tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53224869186670331372024-03-13T13:41:46.592-07:00Brock BrieflyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-54029414490567219992011-02-09T20:09:00.000-08:002011-02-10T10:04:50.923-08:00Wallyball and group mentalityOn Wednesday nights, I take the campus bus over to the student recreation center to play a game with some friends. The game is Wallyball. Like most large universities, Indiana University is equipped with dozens and dozens of racquetball/squash courts for stressed out students to get their wiggles out in the winter time. A few of these courts have tiny holes in the wall at the court midpoint. These holes are for eye bolts to which the ends of a volleyball net is secured. Get four for each side and a ball, then you have Wallyball. The rules are the same as volleyball except the side walls are in bounds. Thus, a carefully placed bank serve could play to your advantage. The most successful type of spike tends to hit low on a side wall. The back wall is out of bounds. It's also the most common way to lose a point since the court is much smaller than a regular size volleyball court. The ball is blue and has a sticky rubber shell that grips the wall, increasing contact time, accentuating any spin you put on it. It's a game of finesse, cleverness, reaction time, and luck. Even with my busy grad school schedule, I carve out time for Wallyball.<br /><br />Typically, at least eight people come to play Wallyball, but tonight there were just six. After two quick games of three-on-three, one had to leave. The next game was three on two. Even though the court is small, it is much more difficult for two people to defend than three, considering how fast the game is and how a good portion of hits are executed purely by reflex. I played on the team of two with my friend Brijesh. Man, on every volley we had a lot of ground to cover. It wasn't easy, but we won 15 to 6, a large margin by Wallyball standards. With just two people, your alertness rises and you're ready to pounce the moment the ball is hit. When you get to the ball you know you have only two choices: hit it to your teammate or hit it over the net. Thus, you become a more focused and a more decisive player than if you were part of a larger team where you constantly rely on and miscommunicate with your teammates. In this case, the group mentality seems to cripple larger Wallyball teams. "I don't need to get that volley -- Joe's got it."<br /><br />Coincidentally, the group mentality came up again after the game in a different form. The racquetball court we reserved this evening was one of the special "viewing" courts with a glass wall that spectators can watch through. Thinking it was an open doorway, a girl walked into the glass and bashed her nose - she wasn't wearing her glasses. She dripped red blood all over the white tile floor. Brijesh and I saw what happened and quickly guided the injured girl to a Rec center employee at the card-swiping entrance down the hallway. "Excuse me, do you have a tissue or a paper towel or something? This girl's nose is bleeding." The employee stood there contemplating what I said, then got up and paced in a circle fondling his fanny pack, searching for something. Meanwhile, Brijesh knew there was a bathroom up past the daily-use lockers with a paper towel dispenser for drying hands. Rather than fumbling for a walkie talkie or looking to depend on someone else, Brijesh fetched the towels and the girl's bloody nose was plugged. He did not succumb to the group mentality that someone else will do it. Turns out, the Rec center employee decided to call the goddam ambulance to stop the bloody nose. Now this poor girl is going to have to pay ambulance dispatch charges and endure more complications. If it were me, well, I don't have the health insurance to pay for ambulances, but that's another story...<br /><br />Cheers,<br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-4346516694672993032010-12-29T11:08:00.000-08:002011-06-16T07:23:09.246-07:002010 recap / 2011 resolution<div>Much has happened this year.<br /><br />Firstly, while working through my second semester (spring 2010) as an Environmental Science Master's Student at Indiana University, I went on many hikes. On one of these hikes, I met a nice girl in my grad program named Joanna. We've been dating since February. Through the spring, I learned the ins and outs of the Clean Water Act in my Environmental Law class, how to use predictive regression models to make policy decisions in my Data Analysis & Modeling class, learned and relearned a suite of calculus techniques in my Applied Math class, and reinforced my understanding watershed dynamics and best management practices in my Lake & Watershed Management class.<br /><br />Highlights within the semester included a trip to Indianapolis to watch the Olympic hockey final between the USA and Canada (the Canucks won in OT) and then catching an Avett Brothers show at the Egyptian Room downtown. Another highlight was the Maple Sugar festival about an hour south of Bloomington, where friends and I enjoyed axe throwing, tapping the sap from the maples, and warming up with tea steeped in some halfway-boiled syrup water. I also saw Henry Rollins speak at the Buskirk-Chumley theater and our IU basketball team get crushed by Iowa. The state of Indiana grieved both the Colts' loss to the Saints in the Super Bowl and Butler's loss to Duke in the NCAA final. Over spring break, I cruised down to Austin, TX with a couple friends for the South by Southwest festival. For free, we got t-shirts, beers, and saw some great bands such as Minus the Bear. Down there we had some wonderful hosts show us a real Texas dinner including 24-hr smoked beef brisket. On our way out of town, I picked up some authentic cowboy boots, which I wore to my grad program's Gala & Auction fundraiser in April. Then I went to the Little 500 bike race with Joanna, where the "Cutters" team won for like the third year in a row (see the film "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078902/">Breaking Away</a>" to truly understand what this is).<br /><br />After final exams, I drove back to New Jersey for a summer internship with the Delaware River Basin Commission. From May to August, I sampled water from the river and its tributaries from the Delaware Water Gap down to Trenton and also took flow measurements in order to estimate nutrient and bacteria loadings. These loading estimates calculated from the data we collected this summer will be used to set nutrient criteria in order to preserve the Delaware River's current "anti-degradation" designation. Our data will also capture a baseline for future comparison after <a href="http://www.nj.com/news/index.ssf/2010/04/gas_drilling_debate_rages_in_d.html">gas drillers</a> up north penetrate the Marcellus Shale and discharge "frack" (hydraulic fracturing) wastewater into the river. I also did some independent research to measure the sediment oxygen demand (SOD) of the fine sediments in the river. In June, I strangely appeared on the <a href="http://www.phillyburbs.com/news/local/courier_times/courier_times_news_details/article/28/2010/june/28/preserve-has-rich-history-and-uncertain-future.html">front page</a> of a local newspaper and then in the American Roundup section of <span style="font-style: italic;">Stars & Stripes</span><span> in July</span>. On the side, I watched World Cup matches whenever I could. I also went to Rob's beach house a couple times, fished for fluke (Rob caught one 24 inches long, the biggest on the boat, and won $80!), visited Joanna at a PA state park north of Pittsburgh, and went on a couple hikes with old AmeriCorps friends including a backpacking trip up to the Adirondacks to climb Mt. Marcy, the highest point in NY state. On July 12th, I turned 25 years old, making me eligible for a quarter life crisis. I spent most of August doing bioassessments at Delaware River sites, staying overnight in NY State for a week, specifically Pike County. There I learned exactly why the river has an anti-degradation designation and why we were working to preserve it-- it was gorgeous. Before summer's end, I squeezed in a trip to America's first zoo, the Philadelphia Zoo. I best remember the sloths and hippos. Finally, Joanna flew out to meet me in New York City - we wandered the city, looked out from a castle in Central Park, saw the tunnel from "Home Alone 2," explored Chinatown, and walked on the Brooklyn bridge at night. We took the train back down to Jersey where I showed her Princeton, Lambertville, and New Hope, PA before cruising back out to Indiana for the fall semester.</div><br />I spent a lot of my free time in the fall with Joanna. We made scrumptious fresh salsa using Larry's Jersey-grown cherry bomb hot peppers. We went to an IU men's soccer game vs highly ranked UCLA and watched Hoosiers pull away for a 5-1 win. We found and explored the quarries made famous in the "Breaking Away" movie mentioned earlier. They had eerie graffiti and little Christ crosses and flowers for the kids who did not survive the 60 foot jump into the water. We took a dip in a shallower quarry which was very blue and loaded with calcium carbonate from the limestone. We also swam in Lake Monroe, from which the city of Bloomington draws water to be treated for drinking. One weekend, Joanna's friends from Chicago drove down to Bloomington to go camping in Deam Wilderness in Hoosier National Forest. We climbed a fire tower and broke open geodes in the creek beds and made a makeshift shelter with a rope and tarp. In October, me, Joanna, and some friends went to the IU vs. Michigan football game, which was close and had an exciting finish, but of course IU lost, 42-35. Throughout the semester we went to a number of potlucks and brought things like hummus, spanish meatballs (tapas or finger food theme), and pasta salad. We did a lot of cooking in general, out of necessity, but it was enjoyable to try out new spices, techniques, and recipes.<br /><br />A Dylanesque troubadour named <a href="http://www.joepugmusic.com/">Joe Pug</a> came to town and played at The Bishop down on Walnut Street. I had seen him play outdoors in Austin, TX at the SXSW music festival in March, and I was delighted to see him again, meet him after the show, and buy his album called "Messenger". One weekend Joanna and I drove up to Anderson Orchard, not far from Indianapolis, to do some apple picking. It was a little late in the season so most of the apple trees had been picked clean or the apples had fallen and rotted on the ground, but we managed to fill a peck-size bag with ripe golden delicious. We also gathered, opened, and ate sweet chestnuts that had fallen, Joanna picked a pumpkin, and I bought butternut and acorn squashes. All through the fall, whether I wanted to or not, I watched or heard about the Indianapolis Colts football team. The town of Cream & Crimson turns blue on Sundays. In mid-November, one of my favorite musical artists, Gene Ween, who comes from New Hope, PA, played at The Bluebird. He wandered out on stage, sat on the stool in front of the microphone, and told the audience how he had driven out from New Jersey. And when he started to play Bruce Springsteen's "The River," I just about lost it --for me it doesn't get better than that.<br /><br />Academically, I learned how to perform spatial analysis with ArcGIS and Idrisi software in my Geographic Information Systems class and I learned the basics of drinking water treatment, wastewater treatment, desalination technology, and removal of water contaminants in my Environmental Engineering class. Additionally, I conducted a research project investigating the fate and transport of pharmaceutical compounds and personal care products in wastewater effluent in the nearby town of Ellettsville. So far, the results of the experiment do not indicate any clear trends. The highlight of the fall semester, however, was serving as a teaching assistant for a Limnology class which covered the physical, chemical, and biological processes of inland waters. I truly enjoyed the opportunity to guide my peers on multiple field trips, teach water sampling techniques, and demonstrate analysis methods in the laboratory. It was just a joy to share knowledge and bring clarity to a convoluted subject. The energy and attitudes of the students fed my enthusiasm, and in return my enthusiasm boosted their energy and attitudes.<br /><br />Along with my positive experience as a teaching assistant, I simultaneously had a very negative experience in my Environmental Engineering class. The professor was the worst teacher I've had in my many years of school. The professor was tenured and thus immune to the threat of losing his job and he was much more research-oriented than teaching-oriented and thus uninterested in seeing his students succeed in learning new material. Of the duties expected of a teacher, he barely did the minimum. He came to class, wrote problems on the board without much explanation, and recited word-for-word what was on his handouts without much additional explanation. Being in his class was no better than if I tried to learn on my own with a textbook. What's worse is that he didn't know the material in a deep detailed way and he would not admit his mistakes when he was wrong -- being "right" was more important to him than communicating the truth of science. Consequently, this professor lost my trust and respect. He also constructed his exams in such a way that no matter how much someone studied they would get most of the answers wrong, which made the exams more like roulette, a game of luck, instead of an assessment commensurate to the amount of preparation by the students. Since the class's average exam score was an F, he would steeply curve the exams based on the overall distribution of the scores. So instead of Student vs. Exam as it ought to be, it was Student vs. Student. This curving method pitted students against each other, discouraging collaboration in a class where the teacher had left his students for dead and collaboration was perhaps the only avenue for real learning. The bottom line is, this professor was the perfect example of how to be an awful teacher.