try to get it to taste like it did in the grand bazaar in Istanbul or across from the Ephesus Museum in Selcuk. I've tried and tried, and failed and failed. It just doesn't taste the same. It might be that I lack the curvaceous Turkish tea glass or the nerve to add the heaps of sugar no doubt required. Either way, apple tea is one of the most fabulous things about Turkey that can only be truly experienced within its borders.

Really cool pottery: This is not your grandmother's mountain mug. Turkish pottery and design is world renown, of course. You would recognize the vivid patterns and brilliant colors. In Turkey, you can go to a workshop and watch master potters spin out bowls, thin-necked vases, egg cups and pitchers without breaking a sweat. Painters likewise brush on vines, tulips and flourishes with about as much effort as it takes normal people to draw a stick figure. Go to Topkapi Palace (or the Sheikh Zayed Mosque in Abu Dhabi) and see whole walls adorned with tiles. Go to the local market and bargain for a bowl in any color of the rainbow. It might be machine made or it might be handpainted, but it's super cool nonetheless.

People who genuinely, honest-to-goodness like children: Imagine it's 3:30 a.m. You have stayed up all night for your flight from Abu Dhabi to Istanbul. You get to the gate, coffee in hand, only to find 70 12 year olds and 14 of their minders already there, buzzing with excitement. You wouldn't be a terrible person if your face fell and you turned back into the terminal to purchase an eye mask and some ear plugs. Now imagine you are a flight attendant on the same flight. The 12 year olds come thumping down the jetway in vibrating packs of pre-teen energy. It's 3:30 a.m. and you're heading back to Istanbul, back to your home port and your family. What would you consider a reasonable reaction? The flight attendants on Turkish Airlines flight 1167 from Abu Dhabi to Istanbul at 3:30 a.m. on Wednesday, Oct. 28, straightened their caps, adjusted their name tags and smiled as if nothing pleased them more than to host the whole 6th grade. Once airborne, they trundled out 70--yes, 70--plastic packages filled with inflatable airplanes and plastic airplane binoculars. The kids were thrilled, said thank you and proceeded to use the toys as pillows as one by one they fell asleep. Not a single stewardess brow was furrowed. Not a single voice was raised. The kids got freebies and smiles from their Turkish hosts. The same was true wherever we went. The staff at the small, family owned hotel where we stay in Selcuk made 70 sack lunches for six days straight. They cooked pasta, French fries and chocolate pudding. They checked in with the kids who weren't eating, made sure there was an option for our four vegetarians. They laughed at the clowns and fixed special teas for the homesick. I would recommend the Hotel Kalehan to anybody--but not the week we were there, and I work with kids every day. It's not that we were unruly--the kids were great, but there were 70 of them. All in one place. Yet the hotel staff seemed genuinely perplexed that an inquiring German couple turned down the one free room remaining. Who wouldn't want to be surrounded by such charming children? For these Turks--and for the flight attendants on TK1167--it was a no brainer.

Ancient ruins to suit nearly all tastes: You like ancient Greek? Roman? Ottoman? Maybe a little earlier? How about Minoan or even Assyrian? Name an empire, major invasion or cultural trend in pretty much all of human history, and the land of modern Turkey was somehow involved. Alexander the Great passed through on his way to India. Centuries later, Genghis Khan came the other direction headed for the gates of Vienna. The Assyrians rolled over and left a few ruins and the cult of Ishtar that morphed into the worship of Aphrodite once the Greeks arrived. The Romans loved the place, many of the choicest ruins from their old empire are located in Turkey. Not to mention that the whole empire moved to Constantinople after the hordes sacked Rome. After the Holy Roman Empire moved west the Ottomans picked up the slack and ruled the whole Middle East for centuries. It's no surprise that modern-day Turks are torn about where exactly their roots lie. Some are clamoring to join the European Union, while others want to forge closer ties to the Middle East. But whatever your geopolitical preference, Turkey has something for everyone.

A totally portrait-genic founding father: Spend two minutes in Turkey and you will see a painting, poster, statue or bust of Ataturk, the founding father of modern Turkey, the man who swept away the final corruption of the Ottoman Empire and ushered in an era of Western-style secularism and modernity. If most Turks don't love him, they at least agree to display his likeness almost everywhere, not to mention offering it for sale on plates, magnets, flags and rugs. Thank goodness he was such a striking guy. George Washington, Abe Lincoln have nothing on Ataturk. In some pictures, he is chiseled and determined with a marble jaw and crystalline eyes. In others, he is almost grandfatherly. And in the last (and possibly coolest) category, he looks a little like Bela Lugosi without the fangs, a dashing, if slightly cheesy, archetype in a long, black coat suggestive of a cape. My personal favorite (I even own the magnet) is Ataturk leering over a glass of what looks like milk. It would make a great Got Milk? advertisement, except I was told that the white stuff in the glass is a Turkish liquor and that Ataturk died of cirrhosis (a skim through Wikipedia confirms this). Oh well. Regardless of the manner of his death, the portraits of him in life are a daily highlight of any trip to Turkey.

And speaking of highlights, feel free to add your own Turkey must-sees and must-dos here. Either way, I hope you think of the country of Turkey as you eat your turkey later this month, perhaps with a glass of apple tea.

Life in the fast lane

It's time for a light-hearted post, something to take our minds off rampant, media-inspired epidemics, violence domestic and foreign, and the fact that there are already Christmas decorations going up in stores. So, I thought I'd fill you in on what has pulses (and engines) racing here in Abu Dhabi these days.

