Will You Vote for Obama?

Will You Vote for Obama?

Marrakesh, Morocco

July 2008

I am in Marrakesh, roaming the alleyways of the Medina, old Plaza. I wandered down my first pathway and I am lured in to store by a charming man. “Come in Madame.  I will make you some tea.  Just come in and have a look.  No pressure.” I am no sooner in the store when he immediately wants to know if I plan on voting for Obama or McCain. Obama is the answer he wants to hear.

Again and again I’ve been asked this specific question by many of the people I have encountered in Morocco. Each time I am asked, I am surprised and ashamed. I just cannot believe that this isolated merchant who lives in a city of low economics, without a newspaper and with a minimal education knows all about US politics.

I am completely unaware of any political activities in Morocco. I don’t know this government, their leader or anything else of any significance to this country’s political agenda. But this man is watching our election with baited breath. So are the rest of the Moroccans.  They are filled with optimism.  The fact that a black man is running for the president of United States is more than this Moroccan can ever dream. He is certain Obama will win and he sees this victory as a win for the rest of the world.

Heading Into the Sahara Desert

Heading Into The Sahara Desert

Morocco

July 2008

After a day and a half on the road, we are anxious to arrive at the desert.  There are 13 of us; most of us are strangers to each other.  With the first visible grain of sand, we ask if we are there yet. Are we at the Sahara? Mohammed, our guide, can’t seem to understand why we don’t know the difference between where we are now and the desert.  “it’s just the road to the desert,” he tells us.  Our ignorance and excitement exhaust him.

Off in the distance is a tent made of heavy blankets. We stopped there and Mohammed tells us we are now in the desert. But now we do not need him to tell as we know immediately when the air hits us. The difference in temperature from our last stop is dramatic. The thermometer reads 44°C/ 124° F. It feels as if I’ve been has been shoved in oven.  As I inhale air, my lungs are scorched.

We are greeted by a handsome man who is invites us inside his tent of 90°F and that is a relief. We are serve tea but I would have preferred an ice cold bottle water. all the water I have with me at the moment is warm. After a few minutes, we are instructed to get back on the bus and we are reluctant to go back out into that intense sun.

We arrive at the lodge and are told to pack for the night. We are encouraged to have four liters of water each. We bring our toothbrush, camera, sun lotion and head wraps but not much more. Mohammed helps each of us put our head wraps on. We laugh with excitement. Someone comes up with a tray of hot tea. And then out of the corner my eyes I see a caravan of camels. They are tied to each other and they slowly walked towards us. We laugh with excitement and check and recheck that our head wraps are secure. The blazing sun reduces our confidence and increases our vulnerability. It is now time to get on the camels and I go first. These camels have one hump, saddle packs and a metal handle bar. They’re much more tourist friendly then the camels I road in Mongolia. So I hop on this, with a bit more confidence that I should have. But that confidence is short-lived. As soon as the camel gets up on his first set of hind legs, I am dangling headfirst. I want to get off. I try not to scream in fear as I do not want anyone to see how pathetic I am. Once completely up I feel little bit better but I can’t move myself to get comfortable. I’m too afraid to squirm too much. I don’t want to fall off.  I hold on for dear life while the two Mexican brothers sit on their camels with such ease, it makes me jealous.

We ride for about two hours through the desert. Most the the time another caravan joins us so there are about 30 of us. We are in a slow-moving procession. As I looked back at one time, a few camels are on the top of the small dune. The sun is beginning to set and the composition would make a gorgeous photo. But I am too afraid to get my camera out. I don’t want to move around too much for feel of sliding off. Hopefully someone else will get that photo and I’ll just get a copy.

From a distance I see something black. At first I thought it was a large black trash bag. As we get closer, I see that we have arrived at camp. Our camp consists of a dozen black blankets all roped together and propped by long branches to make an enclosed shelter. That’s it. There is no water, no outhouse, nothing.

