Oxford and the Untamed West

                                                      Oxford and the Untamed West

 

        When I arrived in Colorado from Canada, A number of things surprised me. Many boarding schools in Canada (probably most) closely resemble nineteenth century British public schools, places where, had he been sent to the colonies, Tom Brown might have spent his school days and felt quite at home. There are uniforms, strict rules, curious traditions and pains, both chronic and acute. So when I arrived at Colorado Academy to teach, I was dismayed at first to see jeans with holes, T-shirts and reversed baseball caps, replacing the blazers, ties and tunics I was used to. Teachers were addressed by their first names and there were no bells and no obvious rules. Was it possible to teach in these conditions? When the disciplinary committee met to deal with a misbehaving student (something that happened perhaps twice a year) we sat in gentle judgment and each time reinvented the wheel. There was nothing resembling a formal book of rules. It is true that Colorado Academy is a relatively posh and very expensive school. All graduates go on to universities, many in the top rank. It is not an inner city school full of social disruption. It is both  selective and scrupulous. I am writing this essay in the Bodleian Library of Oxford University. This institution is also fussy about its clientele.

        I am transposed once again, this time from Colorado to Exeter College, Oxford. I am living in a room if not actually once the home of J.R.R.Tolkien, then at least someplace he may have visited for a pre dinner sherry. The halls, the quad, the fellows garden all tug at my imagination causing to think of Martin Amis, Richard Burton, Alan Bennett and Philip Pullman along with a score of other graduates whose ghosts stalk the premises. And now I wonder how they behaved themselves? I’ll tell you why I wonder.

        This morning I had my shower in a tiny cubicle across the hall from my room. There was a notice that read: “Hang up the mat on the heated rail for the next student’s use.” It was signed, “Scout”. Scout has left a number of messages here and there. He or she is making sure about the things we do and don’t do, and that’s fine. But the administration has given us a second long list of reminders to append to the one already sent to us at home. Our new list has 17 bulleted points describing possible areas of transgression. For example: we ought not to occupy or use, or attempt to occupy or use, any property or facilities of the university or of any college, except as may be expressly or impliedly (good word) authorized by the university or college authorities concerned. I don’t recall any such list anywhere else I have been. They are also taking no chances of the rules being misinterpreted. A legal scholar may have been consulted. 

        Even my Canadian boarding school assumed in its students some fundamental sense of what was right and wrong. And this was a school where some of the boarders may have verged on the psychopathic. Nowhere else have “they” felt I had to be reminded not to damage, deface or destroy, or to forge or falsify. I have never been reminded not to engage in violent, disorderly, indecent, threatening, or offensive behavior etc. etc. It goes on for a page of fine, thesaurus driven, type. It is curious.

        Following my shower (I hung up the mat) I walked over to the dining hall for breakfast. I did not step on the grass, and I resisted the temptation to disrupt, or attempt to disrupt, teaching or study or research or administrative, sporting, social, cultural or other activities of the university. I am glad they itemized these concepts, though I do wonder about trying to convert someone I might meet to say, Satanism. It isn’t actually mentioned, and I bet it’s not allowed. It does say not to obstruct, or attempt to obstruct, the lawful exercise of freedom of speech by members, students and employees of the university or by visiting speakers. 

        I would like to say, “Oh shut up!” to whoever prepared this proscriptive list, but that would be rude. In fact I am somewhat worried about this essay. In the wild untamed west of Colorado there seems to be an expectation of morality, while in a setting that basks in 700 years of the civilizing influence of careful readers, writers and thinkers, the expectations of students are very carefully catalogued. I’m not sure what to make of this, or what it says about society. I suppose one is permitted to be baffle

Vultures

The bird’s wings were huge, nearly seven feet in span and broad, so broad

that when it landed and tucked them away it was almost like a conjuring

trick. Having thus folded itself up it lurched forward, swaying from side to

side, its shoulders hunched and its naked “S” shaped neck bent down, hooked

beak catching the sun as it tilted its head thirty degrees this way, and

then thirty degrees back again. It moved sideways along the back of the

buffalo, sidling like a pigeon on a wire. But here the pigeon comparison

ended, for having reached the gaping hole in the side of the animal, it

plunged its whole head into the rank mass of decaying intestines and flesh.

A cloud of flies arose and the head withdrew, covered in gore, the beak

gulping, the throat working. Sometime later, replete, the bird flew heavily

to a leafless branch a few feet above the ground and paused to void its

bowels directly down its legs and over its feet. Perhaps a measure designed

to cool the bird, it seemed to me the final touch to a rather disgusting

piece of nature’s handiwork. If I had been a witness to a Zoroastrian “sky

burial” where Indian vultures are invited to Parsee funerals and reduce a

dead human to a “purer state” by consuming it entirely, aided somewhat by a

priest’s butchering of the corpse and pulverizing of the bones, I would have

added the emotionally confusing element of the food subject to my feelings.

As it was I still had to look away in disgust. It is easy to see why the

birds have been assigned the mythological role of gatekeepers to hell,

described as “abominations among fowls” in the bible and used as symbols for

any disgusting or gruesome consumption in literature and the press. 

It isn’t easy to watch a vulture feed and it isn’t pleasant to even describe

an activity that can quickly and effectively reduce the carcass of a bloated

water buffalo to bare, dry bones. Tens of millions of vultures used to

provide this necessary service in countries such as India, Pakistan and

Nepal. They consumed sacred cows, household garbage and dead animals of all

sorts, paying scant regard to the state of putrefaction of the corpse they

consumed. In this way they tidied up even diseased carcasses and amazingly

were able swallow the microbes responsible for botulism, cholera and

anthrax. The vulture’s remarkable gastrointestinal tract can deal with

extraordinary horrors. Vultures have always provided this essential service

on the Indian subcontinent, and their job has only become more important as

the population has erupted to exceed 1.7 billion people (2015) and their waste. 

 So it is alarming to discover that in a period of only a few years this

once vast population of carrion feeders has crashed dramatically from more

than eighty million birds to a few more than a thousand. It is quite likely

that three species of vulture, the long-billed, the white-backed and the

gryphon, will be extinct in the very near future. What has been the cause of

this ecological catastrophe? What will be its impact on the ecosystem? Is

there action that can be taken to save the birds so that they can continue

to provide their grim but essential service? There are now some answers to

these questions, but answers in this instance do not provide an obvious

solution. 