The Formula One Grand Prix, of course. What else?

Yes, everyone's favorite upstart emirate is hosting the final race of the season in just a few short days. Of course, there is a brand new race track. In fact, there is a brand new island for the brand new race track, along with a concert venue, an indoor Ferrari World theme park (as yet unfinished) and city full of hype. Tickets have been sold out for months and the Corniche is festooned with flags and banners from end to end, along with one of those digital countdown clocks that's recording the days, hours and seconds until the race begins. Beyonce and Aerosmith are scheduled to sing, and a lot of really rich guys with really expensive cars are arriving from all over the world to race around a 5-km circuit 55 times at speeds of up to 300 km/hour.

I can think of about 50,000 things I'd rather do than watch loud, souped-up cars zoom around for hours on end. Obviously, I am also in the minority. Formula One is big business and meshes perfectly with the nouveau-high-performance-shiny-fast-expensive vibe of the Gulf these days. The track itself rolled through millions of dollars and millions of construction hours, rose whole-cloth from the desert wastes and will be debuted on the world stage without passing go. It is said that at its height the workforce was made up of 41,000 men who consumed 17 tons of rice, eight tons of chicken and 156,000 pieces of chapati bread per day. Among other things, they built a 500-room hotel on Yas Island that straddles the race track, a first in F1 history (and pictured here). This, also, is no surprise in a country where hotels comprise 99.9% of the innovative architecture. It actually makes more sense to have a grand prix here than it does in recession-plagued, has-been places like Monaco and Belgium. I mean, really. Who exactly do you think are buying Ferraris and Lambourghinis these days? The Italians? The French? Je ne pense pas.

I will be in Turkey with 71 6th graders on November 1 when the clock on the Corniche finally counts down to zero and the gentlemen on Yas Island start their engines. We'll miss the roar of the crowd, the screeching turns and the flapping chequered flag of victory. By the time we get back the Fan Zone village will have disappeared from the Corniche, and the clock might be counting down something else. What will it be? The cynics among us might say: the time left until the oil runs out. But we're a few decades away from that yet. If you have a more nouveau-shiny-expensive suggestion, let me know. I'll be sure to pass it along to the Committee to Put Abu Dhabi On the Map.

The H1N1 hype

The worldwide swine flu pandemic has made me paranoid. Not about contracting the virus, which doesn't seem any more pernicious than other recent flu strains. But about the ability of the Powers that Be to use the media and peoples' natural fear of illness to whip up an insatiable (and profitable) market for vaccines and other expensive pharmaceuticals, not to mention pulling the eyes of the world away from their disagreeable and/or nonsensical policies.

As far as I've been able to research, there is very little that distinguishes the H1N1 virus from any other seasonal flu that makes the rounds each year. It came earlier, and it has affected a higher percentage of young people. But the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention state clearly on their website than 70% of the deaths from swine flu, including in those under 64, were people with preexisting conditions that made them more at risk, including asthma, heart disease and diabetes. These diseases, as we know, are also affecting younger people in increasing numbers. No one has suggested shutting down local McDonalds as a way to battle this particular pandemic.

But I digress. My point is that things have gotten out of hand. The image above is from India, but it could be from right here in Abu Dhabi. The little school girls in my building also have a surgical mask as part of the official uniform at the local school. The government has shut down several schools in the UAE, and requires all nurses to report any case of fever to the Ministry of Education. There have been no swine flu deaths in the in this country so far, and only a few cases. That hasn't prevented my principal from nervously informing us that we might be shut down if too many kids are sent home sick. A lot of kids and teachers (myself included) have had colds since the weather started changing. None of us has had a fever or the flu. Yet our upcoming school trips to Turkey and Thailand could be canceled, though, if our "sent home" stats keep rising. At this point in the year, it would be impossible to reschedule. Some parents, however, might be just as happy because they are already keeping their children home that week for fear of the virus.

The virus that is, may I remind you, the flu. A new version, but the flu nonetheless. It has killed--wait for it--4,500 people worldwide, as of October 7, according to the WHO website. I mean no disrespect to the family and friends of those 4,500. However, malaria, also preventable and curable disease, kills about 1 million people a year, including lots and lots of kids. Car accidents kill 1.2 million. About 500,000 people die from drowning, another 25,000 from lightning strikes. The list goes on. In fact, flu itself used to be just as deadly, though it isn't anymore. Back in 1918, the influenza epidemic killed 50 million people when the world population was just a fraction of what it is today. Imagine killing off every single person in the state of California. Twice. It's incredible to think about. That was an epidemic worthy of the constant drumbeat of fear. This isn't. In this case, it's the fear itself that's hurting people much more than the disease. The little girls who must now interact with their friends from behind masks (even playtime is potentially deadly!); the kids at my school who won't take part in a truly life-changing experience; and (more importantly) the millions in the developing world who die each day of curable diseases that could actually benefit from this much publicity.

I'm not railing against flu shots, and more power to anyone wearing a surgical mask on the airplane (though why not always wear one? TB never goes out of season, and it kills 456,000 a year.) It's just that I'm worried about all this fear-mongering with so little cause. So many words and so much worry when you, your children and your family are about six times more likely to be struck by lightning than contract H1N1. Seriously. Let's try to resist becoming sheep too soon, so we'll be sure to recognize the real wolf, if and when it comes.

B

I need to break the seal, get back in the saddle, learn to blog again. But it's been hard. Last week, I received some news about a friend and faithful reader, whom most of you may know only from his comments recorded here.

