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Commission on Accountability's petition.

Bipedal

So our uber-security driveway gate is broken and one of the guys working on the gate is named Africa. "That's a big name," I said. And then he, like everyone else in the world outside the U.S., tried to figure out how the hell to pronounce my name. At one point, he called me "Thailand."

Then Africa said that he liked my boots and asked me when I'm going to give him my boots. This is a more common request than you'd think - people are really obsessed with footwear here because most lack a decent pair and we take for granted how much a good pair of shoes improves daily existence. They couldn't care less about correct sizes.

Not today, I said. So I just refused to give Africa a pair of shoes. Not sure if there's a conclusion to be drawn here.

I gave him a pair of running shoes that don't fit me. He was shocked and happy and stood up from his work. "This is my hand" he said and we shook.

Rhino, with Mop Bucket

Fascinating Photo Book

Just got a notice about this book in a photography newsletter. It documents time within African-American, Hispanic and white cultures in Texas:

"Looking at the U.S. 1957-1986 is an unusual look at cultural and political life in the United States over nearly three decades of change and stability. It combines the individual projects of photographers Frederick Baldwin and Wendy Watriss as well as their combined 13-year documentary collaboration on three different cultural frontiers in Texas."

See photos from the book here.

New Article

An article of mine is in the May issue of Men's Journal in their collection of adventure trips. Mine is about a DIY Safari: how to come to southern Africa, rent a 4x4 and drive into the Botswana bush.

The Primate Mirror

We spent the weekend in a small, steep valley bisected by the Spekboom River high in the northern Drakensberg Range. The river holds trout and the valley is home to a sizeable population of Chacma Baboons, a subset of the general categorization of Savannah Baboons found throughout the continent. There were about 50 individuals that meandered across the hillside facing our cabin's porch each day. Once a young kudu buck sauntered through the troop. The river dipped between our porch and their tree perches and we were all mutually fascinated by the view. Every morning (they are diurnal), a small group clambered down the hillside to the river while others climbed trees and ate leaves and berries and barked to each other and at us. I would do the same - get my coffee, climb to the porch's top railing, stare and bark back. The three pictured above were particularly interested and stayed to watch me watch them. It was like people-spying at the airport. For anyone who has viewed primates in the wild, they have poses and movements that are eerily human. Why this surprises us (or disconcerts some) is odd - probably because of our learned impression that nature is distinctly separate from us - but it's undeniably fascinating to watch them cross arms, dangle a hand over their knee, scratch their chest - all while staring at you mimicking them (leaves and berries were their cup of coffee). They are omnivorous animals but a particularly interesting piece of this troop's diet is their intake of crawdads. Scattered along the riverbanks are the cracked shells of hundreds of crayfish that the baboons catch in the river and eat. Their cousins in the Cape Town area - 2,000 kilometers away - forage for crustaceans when the Atlantic Ocean recedes at low tide. And then there's us: prowling the riverbanks or seashore with a stick and a fly and an old instinct now called sport, all of us staring at each other with some form of amazed recognition. What's carried on the gaze in both directions is evolution.

Waxing Eloquent vs Brass Tacks

From "The Book of the Tarpon" by A.W. Dimock

I'm addicted enough to fly fishing to enjoy reading about it, poring over catalogs to learn new flies, etc. and it's always rewarding when good writing intersects with it (not often enough). There's a sentiment throughout fly fishing literature that the fly fisher possesses a more nuanced appreciation of his/her natural surroundings and derives more from the experience than the heavy-browed bait fisherman machine-gunning for an obscene catch rate while clubbing the fish gasping at his feet. The former comes from a legitimate source: the real experience of the fly fisher noticing the river's conditions and hatches and responding to it throughout the day with the selection of fly, approach, water, cast, and drift. It is undoubtedly a more involved style of fishing and, while doing it, you notice many other things. I have witnessed incredible scenes while standing in a river: a coyote trotting on the bank without concern for me; deer gingerly picking their way across the stone streambed; an enormous beaver repeatedly swimming by; a bird deciding that M was its parent and trying to land on her head in the middle of the river; a cutthroat trout launching from an alpine lake to intercept a blue dragonfly. I've met plenty of pigs in lipstick holding fly rods who missed the point, the fish and everything but the price tag. I've also met bait/lure fishermen who have their own appreciative methods. So the debate about who appreciates what is moot when judged by angling style (the most important distinction is fish mortality rates). But I do know that most, if not all, of the appreciation comes after catching a fish. One fish, and the landscape or seascape opens up. Everything smells better. That first fish, that tug on the line and direct connection into unknown worlds, is the key to washing away all of the dissatisfaction, anger, unease or whatever you wanted to leave locked back in the truck. But you have to catch that one, and sometimes one is enough, for the world to unfurl its better ribbons. I've heard there's a specialized ward in psychiatric hospitals for people who just stand in rivers and mutter. The notion that a fly fisherman can fish all day, not catch anything and leave the water with a smug satisfaction is delusional. I have proof. Here is an early example as unqualified evidence and debunker.

A.W. Dimock, who had a very checkered career on Wall Street, spent months fishing Boca Grande in Florida and wrote "The Book of the Tarpon" in 1912. It is a classic with some of the best fishing photography I've ever seen by his son Julian (there is a scanned version online here). Dimock, who fished all styles from fly rod to harpoon, waxes eloquent in one chapter with this: "The pleasure of fishing is not in proportion to the score." I feel the enlightenment raining down from above and drift into reveries about the wavering, reticulated light patterns on riverbeds or the smell of the sea or watching, from high above on a cliff, a formation of brown trout magically holding still in the strong current of the Green River in Utah.

A few pages later, Dimock lists 334 tarpon caught in 52 days of fishing. The bastard even uses a chart - the universal format for keeping score. He probably admired the pulsating shades of the turtle grass (same color as my envy) between the time that tarpon 72 was released and 73 was spotted.

Go fish, go learn.