         The precipitous decline of the vultures escalated quickly during

the 1990s and by 1997 it was clear that the three species were threatened by

a devastating blight of some sort. It was first assumed that a disease was

responsible and viruses were high on the list of suspects. Perhaps some form

of avian flu or a West Nile type virus was at work? In 2000, the Peregrine

Fund focused on the problem, initiating the Asian Vulture Crisis Project

with the Ornithological Society of Pakistan. Study sites were established

and in the ensuing three years, hard evidence was gathered documenting the

vulture’s swift decline. Autopsies of dead birds showed evidence of renal

failure and gout. Gout in humans is a disease often associated with rich

living and over consumption of red meat, brains, kidneys, liver or heart,

especially from cows. Ironically a somewhat vulture-like diet! A metabolic

malfunction causes uric acid levels in the blood to elevate and the

subsequent deposition of crystals of this substance causes an arthritic pain

in the joints, most often in the big toe. The digestion of protein results

in amino acids which are of course, essential dietary components used to

build the body’s own protein. Animals are unable to store amino acids the

way they can store fats and sugars, so excess amino acids must be further

digested and their toxic nitrogenous fraction eliminated. This is most

simply done with the release of ammonia. Ammonia is, however, extremely

poisonous and this method of getting rid of nitrogenous waste is only

possible with fish, where their environment quickly dilutes the noxious

waste. Mammals have modified the process to produce urea, a still poisonous

molecule that is carefully stored as urine in the bladder. Birds and

reptiles, careful to conserve water, produce uric acid, a crystalline solid

that makes up part of what they excreted. It is perfectly normal for

vultures to produce uric acid; the problem arises when the kidneys are

unable to get rid of it. Autopsies of stricken vultures revealed their

internal organs to be covered with this white pasty substance.  Death was

rapid. The vultures died while still looking healthy and with no overt signs

of wasting and no obvious infection. A vulture would return to its nest site

and assume a droop-necked posture that was soon recognized as an indication

that the end was near. Post mortem analyses provided few clues beyond the

uric acid and kidney failure, signs that often indicate poisoning. In the

three years it took to discover the cause, the population was drastically

reduced to a few thousand birds. 

Indian beasts of burden work hard to plough fields, pull carts, carry heavy

loads and struggle with the problems of a third world economy. When they are

unable to work, having become lame or are otherwise in pain, a magic

veterinarian drug called diclofenac proved to act as an anti-inflammatory

agent, effecting the “cure” that put the beasts back in harness. The drug

was cheap, easily available and so widely used. Diclofenac was originally

designed for human use where it is also effective as an anti-inflammatory

agent, but for birds it has proved fatal. The amount of the drug required to

kill a vulture turns out to be remarkably small. Oxen, cows and buffalos

were given the drug, and the vultures, ultimately consuming the carcasses,

died within a few weeks. 

         Extinctions understandably often provoke a public outcry in

America. A threatened butterfly or tiny fish can galvanize public opinion

and concern. Developers, attempting to put economics before a length of

unique DNA, can become the targets of contempt and demonstrations. In North

America a species that is no longer able to hold its own is most often a

victim of habitat destruction, as our growing population either

expands to occupy new territory or pollutes an existing developed area.

Overpopulation is bound to have an impact on our ecosystems, but consider

the effects of a population more than five times the size of ours, crowded

into an area one third the size of the U.S. Many animals and plants are

either threatened or have already become extinct on the Indian subcontinent,

but the rapid demise of the vultures is remarkable and especially

frightening for reasons that go beyond the finality of extinction. It is the

first time that a drug has found its way into the food web with such

unexpected and disastrous consequences.  The problem highlights the care

that should be taken in the disposal of unwanted pills. Here in North

America every bathroom cupboard is quite possibly a deadly treasure trove of

partially consumed prescriptions whose effects on our environment are

Most often unknown. 

         When vultures consume a dead cow they do so in a way that

efficiently returns the nutrients to the primary producers. They are also

able to dispose of disease causing agents as they clean carcasses. Today in

an India lacking vultures, packs of feral dogs are feeding on these

carcasses, breeding rapidly and spreading diseases, notably rabies.

Decomposition of the cows takes longer without the efficient vultures, and

disease-spreading flies multiply. But perhaps the most insidious aspect is

the effect on the ground water. When fly larvae and bacteria reduce a

carcass, their waste is able to seep into the soil and pollute what is

already a precarious water supply.  The extinction of the vultures can be

expected to have far-reaching affects on India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and

Nepal. 

         Is there a hopeful prognosis? Can the vultures be saved, or has

their population been reduced to a point of no return? Happily the Indian

government has banned the use of the offending drug, and publicity regarding

the devastation of the three vulture species has made other southeast Asian

countries aware of the problem. In America the California Condor has been

bred in captivity with difficulty and released to feed on what they can

find. Their intended food sources such as the vast herds of bison that once

populated the great plains have been hunted nearly to extinction and there

is probably no longer an ecological niche for this bird. In India the role

in the food web for vultures still exists, so if the birds could be bred in

captivity and eventually released into an environment free of diclofenac, it

is possible that the populations might grow and the birds once again provide

their essential service. Captive breeding programs are always difficult, but

in the case of the vultures might be successful. Being carrion eaters,

vultures do not need to be taught to hunt and while they produce only two

eggs a year, given time their numbers would grow. However, even if large

numbers of the birds could be reintroduced in their original habitat at some

point in the future, the program could not be certain of success. The

numbers of vultures have dwindled to a point where the lack of genetic

variation in these new populations would make them extremely vulnerable to

any disease that should rear its head. Breeding programs designed to

reintroduce the cheetah in India and Africa also face this problem. At some

point in the past cheetahs entered a genetic bottleneck when some

catastrophe greatly reduced their numbers. Their gene pool is so inbred and

similar that skin grafts from one animal will grow without rejection on

another. As far as their immune systems are concerned they are all the same

animal! It is variation in the genetic make up of individuals within a

population that provides the basis by which a species is able to withstand

disease and changes that may take place in the environment. You could say

that a species puts its best foot forward and in a sense “tries its best” in

any environmental situation. Reestablishing the vultures from a small number

of individuals will produce a population lacking in this variation. 

         So it isn’t easy to watch an Indian vulture feed for reasons that

go beyond aesthetics and the seemingly sordid nature of their diet. The

problem is that in India there are so few vultures left to watch. The most

recent estimates of the combined total for the three Indian species is

little more than a thousand, and dropping, quickly. Is there somewhere that

blame can be assigned? Did greed, negligence or inaction cause the

extinction of the vultures and the resulting effects on the Indian

countryside and water supply? In many ways it would seem to have been bad

luck. Who would have guessed that small amounts of an anti-inflammatory

drug, so useful in one sphere, could have such a devastating affect in

another area? Is there a lesson to be learned? It already takes a long and

costly time of testing to bring a drug to the marketplace. Can we expect

future testing to extend to all life forms that may be affected? 