<br /><br />At the start of the school year, Mr. Welsh, my former high school social studies teacher/soccer coach died tragically. He had taught/coached for 30 years. Assuming he taught and coached about 100 students per year, that means he reached about 3000 young people during a crucial, formative time in their lives -- the study habits and associations developed in high school can affect the entire trajectory of a person's life. Welsh's influence was undeniably evident based on the deluge of affection and fond memories shared by past students through Facebook and the way his passing shook the community. One former student skillfully summed up the essence of Welsh:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">To the Editor: Brian Welsh’s Gifts </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">In the outpouring of remembrance and thoughts present across the last few days in the connections between alumni of West Windsor-Plainsboro High School, it’s immediately possible to spot the nature of the impact left on our lives by the gifts of Brian Welsh. His personal energy in the classroom was unmatched; he taught with passion, unapologetic bombast, and vibrancy...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">In the times in my adult life in which I’ve been lucky enough to teach, I’ve thought often of Mr. Welsh and the other teachers in my life like him. I think often about my own methods, and how there’s an occasional temptation towards teaching by rote, of opening up a standard lesson plan and releasing myself from the responsibility of individual connection. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It’s easy to get discouraged by disengaged students, or perceptions of an apathetic administration, or a thousand other hurdles that can mar the unique and rare talents and joys of being an educator. It’s much harder to tap into the parts of yourself that are more than just the purveyor of textbook knowledge and to continually use those parts to engage and unlock the gifts of your students. It’s much harder to tap into something that can be both grounded and inspirational, and yet still operate successfully within the confines of a classroom.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Mr. Welsh was one of the sterling examples at WW-P of a teacher who could do just that. His lessons echo within me and within the enormous number of other students he reached...<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">The image of him — voice raised, quick to laugh, face bright red, riling up a room-full of students — remains vivid and clear in my head. That’s the thing about the best teachers we encounter in our lives; we see them for their strengths, and what they can impart to us, and the parts of being human that are epic, and sturdy, and renewable, year after year, giving us wisdom one classroom period at a time. And that is noble and true, but it is not the whole story. And it is easy to forget that.There’s more to all of us, as people, and sometimes that becomes easy to forget, even as memories and lessons learned from our teachers become indelible parts of who we are. And when something like this happens, it’s both a horrific shock and a reminder that the people we idolize and encapsulate aren’t ever that far off from us.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I feel lucky to have known you, Mr. Welsh. Thank you for everything.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">John Elliott</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">WW-P High School Class of 2000</span></span><br /><br /><br />The combination of my appointment as a teaching assistant, experiencing just how bad a teacher can be, and remembering one of my best teachers has opened my eyes to the potential rewards of a career devoted to teaching others. Though my resume is primed for a government position, I may seriously consider teaching as an alternative.<br /><br />In the new year, I resolve to complete my Master's degree and work hard to find a job. Exciting and frightening to have no clue where I'll be in one year...<br /><br /><br />Happy 2011!<br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-62475779703718380842010-01-10T09:56:00.000-08:002014-01-12T06:22:14.980-08:00Highs and LowesDuring the summer and over winter break in 2009, I worked at Lowe's Home Improvement Warehouse for a combined four months as a customer service associate in their seasonal department. Though I am still a Lowe's employee on leave, it is unlikely I'll work there again. Thus, I think it is appropriate now to reflect on some memorable moments and share what I learned while working at Lowe's.<br />
<br />
<b>Work List </b>(for those who have not worked in retail)<br />
During the week, with few customers present: restock shelves, pull products to front of shelves, turn products facing forward, move products to new locations, put away returned products, replace missing/faded price tags, sweep floors, dust displays, take out trash, put cardboard in bailer, etc.<br />
During the weekend, with many customers present: greet customers, direct them to a product, help them get a product down with a ladder or help them lift a heavy product, answer departmental phone calls, check a price, make recommendations, etc.<br />
<br />
And when all these tasks were complete, the managers would invent some more for no other purpose than to keep us busy.<br />
<br />
<b>Birds</b><br />
The seasonal department was half indoors and half outdoors, and I mostly worked indoors. Some of the products I sold were: lawn mowers, chain saws, axes, rakes, tarps, grills, fire pits, space heaters, fans, air conditioners, patio furniture, hoses, pesticides, fertilizers, potting soil, plants, grass seed, bird feeders, etc. My favorite part of the department was the back wall, where we kept the bird seed. Several birds had flown in through the automatic glass doors, and<br />
made themselves at home up in the warehouse rafters and around the bird seed. Seeing these birds living in Lowe's each day would make me smile, but they made it difficult to sell, for instance, a soiled patio set.<br />
<br />
One evening, while loading a shiny new grill into a man's vehicle, I learned that birds live right outside Lowe's, too. When the man's head turned away for just a moment, a bird dropped a wet one on the metal cover--Splat! A second later, the man, who wore glasses that magnified the size of his eyes, turned his head back. But, luckily, I had already wiped the astonishment from my face and the shit splatter from the metal using the assembly sheet (Lowe's assembles grills for free) that had been taped to the front. Phew.<br />
<br />
<b>Red vest</b><br />
Most customers have the misconception that, just because someone wears a red vest with Lowe's printed on it, they not only know where every product is in the entire warehouse, they also have owned each product before and know exactly how well it works. Since, of course, I had never owned the products I sold, I simply had to pretend. In the beginning, I tried honesty, and would kindly tell the customer, "I don't know." Then they would reply, "OK, then get me someone who DOES know." And it sure didn't help that I was probably the youngest-looking person working at the store. For example, a muscular man with gelled hair asked me if we had the "smoking coals" that his grill manual recommended. Thinking about the things we had on the shelves and what past customers had said, I replied sort of shakily "I think they mean woodchips." The man waved me away with his hand and found an older associate who said, "Oh, they're talking about woodchips." And the man was happy.<br />
<br />
My youth, which could not be changed, and lack of brash confidence set me back. So, I had no choice but to learn to be a confident pretender, because more customers preferred confident misinformation over meek honesty. But most of the time answers were written directly on the box or in the manual inside the box. And, over time, you remember a lot of these answers. Also, some customers were glad to offer some feedback, good and bad, about products they had already bought and owned. One strange man even whispered in my ear about the possibility of a massive potato famine in New England, like the one that conquered the Irish some years back, and declared that the fungicide held in his hand would save all the potatoes from extinction. On the other hand, a woman railed me personally (not Lowe's) for selling "poisons!" that would contaminate community well water.<br />
<br />
<b>Kindness</b><br />
It's more important than confidence. I think the majority of adults appreciate manners and politeness more than any other aspect of customer service, speed and product knowledge included. Once I cheerfully greeted an elderly man who was looking at some garden gloves. We talked for about a minute, then he asked if we carried a specific item--we didn't. Then the old man asked me, "Can I shake your hand?" So I shook his hand. I didn't really help him all that much, so the only thing I can think of is that the handshake was simply about kindness.<br />
<br />
Another time an overweight man was browsing patio furniture. I greeted him, asked if I could help with anything. After a few words (he was a retired Rutgers University professor who lived in my neighborhood), he shyly asked if we sold any chairs that could support over 300 lbs. Together, we examined the chairs out on display, and found one that listed the proper weight capacity. The man was very appreciative and said he'd call the store later after he spoke with his wife. He called that night and ordered the patio chairs. Again, kindness trumps all.<br />
<br />
During my tenure at Lowe's, I was able to pantomime to a man who could not speak, read a label to a blind man, and lift an air conditioner for a one-armed man. None of them asked for my help until I offered kindly.<br />
<br />
<b>Music</b><br />
Lowe's plays music to enhance its shoppers' experience, but more importantly, to put them in the mood to buy more things. A while back, I learned from a friend studying social psychology and economics that when people are sad, they tend to spend more money. Consequently, the Lowe's music selection consists of polished poppy downers. And the worst part is that there are only about 25 of them that stay on repeat. And a few, like Tom Petty's Freefallin' or R.E.M.'s Imitation of Life, are not the Tom Petty or R.E.M versions! Instead, it's a mellow, slowed down cover sung by a poor pop singer. Not every song is completely terrible though, since Lowe's must also target new homeowners, the young crowd. So, here and there, you get a surprise tune by Wilco or the Fleet Foxes, but it is rare.<br />
<br />
Also, Lowe's might be ignoring the fact that their employees also hear the store music, and sad songs may not exactly help their productivity.<br />
<br />
<b></b><br />
<b>Tough customers</b><br />
An axiom in the US is that The Customer is Always Right. Customers know this truth and often abuse it to get their way. For example, a man bought a $600+ snow thrower before the recent pre-Xmas snow storm, only to return it the next week in perfect condition to get his money back. His excuse was that the snow chute wouldn't turn, but we checked and it turned perfectly fine. But Lowe's took the snow thrower back anyway. That's Lowe's policy. It's about maintaining a positive long-term relationship with its customers instead of winning a short-term battle and permanently losing a customer(to Home Depot).<br />
<br />
Besides the customer being in the position of power, helping customers was also difficult due to poor communication. Customers often would not know the name of, or would be unable to describe, the item they were seeking. Some would come unprepared without a model number or the old part they were replacing. And the worst part is that customers would accuse us, the service associates, of providing poor service based on the communication breakdowns that they created. Since this particular Lowe's is located in a diverse section of New Jersey, english was the second language for a lot of customers. For example, an asian man asked if the engine covering of a certain lawn mower was "marrow." He meant metal. This type of communication lapse was hard to overcome as well.<br />
<br />
Some customers don't think before they ask. My favorite: "Do you keep your indoor plants indoors?"<br />
<br />
<b>Rich and Poor</b><br />
Something I like about Lowe's is that it caters to the whole range of incomes. Even though some people have more money or less money than others, they all have home improvement projects, which puts them on even ground. Two recent examples: 1) After the big snow storm before Xmas, there was a rain storm that melted the snow and subsequently flooded everyone's basement. As a result, we sold a lot of sump pumps that day. Anyway, a former Republican gubernatorial candidate (I recognized him because he lives in our town and I used to be friends with his son) came in asking for a sump pump. For some reason, it pleased me to know that a potential governor's basement floods, too, just like everyone else, and that he sought out a sump pump himself at his local Lowe's. 2) I worked Xmas eve, and a very young couple was interested in a low-end grill. The urgency with which they scoped the best grill deals indicated to me that this would be the centerpiece of their Christmas. Once they picked out a grill, I found it for them on the shelf in a box. The lady was on the brink of tears because she wanted the grill assembled for her family to see on Christmas morning. At their request, I rummaged around the grill assembly room looking for an extra, already assembled grill of the model they wanted. I found one, a little banged up, but good enough, and wheeled it down to them. Not caring that the grill was not in mint condition, they cried joyful tears and wished me the happiest holiday. Bottom line is, Lowe's is for everyone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Yes, working at Lowe's was not the most intellectually stimulating job, but I still learned a lot of things that I would not have learned otherwise. And you can't really complain about the lax dress code (jeans and a shirt with a red vest over the top), the interesting interactions with a range of different people, the physical exercise of being on your feet all day lifting things, and working outdoors (occasionally).<br />
<br />