I have known my friend BrianB since we were both in pre-school. I remember him sitting on his heels in the Brown Room (the preschool classes were named after colors) as we gathered around our teacher for story time. He was looking up at her and smiling with his mouth closed, showing off his crater-like dimples. That is my first memory of him, but not my last. In my last memory, he is standing in my mom's living room just this past December, a man of 35 with his son wrapped around his leg. They were heading back to LA after a short visit with my sister and me. He had shaved his full beard that morning, and the dimples were once again on display. I could understand why a grown man, a serious scientist, wouldn't want to advertise a babyface, but it was nice to see them all the same.

In between the first memory and the last are years and years of school days, youth group meetings, choir practices, junior high dances, political debates, laughter, eye rolling, grade school crushes, and teen drama. We both volunteered at the same home for developmentally disabled adults all through high school. We canceled each other out completely the first time we voted in the 1992 elections. These endless pebbles of daily contact lay the foundation for the kind of friendship that can only happen between two people who have known each other as children and are now grown up. During his visit last December, the chipper politeness and catching-up small talk of reunited adults took place in a frame of golden fondness for the 5 year old, 10 year old, 13 year old and 16 year olds we once were together. My friendship with BrianB had a burnish like a halo; the icon of our friendship was finely wrought before we ever got back in touch, a little less than a year ago, thanks to this blog. His comments on these pages picked up a conversational thread that stretched back 30 years.

He was widely believed to be the smartest kid of our generation in the small California beach town where we grew up. He was a math genius, took every class in our high school's math department, then went on to an independent study. He attended the Naval Academy, and entered a PhD program in particle physics after his military service. He married, had a son who is as boisterous and silly as I remember him being at that age. He was deeply saddened by his recent divorce, and became depressed. When I saw him last, he seemed grief stricken but not outwardly embittered, as some people get, especially when a split isn't mutual. He was quiet and very, very sad. He was also attentive to his son and solicitous of my mom, whom he had always (we discovered) considered a second mother, especially after his own mother died of cancer some years ago.

You probably think he's dead too. But he's not. He shot and killed his ex-wife during a heated argument last week and will probably spend the rest of his life in jail. Nothing excuses what he did. But he was my friend, and I have known him all my life, and now that life is gone. But it hasn't gone, still burnished, into the grave. It's just gone. As someone who cares about him, I'm grieving as if he were dead, then feeling guilty because he's still alive. Then feeling the grief again--and not knowing what to do with it--as I reread his comments here, wondering what kind of person he always was if he is now a person with murder on his hands. We all make mistakes, incur weighty regrets and debts of shame, some heavier than others. Some suffer crippling mental illness. Others endure humiliations, perceived or otherwise. We hold ourselves to impossible standards and are devastated when we don't measure up. I know I've made mistakes that seemed to wipe the world clean of any good I'd ever done. But there are some deeds that wipe away an entire life--or take an entire life to redeem. Some would question if such redemption is ever possible. For the sake of my friend, I'd like to believe it is, either in this world or the world to come.

Though, if I were writing this entry about someone else, and BrianB was free to post, he would likely take me to task for being such a bleeding heart. A crime committed should be a crime punished, especially when there is an innocent child left behind. A life for a life, this proponent of the death penalty would surely claim, never imagining--do you understand how inconceivable it seems--that he'd be the one behind bars, facing the pulverizing wheels of the California justice system. And I'm not saying he shouldn't be punished. I'm simply grieving for the friend I knew who disappeared into one terrible moment, and grieving for the woman who was lost, and the lives of those left behind--his son, his own family, and his victim's family--who must now pick up the pieces.

I haven't written this blog to depress you, too. I debated if I should even post it. This isn't usually a confessional, and perhaps this knowledge is TMI. If BrianB hadn't posted so regularly, and at such length, I wouldn't have told you at all. But he is part of this publication, as humble as it is, and I can't go on without talking about him here, where I can still hear his voice. Please pray for his son and his family. And, if you can, pray for him, too.

To whom much is given...

Regular readers know all about Sheikh Zayed, founding father of the UAE and head of the royal family of Abu Dhabi until his much-mourned death in 2004. Some of you may even know that one of his last acts as sheikh was to commission the builing of a beautiful new mosque, a multi-million dollar extravaganza of gleaming white egg-cup domes, a forest of columns inlaid with mother of pearl and the world's biggest carpet AND world's biggest chandelier adorning the main prayer hall. (See the Sept 2008 and December 2008 entries for more details.)

Sheikh Zayed was a dedicated Muslim who probably loved Allah as much as the next person. The only difference between him and the super of my building (the be-scarved Mr. Aziz) was the wealth that comes from 8 percent of the world's oil reserves. As most public buildings commissioned by a single person, the Sheikh Zayed Mosque in Abu Dhabi speaks volumes about its patron--many more volumes, perhaps, than said patron intended. As a result, the mosque has come to symbolize the glorification of a deity, the growing status of a city, the fine taste of a family and the expansiveness of a ruler, among other things. Needless to say, no expense was spared.

But the Sheikh Zayed Mosque is more than a stunning prayer hall toured by school kids and tourists, but mostly empty outside of holiday times. I discovered yesterday that the sheikh may have outdone himself with the Turkish tiles and reflecting pools, but he also created a home for an equally stunning show of generosity.