My son, in a relaxed teenage moment, once said to me “But dad, shit

happens!” It seemed to me at the time that this was a crude and silly phrase

that invited me to throw up my hands and resign myself to fate. A little

irritated, I replied that, “if you think, plan ahead and pay attention, ‘it’

doesn’t happen nearly as often.” Darwinian change depends on the survival of

the fittest and this law of the jungle will continue to prevail. We may

assign various levels of “worth” to certain species and attempt to

manipulate the environment in favor of those we deem more worthy or useful

or pretty, but in the end nature will sort itself out. Unfortunately this

may not be pleasant for the losers. Tennyson’s “Nature red in tooth and

claw” may be replaced by errors in chemistry, and innovations that benefit

some while inadvertently destroying others. I suppose we may be reduced to

considering my son’s adage, because “shit” does indeed happen, but this

doesn’t mean we shouldn’t  “Try our best.” This is what species do. 

Gabr, Al-Qaeda and North Hatley

My Tenuous Connection with al-Qaeda

“I would like you to meet Dr. Coleman. He is the man who can solve all problems!”

These words were carefully enunciated and delivered emphatically by Saad Gabr. I held out my hand to the robed man before me. He was wearing a burnoose, a caftan, and like Gabr, sported the five day growth of stubble that Allah is said to admire. We were standing in a near gymnasium sized room inside the lakeside estate Mr.Gabr called home. The walls were draped with oriental carpets over which brass framed photographs were hung at intervals. Many of these pictures featured rows of uniformed men standing at attention and supporting emphatic mustaches. A long table, stretching down the centre of the room, and covered with red and gold tablecloths supported plates of assorted pastries sitting at three foot intervals between two liter plastic bottles of Pepsi cola. Paper cups and plates were also available. Tasseled red and gold cushions covered the seats of  high-backed carved wooden chairs that lined the walls. There were perhaps forty of these chairs. I had the impression that I might be in a tent, as there were no obvious windows. I presume they were hidden under the wall hangings. Many robed men milled about, chatting, inspecting the photographs on the wall and sipping Pepsi, but no women were to be seen. Adding to the desert-like atmosphere, the room was stiflingly hot and airless. I poured myself a paper cup full of lukewarm Pepsi, thinking this a poor substitute for an oasis. Perhaps being in a room with so many Arabs had put these thoughts in my mind. The man I had just been introduced to didn’t extend his hand for shaking, but instead bowed slightly while murmuring something unintelligible. His shakable hand was busy with worry beads anyway. I withdrew my own hand as he turned away, leaving me with my host to look at.

Mr. Gabr had a round face and very short hair. In fact, the hair on his head was scarcely longer than the Arafatian stubble that covered his face. It was grizzled, streaked with grey, and intermittent.  Mr Gabr liked to stand very close when he chatted, and since he was quite short, I had to bend my neck to look him in the eye. Taking a break, I gazed up at the succession of elaborate gold chandeliers, each fitted with about a dozen bulbs that lit the room brightly. Light fixtures were clearly a favorite of Mr.Gabr. The exterior of his house was covered with ornate golden lights that also marched along the whole length of the high wall that encircled the Gabr compound. As the room filled with guests, I looked carefully for General Zia ul-Haq, the president of Pakistan. He had been advertised, but was not yet in evidence. I did see several of the dark-suited Canadian protocol officers who had presumably driven down from Ottawa for the occasion and who now stood stiffly, whispering together. I prowled around a little, at one point looking into a doorway nearly obscured by rugs at the far end of the room. About twenty women sat on chairs lining the walls in the dimly lit isolation unit. All eyes swung toward me as I looked in for a moment before stepping back hastily.

When I had arrived I had been unsure what the occasion promised and equally unsure of why I had been invited. Mr. Gabr was something of a mystery man. We first became aware of his presence in 1977, when buildings in our little town had been sold one after another. First the Laundromat and then a grocery store were discovered to be locked, their windows whitewashed. These properties were followed by the hardware store, the Hob Nob restaurant, and then the Baptist church. North Hatley is a small village of about 800 souls that burgeons to perhaps 1500 when the summer visitors arrive, so these closures were both obvious and somewhat alarming. Nothing was done with these properties and they stood vacant, over time crumbling somewhat from neglect. Was our village to become a ghost town? At the height of Mr. Gabr’s purchasing, he had added more than 35 residential houses and farms to his list. What was going on? Our town was making the national news regularly, as speculations flew regarding the motives of this Arab, who had built himself a huge lakeside retreat, and bought as much of the town as he could. When asked by a local contingent to explain his plans, he would only say evasively, “Gentlemen, have patience and you will be repaid with interest.” No one was sure what this might mean.

Revelations came at regular intervals. Remarkable things happened. One summer evening a gaudy wedding took place at his house. The bride was said to have arrived on a white stallion (Arabian of course). The townsfolk were brought to their windows and then into the street as a fireworks display took place over the lake. No one had ever seen anything like it, except for a man who had been to Montreal the previous week. An international fireworks competition had taken place over the St. Lawrence River, with a new display mounted by competing countries each evening, for a week. Mr. Gabr had hired the winner to entertain his guests. Rumors continued to fly. Mr. Gabr gave every impression of having unlimited cash. King Faisal of Saudi Arabia was said to have been seen in his company, as was Pakistan’s General Zia.

When I was a graduate student studying marine biology at McGill University, I elected to collect my research animals from the coral reef that lies just off the west coast of Barbados. I made this decision after first considering the alternative. This was an ice flow called T3 that was inside the Arctic Circle and slowly revolving around the North Pole. It took me about four seconds to make this choice. McGill has a marine lab in Barbados and graduate students shared accommodation with a team of McGill engineers. I got to know some of these men while we played bridge in the humid, cricket-chirping, frog-croaking, sultry atmosphere that was evening in Barbados. We sat at a table on the laboratory veranda, dealing cards, drinking rum and at intervals mopping our faces in the tropical heat. In this setting, redolent with the scent of frangipani blossoms, we exchanged details of our daily research activities. I learned that a Dr. Bull was in charge of the engineering team that used an adapted naval gun to try to shoot satellites into orbit. We would hear the deep booms of this gun sometimes. A few years later Bull moved this high altitude research project  (HARP) to a spot in Quebec, not far from North Hatley. Of course Mr. Gabr, checkbook still at the ready, bought the property and the big guns that were now much more sophisticated. Bull eventually went to jail for a while, convicted for selling arms to South Africa. When he emerged from prison he arranged to sell some of the big guns he had begun his career with in Barbados to one Sadam Hussein of Iraq. These “super guns”, code named Project Babylon, were supposed to be able to hit Israeli targets from Iraq with both ease an accuracy. Before this transaction got off the ground however, Dr. Bull, opening his Brussels apartment door to a mild knock, was greeted by several silenced bullets to the chest. Some say he was assassinated by the Israeli Mossad, but his family is more suspicious of the CIA.