No one is "above" any job, no matter how educated you are. And, especially in these poor economic times, I am damn grateful I had the opportunity to work at Lowe's.Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-10501928557785429292009-11-07T07:17:00.000-08:002009-11-07T09:40:59.549-08:00What do you learn in Grad School?Besides your specific area of study, there is much to learn in grad school. In a phrase, I'll call it self-governance.<br /><br />There are several components to self-governance. Firstly, no one is going to buy the groceries, pack the lunches, cook the dinners, clean the clothes except you. These things should come before school. Without hearty meals and non-grimy clothing, you will surely wither into a greasy, malnourished loser. These necessities form a foundation. If they crumble, then the whole building crumbles. So, health comes first.<br /><br />If it appears that you have a free afternoon, then you are mistaken. There is always something that needs to be done, whether it is for school, a potential job opportunity, or just a nagging errand. Every minute matters. Simultaneously, one must consider their sanity. No one can just work and run errands every waking moment. But if you want a break to enjoy the outdoors, exercise, nap, or socialize, then you must plan it in to your schedule. Simultaneously, again, one must accept that the schedule never unfolds as initially planned. Every day morphs, and you have to adapt.<br /><br />Thus, the goal is a kind of flexible rigidity--a kind of balance.<br /><br />That's a glimpse of the overarching picture of self-governance. On the psychological side, I think the goal is also a kind of balance. I see it as two parts: Confidence and Substance. By Confidence, I am referring to the courage and belief that one can and will succeed (Whether you think you can or you can't, you're usually right. -Henry Ford). By Substance, I am referring to the base of knowledge accrued through earnest study habits.<br /><br />Since the apparent goal of professors is to assign more work than is possible to finish and to challenge grad students beyond their capabilities, the mean level of student Confidence is often below the detection limit. Some colleagues think they can build Confidence through hard work and long periods of study, through Substance. This is true, but the resulting Confidence boost is small and temporary, only until the next big hard assignment. Other colleagues think they can build Substance through unjustified levels of Confidence. Remarkably, this is also true, but tenuous. The best balance is to develop a strong belief in yourself, even if there is not much backing to hold that strong belief, and then to study like mad to justify that strong belief, accepting the fact it will never be completely justified.<br /><br />Substance builds Confidence, Confidence builds Substance. You need both.<br /><br />Revisiting how professors assign more work than is possible to finish, new grad students are forced to make a mental transition. They must switch from their self-imposed standard of work quality (which is probably what got them admitted to grad school) to a new standard of quantity. Yes, this is terrible for those of us who would rather turn one perfect assignment than twenty good assignments. But when you think about it, the latter achievement is more impressive, and more efficient.<br /><br />The best way for me to explain is to reflect about a ceramics course I took as an undergrad. Our assignment was, given a fixed amount of clay and twenty minutes, to build the tallest sculpture we could using the coiling technique. Everyone worked with haste, and everyone made a respectable piece. Critiquing our accomplishments afterwards, the consensus was that imperfect-yet-perfectly-adequate work could be achieved in a short time. It's a lesson that's reinforced in graduate school.<br /><br />One last point about self-governance. Planning ahead takes time and energy. So if you happen to have time, energy, and a completeable task in front of you, then do it right away instead of using that time and energy to make a plan to do it later.<br /><br />To sum up:<br /><br />-Health comes first<br />-Every minute matters<br />-Keep a structured schedule but be willing to deviate from it<br />-Plan in time for fun stuff<br />-Be confident, build substance<br />-Realize that good work can be completed in a short time<br />-If you have something to get done, do it right away<br /><br />To govern oneself, to employ these lessons, that's what you learn in grad school.<br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-63653002173195609322009-09-27T14:32:00.000-07:002009-09-27T15:46:51.963-07:00Out on Indiana IslandI've lived alone in Bloomington Indiana for 43 days. Of those 43, about 35 were t-shirt weather. This past week I got caught in the rain. Instead of waiting for the bus, I walked a mile from the School of Public and Environmental Affairs building back to my apartment. I had a small black umbrella to shield me, but it wasn't big enough to shield my backpack too. As I crossed side streets, foot-deep curb-hugging flows splashed over my suede shoes and soaked my jean bottoms. But the worst was Walnut Street where fast automobiles sent up mean tsunami sprays all on me. When I got to my apartment, I changed clothes and set my notebooks to dry. The next time it rains, I'll take the bus.<br /><br />Bloomington has poor stormwater drainage, but it is still a good city. Most days are sunny. There are lots of happy families--spouse, child, & dog--everywhere all the time. There's a farmer's market each Saturday with local everything for sale, and I haven't missed one yet. There are competitive pick up soccer games daily. The downtown area is chock full of little shoppes and eclectic restaurants. A number of sports bars show the Bears and Colts games. The town is bike and pedestrian friendly. There are several nice parks in town and nice hiking/camping places just outside of town. This part of Indiana has trees, hills, and lakes.<br /><br />From my apartment I hear the tweet of birds, the chug of cargo trains, the whiz of cars going down College Avenue, and the rev of pickup trucks pulling out of the porn shop. I live next to a porn shop.<br /><br />Because I cook with it a lot, my apartment often smells like garlic. I've been cooking for myself a few times each week. It's therapeutic and delicious. I do not like washing dishes, though.<br /><br />I bought a cheap dirty pink couch at a yardsale for my living room. I've covered it with a navy blue down blanket. My NY Giants pillow rests in the corner. I have a National Geographic World Map from 1988 on one wall and a road map of New Jersey from 2007 on another wall, next to a picture of The Boss posing on Sunset Strip in 1975.<br /><br />This semester I'm taking Environmental Chemistry, Statistics, Public Management Economics, and Limnology. I also work 10 hours a week as a graduate assistant for an aquatic chemistry professor. And I'm the campus-wide environmental science masters student representative for the Graduate and Professional Student Organization (GPSO). I go to a meeting once a month.<br /><br />The other students in my program are kind, interesting, and intelligent. It is a privilege to be here learning with them. If you fall down, they pick you up.<br /><br />At this point, four weeks in, the simple introductory material is ending, and the great workpile is rising. It's time to work hard or, at least, work harder than I have been. Whatever work comes, surely it won't suck as bad as walking a lonely wet mile in the Indiana rain.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-85013890151044533702009-06-10T15:10:00.001-07:002009-08-22T07:32:58.356-07:00Chronicles of Namibia--Part 5<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Note: You may want to read Chronicles of Namibia--Parts 1-4 before you begin this one.</span><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">"What's the matter with his ears? I don't see nothin' wrong with 'em. I think they're cute." </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">"Hot diggety! You're flying! You're flying!" </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">-Timothy Q. Mouse in <em>Dumbo</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">A shuttle van met us in front of Jollyboys at 6 AM. I was drowsy from aggregate sleep deprivation and mild deet intoxication. As we left Livingstone, the roads quickly became narrow and bumpy. My head bobbled between the seat and the window as the sun rose, and my Pixar "Cars" kids sunglasses shaded my eyes to aid rest. A few middle-aged American women shared the shuttle with us. They were on some kind of business trip, and rather chatty. The driver braked, let us out, while the chatty women continued onto something called "Lion Encounter." I had an underlying hope that the result of their encounter would somehow mute them permanently.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">Rob, Karen, Nick and I walked over to some chairs and a table set in dewy green grass beside the Zambezi river. We signed in, sat, sipped coffee as the main guide went through the safety protocols. After a quick bathroom call, it was time. In a shady dirt clearing beside a 15 ft high wooden staircase, we waited for a long quiet minute. Then, mounted by men, out from the Zambian wilds, ten beasts came forth-- African Elephants, grey and mighty, pressing the earth with heavy steps. The lead guide halted the parade. The elephants formed a semi-circle around us, then the guide asked us to point to which one we wanted to ride. Rob and I, of course, picked out the largest in the herd. His name was Danny. Danny was comparatively reddish in color, and kind of tatty. Examining his rough skin I observed sporadic patches of hair and some wedges removed from his floppy ears. He had a few warts on his skin that looked like cantaloupe halves. Rob and I climbed the staircase to mount Danny. My legs spread across the padded saddle stretching my groin beyond its comfort zone. A kind Zimbabwean man joined us atop Danny, helped us find some balance and get our feet in the metal stirrups. Soon Nick and Karen were perched on their elephant, Matinda, and the beasts walked single file into the wild. </span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">We led the way since Danny was the biggest. He stood about eleven feet tall. Add my three foot torso and we were 14 feet above the ground, cruising right through the treetops. Overall, Danny's stride was quite smooth, but since I was sitting in a split position, even the slightest jerk was magnified. It was easy to ignore the discomfort though, because goddam we were riding the grandest land animal on the planet! The whole time I found it difficult to fathom the fact we were riding a living creature with an independent brain. The best reminder that Danny was an animal just like us was his insatiable appetite. Danny was always hungry. Without breaking stride, his trunk would, without warning, shoot out to the side, curl around a thick branch, snap, rip it, bring it to his mouth. Then he would chew for the next 50 meters, or until he'd swallowed all his piece of tree. Trees and vegetation are mostly fiber, which goes right through the elephant digestive system, so they must compensate by eating an obscene amount each day--300 to 600 lbs! This also means that elephants probably poop about 300 to 600 lbs each day. Yes, we saw some big droppings.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">As we rode, I touched Danny's skin. It felt like there was a one-inch callous all over. When I pushed with my finger, the whole section around my finger went inward instead of just where my finger was. Sometimes Danny would rest his moistened trunk on top of his head, probably with the hope the Zimbabwean man would feed him. When Danny did this, the opening of his trunk pointed right at me, so I received periodic blasts of stinky air in the face. I didn't mind it too much. Danny was easy to forgive since we was a well-behaved, smart, and peaceful elephant. His personality reminded me of the tall weirdo on the playground in middle school that no one got too close to, but everyone respected, whether they cared to admit it or not. Danny was an easy-going, independent thinker--kind of like Napolean Dynamite.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">In a sunny clearing Danny cast a massive shadow with three humps on his back (the Zimbabwean, me, and Rob). Ahead we saw a herd of Springbok. They scrammed into the brush when our parade came through. Soon the path went alongside the muddy Zambezi riverbanks, leaving behind frisbee-sized footprints with toe contours. Rob and I watched Nick and Karen's elephant go in for a drink followed by a few baby elephants. Across the river we could see Zimbabwe. The Zimbabwean riding Danny with us mentioned how he comes over to Zambia to work, and then goes back home to Zimbabwe where his family lives. The line of elephants tore through the woods toward the wooden staircase from whence we came, Rob and I ducking tree branches along the way.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">When we returned, we dismounted via the staircase, then had a few minutes to take pictures, interact with, and feed our respective elephants. Danny sat down and put out his trunk, a lot like a kid holds out their trick-or-treat bag. Rob and I took turns grabbing handfuls of wheatmeal pellets from a burlap bag and put them in Danny's trunk. When I did this, I looked at Danny in the eye. He seemed old, wise, and thankful. If Danny wanted to, he could've mauled us with his hard white tusks or squashed us like watermelons, but he did not. The guide told us they rarely have to resort to rifles, just one or two times per year, to tame the grey giants. After the feeding, we waved goodbye to Danny and the others and watched them march, tails swinging freely, back into the jungle. They had earned some "wild time" after a good hard hour of porting humans around.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">We sat at a long table for a nice hearty breakfast: Eggs, bacon, and toast, with a choice of juice. The tourists we sat with were mostly Americans on business or vacation. I spoke with a man from Colorado working in the mining industry. Said he loved how his job allowed him to travel. After breakfast, we watched the video of our elephant ride with Toto's "Africa" as the music. The video was nice, but we had already captured the moment just as well with our own cameras, so we did not make the purchase. We waited for the shuttle van to come pick us up. Meantime, Nick and I chased a little white monkey into a slanted tree along the river bank. In the distance, just above the treeline, we watched a rising cloud-swirl ascend to the heavens. The holy torrents of Victoria Falls were stirring a mere eight kilometers away.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">The shuttle van, void of those chatty women (maybe a lion was fed?), pulled up. The driver agreed to drop us off at Victoria Falls instead of Jollyboys, sparing us valuable time. He let us out at a paved lot full of vendors. A wild "marimba man" provided a clangy soundtrack while we roamed the premises. Decorative cloths and jewelry hung from the makeshift roofs while an assortment of carved statues rose up from the ground. It was like entering a cave with stalactites and stalagmites. A second, more sedate marimba man called out to us as he played, asking us to buy a marimba. We walked over, Nick gestured, and the man handed him the mallets. He played a wicked smooth rain dance tune that won the ears of many. When we continued on our way, the man called out to us, "Hey, you come back soon, you remember my name is Stephen!"