Every night during Ramadan (that's a whole lunar month), the mosque is host to a gathering of over 10,000 people who come to break their fast at its nightly Iftar. Fire up those mental calculators and you'll see: that's about 300,000 meals total prepared by the UAE Armed Services and distributed at the mosque. A group of us went yesterday to check it out. What we saw were 12 huge marquee-style tents (with a/c) filled with men (many of them laborers in the city) sitting on the floor and eating. There were so many that some gathered outside. Their dinners came in large boxes, and almost everyone was carrying around a plastic bag of leftovers. After the crowd finished eating, some left on the large buses that would carry them back to their camps for the night. Others said their evening prayers among the tents or headed into the huge mosque.

Giving of alms is one of the main pillars of Islam, and it was heartening to see such an eye-popping example of generosity in the shadow of such an eye-popping example of wealth. It reinforced my belief in the sincerity and power of Ramadan, at least in one, inlaid-mother-of-pearl, Turkish-tiled corner of town.

In my tribe...

While journeying in Tanzania this summer, Jessy (intrepid guide) asked K and I about tribalism in the United States. In Africa, tribalism is a hot topic in many countries and is seen as an impediment to development. Thinking tribally, the argument goes, damages the concept of nationhood and leads to favoritism and questionable decision-making in an effort to benefit a small, familiar group over a more anonymous, yet equally deserving crowd. In Tanzania, Jessy said, it doesn't matter what tribe you belong to. Almost anyone can point to an example of one group throwing its weight around to privilege their own. Understandably, this breeds resentment and apathy. Why bother, after all, if forces beyond your control have such power to shape your destiny?

So are there tribes in the USA? Jessy asked. And what he meant was: are there groups of people who are united by something fundamental or deeply rooted? And do these groups use their affiliation to promote their own interests to the exclusion, either natural or intentional, of others?

K and I hemmed and hawed a bit, searching for stateside equivalents to African tribes. We mentioned the American Indian tribes, of course, but the influence of these groups is not felt throughout society in the way Jessy meant. We considered class, religion and race next. But these categorizations seemed too unwieldy to fall under the heading of tribalim. Am I denying that people privilege their own class, ethnic group, religion or race? Of course not. But it's a reach (and potentially offensive) to refer to such behavior as tribalism rather than the specific "ism," like racism. We then pulled back to more light-hearted divisions by region. K spent 12 years living in Brooklyn. I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Californian. Were these our tribes, each with its own linguistic pattern, cuisine and customs? Maybe. We spent some time making sweeping generalizations about East Coast and West Coast behaviors, trying to juxtapose a Wall Street banker with a surfer dude.

Then Jessy asked if it was unusual to marry a person from a different region in the USA? Did people avoid moving to a city not of their "tribe?" Could people change tribes if they changed locations? We realized that regionalism wasn't going to answer this question because it was so fluid. Tribal boundaries aren't fluid. People may choose to marry or live with another tribe in Tanzania, but such cases are rare and likely involve an acknowledged personal and cultural sacrifice. Moving from San Francisco to Baton Rouge, as startling as that might be, doesn't carry the same implications. People from the same tribe, Jessy explained, share a common understanding that is not easily put aside.

I was ready to give up, or attempt to explain poorly translatable distinctions like wine vs. beer drinkers or Yankees vs. Red Sox fans when K hit the nail on the head.

Political parties.

It wasn't always so, but we are all aware these days of how politics is no longer centered on opinions and policies. It's about how you view the world, how you live your life and how you think other people should live theirs. We call it the Culture Wars, but it is nothing less than the tribalization of the system.

Let's see how it measures up to the African version. Jessy is a member of the Chugga tribe of Tanzania. It is the tribe of his family and the foundation of his personal values. He is unlikely to marry outside of this tribe, not because he believes himself superior but because his own cultural perspective might be alienating to his spouse or vice versa. He would certainly not change his tribe willingly as he moved through life. To do so would mean denying lifelong beliefs. He is not in a position to make decisions that affect the lives of others. If he were, would he favor his own tribe? Probably. It is true that he would feel most comfortable with those who shared his outlook on the world and people he is closest too, people he spoke to us about during the journey, are those from his own tribe.

Does American political reality compare? Let's take me, RR, a member of the liberal Democrat tribe. This tribe didn't form my values, but my values are reflected (for the most part) in this tribe. It's true most of my friends are also liberal Democrats (though not all) and I can't imagine a relationship with a hard-core conservative. But what really clinched the issue , from the perspective of the road trip discussion in Tanzania, was this: to change my political party at this point in history really would represent a fundamental shift in my values. I wouldn't just have to change my views on taxation or the environment to become a Republican. I would have to change almost everything about how I see the world. I wouldn't do this lightly. In fact, I can't imagine doing it at all--and the same, I think, is true for most other Democrats, as well as Republicans. This, to me, indicates a more deeply rooted, tribalesque relationship to a political party, one that goes far beyond practicality and policy. In fact, as research has shown, people these days will often vote against policies in their own best interest because they are viewed as coming from the opposing tribe. We have been treated to several grueling months of healthcare debate obscured by the most truth-defying acts of blatant tribalism. Underinsured working people willingly believe that free healthcare is evil socialism rather than a enormous weight off their minds and pocketbooks. All because it's championed by the opposing tribe.

In Africa, countries with only two tribes are much more likely to fall apart dramatically (and often tragically) than countries with a melting pot/salad bowl mix. Rwanda, for example, is a country with two tribes. Cameroon, which is hardly ever in the news, is a country with many. I don't want to imply that the USA is heading for genocide and mass uprising. But I do think that there's more than one way to stop a country in its tracks, and we are nearing the point where inspired ideas, desperately needed leadership and, yes, even people's lives are being sacrificed in order to maintain the dominance (or regain the dominance) of one political tribe or the other.