Hawksbill turtle is a “delicacy” I have since read is only eaten by “hardened west indians and desperate men.”  Our cook in Barbados served it up about once a week for the six months I was there. Needless to say, when I shared turtle stew at the marine lab with Bull and his men, I never saw any foreshadow of his violent end. We picked at the turtle together, comrades in a type of adversity. His death left Gabr in complete control of the big guns.

Gabr sent his son to a boarding school near North Hatley. This was the basis for my unexpected connection with the Arab mystery man, because I was young Gabr’s teacher and housemaster at this school.

“Over this matter there can be no negotiation!” were the words Gabr used in a heated conversation with the headmaster. It had come to his attention that young Yasser was attending anglican chapel services for 20 minutes each morning before the start of classes. Being muslim he was far from enthusiastic about this aspect of the schedule.

“Yasser will be excused from this practice,” he announced with finality. But the head master was almost as pig-headed as the gun salesman, and so stuck to his. It was left to me to attempt a smoothing of the waters and unruffling of feathers.

My first meeting with Gabr took place in a long black limousine that was parked outside the school under the fluttering Quebec flag. The chauffeur had approached a passing school boy who had subsequently come to find me. Walking as casually as possible I made my way to the limo and, ducking my head, climbed into the back seat. There I found belligerent unyielding eyes that stared through me from beneath a headdress. Settling down, I interlaced my fingers over my crossed knee, took a deep breath and looked back into those eyes. I could guess what was coming.

“Mr. Gabr,” I began, “I go to chapel each morning as well, and I have to admit to you that I rarely think of Jesus. I gaze out of the window, I look at the swaying treetops, I enjoy the music, I think about my day ahead. In short, I use the time for meditation. Yasser might easily do the same.” There was a period of silence while Mr. Gabr mulled this over. He wanted his son at the school, but it was also important to save face. Time passed, and I was just about to speak again, when the matter “over which there could be no negotiation” dissolved. He accepted the meditation concept and I became “the man who can solve all problems.”

It was in the spring that I received an invitation to the reception in Gabr’s compound. He  would send a car for me. The same black limo arrived and I was driven the fifteen miles to the lavish house beside the lake.

“Dr. Coleman,” said Gabr, smiling broadly and ushering me into the tent-like expanse. “I have asked you here because you are an educator and today is a great day for education.” I smiled back at him. “Will you have a glass of Pepsi cola?”  I looked at him blankly for a moment before my eyes swept the cavernous room. “Have you ever wondered why the people who invented mathematics, described and named the stars, and were the first humans to organize their lives in what was to become the cradle of civilization itself, have done nothing but fight and play backgammon for the past millenium?” I felt I should choose my words carefully, and so luckily said nothing for a moment. Mr. Gabr continued. “Don’t answer that question! It is something I can contemplate, but you cannot.” He grinned, displaying an impressive expanse of teeth. Then he began describing how he was going to build the most elaborate and costly university in the world, right there, beside the lake. With the scholars he would assemble, he would educate muslims and reestablish the place Arabs deserved at the frontiers of both the arts and sciences. I was shown a large blueprint that hung on the wall, precariously held in place by pins pushed into the carpet. Here was the floor plan of his dream. I noticed a glass atrium four stories high in which large trees soared. I thought of the twenty below zero winters and wondered for a moment about the heating bills. I studied the plans and, searching for something to say, remarked that there didn’t seem to be any bathrooms. Mr. Gabr looked past me at the plan and said, “This is the vision, this is the plan in principle, the details will be pursued in due course.”

As the room filled with caftan swathed men I sipped my Pepsi, ate a few very sweet tart-like items and gazed about. It was now nearly full of unidentified, but putative dignitaries. But the protocol officers had apparently made the drive from Ottawa for nothing, because General Zia was a no-show.  Perhaps this realization galvanized Gabr into action, because we were suddenly all ushered out into the October afternoon for the laying of a cornerstone.

The wind came in short bursts, blowing leaves about and causing the Arab robes to alternately flap and then plaster against legs. I clutched my jacket, turning up my collar. A slab of concrete was slathered with mortar, balanced on its edge and then, because it threatened to fall over, propped up by a couple of concrete blocks placed strategically on either side. The cornerstone took its place at the edge of what looked suspiciously like a parking lot. We stood there in a wind that took Mr. Gabr’s words away with it. What I did hear was presumably arabic, so I missed nothing. General Zia ul-Haq, president of Pakistan, was seen in North Hatley with Mr. Gabr on another occasion in 1982, much to the excitement of the press, but he apparently couldn’t make it to the laying of this cornerstone.

Just over the river from the school where I taught, there is an actual university. I knew the man who was in charge of the buildings and grounds of this sprawling campus. A few days after attending the cornerstone laying ceremony, he told me an intriguing story. Apparently a black stretched limousine had pulled up near where some of his workmen were making repairs to a frost damaged flagstone walkway. Two “Arabian looking” men had emerged from the car. Could they possibly borrow one of the flagstones for a day or two? They were quick with a hundred dollar bill and visibly fingered its companions who were cosily packed in a bulging wallet. A deal struck, the stone had been wrestled into the trunk of the limo by these two men who wore dark suits and had very shiny shoes. Two days later, as promised, the stone had been returned. I couldn’t resist making the trip to Gabr’s Islamic University site. The stone had disappeared from what was now revealed to actually be a parking lot. It had presumably been erected “in principle.” The details would be “pursued in due course.”

Then, in 1987, as mysteriously as Mr. Gabr had arrived, he disappeared. It turned out that when making many of his property transactions in town, only down-payments had actually changed hands. After a period of time and some legal wrangling some of the properties reverted to their previous owners. Others, we read, presumably paid for in full, passed to something called the SAAR charity foundation where ownership was transferred to Yakob Mirza, described as a friend of Gabr’s. The stores and restaurant reopened, and the dark age into which the town had slipped for ten years was over. Life and normality returned to the village. The panoply of lights atop the wall surrounding Mr. Gabr's compound went out and rusted.