</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">We went to a small booth to pay an entry cost to see the all-powerful falls. When we saw a rack of shoddy ponchos for rent along the stone walkway we decided to take a moment to shift around our H2O-vulnerable items. We also went to a restroom to change into swimsuits before moving on. At the edge of a stone cliffside stairwell, there was a gap in the canopy. Behold! Mighty Victoria! A dangerous, unrestrained, uncontained, raging ocean of fury. We peered over the iron bannister and posed for pictures which were conveniently cropped by some hanging branches. Then we carefully bagged our cameras and started down the stairwell, into the vapor hurricane. Since it was the wet season, the total water accumulation was to the max--Vic falls flowed full force. And this hydroforce would spray gallons upon gallons of water back up into the air, creating some crazy acute weather changes. One minute it would be calm and pleasant. The next minute you'd get slapped in the mouth with a bucket of water. In no time we were drenched. I plodded along the puddly path, hunched over my bag of belongings trying keep them dry, but it was futile. Soon we came to small bridge, positioned in the thick of the storm, connecting two bare cliffs. We breathed deep, then walked the plank. The cold hard splashes, swimmer's ear, and bouts of perceived drowning were small sacrifices; we were getting closer to God.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Suddenly, standing soaked in the center of the bridge, came a fleeting moment of peace. The roar of the falls seemed to fade to the background. I lifted my head out of my hunch to see </span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">white cream pouring over black chocolate in a jungle of green lettuce. Looking down off the bridge glowing color stripes appeared, and my eyes followed it until I had spun in a full pirouette. This wasn't a rainbow. This was a rainhalo. And just as my lips bent into a cheshire smile, a gust of chubby water pellets brought me back to awareness. But, man, no amount of wind or water could wash off this grin. It was like I had just looked up Victoria's dress.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">We retreated from the bridge to the next cliff and then ducked into the forest for some cover. The paths were mostly vacant, but occasionally we saw other folks. For example, we saw a pair of pale, male, shirtless, beer-gutted (you guessed it) Americans. We saw a few retired European couples, moving all slow and casual, checking off one of the "one thousand places to see before you die." We also saw some native Zambians visiting their backyard natural wonder of the world. One Zambian teenager asked to have his picture taken with us. Having a picture with four young white tourists was way cool. It undoubtedly made his day, perhaps his week. </span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">We stopped at a lookout point a good distance from Victoria's vapor. We recuperated there. I removed my supersaturated shirt to get warm, and wrung it out. Meanwhile, we watched people jump from the great Victoria Falls bridge, the third highest jump in the world. From afar, it looked terrifying. I thought those bungee stunt people were insane. I wanted nothing to do with it. But Nick, Karen, and Rob thought it looked fun. They wanted the adventure, they wanted the rush. So, without further delay, we gathered our bags, and retraced our steps along the forest path, over the rainhalo bridge, back up the stone stairwell. In the vendor lot, a young black man approached us. He said he was from Zimbabwe. He wanted to sell us some hand-carved hippo and rhino statues. When we told him we weren't interested, he still lingered, so we mentioned the bungee jump to him, and he was delighted (just like the boy who led us to Jollyboys) to show us the way. We waved to Stephen, the marimba vendor, when we passed him and ambled down a broken road toward Victoria Falls bridge. </span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">It happened so fast. Before I could mull it over, I had already handed over my money (and my life) to the Zambezi Adrenaline Company (ZAC). I blame peer pressure for this. I also blame ZAC's three for the price of one deal. Bungee jump, gorge swing, zip line. All for one irresistable price. The ZAC workers weighed us and scribbled our respective weights in kilos on our inner forearms with a red marker. My nerves hummed from deep within as our stunt quartet neared the bridge platform. The bridge was alive with a crowd of onlookers, pulleys, and dangling ZAC workers supported by ropes, harnesses, and carabiners. ZAC was in a hurry. They wanted to get our jumps in before their lunch break at 1:00pm. It was high noon. 111 meters high, to be exact. </span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">The jump order was chosen arbitrarily by ZAC. Nick was first. He was shirtless. ZAC dressed him with a harness. They wrapped his ankles with towels, for comfort, then tied on a thick rubber cord. Nick stood up. He bunny-hopped to to the edge. Unsympathetically, without pause, the ZAC workers shouted: <strong>FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE! BUNGEE!</strong> And Nick was gone. </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Karen was videotaping, watching her beau bounce n' bop like a rag doll beneath the bridge. Meanwhile, ZAC held me captive in a jewel-constricting harness. I was on deck.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">On the platform, a young ZAC worker coached me as he wrapped layers of towels around my ankles. He said to just relax, hold my arms out, and most importantly, don't look down. After riding the largest land creature, and skirting the largest water feature, I was feeling quite insignificant. "I'm nothing. I don't matter. See this big animal. See this big waterfall. I don't matter." This realization, along with ZAC's advertised "100% safety!" rating, made it slightly easier for me to toss my body into the gorge. I jumped somewhere between "ONE" and "BUNGEE." I was, in the words of Tom Petty,</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">"<em>F r e e e e e! . . . f r e e f a a a l l i n!</em>"</span> </p><p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Soaring headfirst into the gorge, I did not scream. The closer I got to the rushing water, the wider my grin became. The four full seconds of freefall were windy and long, then I sensed the stretch, which gradually slowed my fall to a halt. At the bottom there was a moment of trememdous tension between Isaac Newton and the Bungee and the discomfort concentrated in the tip of my head. The halt was short-lived. And I was slingshotted back out of the gorge 30 stories into the air. I lost all bearings. My body floppity flopped. Up and down became the same dizzying direction. After a good many bounces, I leveled out and hung. I felt my ankles start to slip through the towels so I flexed my feet and did an inverted sit-up to grab the bungee. I was hanging for so goddam long and I was so goddam disoriented. Then a ZAC worker slid down a rope to the rescue, and clipped me in. Together we maneuvered to the underbelly of the bridge, and he let me off on a steel-clad walkway with a railing. I climbed some stairs, opened a hatch, and was back up on the bridge.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">And I was mobbed by a group of sellers. I thought to myself, "these guys know I just jumped, they know I'm disoriented, they know my judgement is out of whack--Andy, you mustn't buy a thing." Though one macho guy in the group impressed me by rhythmically reciting the names of all 44 presidents in order. When he finished, he kept saying "Obama!" over and over. Obama, the first African American president, had been inaugurated 18 days earlier. I ignored the sellers and got to the jumping platform just in time for Karen's jump. I snatched up the digital camera and started a movie. Karen made a mistake. She looked down. She stood on the edge trembling with fear, and I shouted that it would all be OK. When ZAC counted down, she didn't jump. So ZAC counted down again, and Karen, instead of jumping, leaned slowly forward until gravity took her. She screamed the whole way down and all through the first bounce.</span></p><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><p><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">It was time for my gorge swing. I put on a new harness and walked onto the small metal gorge swinging platform. The gorge swing is the same height as the bungee jump. The main difference is that you fall feet first, not head first, and enter an arcing swing, not a chaotic bouncing frenzy. On the platform, a ZAC worker told me to grab the rope and NOT to jump out or I would snap my neck. Instead of jumping out, he said I should "step off," and while he was saying this, shit shit shit! It was too late. I had looked down. After a lot of hesitation, the ZAC worker, while lending me a steady nudge, told me to "STEP OFF". The first half of the fall my feet were doing some kind of manic air pedal, then my groin straps tightened. The pain was bearable, and the pleasure of flying through Victoria Falls gorge, a sweet sweet miracle. Being right-side-up, I could see it all. Letting out a joyous "whoop!" I pumped my right arm above my head like twirling a lasso. </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">ZAC retrieved me in time to see Rob's gorge swing. Rob let out a loud chesty howl, his legs flailing searching for solid ground. Rob may have had a tad too much hop in his "step off." When ZAC pulled him out of the gorge, he had two purple spots on his neck. Some blood vessels had burst. Rob was OK. When we convened on the bridge afterwards we saw that Karen, too, had some red spots on her cheeks from ruptured capillaries. We done some extreme shit, man.</span><br /></p><br /><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Meanwhile the sellers on the bridge persisted. We were Americans with money of value. They were Zimbabweans with money of no value. But, for souvenirsake, we made the trade. I bought a set of $100 million, $10 billion, $20 billion, and $50 billion dollar bills. Only after the transaction did I realize my seller had omitted the grand $50 trillion dollar bill. But no matter since Karen, Nick, and Rob got a few. (Zimbabwe's currency was featured on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart shortly after we got back. He joked how Zimbabwe's economy was so bad that the conversion rate was $50 trillion ZIM dollars for about 33 US cents.) Nick also picked up four necklaces each with a pointy black spirally medallion. The medallion represents the spirit and God of Victoria Falls. We walked back to the Zambian side of the bridge to the ZAC headquarters escaping the sellers and the hot afternoon sun. We drank bottled water and sat at a wooden table. The ZAC men enjoyed lunch.</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">During the break I found a couch positioned in front of a movie screen. ZAC had filmed our jumps! The main camera angle was from the edge of the gorge, zoomed all the way in on the bridge. When they played the footage of our jumps in sequence, we were sold. While they edited the videos for us, we got ready for part three of the ZAC trifecta: the zipline. The zip from Zam to Zim. I went first. I dangled from the line in my harness for a minute, was given a go, shouted "I'M GOIN TO ZIMBABWE!!" My voice trailed and I was off like a shot. Hanging halfway, high above the green gorge with the brown river running below, the wind cooling my face, time and the zipline seemed to slow down. I was in love with the world.</span><br /></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">A ZAC worker caught me, brought me to the bridge, then I had no choice but to step briefly into Zimbabwe. After the others made their peace with the world along the zipline, we took some pictures with the "You Are Now Entering Zimbabwe" sign. Back at the ZAC headquarters, we bought our completed bungee videos. Our original friend who had first led us to ZAC lingered still. Rob bought his hand-carved hippos and rhinos. As we tried to leave, a Zim boy approached me attempting to sell some carved wooden masks. Earlier, I accidentally broke my plastic Pixar "Cars" kids sunglasses, so I offered them to him, perhaps in exchange for a mask. The boy put the sunglasses in his breast pocket. When I said I'd buy a mask he explained that they must be bought in a set of two. I didn't want a set of two. I didn't even want the one mask. When I moved to put my money away, he threw me the one mask and snatched the paper bills from my hand. He didn't take all that much. I see it as a donation to his destitute village. Today I honestly can't look at the wooden mask without thinking of the desperation on that poor kid's face.</span><br /></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">We haggled for a cheap taxi back to Jollyboys. Tired and high from the morning adventures, we immediately put in orders at the bar. I ordered an eggs & toast budget breakfast with my beer and we sat around the pool. Another beer. Soon Karen brought an important point to our attention. How are we gonna get out of here tomorrow? When's the next bus leave? <strong>Where</strong> do we catch it? Soon the four of us were out roaming the crowded streets of Livingstone searching for some kind of bus stop. Old women were selling fresh (and rotten) fruit along the sidewalks. We came upon a dirt field crowded with busy people and blue vans. I was damn nervous and made it my duty to adhere to my friends. Nick and Karen talked to people, gradually piecing together some information. After an hour or so, we arrived at a family-run bus kiosk. There we learned that buses left something like once every 12 hours. The next departure was at 3 AM. Waiting for a bus in the middle of the night in the middle of the city is dangerous. We really had no other options. That would be our bus.