Many countries in Africa are trying to confront tribalism, understanding that progress cannot be made while such divisions exist. We might want to take a lesson from their struggles before our own tribalism kills the country all of us--Democrats and Republicans--claim to love.

The Lamborghini and the Iftar tent

I just finished reading Anathem by Neal Stephenson, which I loved and which is another one of his brick-sized explorations of ideas and technology. His setting this time is an alternative universe where mathematicians, scientists and philosophers are segregated from the general population in a monastic-type setting. In between adventures involving otherworldly visitors, Tetris-like puzzles with real tiles and other fun sci-fi stuff, the characters engage in high-level debates on Platonic ideals, consciousness, symbolic reasoning and other heady topics.

If you don't understand after reading the previous paragraph why I love sci-fi so much, I will never convince you. In part, it's a way for a literary geek like me to understand (even be riveted by) scientific theories, mathematical principles, the way the natural world works, etc. Things like physics out of a textbook make me anxious and bored. Put the same content in a narrative and my brain can hum happily along for 1,000 + pages (Anathem weighs in at 1,008).

Which brings me to the Lamborghini, the Iftar tent and deductive reasoning I'm trying to apply to the villa across the street from my apartment building. I realize (thanks to Anathem) that my data will be faulty, that observation alone over such a short period of time does not allow me to draw the kind of conclusions I'm going to share a few paragraphs hence, but I can't help it. The juxtaposition is just too inviting.

Said villa is large, though no larger than the others on that particular block. Yet it is the center of neighborhood happenings in more ways than one. Take right now. An orange Lamborghini is parked in front. There are a startling number of wildly expensive cars parked on the streets of Abu Dhabi, though Lamborghinis are unusual, even for here. Beside the Lamborghini is an Iftar tent, a traditional shelter with cushions and a little swinging lantern. Back when everyone was a Bedouin, hosts welcome guests into their tents to break the fast. This tent, though traditional in nature is modern in design and features a built-in A/C unit. Nonetheless, Iftar tents are about as rare as orange Lamborghinis. These days, most people celebrate the meal inside with families or at the city's many lavish buffets. (Because restaurants can't open during the day, they go all-out at night during Ramadan.)

What does this mean? Who has a Lamborghini and an Iftar tent? At first glance , they are two symbols of the Gulf circa 2009-- wealth and tradition coexisting on a few feet of city asphalt. At the same time, they are mutually exclusive. Those holding on to the traditions espoused by the Iftar tent would resist spending the money it would take to buy a top-of-the-line Italian sports car in bright orange. Those who favor $200,000-worth of big engines and sleek European design would turn away from the rustic nature of the Arabian tent, A/C notwithstanding.

Because there is sometimes a metallic gold Mercedes parked next to the Lamborghini (!!) I've decided that the owner of the villa, let's call him Asaad, is a dealer in fancy cars, but his heart remains in the desert. He drives home his wares because he can't possible be seen in a more modest Beemer (or on a camel), but he likes nothing better than to ditch the glitz for a night in the tent. Or, Asaad could be a purveyor of Iftar tents for the modern Gulf family who has a passion for the flashiest of European automobiles.

Anyone else have any ideas?

Ramadan salam

It's that time of year again--11 days earlier (by the solar calendar) than last year and a few degrees hotter. I'm much more tuned in to the quiet of Ramadan this year, the lighter traffic outside my window (during the day), the calm of the streets (most people aren't into fasting and also walking around when it's 110 with 85% humidity), and my growing knowledge of what this month means to many people here.

Observing Ramadan is one of the five pillars of Islam. Not all Muslims observe it, but many here do. By law, no restaurants are open in the day time and eating in public is a huge no-no (punishable by a fine). At school, we follow similar guidelines. Kids eat in the cafeteria only (adults are confined to the staff room) and no one has a water bottle in class. Even chowing down while driving is frowned upon because you are clearly visible through the windows.

As a result, many non-Muslims moan and groan about Ramadan. It is one of the few times a year when Abu Dhabi is more foreign than familiar. I myself did some sighing at the thought of giving up my Friday morning cappuccino, shallow as that sounds. Ramadan is inconvenient and fraught with potential frustrations. Business change their hours. Government and financial business is hard to transact. Doors close early or open far too late. Going out for breakfast or lunch is impossible.

Given these issues (which affect everyone), I was surprised to discover how much Muslims look forward to Ramadan. Having to fast during daylight hours didn't strike me as something to anticipate gleefully. Something to endure for the sake of your faith, sure. Something that makes theological sense as a form of meditation and self-denial, naturally. But excitement? A time for twinkly light displays on the roads and celebratory decor in the malls? (Both happening.) But it's true, and it's cool. I read an article in the local Time Out magazine that profiled Muslims from all walks of life (from construction worker to chef (ouch) to business owner to belly dancer). All said they loved Ramadan. They loved the time of year. They loved iftar (the meal to break the fast at the sundown). They loved eating special foods and hanging out. The construction worker said it felt like a kind of holiday. Holiday? Due to the heat, the guy works from 9:00 p.m.-3:30 a.m. during the holy month. But he's down with it. On the first day of school, one of my old students (not profiled in the magazine) talked about how psyched she is for next Ramadan (already anticipating it) when she'll be able to spend most of it in Palestine with her extended family. I got an email from the parent of three of my students (they're triplets) talking about how her kids are fasting, not because they have to but because they love Ramadan so much. (And this is not a religiously conservative family by any stretch.)