Two years later, as I glanced across the crowded expanse of one of London’s Heathrow air terminals, I spotted a familiar face. The five day’s growth of stubble was in place the way Allah likes it, the headdress flowed, and the caftan robe billowed. I walked quickly his way.

“Why Mr Gabr,” I began. He jumped like a scalded cat and whirling about took a step back, staring at me through eyes that seemed fearful. “Where are you living these days?” I heard myself say.

“Why, in North Hatley of course,” he said emphatically, and scuttled away at high speed, I presume to board his flight. Later I heard the rumor that he fallen fatally into the hands of the Mossad to join Dr. Bull.

The other day, and twenty odd years post-Gabr, I was reading a book review that described the existence of far-flung al-Qaeda sleeper cells. A thought struck me: could Gabr have been an agent of al-Qaeda? If so,his "sleeper cell" had been strangely awake. Did he really die with the impact of an assassin’s bullet? I decided to “Google” him. Oh Google, diligent handmaiden of the research challenged, you are so useful if not always totally accurate. Here were all the "facts" in an instant. Gabr turns out to be alive, but more about him in a moment. First the “friend" Yakob Mirza. It turns out that security agents are investigating him and SAAR, sniffing for links to al-Qaeda and the organizers of the September 11 terrorist attacks. The SAAR mission has been permanently shut down. And General Zia, what was he doing with Gabr? It is known he was providing military and financial assistance to the Afghan mujaheddin while they battled the Soviet troops in Afghanistan. Gabr was ready and willing to help him with the purchasing of some of those “super guns.” This may explain the cars with Russian diplomatic plates that were seen in North Hatley on more than one occasion. The KGB were keeping an eye on Gabr.

I learned something of Gabr’s history. He was more than just linked to the Muslim Brotherhood. He apparently orchestrated a movement in the 1950s that plotted against president Nasser of Egypt. Ten activists are said to have been involved. Eight were caught and hanged, one died in custody, while one escaped. The escapee was our Mr. Gabr. He is supposed to have then made part of his fortune reselling decommissioned Egyptian army weapons or in other reports, by selling Nazi armor taken from Rommel’s army.

Gabr’s current whereabouts are secret, but I learned through Google that he did agree to an interview with a Canadian TV journalist in 2004. The meeting took place in Dubai where Gabr admitted that his chief reason for moving to Canada was to acquire Dr. Bull’s big guns. He would not talk about Pakistan’s nuclear program or his role in the war in Afghanistan. He did admit that he had been scheduled to fly with Zia on the trip the president took that resulted in his death in a fatal crash. Gabr sees himself as a marked man. But who has him in his sights? The CIA, the Mossad, MI5, perhaps even a disillusioned al-Qaeda? A lifetime of twisted dealings have left him with few places or people to turn to.

And what of the Islamic University, to be built “in principle” on the shores of Lake Massawippi? When his abandoned house was searched, the plans for the Saudi Arabian, King Abdulaziz Islamic University, where currently more than 80,000 students are enrolled, were discovered. Architectural drawings for this university in Jeddah had been borrowed by Gabr. These were plans, at that time, for the largest scaled construction in the world! I had missed the point a little when I wondered about the bathroom placement and worried about heating the atrium.

I suppose Gabr may have been a type of confidence man really, playing one Arab ruler against another and snatching up whatever fell out in the shuffle. In his retirement he has decided to set straight details of the origin of the universe. There was no Big Bang. Gabr instead sees "a targeted multi-track spinning and rotation of hydrogen molecules according to a divine plan" as the actual answer. So he has gone from possible al-Qaeda operative and certain arms dealer, to run-of-the-mill crank. Still, I got a kick out of being introduced as “the man who can solve all problems.” I only wish he had gotten in touch with me prior to 9/11. I could have given him some good advice

A Galapagos Blog

A Galapagos Blog

When Darwin arrived in the Galapagos Islands the Beagle first anchored in a small bay. Known as Tijeritas, this cove forms a semicircle perhaps 150 yards in diameter, and is still wild and somewhat isolated from the tourists and natives. Getting to the bay we walk along a dusty lava gravel road that leaves Puerto Bacquerizo Morena to wind west along the ocean for perhaps a mile out of town. We pass a popular swimming beach where volley ball nets are set up and kids and dogs run in and out of the ocean. A sign says: (conservatomos la neuestro) which might mean to someone who understood Spanish that we conserve what is ours? On the side of the road away from the sea is an outpost of the Ecuadorian University of San Francisco. (more detail of what this is later) There are glimpses of the sea through the trees that tightly line the shore; lava lizards scuttle out of our path, and some of those small black famous finches peck at seeds in the gravel and sand.

When the road comes to an end, there is a path that strikes out across a landscape of tangled scrub and cactus that rise up out of black jagged slabs of congealed lava. It doesn’t look like a very promising place to put down roots, and the short twisted trees are scattered. The trail climbs and descends, twists and turns, until after about 20 minutes we come to an over-look that reveals the bay. The water is green-blue, and there is a fishing boat exiting out to sea. I have heard that there is a margin of 40 miles surrounding the islands where fishing is prohibited, and wonder what he is up to.
My attention is drawn to some sleek birds that are a about sea gull size, but streamlined with a long pointed bill. They are sleek and built for speed. Several circle about 50 feet above the water. One suddenly tilts over, and folding back its wings, forms itself into a sharp nosed torpedo as it drops straight down. It meets the water with very little splash, disappearing with barely a sound. The others follow and I hear five successive plops as they disappear beneath the surface. When they surface, they paddle along for a moment before taking off. I am too far away to see if they have successfully caught fish, but do catch a glimpse of their remarkable bright blue feet as they rise from the water. These are blue-foot boobies. Somewhere on this island, there is a colony of the red-footed boobies. The evolutionary importance of coloured feet doesn’t immediately spring to mind and I am puzzling over this as we climb carefully down some steep steps to a flat expanse of lava where we will put on our wetsuits and snorkeling gear.
So this is where Darwin landed in 1835. There was no path across the lava then and I wonder what he was wearing. Did his shoes have wooden soles as I think sailors did in those days? What about sunburn? The land would have been gently rising and falling the way it does for a day or two after one has come ashore from weeks on a sailing boat. Did he stumble near the sharp lava rocks and the prickly cactus? The air is mercifully free of biting insects now as then.

Unlike Darwin, we arrived by jet aircraft and touched down yesterday noon after the 600 mile, one and a half hour flight from Guayaquil, a largely unattractive commercial centre on the mainland of Ecuador. Just before landing the flight attendant opened all the over-head baggage compartments and walked the length of the aircraft spraying something into the interior. He was followed by a colleague who banged each door down to seal in the spray. The seal was only somewhat effective and I could see passengers wrinkling their noses at the insecticide.