</span><br /></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">We lounged at Jollyboys until dinnertime when we opted to go out and find a joint called "Fezbar". We had a hell of a time finding it. The creeping darkness of the night didn't help either. The tiny, misproportioned Jollyboys map we were using led us into an eerily quiet neighborhood, so we backtracked, made some more wrong turns and asked a couple schoolkids for directions. They never said a word. Just nodded and led the way. We trusted them. In the dark they took us between buildings, through yards, around fences. After a long minute or two, we stood in the lights of the Fezbar restaurant. Nick tipped the schoolkids kindly and they scurried off into the darkness. The Fezbar was empty. There were cushioned benches all around the edge of the high ceiling room. It had some party potential, but no party tonight. The four of us sat alone at a bar table in the middle of the floor. We ordered Sprites, Cokes, and Fantas to drink. To eat, Rob, Karen, and Nick all ordered cranberry, brie, and bacon sandwiches. I ordered a ham & cheese. From our table we sat patiently, tracking the progress of the two clowns in the kitchen. When the sandwiches finally came, we were disappointed. The sandwich bread was stale. And the four sandwiches were all the same. Four ham & cheeses. </span><br /></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Back at Jollyboys Nick and Karen reminded Rob and I to set our alarms to catch the 3 AM bus. Nick announced that he wasn't going to bother sleeping and invited Rob and I for a swim. We respectfully declined. Rob and I shared our eight person dorm room with two very attractive blond Swedish girls and a merry man who called himself "Broo". Against the wall next to Broo was a little old guitar. I asked if he played. He said he didn't know how, just liked having one, and asked if I played. When I said yes, he extended the instrument across the room to me. It was out of tune. While I was tuning it Broo asked me if I knew any Bob Dylan. So I played "Blowin' in the Wind." Then I played Springsteen's "Growin' Up." Then my own song, "Alice Lenanyokie." Broo and the girls loved it! Finally I played my most popular original, "The Coffee Song". Turns out Broo owns a coffeeshop in Zanzibar. Afterwards, we exchanged emails and he asked if I could send him a recording. I put the guitar down and asked the girls what they were doing in Zambia. They each said they've completed their Master's Degrees in Ecology and were spending some time in Zanzibar with Broo doing a ton of scuba diving. Now they were travelling around the continent. Rob and I told them we were from New Jersey in the United States and that we both graduated from college majoring in Biology. We talked a little about the Green Movement and agreed that we would each do our part to rescue the planet. We wished them well, said goodnight, shut out the light. Our bus was scheduled to leave Livingstone in just three hours. </span><br /></p>Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-39610476817289641672009-05-14T18:53:00.000-07:002009-05-18T11:30:13.920-07:00Mama's Boy Got EmployedI was composing Part 5 of the Chronicles, and finished nearly half, but then something happened. I got employed. Let me explain.<br /><br />I want to rewind a bit. After returning from Namibia in mid-February, I spent a week recalibrating to New Jersey, USA. Then, before April, I made grad school visits to both the University of Illinois and Indiana University (in two long separate drives). I also visited friends in East Berlin, PA and Durham, CT. The time in between these visits was mostly squandered, but notable hours were put towards the open mic nights at my town's coffeeshop, <a href="http://www.groversmillcoffee.com/">Grover's Mill Coffee</a>. My friend, Sam, accompanied me in March, for a cover of the Beatles's "I've Just Seen A Face." In April, a violinist, also named Sam, joined Sam and I for a few numbers including Bob Dylan's "Mr. Tambourine Man" and the traditional tune "Goodnight Irene." We rocked 'em good. Also in April, I played a short set at something called "Singers in the Round" where a half dozen local artists were summoned to entertain, bring a crowd in on a Thursday night. I played some of my songs: "The Coffee Song", "I'm So Glad to Know", "I Won't Let You Down", and "Part Time Life." I also played Springsteen's "Badlands," but it was Dylan's "Blowin in the Wind" that made the performance. The song was dedicated to the late Gettysburg College student and Roosevelt, New Jersey resident: <a href="http://www.nj.com/news/ledger/jersey/index.ssf?/base/news-13/1239423322298620.xml&coll=1">Emily Silverstein</a>.<br /><br />I didn't know Emily, but her friends had told reporters she listened to Bob Dylan. The song segued into a simple two-chord finger-picked strum over which I recited the following words:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Emily Silverstein</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Loved to dance, smiled all the time</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She wore a crown of flowers in her hair</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She took her camera everywhere</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She never judged anyone</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She hugged everyone</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She had a messy room </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She ate healthy food</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She was a writer</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She was a swimmer</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She was a daughter </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She was a sister</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br />After the performance, the shop was somber. Franc, the owner, came up to me red-eyed and said, "Hey Andy, that song you wrote for that girl, that's good stuff." I thanked him for the compliment and then he thanked me for giving his business a shout before ripping into The Coffee Song. Then we started chatting about an apparent shared interest: Bruce Springsteen. I discovered soon that Franc and I could talk for days about Springsteen.<br /><br />Once the other Singers in the Round had played their sets, I went over to chat with them and Franc, too. I was telling someone I was having trouble landing summer employment, but finally got an interview with the store manager at Lowe's scheduled for tomorrow morning. Franc overheard this and said, "Really? I'm the store manager at Lowe's."<br /><br />And, so, now I have a job. I sell lawn mowers.<br /><br />I feel better with a job. There's a constant rhythm to my life, less room for unruliness. I'm busy, I'm useful, I'm making money. But, I will tell you, after the first day of work, there were some amazing stress chemicals coursing through my arms, and I was not at peace. It's taken a week to adjust back to a normal level of stress. Now I am OK, and I welcome the prospect of work.<br /><br />Before I go on, I want to revisit Studs Terkel's "WORKING" which I cited in my last post. Yeah, like I said, he sure does run the gamut with insightful interviews within the broad spectrum of professions. But I think Terkel overlooked a very important interview. He did not interview someone <em>without</em> a job. If "WORKING" is a science experiment, then Terkel conducted studies on plenty of <em>experimental</em> groups (each different occupation) and omitted the <em>control</em> group (no occupation). Surely my streak of joblessness (now broken!) helped me make this observation. To act as a former representative of the unemployed, I'll share some answers. What did I do all day? I did whatever I wanted, but options were limited because I had no money to spend. How did I feel about it? Initially, fantastic, but that wore off after consecutive weeks of stagnation in the same place. Also, over time my self esteem went down and my sloth/boredom went up. Perhaps the most ideal situation would be to work hard for a few months, then take a few months off, work, take off, and so on.<br /><br />Each morning, I drive to Lowe's in a red '95 Honda Civic. It has a manual transmission. At first I hated shifting gears, but now it comes naturally, automatically. But the joy of shifting gears to accelerate ("ya haven't really driven till you've driven stick!") is balanced by the anguish of stalling the engine in rush hour traffic (I did it on Tuesday). So there's upside and downside. Additionally, there are a few things about this vehicle that set it apart from other vehicles. First, there is no functioning clock; I never know the time. Second, the spedometer is out of service; I never know my speed. Third, the radio is broken; I never play music. Fourth, it is very difficult to lock; I rarely lock it. As a result, I am not troubled about being on time, obeying a speed limit, changing the radio station, or worrying whether the car will get stolen. When I drive this car, I do nothing but DRIVE, man. It's a spiritual thing. Lately I've taken a liking to Buddhism, but I'll save that for another time.<br /><br />I promise the Chronicles of Namibia-Parts 5-7 will be posted before I leave for Indiana in August.<br /><br />Peace,<br />Andy<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;"></span>Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-6366302008801189852009-04-15T19:42:00.000-07:002009-04-15T22:02:41.700-07:00Indiana Jones, Makin BonesDo not fear. The Chronicles will continue.<br /><br />A few things have been distracting me since posting Part 4. Foremostly, I visited Indiana University around the time when March became April, and it was nice! I got the vibe that Indiana knows who it is, knows it's identity, isn't trying to appear more macho than it really is. It's got pretty limestone buildings (the state of Indiana is known for it's limestone), plenty of trees and blossoms (the town is called Bloomington), and a hip city center with a melange of international cuisine ranging from Tibetan to Ethiopian. Otherwise, it's a midwest college town with 35,000 fun-loving drunken undergrads. I do not plan to partake in the boozing, but I do think spectating the boozing could prove to be a good source of entertainment. Indiana is a Big Ten school and supposedly has a thriving basketball program. I mean, Indiana is the state that produced Larry Bird and inspired the great movie "Hoosiers." The famous Indy 500 race takes place not too far north in Indianapolis, and Bloomington holds it's own "Little 500" bike race about which a movie was made, titled "Breaking Away." Anyway, the people I met within the School of Public and Environmental Affairs (SPEA) all seemed genuine and good-willed. I did not get a sense of intense competition but rather a sense of camaraderie. Many are alumni from Teach for America, AmeriCorps, or the Peace Corps, which might say a little about the type of students the program attracts. Last week, I mailed my enrollment deposit and committed to the two-year Environmental Science Master's program. I believe it'll be a good fit for me, and I'll be moving to Indiana in August.<br /><br />Meantime, I need a summer job. No one hires you unless you have experience, and you can't have experience unless you've been hired before. Thus I fear my only options fall under the umbrella of something called "general labor." Yeah, I'll either be painting houses, doing construction, or landscaping yards. Either that or lifting, opening, stocking boxes. I look forward to getting sweaty, messy, sore, and rich.<br /><br />I'll confess that the reason work seems attractive now is that I haven't done it for a while. If all I did was work, it would surely inflict some violence on my soul. That very concept of working and what it does to people has a certain draw to it. The late great man named <strong>Studs Terkel</strong> conducted a number of revealing interviews about what people do all day and how they feel about what they do. Earning some daily bread, seeking some daily meaning. The compilation is titled "WORKING," and it is fascinating. It's got contributions from janitors, hookers, farmers, stockbrokers, teachers, gravediggers--it runs the gamut. Based on the interviews, Studs alludes that perhaps the best, most fulfilling thing someone can be is, golly gee, a firefighter! They rescue people, save lives, they're in the public spotlight. They get to be a hero, like, every day. And they're necessary, because things do burn. They also get a mandatory adrenaline rush each time they surge into billowing orange flames. Firefighter: the real dream job. Too bad my town's fire department has volunteer-based recruitment. All I can afford to do right now, in order to pay for grad school, is to make money. I hate money.<br /><br />Stay tuned for Chronicles of Namibia--Part 5.Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-52100202914704801322009-03-16T10:56:00.000-07:002009-03-26T09:43:03.866-07:00Chronicles of Namibia--Part 4<div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">Note: You may want to read Chronicles of Namibia--Parts 1-3 before you begin this one.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">In the blackness before dawn we each packed a small bag for our 2-day excursion into Zambia. Overnight, a band of sophisticated goats had claimed Chris's backyard, forming some kind of a "squattocracy." We shuffled past these suave goats, hopped in the Hilux, tossed Chris the keys. He turned the ignition and simultaneously triggered a sound with a Mario Brothers device on the keychain, like we had just begun level one. After the jumbo mushroom in Tsumeb, I think we all experienced a fair amount of personal growth, and now we were nothing less than super. Chris drove along the dimly lit road past some darkened buildings and rolled up to the gate, which was shut. And the gatekeeper was gone too, so Chris went on a search. He rang up a few numbers and rapped on a few doors until he found the "on duty" gatekeeper snoozing on a bench in the corner of a room in a nearby building. The gatekeeper opened the gate and we rumbled onward in the pink predawn light until we reached the dirt lot by the petrol station. This was the bus stop. The delay at the gate was minor. We were on time.</span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">The bus was not on time. We waited at the stop for over an hour before it came. Chris, who had caught the Intercape (Africa's Greyhound) at this stop before, had warned us to expect considerable tardiness, but we kept on with our determined punctuality. The others rested in the car for a bit to pass the time while I took a look around. Cows and goats dotted the lot. A guard in uniform watched over the petrol pumps. Across the road there was a swarm of walking children. Each child wore a brightly colored t-shirt, each t-shirt much too large for its wearer. I knew the children weren't in school because it was the weekend, but at this early hour I really had no clue what they were up to. It sure was neat the way they stuck together.