Ramadan is also, I've discovered, not really about the food. Actually, for me, it'd be about the water. (I'd be much more into trying a fast or two if I could just drink water.) But it's not about that either. It's about abstaining in general. And I don't just mean fleshly pursuits (though those count), but about negative thoughts, anger, jealous, greed. People can "break their fast" by being rude or dismissive in the same way they can break it by sipping tea. In fact, everyone I've talked to about Ramadan says not eating is the easy part. It's the other stuff that's harder. After all, you get to eat a big meal with your family and friends at sundown and make up for the physical fast (many report that they actually gain weight!). It's harder to "make up for" being bitchy or judgemental. As a result, people try to be more generous and thoughtful. Ramadan is a time for reaching out and for charity. The huge Sheikh Zayed mosque (profiled in Sept 2008 and December 2008 entries) hosts a nightly iftar in its parking lot for over 15,000 people throughout Ramadan. 15,000 people. Every single night of the Holy Month.

All this positive energy floating around is almost tangible this year. I don't want to sound all whoo-whoo, but ever since reading about peoples' excitement (rather than the dread I assumed), I've picked up a distinctly peaceful, calm vibe around town. This may fade as the month progresses, but it's definitely noticeable now. My feelings toward Ramadan have also changed. Rather than feeling sorry for my Muslim friends and students, I'm happy for them. More than that, I respect (and am a bit envious of) their world view that transforms a (to me) draconian religious imperative into a genuine celebration. Sounds like a pretty good definition of faith to me.

Ramadan Kareem!

Why the Lutheran Diocese of Northern Tanzania should plan your safari

If you don't know any actual Lutherans or haven't read Garrison Keillor, allow me to make some broad generalizations about modern-day adherents to a tradition that traces its roots back to Martin "I started the whole Reformation" Luther. Despite their fiery rebel beginnings, Lutherans today are best known for their reliably serene approach to theology, their cool heads and practical mien perhaps related to their concentration in Scandinavia and the northern regions of the United States.

It shouldn't be a huge surprise, then, to find that they focused their mission work in East Africa in the northern part of Tanzania. One result is a characteristically mellow community in the town of Moshi that runs a hostel and conference center. And a high-quality, reasonably priced safari business in a region with a high demand for the same. Other denominations, perhaps the Methodists (definitely the evangelicals), might advertise their offerings enthusiastically. Lutherans, being more unassuming, bury it on their website and hope for the best.

Under a virtual bushel or not, when planning a safari in northern Tanzania, the Lutheran diocese is the first place you should go. And here's the top 10 to prove it...

10. The car works. These are the Landcruisers, you'll recall, with the pop top for better viewing and less nausea. Given the remoteness of most national parks and the rough roads that lead to them, a reliable car is a must.

9. The hostel, where you stay before beginning your journey, has a view of Mt. Kilimanjaro. You'd think that'd be a given in Moshi (the town at its base) but it's not.

8. More on the hostel: the rooms are low-key (of course) and reasonably priced (between $40-$55). They come with plentiful hot water, comfy beds and mosquito nets.

7. When booking your safari, you are provided with a professional spreadsheet that outlines every cost, line by line. This was not the case for other safaris I researched, which stick with more vague estimates and itineraries.

6. A little-known fact: most companies want money for a safari completely up front. This was true from the most budgety all the way up to the really luxurious trips. What this means is that you must wire a significant chunk of change to someone you have never met. I had no problem wiring money to Lutherans. I definitely would have thought twice if there were Baptists involved...

5. More on money/costs/Lutherans: During the trip, we stayed in a wide range of places, from a very basic camp/lodge to a fancy-schmancy safari lodge. They found the best place at the best price and booked us there. They didn't stick to one type of accommodation, and when they did go nicer, the cost quoted was always much less than the Internet price. Plain, ol' common sense.

4. They don't do big groups or stuff you into a car with a bunch of strangers. They arrange for journeys with your group only, though the cost is often less what you'd pay for bigger crowd.

3. These final three are going to be about our guide. A guide can make or break a trip. You are with this person all day every day of your journey. Our guide, Jessy, spoke fluent English, which you'd think might not be that necessary (safaris aren't especially chatty), but it made a huge difference. He told us all about the animals; we could ask questions and it was always clear where we were going and what we'd see there.

2. Jessy provided binoculars, which I had forgotten and it would have been a completely different and very, very frustrating trip if he hadn't had them. It's a little detail Lutherans remember that others might forget.

1. Jessy was very cool and a fount of knowledge: we talked wildlife, Tanzanian history and politics, American history and politics, current economics and much more. He was a great guy in addition to being a great guide, and that's a good thing when you are an introvert who has to spend 9-12 hours/day in a car with someone you don't know.

Those of you saving those pennies for your dream journey to East Africa, look no further than the Lutheran Diocese of Northern Tanzania. They may not toot their own horn, but, as an Anglican, I'm more than happy to do it for them.

Act III: journey to the endless plain

The word "safari" has lost a lot of its mystique, if it ever had any to begin with. To me, it conjures images of beefy guys in mismatched khaki wielding shotguns and disrespecting the natives. The Beach Boys went on a "surfin' safari." It is unclear where, although they wanted us all to join them. Car dealers and clothing companies sometimes attempt to sell a safari image, and usually it's bombastic (car dealers) or expensively precious. (Does anyone remember what Banana Republic stores used to look like?)

Despite the mess of modern advertising, safari comes from the Swahili word for journey, which (thankfully) still connotes travel and discovery, so I'm going to use that instead. In Tanzania, the journey to the national parks is definitely one of discovery, both inner and outer. It is a journey of looking, watching and seeing the most stunning wildlife and landscapes our planet has to offer, and then trying to figure out what to do with all that wonder in one place. Like all witnesses of profound natural beauty I felt humbled, privileged and changed by the experience. This is what a real journey is supposed to do.