There have already been many unwanted recent visitors to these islands. Opportunistic pioneers, they have set up shop and now contaminate the environment. Chief among them would be Homo sapiens, who brought with him what have become feral dogs, goats, donkeys, pigs, cats, rats and fire ants. These are the most obvious invasive species, but there are many others. It could be argued that all the creatures on these islands arose from invasive ancestors, and it would be true, but the unique aspect of the flora and fauna that met Darwin was the fact that they were different from the original invaders.

In a certain Guayaquil park there is the expected statue of the liberating hero, Simon Bolivar. He looks out over a green city block that is nestled amongst the grey concrete of hotels and office buildings. What isn’t expected is that this park is littered with iguanas. Young and old, they wander along the paths between the flower beds, pausing to bob their heads in a territorial display that has little impact on the tourists and locals who pick their way among the lizards. Some are quite large, measuring four or more feet from nose to tail. They approach tourists seated on park benches to receive and reject a potato chip, a candy wrapper or the bottom inch of an ice cream cone. A few blocks away is the Malacon, a wide boardwalk that runs along the margin of the (Guayaquil River). This is where MacDonalds have their restaurant, where the IMAX is located, and where uniformed school children walk in crocodiles hand in hand. I didn’t see that other invasive species called Starbucks, but it will have been there. The river rushes by quickly, carrying quite large flotillas of greenery from upstream. Theory has it that some iguanas and all the other original invaders that didn’t fly or swim to the Galapagos Islands, journeyed on these rafts of vegetation. 600 miles without a drink of fresh water must have been a trial to say the least. On arrival they would have had to make do with whatever rainwater accumulated in puddles. These were lucky and hardy pioneers.

Darwin observed that two types of iguana live on the islands. Neither exactly resembles the species found on the mainland. One has become marine, with a flattened tail. When it sinuously lashes it from side to side the iguana is propelled through the water as a fish is by its tail. Land iguanas have a tail that is round in section, serving to provide the animal with balance as it climbs through the branches of trees. The marine iguana is able to drink sea water, snorting out nose clearing spouts of concentrated brine at intervals as they lie in the sun warming up after a dive. Their seemingly grinning faces are now flat, making the grazing on short rock hugging seaweed easier. In contrast, the Galapagos land iguanas have a more pointed head and are able to insert their snout between sharp spines to get at the flesh of the cactus they eat.

Suited up we slip into the sea to explore an aspect of the Galapagos entirely unknown to Darwin. He never saw the treasure trove beneath the waves. This water has arrived via the Humbolt current that comes up the coast of Chile and Peru. It meets the equator to veer west in the direction of Australia, passing by the Galapagos Islands on the way. Coming from Antarctica it is colder than you would expect and this explains the presence of penguins on these islands at the equator.

So the plants and animals of the islands have altered since the early invasions that took place sometime after the islands emerged from the sea volcanically a few million years ago. These endemic species are what made the islands unique for Darwin. They helped to focus his ideas surrounding natural selection and the origin of species. The flight attendant with the aerosol can of insecticide had the right idea, albeit a little late in the day. I am reminded of a New Yorker cartoon that shows an old woman, a suitcase in each hand, standing on a station platform. She is watching a train leave the station. She is clearly out of breath and has been running for the train. “Oh well,” she says, “Better late than never.”

Being There: Current Adventures

Being There: Current Adventures

 by Charles Coleman

I have framed and hung some photographs in my study. In the 1930s my father was part of a team geologically mapping what was then Northern Rhodesia. In his picture he stands in the bush beside his team of 15 Africans. With their prospecting equipment they gaze at me from a distant time and place. Another picture I rather enjoy looking at finds me on a different continent, but also at the ends of the earth. I am in the actual space of my childhood daydreams. I stand beside the Madre de Dios river in the Amazonian rain forest, my face twisted in a Christmas-morning-age-six grin. My father often described his African adventures to me as I sat wide-eyed, paying rapt attention. Such was the impact of his stories that I have found myself enjoying my own adventures, and can easily slip back into the photographic moment above my desk.

There is the possibility of seeing a wild jaguar. Electric blue morpho butterflies flit by; I hear the liquid song of a bird I have not yet identified, and within me builds a feeling that somewhere nearby are the footprints of Darwin or Wallace.

As I move, my long pants stick damply to my legs and drag at my skin. I have buttoned my sweat-soaked long-sleeved shirt tightly at the throat and wrists, I hope denying insect access. Impatiently I push my sliding glasses back up my nose while grimacing at the internal turmoil that is last night’s dinner and probably some inadvertent river water. Several insistent mosquitoes hover and whine and I slap at them ineffectually. It is early in the morning; birds that will soon go into hiding are still calling and moving from branch to branch. I don’t have a headache, but behind my eyes I feel fuzzy, as if inflated with cotton wool. I think it may have to do with the anti-malarial pills I have been taking.

As I write about this scene at my desk in Colorado, the details of discomfort hesitantly return, and I have to search for them. What I felt then, and recapture with this writing, is a sense of excited anticipation. I am back in the Peruvian rain forest, about two and a half thousand miles up the Amazon at a point where it is a mere 40 yards wide. At its mouth, the river is more than 8 miles wide and pours such a volume of water into the Atlantic that for 100 miles out to sea the ocean is fresh rather than salty. The largest tankers can navigate 2,000 miles up the river to where the city of Iquitos is cut off, accessible only by plane from the rest of the world. The river is still two miles wide at this point, but no roads reach the population of 600,000 which has been isolated there since the collapse of the rubber industry in 1910. These people live close together with no real source of livelihood, but quick access to cholera, yellow fever, dengue and malaria. I flew in and got onto the river as fast as possible. From Iquitos to the coast, the Amazon is a superhighway filled with traffic and commerce, and its muddy cafe au lait water moves sluggishly.

Standing beside a tributary, the Madre de Dios, where the water moves quickly and is the colour of strong clear tea, I look up along the bank of the river. I can see a stretch of sand and a large black caiman basking in the sun, while just below me, a turtle is partially submerged and resting his front legs against a rock. Five of his friends are leaning against him in a conga line that resembles soup bowls stacked to dry. To add to the impact of this tableau, a large yellow butterfly sits on the head of each turtle. Who organized this composition? I fumble for my camera and lose my balance for a moment, sliding a little in the mud. With gentle plops, and one by one, all six turtles submerge and the butterflies circle over the water for a moment before they too scatter. On either side of the river the trees of the jungle canopy meet overhead to form a dark green tunnel illuminated by bright shafts of sunlight reaching down from where the sun pierces the foliage. “Damn,” I mutter, and then jerk my head up to a disturbance above. I am just in time to catch a glimpse of long furry black arms, legs, and tails in motion as two spider monkeys disappear into the treetops of the opposite bank. Hanging nests of the oropendula are set in motion and swing from the long wispy strings that broaden to end in the cantaloupe sized, bulbous nests. These birds are large relatives of the northern oriole and weave similar suspended nest hammocks for their eggs.