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Chris came out to join me. We found a crushed aluminum can, tried to play hacky-sack with it, then I got talking about Botswana.</span></div><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">"I've heard it's very expensive, but like they say, you get what you pay for. These guys staying at our hostel in Windhoek had just come back from Chobe National Park; they said they went on a three-hour safari and saw <em>everything</em>. They loved it. But one of the guys was all whiny about how a giant fly bit off a chunk of his face. He said it hurt real bad," I said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">"Hmm...that's interesting," Chris replied coolly, "Well, the only thing I've really heard about Botswana is how men in certain tribes have been known to come over here and abduct Namibian children. You see, a lot of these kids don't have a certificate or any official record of their birth so the Botswanans come take them away, kill them, and use their body parts to make voodoo dolls, and no one ever finds out about it. It's really fucked up," Chris said.</span></div><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">I was horrified, speechless for a full ten seconds before I talked again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">"You know, we were thinking about going to Botswana, but Nick would've had to notify the Peace Corps way in advance. And besides, we're only here for a couple weeks, and Botswana would be too much to fit in. Plus, I don't think we're allowed to take our rental car over into other countries. That's why we're leaving it with you. Thanks for looking after it, by the way."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">"Yeah, no problem. Oh, I was meaning to ask you guys, when you're gone you don't mind if I drive into town to get groceries, do you?" </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">"Of course not, go ahead, do what ya gotta." </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">"Cool, I'll be careful with it."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">The others were awake now. Nick and Karen stayed with the car and chatted with Chris. Rob wandered off with his camera to get a good angle for the imminent sunrise. </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">I, too, observed the colorful progression of the new morning sky: Neon pink bloomed into tangerine, blonded, and blasted white light into the top of the tallest tree. And my eyes followed the edge of the light as it crept down, down, down until the whole tree was lit. The sun was done with its introduction; it was day.</span></div><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">And our bus was here. We checked in, tossed our bags into the little luggage caboose, and boarded. The people on the bus were mostly white with a few nicely dressed blacks. I suppose the cost of Intercape travel is considerably higher than the cost of hitch-hiking which explains the lack of native Africans opting to ride the bus. It was a double decker, and we sat on the top floor towards the rear. There was enough space for each of us have our own seat, so we closed the window curtains and sprawled out for some bus sleep. With the exception of a few stops and jostles, we slept all through the AIDS-stricken Caprivi strip</span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">, all the way to Katima.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">_</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Katima did not look like a rural roadside village, but, rather, a typical town from the south. Karen and I had downed jumbo cokes on the bus ride, and now we had to pee. After searching inside stores and inspecting sideyards for a private place to piss, Karen bought some access to a cheap toilet. I held it. When our bus was refueled, we got back on, and I found a secret john unbeknownst to us on the lower level. What a relief! Seriously, the relief was terrific. I got back to my seat where there was a Zambia immigration form waiting to be filled out. Katima was just a kilometer from the border.</span></div><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><div align="left">_<br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">As we rolled toward the border, our mammoth two-story beast of a bus did not deter the crowd of rambunctious Zambian hustlers. In fact, the bus had the opposite effect, a magnetic effect, for this was an ideal opportunity to rip off, rob, or harass unassuming travellers crossing into, or getting out of, Zambia. When we stepped off the bus the crowd kicked up a cloud of dust and smothered us. I clutched my subgarment money belt with one hand and deflected wads of Kwacha (Zambia's currency) with the other as I weaved closer to the dilapidated border patrol fence. An officer stood by in drab garb wielding a rifle, but did not make much of a move to quell the turbulence. I suppose, in these parts, this was normal, and intervention would've only made things worse. This was the kind of Africa I knew only because of films like "Blood Diamond" and "Hotel Rwanda." When we found refuge inside the one-room immigration shelter, we were sweaty, dusty, and flustered. "T.I.A." I muttered to myself, "This Is Africa." </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">With jittery hands we fumbled for our passports and some American cash, plopped it down, pushed it across the wide table to the immigration officer. (For entry, American/European/wealthy tourists must pay a handsome surcharge to help stimulate Zambia's economy.) Half-grinning, he counted the cash before stamping us into Zambia. Together, we dashed and jockeyed our way back to the bus without too much trouble or interference, and started into Zambia.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">_ </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">We were oblivious to the new terrain, and we failed to tell our driver that he overshot our stop in Livingstone. When he did stop, we were a good thirty minutes down the road. We realized what happened, consulted the driver who agreed to take us back. We had a few minutes to kick back while the driver checked in some new passengers. I devoured a handful of lemon-poppy seed rusks, which are a kind of crunchy breadcookie, and left a pile of crumbs in my lap and on the seat. Continuing my sloppy munching, I wandered off the bus into the high afternoon sun. The moment I stepped down on the grass a grey baboon sprung from the bush, eyes on me, scampering with a purpose. It halted before me. My brown eyes met its orange eyes for an instant, then it stood poised to swat. It wanted my rusk. With its orange eyes fixed and following, I raised the rusk, pirouetted in a fluid motion, slipped the morsel in my pocket, and displayed two empty hands. As I stepped slowly backwards, the baboon scanned each hand like a hungry mutt at the dinner table. Another passenger captured the primate's attention, and I got the hell back on the bus.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">_</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">The mob that met our bus in Livingstone was not unlike the one we met at the border. The main distinction was less dust and more buildings. When we got off to fetch our bags from the luggage caboose, the people engulfed us. In the thick of it all, a boy (probably a teenager) had the courtesy to ask us where we were going. His accent was strong but understandable. When we told him we were staying at Jollyboys, he offered to carry Nick's pack, free of charge. These hustlers hadn't gained my trust yet, and probably not Rob's or Karen's either, so the boy had asked the right person: the Namibian. And Nick obliged. The boy hoisted the pack, led us out of the crowd, down the street, presumably towards Jollyboys. The boy did not look healthy. His eyes were glazed over, yellow, and crossed. His lips were discolored like someone had flicked white paint at his mouth. His skinny frame leaned forward to compensate for the weight of the pack. But he led cheerfully, guiding us across the main drag, along the sidewalk, showing us the town, showing us the way. We cut through a lively cultural dance led by a jangly dancer wearing a beaded mask with no eyeholes. Then some dogged hustlers tried to sell us Zimbabwe's famed 50 trillion dollar bill and some copper bracelets, but we shook them off. We stuck with our guide. Though his appearance may have startled, this joy-exuding boy was someone to emulate. Turns out he was the embodiment of a jolly little hostel called Jollyboys.</span></div><div align="left">_</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Jollyboys Backpackers was a playground and a safehaven for budget travellers like ourselves. The main shelter had a thatch roof supported by wooden beams. In the center, a staircase led up to a sunny loft. On the floor, multicolored reading pillows circled the staircase. To the left, a swimming pool, and behind that, tables and a bar. To the right, a stony path led to some dorm huts and campsites. At the check-in desk, a friendly Briton named Sue confirmed our plans for tomorrow and kindly directed us to our rooms. Rob and I stayed in an eight-bed dorm hut called "Tango" or "Tonga"--I can't remember which. Nick and Karen shared a two-person room nearby. When we washed up before dinner, the bathrooms had some clean, good-spirited caricatures painted on its doors and walls which I found quite charming. In fact, the whole place seemed to be decked with weird-but-welcome decor. For dinner, we took Sue's recommendation and set off into town to seek a fancy pizza joint called Olga's. </span><br /></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">It was still light out, there were four of us, and other Jollyboys patrons were roaming about, so we felt pretty safe walking around town. Olga's was located on a wide dirt sidestreet and, like every establishment in town, it was protected by a tall cement wall topped with coiled barbed wire. Since it was dinner hours, a gate was open, and we walked inside the restaurant. In the back annex, we got a table partially outdoors, under a roof. We immediately ordered tall sodas and two pizzas. Karen pegged us as "ravenous," which was more than accurate. We ordered a third pizza, scarfed it, paid, left. Livingstone was dark. We tripped up and down the crumbly curb, dodged people, minded the shadows in our periphery. Nick had coached us earlier about walking with intimidation, strutting, and we were doing that as best we could. I think my bandanna helped my strut. We got back to Jollyboys, and went straight to the bar. I tried a Mosi, the official beer of Zambia, and it sucked. We decided to call it a night and retired to our rooms. Rob passed out on the top bunk in a cocoon of white mesh. Before the trip, I'd helped him pick out the mesh for 33-cents-per-yard in the fabric section of Walmart. This part of Africa was fraught with malaria-carrying mosquitoes. The mesh was Rob's defense. Long sleeves and a bedsheet were mine. Our guard was up, and no mosquitoes would have our blood this night. </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Before bed, we had each assembled a day pack for the following day. We did not know then that the following day would be, perhaps, the greatest of our lives.</span></div>Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-79622957605912354012009-03-09T21:22:00.000-07:002009-03-25T21:00:21.097-07:00Chronicles of Namibia--Part 3<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Note: You may want to read "Chronicles of Namibia--Part 1" and "Chronicles of Namibia--Part 2" before reading this one.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">Rob and Karen got up first. Well, technically, everyone else staying in Okahuejo got up first. The large sought-after African mammals are most active at dawn when the sun isn't forcing them into the shade for midday siestas. The four of us understood this, but we were very tired, so we slept in until about 8:30 AM. After the brai, Carl's mom had given us a bag of slender tomatoes. Now most were smushed or spoiled from the turmoil of being in the car (when a bird hits your windshield the natural reflex is to step on the food at your feet), but I managed to salvage a few for breakfast. I rolled up the tent while the others repacked the car and gooped up with sunblock. Rob drove us back through the deep puddles and out of the campground area. At the exit gate, where the paved road became gravel, Rob and I did a Chinese firedrill, and I was the driver. I pushed it into first, gave it some gas, let up the clutch, and we inched forward where the wild things are.<br /><br />The gravel road was smooth, flat, and straight; I had no problem getting the Hilux up to a nice touring speed. For miles on both sides there was little vegetation to block our visibility. The savanna was wide open for our wandering eyes to see. As we came upon a group of grazing zebras Nick reached over the back of my seat, put headphones over my ears, and played the opening number from Lion King.<br /><br /><em>"There's far too much to take in here </em><br /><em>More to find than can ever be found</em><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>But the sun rolling high<br />Through the sapphire sky<br />Keeps great and small on the endless round</em><br /><em>It's the circle of life </em><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>And it moves us all..."<br /></em><br />It was cheesy and magical, and it moved me. It really set the tone for the rest of the day. A typical sequence would go like this: see an animal, stop the car near the animal, ogle the animal, photograph the animal, try to identify the animal. Rob bought a comprehensive animal guide at the visitor center which was just a few pages long and therefore, very user-friendly. When we pulled up next to a group of storks, we turned to the bird page. That's when we pinned a name to the dimwitted kamikazi bird-scoundrel that met our car glass the day prior: <em>Guineafowl</em>. But we refrain from uttering their name. They seek to instill fear in others. They are terrorists.<br /><br />At one point we turned off the main road onto Rhino Drive with the hope of seeing a rhinocerous. It was a skinny bumpy road with a puddle at every trough. Since the bushes were thick and we weren't seeing much wildlife, I decided to drive a little more playfully. Driving near edge of the road thorny branches would scrape the sides of the car and sometimes poke inside the windows. That pissed Nick off a little. When I plunged into puddles the muddy water would douse the cracked windshield and spray inside the car. Karen, specifically, got wet and she was a good sport about it. Sadly, we did not see a rhino. Later, after pulling into a rest area, we got out of the car. It was brown. It used to be white. Huge globs of mud were caked on the flaps behind each tyre. I kicked a flap and a fat mudcake thudded on the pavement. I thought this was awesome so I did it a few more times. We got out the PB & jam for lunch and tapped our bag of oranges before getting back on the road.