We are helped off the camels and I begin to sing the Billy Crystal song “Rolling, rolling rolling; my big fat ass is swollen”. I am sore and wobbly. And as I walk, I try in vain to avoid the multitude of camel droppings. It’s a shame these droppings can’t be used as fuel because we would no longer have a world shortage of energy if we could convert these droppings.

As we walked to the tent I see someone at the top of the dune. It is a small boy who looks to be about 14-year-old. He walked from the lodge and is carrying our dinner. I can no more imagine any mother in United States along her son to go off the desert by himself. But here comes Mohammed, with all the food to feed 15 of us.

One of the guides brings out a large red blanket and some pillows and several of us just collapse there. Others find the energy to run off and climb the dunes. I stay with the collapsed group. The guides bring out drums and play for us and they sing and dance. We quiz them on creatures of the night. Yes, there will be scorpions but they do not bite. Yes, there are large beetles and other bugs. I mention that I saw a field my mouse. I am told that it was a kangaroo rat. I prefer a mouse over a rat. but regardless the sight of the mouse/ rat put a damper on the moment for me. I don’t want to be near either of them.

The sun goes down which cools the hot air. The sky is pitch black, really, really dark. But there were millions of stars. There is a slight sandy wind. I have grains of sand in my teeth, eyes and nose. There are no night sounds. The camels are quiet. I am in the Sahara Desert. It doesn’t get any better than this.

Banana Beer

Banana Beer Bar
Kilimanjaro, Tanzania
February 2016

Walter, our guide, has talked about this beer all day long. Knowing that I’m a beer connoisseur he tells me “you will love it. It’s a local beer only made in this region. We will try it this afternoon.”

We then proceeded on a long, treacherous trip to the waterfall. The hike is way beyond my physical abilities and I’m struggling in pain and humiliation.

“ Just think Bridget soon when you get to the top to have a banana beer.”

At this moment, that is not a motivator.  But once the damn hike is over I do look forward to trying this beer. I like banana bread and pancakes and pudding. so of course I’m going to like this banana beer.

We drive to a rundown hut and are greeted by a woman who looks to be my age. She speaks English and welcomes me to her bar. We sit on the porch and enjoy the late afternoon breeze.  She holds a wooden gourd attached to a long stick. She tells us that history of the beer and then there is silence.

 “She is waiting for you to sip the beer”, Walter tells me.

“ Out of this wooden cup” I ask. “It’s all for me?”

“ No we all will drink from this cup. It’s a tradition that we share this beer. Take a sip and pass the cup.”

 So I take a sip of this substance, which smells like apple cider and looks more like watered down oatmeal. There is no banana taste that I recognize. The texture is gritty and I find myself chewing this beverage. I am glad I tried it once but I’m not going to try again.

 Then some bottles of banana wine are brought to us. This taste is much more agreeable to me. Again I don’t taste any semblance of banana. The cup is passed to me a few more times but I decline.  I am still chewing on my first swallow.


 We leave the porch as we are invited into the bar, which is no electricity. So it is pitch dark. In one corner is a couple who sits in silence and shares a large cup of beer.  Occasionally one speaks to the other. But there isn’t a lot of conversation.

Four women sit by the window. Mostly women come to this bar as a social gathering place.  The men go to another bar and drink by themselves.  Sometimes, on weekends, couple will come here and drink together.  But mid-week, the crowd is mostly separated by gender.
The bar owner is also the beer meister. She started this business after her husband died. She tells me this was the only way she could make a living. I asked her if she has children. She has three, “one is a gentleman and two girls”.  They’re in their 20s. This throws me a bit.  That now puts her age to be about 45 but she looks to be about 60.  She tells me that she used to teach nursery school at the church and that is where she learned English. She doesn’t teach anymore as the bar business takes up all of her time.