I leave the riverbank and its dappled surface, making my way inland up a narrow muddy trail. Rotting vegetation covers much of the forest floor and there is an earthy, pungent stink of decomposition. I try to step on the carpet of leaves whenever possible because my boots slip and sink into the mud of the trail. My plan is to take macro pictures of some leaf-cutter ants I have seen on an earlier hike. I have imagined close-ups that will fill the frame with the ants carrying pieces of leaf on their backs, looking like insect wind-surfers. But they are further away than I remembered, and by the time I find them, my rumbling bowels have reached a dangerous crescendo. Sweat streams down my face as I lie on my stomach, baseball hat reversed like a teenager so that I can see through my camera viewfinder. Through the fogging eyepiece, I try to focus on the ants while at the same time paying close attention to my insistent and rebellious G.I. tract. Mosquitoes form a cloud around my head while a further bit of sensory input informs me that possible bullet ants are entering the ankle-pant-sock perimeter. They are called bullet ants because when they bite it feels as if a bullet has hit you. I am not sure of the caliber, perhaps .357 magnum? I do know that they are advertised as the most venomous insect known. Some call them 24-hour ants since the intense burning of their combination sting-bite lasts for twenty-four hours. Apparently they bite, and then add extra pain and insult to the injury, by transferring some venom from their tail area into the wound.

I try to focus the camera, but I cannot make my mind explain the details for selecting the camera’s macro feature. I call for information but receive only a sort of abstract humming noise and static from my brain. Is there a button to push while you twist the focus ring? Is that tickling sensation on my left ankle the bullet ant selecting a spot to bite? Is there going to be a sudden surprise in my pants? (I am sorry to be focusing on this detail, but it is part and parcel of the jungle experience.)

The insect repellant I applied has been effective in deterring 98 percent of the biting things, but this hasn’t stopped me having 67 carefully enumerated sand fly bites on one single, easily accessed forearm. Such are the numbers of the sand flies. Each night I lie awake in a frenzy of scratching, my whole body humming extravagantly with the bursting of mast cells and the subsequent flood of histamine through my system. Lying motionless for ten minutes can make the desire to scratch subside, but a chance caress on the shin by a stray strand of mosquito netting can set me on fire again. Eventually sleep returns, only to be followed by another agitated awakening. These flies can carry leishmaniasis, a very nasty disease. It is transferred by the sand fly, and one bite in about 10,000 carries the parasite which causes a sore that eventually spreads via the lymphatic system. It finishes by eroding the nose, lips and face. If it doesn’t kill you, it is sometimes cured by a month-long series of intravenous antimony drips. Happily it is rare where I am. Still, I have met a man who has had it and who showed me the extraordinary scars on his leg and arm where the remnants of what were volcano-sized ulcerations remain.

Many of the guides and other old hands have played host to the bot fly. These flies lay their eggs on mosquitoes. The eggs hatch on the mosquito and the larvae climb off and onto you while the mosquito bites. The larvae burrow under your skin and feed, reaching the size of a jellybean or larger. Sometime later they emerge through the skin and wriggle off to pupate elsewhere. I have spent time with a magnifying glass examining the bites I can get at, looking for the telltale snorkel that sticks out of the seeming mosquito bite, supplying air for the developing larval fly. "Just paint it with nail polish, wait eight hours and squeeze it out," says a guide. "Nothing to it." It is important that the larva is dead before you apply the squeeze because it must relinquish its hold on the bottom of the little nest cavity it inhabits under your skin. If you attempt to squeeze out a live one, the bottom end stays in and can cause a bad infection. Hence, the suffocating nail polish application. Of course those who spend a lot of time in the jungle use no insect repellent whatever. They consider the harmful effects of the DEET in Deep Woods Off to outweigh the possible chance of an insect transmitted disease. I wonder what these unspecifed harmful effects might be when I lather up.

Finally I take a few pictures of my leafcutter ants, but they are hurried and probably unfocused. My body, its interior and surface, are foremost on my mind. But these distractions: humidity, heat, internal discomfort, mosquitoes and their malaria, sandflies and their leishmaniasis, the bot flies and other assorted parasites, do detract a little from one’s comfort level. This type of trip is not for everyone. Even the enthusiast has moments of doubt, and then I wonder what I am doing here, and why it is my fourth trip into this jungle.

But there are experiences and sights that make it worthwhile for me. On my third trip, I saw a jaguar’s fresh footprints. It was midnight, and I was on my way to see a nocturnal tapir when my headlamp picked out these exciting paw marks on the trail in front of me. The jaguar had crossed my path very recently, and the edges of the indentations were sharp and flecked with adhering mud fragments. There was still more excitement that night. I continued along the jungle trail for two hours, eventually reaching a spot beside a stream where the tapirs were said to come to eat mud. This mud, like Kaopectate, helps with the digestion of some toxic fruit or vegetable they insist on eating. I lay on my stomach engulfed in a suspended mosquito net, waiting in the pitch dark. With the foliage overhead blocking out any moonlight, it was as dark as the inside of a tapir. "How will we know they are here?" I whispered to the guide, who lay in his net next to me. "Shhh," he replied. Then I heard it, the squelching sucking noise of big feet being lifted in and out of heavy sticky mud. On with the torch and there he or she was, standing 20 feet away, blinking in the beam, caught eating the mud that dripped from the long flexible snout of this rhinoceros relative. Was it possible that the tapir looked a little embarrassed? It continued to snort and squelch about in the mud for a while, then turned to leave, revealing a chubby round behind and a silly small tail that twirled.

I have seen tapirs in the zoo where beside enclosures of lions and tigers and elephants they seemed like pretty small potatoes; kind of like tall dazed over-sized pigs with strange noses. "Ho hum, let's go to the polar bears." There in the jungle on my stomach in full sweat, that rather poor view by flashlight was electrifying. I can't explain exactly why. It’s a little like the difference between flying over Greenland, as I once did, and noting to yourself, before returning to the in-flight magazine crossword, that they have huge Alp-like mountains down there. Compare this with actually climbing one of those Greenland crags after crossing the barren glacier ice by dogsled. There is a difference.