<br /><br />On his previous visit to Etosha, Nick recalled having some safari success along dik-dik drive, a small tucked-away road just before the park exit. So that's where we went next. Moments after turning on the drive we saw a pair of warthogs trotting in a rocky field. The warthogs may have been my favorite sighting of the day. Then we entered a green forested stretch populated with countless giraffes and zebras. They were in the road, beside the road, standing up, laying down, eating, watching, natural and candid. We took a zillion pictures. Next we saw a pair of the drive's namesake munching on some already half-eaten plants. Dik-diks are basically dwarved deer, reminiscent of Bambi, very cute and very rare. Thus it is quite appropriate that hunting dik-dik is illegal in Namibia. It was a real privilege to see them. A while back, Nick had the privilege of eating one. His ride accidentally flattened the poor thing and, in general, it's encouraged to retrieve, dress, and eat the roadkill you create so that's what they did. (No, we did not fetch the carcass of our bird-scoundrel) </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was getting late in the afternoon, but instead of leaving the park, we all agreed to make a pass around the Fischer Pan. The pan was far from the car, but with the aid of binoculars we could see scores of game sipping by the edge. I was amused by the lonesome anomaly of the "twee palms"; a handful of palm trees drooping over a small savanna pond. There was a jeep of euro-machomen parked near the palms, hogging all the tranquility, defying the park rule to stay inside your vehicle at all times. I mean, Etosha's a dangerous place for a relatively welterweight homo erectus animal to be strolling about. Hell, for extra safety people in fence-protected Okahuejo erected their tents on their car roofs! Anyway, we didn't care to be associated with the meaty manprey or to witness a wildebeest mauling, so we drove back to the main road and continued right on out of the park towards the town of Tsumeb.<br /><br />Tsumeb is nestled next to mountains in such a way that all the water in the sky has no choice but to pour down on it. In the wet season, it rains there almost every day. Conveniently, the rainfall en route to Tsumeb provided a free wash for our muddy car. As we neared the town Nick pointed out a cavernous pit carved in the side of a mountain. It was a recently abandoned copper mine. Apparently, a notable portion of Tsumeb's economy relies on it's copper mining industry. In town we met Dave, another Peace Corps volunteer and friend of Nick's, at a supermarket. For dinner, we bought some pasta and some much needed green vegetables to balance out our carnivorous diet from the past few days. We drove out of the town center, into a neighborhood, and through a retractable gate to the home where Dave's host family lives. The driveway was like a swamp made from baseball dirt, but the house was very nice. It had a large back porch and a yard filled with green grass, lemon trees, and guava trees. Inside there was a spacious kitchen which connected to a spacious living room which connected to a spacious TV room. There were at least three extra bedrooms available for us to sleep in. The house was, by Namibian standards, royalty.<br /><br />In the kitchen, we chatted and prepared dinner. I helped slice veggies, including a humongous fungus of a mushroom I found lounging on the counter. The stalk of this mushroom had the girth of a small tree and a top the size of the upper third of an NBA basketball. Turns out about a quarter of this mushroom was enough to feed 8+ people. Dave handled the meat. At first we could not identify it, but eventually decided it couldn't possibly be goat or donkey, and elected to call it beef, which was fine with us. Nick, in prime Italian fashion, cooked us delicious pasta and garlic bread. While the food was cooking, I went in the backyard barefooted in the rain with Dave. Together we picked ripe guavas (firmness as an indicator) and ripe lemons (color as an indicator) from the trees. For a plump yellow lemon dangling in the high reaches of the tree I jumped, extended, grabbed it, and came crashing splashing down through wet branches. Man, I was soaked.<br /><br />After some garlic bread appetizers, we had dinner, and again, the meat was fantastic! Not to discredit the tenderness of Nick's pasta or the healthfulness of the mutant mushroom/verdant vegetables, but against this meat they did not stand a chance. It's interesting though because Dave only added seasoning salt, cooked it in a pan on a hot plate and the results were beyond divine. This leads me to believe that it's more about the quality of the cut of beef than the care it takes to prepare it. All hail the beeves of Namibia!<br /><br />Dave was kind to wash most of the dishes and get blankets for our beds. When we asked about showers Dave said, "Sure! Go ahead, but make sure you mop up when you're done...I prefer baths." I found out later what he meant. There was no showerhead. Instead, there was a hose with a faulty nozzle on the end of it. It was like a permanent thumb pressed over the end of a garden hose, and, as a result, water sprayed wherever it wanted to. After two minutes, I'd had enough. I spent the next ten mopping up the floor and wringing out the mop in the tub. My shower was not an efficient one, but it was better than none at all.<br /><br />In the living room, Rob was fading fast on the couch while I talked with Dave. Nick and Karen went to bed. I asked Dave the same kind of tough questions I asked Ginny hoping to strengthen my grasp of what it's like to serve in the Peace Corps. I learned Dave is 30 years old, originally from Arizona (when his plane landed and he saw the dry land of Namibia he said,"Darn, I'm still in Arizona."). He was married for a while, but divorced. He waited tables for 12 years, and aspires to be a counselor like his father some day. Though his work for the Corps can be tedious and disheartening, he plans on serving for an additional third year. He told me, "I'm not here to change the world, I'm here to share my culture and to learn about their culture. But maybe while I'm here I can also have a positive impact on some people." Then Dave told me about his tomato garden project. Volunteers from around town had pitched in and by January (Namibia's summer) some juicy red produce was going to be had. At Christmastime, Dave flew back to Arizona to see his family. But before he left, he asked his faithful volunteers to watch over and water the garden while he was gone. When Dave returned the garden was a wilted mass of desiccated plant matter. Dave asked the volunteers why they hadn't taken care of the garden. But they insisted that they <em>had</em> taken care of the garden and showed not a hint of remorse about letting Dave down, much less each other. I asked how he dealt with it. "I laughed a lot," he said.<br /><br />We needed a recharge, and we had nice beds, so we slept in. By late morning we went walking around town on a mango search. After no luck at the marketplace vendors on main street, we followed some trails lined with tall plants, crossed a couple footbridges, and made our way to a dirt clearing inhabited by a little community of shacks made from metal scraps. I've never felt so white and like I didn't belong as I did during the five minutes we spent circling the shacks. Because of this feeling I walked with my head down and didn't make any eye contact. Meanwhile, Rob took a few pictures and a few movies, discreetly and not so discreetly. No mangos, so we left, and I was happy. On the way back to the car we bought a bottle of clear nail polish. Supposedly nail polish can prevent glass cracks from creeping, and we thought we'd try it out.<br /><br />For lunch we ate at Hungry Lion, Namibia's McDonald's. Their reputation is "slow fast food." I recall that Karen's chicken sandwich had too much mayonnaise. Back in the car, Rob and I applied the nail polish to the glass with concise brushstrokes. The polish wasn't entirely transparent, but if it stopped the cracks from getting worse, then we saw it as a valid sacrifice. We pulled up to the diesel pump and, without warning, an attendant slammed his squeegee brush on our windshield. And boy we had a hell of a time getting him to stop. Our windshield was a fragile creature glued together like Frankenstein--we had to defend it.<br /><br />In an hour or two, we neared the large town of Grootfontein, but turned off instead to see the Hoba meteorite. It was a 50+ km diversion on an unpaved road. But to see the largest known meteorite on earth, hell yes it was worth it! When we arrived, it was just us and the gift shop cashier. On our ticket, meteorite was spelled "meteoriet". As we walked to the space rock we heeded the advice of an important sign: Beware of Falling Meteorites. Then, of course, it began to rain. The Hoba weighs 60 tons and rests at the bottom of a small amphitheater. It is partially submerged in the ground and about the size of a car. It's box-shaped. We did our thing, surfed the meteorite, took pictures, and got back out to the highway. On the way, Nick chugged a carton of some kind of chunky yogurt and cottage cheese hybrid.<br /><br />We cruised upland a bit before stopping at a road checkpoint. This was called the "red line." It divides south Namibia from the north. My understanding is that it's primary purpose is to prevent the spread of foot-and-mouth disease from the north to the south. They ask all cars to pass over a sterilizing rug. I suppose the assumption is that we've rolled over some cowpies during our haul, and they don't want us to transfer the waste-dwelling germs to the other region. At the checkpoint they also checked Rob's American driver's license. It makes you wonder how they'd ever be able to detect a fake. Even if they could, what would they do about it?<br /><br />The north was very different from the south. It was more primitive and wild. There were lots of roadside villages comprised mostly of huts made from mud and thatch. Beside the road there were dirt trails frequented by a good many people, and some people would wander in the middle of the road. I suspect they were transporting trade items or visiting friends in the adjacent villages. During the drive we saw a lone teenage boy driving a large herd of brown cattle. The cows looked sleek, muscular and beautiful in the African sun. Some of the bulls had a deadly set of horns. We went through some patches of blue rain and saw rainbows. For fun we would toot the Hilux's pathetic constipated horn, then cease our tooting when we passed civilization as to not disturb anyone. We saw some donkeys porting goods on their backs. We saw naked children bathing and playing in road ditch puddles. We saw goats and stopped to let them cross the road. So, you see, there was a lot to look at along the way.<br /><br />By late afternoon we came into Divundu, which is no more than a dirt parking lot, supermarket, and petrol station. We turned onto a gravel road and drove 7 km until we reached a gate to some kind of youth center. One of Nick's Peace Corps friends lived there, and he offered to put us up for the night.<br /><br />"We're here to visit Christopher Kramer," I said to the gatekeeper, who was squinting in the evening sun. She appeared puzzled, and did not respond.<br />"He's Asian..." I said.<br />No answer. She peered in the car at the others who had begun to spit out alternate descriptors.<br />"He's oriental."<br />"He teaches in the computer lab."<br />"His name is: Chris. Kramer."<br />Still no recognition. Then we said a word she knew.<br />"He's Chinese."<br />"Oh, Chris," she said with a smile. She pulled open the gate and let us through.<br /><br />The Divundu youth center is a sprinkling of small buildings along the Okavango river. The buildings are interconnected by footpaths. It has the look and feel of a summer camp. Chris lives in the last building where the road ends. He has a back porch hammock and his backyard quickly becomes the riverbank. I watched the sun reflect off the water and listened to pretty singing coming from the neighboring building. Chris came out serenely and greeted us with his voice. Among Peace Corps volunteers, he earned the nickname "the voice" because his smooth velvet baritone could make just about anybody's heart skip a beat. He had a deep jagged scar on his forehead. A few months earlier, he went to Windhoek to meet his parents (from New Jersey) who had flown over for a visit. The night before the flight arrived, Chris got in a taxi with a man. After a few blocks, the man stabbed him in the head with a screwdriver. Chris bled all over and was put out on the street. His money was stolen, his head was bleeding. Somehow he got to a hospital where he was stitched up. In the morning he met his jet-lagged parents, with a bandaged head, wearing bloody clothes. What a badass.<br /><br />Chris took us for a tour around the place. We saw the computer lab (also a home to termites) where he teaches fundamentals to students who, he claims, actually want to learn, and thus his work is fulfilling. He took us upstream to a section of river with a rocky island in the center. Nick, Chris, and I hopped like ninjas from stone to stone out to the island and climbed to the top. The views up and down the flowing river were pleasant, and we waited there for the sun to set. Rob started to come out to meet us but lost his footing and fell in. He hugged a rock to avoid being swept away by the current. When we helped him up, his lower half was all wet, and his phone, waterlogged. Afterwards, Nick and Chris made a point to tell Rob that the Okavango is swarming with alligators. Rob was frazzled. Walking back, we saw a tree with juvenile monkey fruits. These fruits, named for the animal that eats them the most, supposedly taste alright when ripe and the sphere of outer skin can be used to make souvenirs or musical instruments. Then Chris took us to the "bunny farm." A dozen or two rabbits were fenced in a pen, hiding and hopping. I asked Chris what they were for. His reply was: "Probably the same thing most animals in Africa are used for, to eat."