Our journey started in Moshi the day we met Jessy, our intrepid guide and pilot of the pop-top Landcruiser, which is what people take into national parks these days, rather than a string of porters and a rifle case. The pop-top Landcruiser, usually painted tan or green, is the perfect perch for modern photographers to digitally shoot the animals grazing or stalking in their path. The ability to stand up as the car bumps down rough dirt roads also makes these journeys much more pleasant for those of us prone to near-debilitating carsickness. I was worried that I'd spent six days awed but queasy. Instead, I spent six days with a dirty face and a huge grin (with the dust-coated teeth to go with it), hanging out the pop-top, hair blowing in the breeze.

We began at Lake Manyara, a smallish park bound by an alkaline lake on one side and the sheer cliffs of the Great Rift Valley escarpment on the other. We ended at Tarangire with its towering baobabs, migratory herds of wildebeests and zebras and year-round herds of elephants. In between we visited the perfect bowl of Ngorongoro Crater and the endless plain of the Serengeti.

I'm now left with the task of bringing each of these parks to life, which is impossible. Every day of the journey was a world of its own, and each park offered something unique. We wouldn't have left anything off of the itinerary. It would have changed the whole shape and rhythm of the trip. But when I think of what to share, I think mostly of moments, and most of the moments that come to mind took place in Ngorongoro Crater and the Serengeti.

Jessy, our very professional guide, likes Ngorongoro Crater best of all the parks he frequents, and so did K. The crater itself is a 20-km caldera, all that's left of a huge and ancient volcano. Inside the bowl are lakes, streams and well-watered grazing land, which draws an array of animals over the steep, green edges and down onto the crater floor. On the day we visited, there was thick fog along the rim that cut visibility until we started our descent. Then, slowly and through slanted rays of early morning sunlight, the floor opened up below us. We saw herds of wildebeests, buffalo and zebras grazing on the open plain. Hyenas and warthogs shuffled nearby. Almost every pool had a cluster of the gray backs of hippos. I couldn't stop looking at the towering crater walls that seemed to seal us in with the animals, meadows, swampy marsh and clusters of trees.

Ngorongoro Crater was lush and tropical green, fed by the permanent water sources on the crater floor and the daily mist from the heights (even in the dry season when we visited). But just a few miles away is the deep gold of the savanna plain. From Ngorongoro, it's two hours down a very dusty gravel road to the gates of Serengeti National Park, but the endless plain starts well before.

As you may have guessed, thanks to my many references, Serengeti comes from the Maasai word for endless plain. There is no better description. In the Serengeti, there is only the plain and the sky, interrupted by scattering of granite outcrops and even fewer hills. During the dry season, the landscape ranges from palest yellow to deep golden brown with bursts of dusty green around rapidly dwindling waterholes. The Serengeti swallows those, too, and makes the savanna inhospitable to the millions of wildebeests, whose migration defines the park's borders and brought the place to worldwide stardom in The Serengeti Shall Not Die, nature advocacy and wild animal photography at its documentary best.

Jessy said that the Serengeti is green and lush in the rainy season, blanketed with grazing herds and rife with the predators who go with them. Although I'm sure it's beautiful, I fell in love with the dry savanna, the far-reaching lines of sight, the acacia trees stark and beautiful, the big cats lolling in the sun, the gazelles flitting across the road, the smaller groups of elephants and buffalo's daily search for water--Serengeti's off hours when we could drive all day and hardly see any cars. My eyes sucked up the plain; they couldn't get enough. I felt small and swallowed, but also a strange sense of at-homeness, as if I were in a place that belonged to no one, but was big enough to welcome everyone.

We spent two days driving in the Serengeti, stopping for leopards (saw three) or cheetahs (6, including one in the middle of a meal), but the stars of the dry savanna are the lions. We were watching a herd of elephants (which always include babies. You have not seen cute until you've seen a baby elephant) when I turned around and noticed some tawny lumps basking in the late afternoon sun. It turned out to be a group of seven lionesses and one cub, who didn't want to sleep and spent some time walking amongst the lazing adults looking for something to do. Although a few cars came and went, we stayed, with the elephants on one side and the lions dozing on the other. At sunset, the elephants crossed over the road to the lions' side and headed directly into the setting sun. But not before the biggest bull elephant strode towards the nappers, with a deep warning bellow. The big cats sat up, stretched, and moved away to a safer distance. Although bull elephants rarely bother with lions and vice versa, the herd was taking no chances with babies in the group. The red sun set into the savanna, silhouetting the lions and the elephants. Just another evening on the endless plain.

That night, another group of lions roared right under the window of the hotel room. It was a deep, shattering sound, like someone wrenching apart two sheets of rusty metal. Against all logic, I shivered in my bed with a deep, primal terror. It's embarrassing to admit. Everyone I've told this to has helpfully pointed out that I was inside (and on the second floor of) a sturdy building. It didn't matter. I trembled and turned cold and didn't fall asleep until it stopped.

I didn't want to leave, and if I ever go back, I will spend six (or more) days just in the Serengeti. The place is a gift, as all national parks are. Sure, it brings in welcome jobs and tourists, but it is also a gift to all of humanity from the people of Tanzania, especially the Maasai, who found a way to live there first and whose culture forbids the killing or eating of wild animals. Thus making them among the original conservationists. Today, the park is full of conservationists, as a large sign in the visitors center makes clear. It takes way more than a village to keep the Serengeti flourishing, and there are many hands at work, most of them local, all of them committed to preserving this gift for all of us.