Another South American memento: a white baseball-sized sea urchin’s spiky “test” or skeletal remains, sits on my desk. This came home with me from the Galapagos Islands where I have now  spent six summers in the cradle of evolution, swimming off the shores of San Cristobal, studying the creatures made famous by Charles Darwin. When I pick up the urchin, I easily return to the sharp black lava rock that borders the path to the sea. I move carefully by the spiny cactus, note the lizards that dart out of my way, and hear the scream of the gulls. I look up at the frigate birds that circle overhead, and then down at the aquamarine waters of the bay.

Sharks are always initially alarming I find, and there had been one just at the periphery of my vision for some time; whenever I looked up I would catch a glimpse of one of those peculiar opaque, wide-set eyes staring blankly, perhaps at me. At first I had thought there were several sharks, but then I decided that it was most likely just the one, circling. I have been assured that shark attacks don’t happen in Galapagos waters, and that the white-tip is docile. All the same, I found this seven foot presence disconcerting and distracting. I tried to put him out of my mind as I hung suspended in the water over my selected little table mountain. About 20 feet below me was my area of study, a flat-topped rock about the size of two ping-pong tables pushed together. It was elevated fifteen feet from the sea floor, its surface covered by a mat of green algae, chewed and nibbled in spots by at least three different persistent herbivores. The pencil urchins were the size of oranges, reddish brown and covered with the blunt pencil-like spines that give them their name. They were in charge of the northwest half of the algae field. The green urchins were a similar size, but fitted with short sharp spines. I knew their north Atlantic relative well, the urchin that delights in the longest scientific name of all:  Stongylocentrotus drobrachiensis. These two urchins were new to me, as were all the bizarre flora and fauna of the Galapagos. A third herbivore, the damsel fish, darted from its lair in a slight overhang to see off any other fish who might drop in for a snack. I wondered who dictated the rules about who got to eat what and when, and I spent two hours in the water every day for a month taking notes on a clip board trying to find out.

My girlfriend often helped me, sort of. She would corkscrew around my body, starting at my toes and arriving at my head, where she would blow a stream of bubbles into my face. One day she arrived at full speed and made a grab at my clipboard. I clutched it, lost count of my urchins, and watched my pencil float upward to the end of its string tether. She twisted back and came at me again, this time stopping abruptly a few inches from my mask, from where she stared into my eyes for a moment before swimming off. Female sea lions weigh about 130 pounds, and in those waters, they are playful, affectionate and mischievous. This one joined me most days for at least part of my observation time. She had an actual boy friend who was rather alarming, being essentially 600 pounds of aggressive testosterone. He would investigate me as well, but confined his attentions to powering by me at full speed, disappearing quickly from sight. I never got used to his appearances. His bulk pushed the water aside so that I rocked in his wake. There followed a fraught moment when I felt “Oh god, it’s the shark!” and it would take a while for me to settle down and get back to work after one of his appearances.

Sometimes, when I would climb out of the water and relax for a while in the late afternoon sun before stripping off my wetsuit, the female would hop up beside me and sit there, nuzzling my shoulder with her extraordinary whiskers, gazing at me with her huge, expressive and luminous eyes, while breathing her fishy breath in my face. I will admit to being in love.

I met another large and playful animal in the Peruvian jungle. I paddled up to giant otters and watched them gambol like their diminutive Scottish counterparts of Ring of Bright Water fame. But with this behavior the resemblance ended; they are enormous, over six feet long and sometimes more than a hundred pounds. I was able to approach to within twenty yards of where they would stick their heads out of the water to make threatening grunting chirps. In every way but size, they are like standard-issue playful otters. Their long sleek bodies seemed to glide effortlessly through the water. Several times I saw one surface with a large fish, climb onto a broad log and chomp it down with much audible crunching and lip smacking. They are at the top of the food chain with no enemies apart from man. Even jaguars turn tail when the otter approaches. Unfortunately their fur coats have proved irresistible; there are few left. They are found in the oxbow lakes that over time have split from the Manu River. It was a thrill to see them huffing and puffing after a long dive, whiskers twitching and noses straining to pick up my scent. When they tried to get a better look at me, they would rise straight up out of the water, revealing white-stripped necks.

Reeds covered the margins of these lakes that extend into swamps, so the birds living there differ from those found on the faster moving river. I watched a secretive limpkin picking his way through the reeds. My favorites were the prehistoric looking hoatzins. These chicken sized birds look like avian punks with their staring coats of feathers jutting in all directions and bright red eyes. More than any other bird they resemble that fossil first bird, Archaeopteryx. They intrigued me because they are the only birds, that like cows, employ bacteria in their gut to digest their cellulose diet. I had to get close to them to discover for myself that they do indeed smell like cows.

My trips to South America have rewarded me in different ways. I have crouched for hours on a floating blind in the middle of a river watching the cliffs where the macaws come to eat clay. Their reasons for doing this are similar to the tapirs’. I was rewarded by flights of mealy parrots, white-eyed parrots, blue-headed parrots, but the macaws were wary and stayed in the distant treetops. Once I visited something called “Parrot Village” near Miami. Macaws were everywhere. One even pedaled right up to me on a very small tricycle, dismounted and pecked at my toe. In the wild, I sat for four hours in silence in cramped quarters with a full bladder, waiting for them to fly down to a position forty yards away where they would eat some clay. Why do I enjoy the discomfort of the jungle, the proximity of the white-tip shark? Why have I returned four times? My behavior might not make immediate sense, but as with many explanations in life, you had to be there. And that is what I have been doing in my travels - being there. It has made all the difference.

I return from the photograph and am back in Colorado at 8,000 feet where the temperature is warm but the atmosphere dry. I have a terrible nose-running, raw-throated, head-pounding summer cold. In between nose blowing and Tylenol, I wonder if these might be the early symptoms of leishmaniasis or some other plague I have brought home as a South American souvenir. Last night I had a fever of 103, but this morning I feel better. My nose is running like a tap, but I am thinking clearly. Red bites that no longer itch still dot my body. The metaphorical itching to go exploring has also been thoroughly scratched for the time being, but like its insect induced counterpart, I expect this itch will return and I will be off again.  

In the picture of my father, the African veldt of 75 years ago stretches out to the horizon behind the posed crew. The subjects are in focus, but the background is blurred slightly by a heat haze. I can see thorn trees and a bird I can’t identify sits in one of them. It is a view of the living world that was Africa of the 1930s and the inspiration for my obsession. My father has taken a moment from his rocks to stare into the camera, unaware of the passion he will kindle in his as yet unborn son.