 It appears to me as if $5 of beer was sold today. While it is still early in the evening, I can’t imagine anyone coming in after dark as it would be just too, too dark to see this place. So I think she is finished selling beer for the day.  I wonder if weekends bring in more business and I wonder if the rainy season keeps customers away. But mostly I wonder how anyone can live on $35 a week.

African Skies http://bkmemoirs.blogspot.com/2016/03/african-skies.html

The Old Lady Wins The Race

The Old Lady Wins The Race

Vicki Murphy-Kendall's  60^th BirthdayOctober 2004Springfield High SchoolSpringfield, PA

My friend, Vicki Kooky Kendall, is turning 60 in a week.  We work together in a high school. She is a teacher and I am the principal. One afternoon, she stopped by my office.

“Hey, I want to ask you if I can do something.  I haven’t mentioned it to the kids.  I wanted to run it by you first.”

That opening statement is always a red flag for me.  Something outrageous is about to be asked.

“Go ahead, give it to me”, I tell her.

“I want to challenge my homeroom students to a 10K race for my birthday.  OK, I may have mentioned it to them and they thought it would be a great idea.  We would do it at the beginning of the day.  I think it would take about an hour.  But the boys think they can beat me.  And I want to show them that this old lady still has something in her.  We would meet at my house and run to school.  If we meet by 7, we could get here at 8 and then they wouldn’t miss too much class.  What do you think?”  She bites her lip when she finishes.

“Yea, we could work something out. I think this would be a great life lesson for them,” I respond.

She is surprised and relieved. “Good, I told them that I didn’t think you would mind.”

We decided to limit the course to the neighborhood around the school building so that the kids are not on any major roads.  They would lap the campus six times.  They would take off from school at 8 and get back at 9 which is when homeroom starts.  We would invite the entire school to come out to the track to see the final lap.  The band had agreed to come out and play some sort of victory song as Vicki finished the race.

The day before the race, I went on the school television and announced that this was going to be the race of the generations.  I talked about goal setting and never surrendering to imposed limitations.  I talked about trying new things all your life.  I talked about my admiration of Vicki for taking on this audacious challenge.  Throughout the day, the faculty commented on my speech.  Not one kid mentioned it so I can only assume not one kid bothered to listen.

On the day of the race, I interrupted classes and announced that the race is about to begin.  Some students clapped as the runners walk down the hallways and out the door. And the race began.

The boys started out as if they had been shot from a cannon.  Vicki and one girl, from our cross country team, ran together in a slow steady pace.  I went back to my office and opened the blinds so I could see them as they lapped around the building.

The first lap was completed and then the second and the third.  It was now the fourth lap and I saw Vicki and the girl. They had a nice, even pace.  I could see them taking deep, strong breathes.  Then they were out of my sight.  I waited for the boys but they weren’t anywhere to be seen.  A few more minutes passed and there was still no sight of them.  So I went out on the street to look for them.  They were sitting on the corner, exhausted and defeated.  They saw me and muster up some energy.  They ran again but they are pathetic, absolutely pathetic.  They were finished.

As they approach me, I  held up my hand and stopped them.

“Wait, wait. You are a sorry bunch of losers,” I tell them.  “That old lady is beating you.  As a matter of fact, in a few minutes, she is going to lap you.  And when that happens, you are going to be the laughing stock of the whole school.  You will never be able to come back here ever again because we will all be laughing at you.  This calls for immediately action.  You must cheat.  You have to cut through the building and just go sit by the track gate.  You can’t keep up with her.”

They laugh in shame and relief.  They all high-five me, thank me and run through the building.  A few minutes later, they are at the finish point, laying on the grass, done with this ridiculous challenge.

A few minutes later, the band is ready to go and the rest of the students are filling in the bleachers.  Vicki enters the track and the boys get up on their feet and scramble to start the victory lap.  The band is playing The Eye of the Tiger.  The crowd is cheering.  Vicki’s husband and daughter at at the finish point with two dozen roses.  Vicki falls in to their arms and the crowd go wild. The old lady won the race.