Act II: African snapshots

As many of you know (and my friend MW would tease that you'd only have to know me about 10 minutes), I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Cameroon from 1996-1998. It was an incredible experience and (among many other things) instilled in me a deep love of teaching, a basic knowledge of French, an aversion to owning much of anything and the ability to travel many hours smooshed into a cramped space.

I bring this up because the last time I was in Africa (before Tanzania), I was a pretty savvy character. I could take public transportation, bargain with the best, avoid giving offense, evaluate the true cost of most services, evade cons and foil pickpockets.

When planning this trip, I knew things would be different. For one, I was going to another country on the other side of the continent 11 years later. Progress would have been made. Africa is not a monolith, nor should it be treated as such. I knew I couldn't rely on my previous knowledge, but maybe something would come in handy after all these years.

What ended up happening was that I understood what was going on as it unfolded but was often powerless to maneuver in a favorable direction. In short, I was a tourist. A well traveled tourist maybe, but a tourist nonetheless.

Case in point: K and I got off the Zanzibar ferry in Dar es Salaam and were immediately approached by a taximan who offered to take us to the main bus station, a vortex of activity called Ubungo at the northern edge of town. He charged what seemed like a steep price, but I didn't know enough about taxi fares to bargain him down. I told him we wanted to go to Dar Express, a company named in the guidebook as reliable and quick for the 350-km journey up to Moshi and Mt. Kilimanjaro. The taximan assured me that he knew where it was and we set off.

We traveled at a brisk clip through the streets of downtown Dar. Whenever traffic stopped, young men flitted through the lanes of cars selling a wide variety of goods, from dish towels to cologne to peanuts to classroom maps of the country. It was a phenomenon I knew well. In Cameroon (as in Tanzania, it seemed), you could get just about anything--but the place you procured it wasn't going to look anything like Target.

We got to the bus station and pulled up to a kiosk that was most certainly not Dar Express. When I questioned the taximan, he huffed and puffed, insisting that Sai-baba Express was precisely what I'd asked for. At this point, I had a choice. I could demand, loudly, to be taken to Dar Express, which may or may not have been effective, or I could capitulate, pay him (knowing he'd also be getting a cut from this place) and go with the flow. We went with the flow and boarded a bus that would not have made any Western guidebook (but that actually wasn't all that bad, considering everyone had a whole seat to themselves, there was no livestock in sight and no one was sitting on stools in the aisles).

Blissful ignorance may have been more convenient, but as we bounced almost to the ceiling after every pothole, I was glad I hadn't lost my entire frame of reference.

Because the truth is, there were many similiarities between Cameroon of the late 90s and the Tanzania I visited this summer. Too many in a world that experienced unprecedented economic growth (in some places) during those very same 90s. I could have taken countless photographs in Moshi and along the road from Dar es Salaam, and they would have been indistinguishable from pics I have from Cameroon, to say nothing of the full sensory experience of walking down the street. In fact, some things I saw in Moshi, I only had French words for, having last seen them in Bafoussam or Yaounde.

The long, wraparound skirts of colorful fabric that women wore in Tanzania, I call pagne. The guys that call out of the windows of minivans, trying to collect customers are chargeurs. I don't know any other name for them. I saw strapping young men pulling stacked carts through the streets, beanpole young girls trailing a line of younger siblings. There were the policemen on the side of the road stopping cars and searching for bribes, the mud brick houses, the countless children in spotless school uniforms carrying books and small water containers, the silouette of women with large loads of wood balanced on their heads, the overloaded buses cruising for passengers, festooned with optimistic slogans (God is Love! Bismillah Allah! Jesus is coming! Air Obama!). There were the groups of idle men gathered around a broken down car, the neat pyramids of tomatoes or mangoes available for sale on a groundcover of burlap or plastic, music blaring from the bus station, shoes lined up for sale on the street, a dizzying array of clearly donated clothing hanging from market stalls. Corn on the cob roasted on open charcoal grills, bananas hung in bunches from front-yard trees, orange flowers crowned leafy trees, horns honked in alarm or just for attention, people stopped on the street, watching (and commenting) as a woman with a placid baby tied to her back holds forth with larger-than-life gestures and ready laughter. And the sharp odor of burning garbage and red laterite dust hung over it all. (See the bus stop pic at the beginning of this post, which contains many of the visuals described in this paragraph.)

All of these images were startlingly familiar--I had seen them all before, one decade and thousands of miles due west in another African country whose GDP was far too low for the resources within its borders, whose people lacked electricity, running water and access to medicine to cure treatable diseases--but who nonetheless conducted their daily lives with ceaseless energy and, often, optimism; people who were impossible to pity or stereotype.

That is not to say Tanzania and Cameroon are the same place. There are countless differences in language, culture, history, politics and any other category you'd like to name. Anyone reading this understands that Africa is an incredibly diverse and varied place, right? And I certainly saw plenty of uniquely Tanzanian 2009 sights (much more on that in the next post): people talking in cell phones on Sai-baba. The number of private cars on the Moshi roads (as opposed to public minivans and taxis). The food offered in restaurants with its Indian flare and the absence (alas) of hot pimant, spicy beans and bubbling orange vats of palm oil. But during our five days in Moshi waiting for the next act of the trip to begin, I couldn't get these snapshots out of my mind. I wonder what it would take before 10 years represents more than supreficial change.