<br /><br />We chilled inside Chris's place for the rest of the night. He had several spare rooms, a futon, and a cot to accommodate us. For dinner, Chris was kind to cook us a stir-fry. It had spiced vegetarian meat (though not real meat it was tasty all the same), green peppers, and Chakalaka (Africa's own delicious blend of sweet chopped veggies and curry). Chris cooked the rice with some tea-colored water he poured from a pre-boiled jug. Here, in Divundu, the tap water wasn't fit to drink. We ate on the futon in front of Chris's laptop, which reeled off six consecutive episodes of Futurama. The simple activity of laughing at cartoons with friends really hit the spot. Especially for Chris, who had long been deprived of people familiar with his favorite shows, the sort who could appreciate the jokes with him; I think he enjoyed our company that night. Soon we called it quits because we had an Intercape bus to catch around 5 AM the next morning. I took the cot next to the back window and fell asleep to the rush of the Okavango.</span></span>Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-28176171308516657162009-03-05T07:35:00.000-08:002009-03-23T18:01:50.039-07:00Chronicles of Namibia--Part 2<p><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">Note: It may be in your best interest to read the preceding post "Chronicles of Namibia--Part 1" before beginning this one.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:78%;">"If there is one thing the history of evolution has taught us it's that life will not be contained. Life breaks free, expands to new territory, and crashes through barriers, painfully, maybe even dangerously." -Dr. Ian Malcolm in <em>Jurassic Park</em><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">"Hey, did you guys sleep alright? My stomach is killing me."</span></p><p align="left"><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">It took me a moment to detect where the voice was coming from. When my groggy eyes could finally process an image, I saw Natalie sitting on a mattress, bent over, grimacing, clutching her stomach.<br />"Do you think it could be the meat from the brai?" I asked.<br />"I don't know, but I have to hitch out of here and be at work in two hours and I feel like shit."<br />Doubled over, Natalie quickly gathered her things, stuffed her sack, bid us farewell, went out the door. Two minutes later, she was back. She needed to use the bathroom. And because there was no toilet paper available, I let her borrow my roll. After a second farewell she stood out on the main drag with her thumb out. Our group was back down to four.<br /><br />Rob and I heard Nick and Karen stirring in the other room, so we went to check on them and to tell them we were going to pick up some food at the grocery store up the street. They said "Cool beans."<br />This was the first time Rob and I had walked alone in Africa without the security of Nick, our beloved bodyguard. So we were a bit wary, feeling the eyes on us, checking our money belts and patting our decoy wallets as we walked. We got to the store just fine and grabbed some provisions including a jar of peanut butter, three cans of jam, snack crackers, two large tanks of purified water, a bag of oranges, and two loaves of freshly baked bread in hand-tied plastic bags. Also, Rob bought a tub of powdered, dehydrated milk because his malaria prophylaxis prescription indicated that the medication is most effective when taken with milk. My malaria medication was a little different than Rob's and explicitly warned about the side effect of increased sensitivity to the sun. After we got back to Nick's, Rob and I rummaged through our packs for sunblock. The Namibian sun was up, it would not relent, and we could not run from it's shine.<br /><br />Us and our stuff got in the car, and we were off! Cruising out of Usakos, the mountains were dry, brown, and all around. Before too long we pulled in at a rest stop in Okahanja, where we each bought a 1.5 liter glass bottle of Coca-Cola (the soda tastes better in glass than leachy plastic, and in Namibia it's made with real cane sugar, not high fructose corn syrup). Then Nick, who always has our best interests in mind, bought fifty NamBucks (approximately five USD) worth of spicy hot beef jerky, locally called "biltong," which we all came to affectionately call "chilli bites." In step with the meat at Carl's brai, the chilli bites were exceptional. In our vehicle we sat chewing on pieces of chilli bite fat as we sped across the open land. We passed through a few towns, some lush, some sparse, but each had its own feel and character. We also passed a slew of private ranches probably owned by rich German outdoorsmen (Namibia was formerly a German colony). Along the way we counted the tall termite hills scattered throughout the savanna landscape. We also enjoyed the company of a gang of baboons having a party in the road.<br /><br />By lunchtime, we rolled into Otjiwarongo to meet Ginny, a 50-year-old Peace Corps volunteer serving in the town. As our Hilux halted in a Supermarket parking space, we saw maybe a dozen men roaming the lot perimeter, watching. We got out and locked each door manually with the key. When we could not get the back door to lock, indeed we were fretting some, but then Nick simply mimicked a lock-pull-check motion and we were set. Due to crime, it's common in Namibia for security officers to patrol the parking lots, so we sought out the designated officer for this particular lot and asked him to keep an eye on our vehicle. Then we met Ginny and bought some mango/litchi/guava juice cartons for the road before sitting down at a raw-looking wooden table in a pizza shop down the street. We had to speak loudly to overcome the chatter of the wobbly fan spinning above us, but we quickly learned that Ginny is retired and originally from Bucks County, Pennsylvania. While we all enjoyed the nourishment of two greasy, meaty, bacon-y pizzas, I was keen to quiz Ginny on her Peace Corps work: what's wrong with the Peace Corps, what things give her satisfaction, what things could be improved. Her answers were not the clearest, and my questions were not very clear either, but I have deduced what I learned down to a few points: 1) the Peace Corps bureaucracy inhibits progress, 2) satisfaction comes in small doses, helping one person at a time, 3a) to help causes associated with the Peace Corps it's best to send supplies & equipment (i.e. textbooks, pens) 3b) do NOT send money. Ginny was kind to cover the bill. We thanked her, emptied our bladders, and tanked up on diesel fuel before roaring out of town due north headed for Etosha.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><strong>THWACK!</strong></span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">"Holy shit!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">"What the fuck was that!"</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">"I think I hit a bird."</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">"What do you mean 'you think'?"</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">"What the fuck was that!"</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">"Okay, fine, I hit a bird."</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">"Haha! Did you see that? The carcass fell right out of the sky and flopped behind the car like a baseball mitt!" Nick said.</span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><br />"Yeah Rob, you killed the shit outta that thing!" I said.<br />"Fuck! Look at the windshield! We didn't buy insurance!" Karen said with a degree of distress.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">Rob had done all he could do to avoid the manic pheasant-like bird flailing about in the road. But he sure hit it, and it sure broke our fucking windshield. The bird crashed into the right side of the glass and left behind a coarse cluster of cracks. Extending from that cluster a long winding crack wrapped around the rest of the windshield in a sort of figure-eight. At least our crack was elegant. </span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">After the blow, we had no choice but to cope and keep our course. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">Our bird-induced cursing had subsided by the time we arrived at the gate to Etosha National Park. The guard scribbled down our plate number with no acknowledgement of our wounded windshield and let us in. Etosha beckoned us at once. The grasses were emerald and the sun illuminated the land like a film set. Appropriately, as if on cue, Nick began to hum the theme from Jurassic Park. Suddenly, to the left, my eyes fell upon a most grand picture: under an explosion of white clouds in a meadow of yellow flowers a herd of sun-brightened springbok wandered before us with an almost utopian politeness. Like toothless infants, we were agape, wide-eyed, and smiling. We snapped happy photos as members of the herd crossed the road in single file and pranced to the green bushes on the other side. When our attention went back to the road, we saw a big spotty gangly thing up ahead with it's head up in a tree shaking up some leaves--GIRAFFE!! We snuck up stealthily making as quiet as possible the buzz of our diesel engine. The giraffe was so interested in the tree leaves that we rolled within a few feet of it virtually unnoticed. When I watched it, a sense of wonder swept through my body; the awe could escape only in the form of tingles on my skin. Like an ancient messenger from a time before humankind, this animal was a reminder of how old and precious life is. It radiated the age of the earth. And when it's legs eased into a slow gait what we witnessed was sheer prehistoric grace.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">Rob parked us in Okahuejo next to the visitor center, and then ran off. He had to shit. He probably got the same thing that plagued Natalie that morning. Meanwhile, Nick was at the visitor's desk wowing the staff by speaking in Damara, a native African "click" language. His clicking eloquence granted him, and the rest of our party, Namibian status and therefore, a small discount. Literally, in the sign-in book, under nationality, we got to write down <span style="font-family:arial;">Namibian. </span><span style="font-family:courier new;">When Rob was feeling better he maneuvered the Hilux past some RV's to the campground. There were no people there, just deep puddles. Without too much hesitation, Rob plowed through the water and carefully backed into our campsite. When we got out of the car we saw a trio of wild jackals skulking about the campground. I had seen warning signs about them inside the visitor center. Jackals seem to fit the same "don't-feed-them" niche as bears in the American northeast, except jackals are a little smaller and a little more rabid. Luckily, as Rob and I jammed our tent stakes into the hard soil, a nearby RV site roasted up some meat which lured the jackals away from us pretty much for good. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">It was dusk now with dark clouds and loud thunderclaps booming miles away. Nick and Karen were scouting out the watering hole on the far edge of camp hoping to see some elephants. Since it was the wet season, there were plenty of other water sources elsewhere in the park, and thus no thirsty animals were to be seen. So, we all went to the bar. Nick bought us a round and we chatted and relaxed. Then a cell-phone-sized rhino beetle dive-bombed and crashed into our table. It was thrashing on it's back hissing like a mad windup toy. Before I knew what had really happened, Nick flicked the beetle away like a paper football, and our conversation resumed. Minutes later, <strong><span style="font-family:arial;">SMACK!</span></strong> A </span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">rhino beetle had effectively bitched-slapped me in the face. Now these beetles had our full attention. We flicked them, flipped them, played table hockey with them, etc. They were humiliated perhaps, but they were not harmed. </span></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">On the walk back to our campsite the beetles were everywhere, flying, crawling, hissing in the night. They had numbers on us, and there was nothing we could do about it.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Courier New;">After warm showers in the bathhouse (the only warm showers of the trip), we were all refreshed. At our campsite we opened a can of jam and a jar of peanut butter to make sandwiches before bed. Thankfully the jackals did not catch wind of our late dinner. Nick and Karen slept together on a blanket in the back of the Hilux. Rob crawled in the tent and fell asleep within seconds. He snored like a dump truck. I know Rob is naturally predisposed to excessive sleep, but he had been the sole driver of the trip so far and it was definitely taking its toll on him. Also, for Christmas, Rob received a new camera with superior zoom, but he had had few chances to take pictures with it since his hands were always on the steering wheel. So, even though I did not have much experience driving a stickshift, I decided right then that I would do the driving the next day. The enveloping hiss of insects was pierced by the howl of some far-away animal beyond the sturdy perimeter fence. I sighed, put in my foam ear plugs, and went in the tent beside the dump truck. There, lying horizontal on hard African soil, I did my best to pass out.</span></span></p><p></p>Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-91826564088299114722009-02-20T10:26:00.000-08:002009-03-24T15:30:05.051-07:00Chronicles of Namibia--Part 1<span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;">"He'll write a book someday," Nick said as he watched the twentysomething ride away on his bike. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">"Why do you say that?" I asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">"He's got a hell of a story to tell...when you have story like his, you have to tell it."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">The above exchange took place sitting on a balcony at the Craft Centre restaurant in downtown Windhoek, Namibia. Nick had just introduced Rob, Karen, and I to his friend and former Peace Corps housemate, Ian. Some months earlier Ian had told Peace Corps officials he'd be in Malawi for a couple weeks. Three months later, the Corps sent out a hunt for him. When he was found, he was booted from the Corps and given a flight home, which he instantly turned down. Since then, Ian has been a vagabond, traveling by bicycle, sleeping by tent, self-sentenced to wander until achieving spiritual fulfillment. It was merely chance that allowed us these ten kind minutes with the elusive rambler.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">I am no Ian by any means, but I do have a story to tell. It starts...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">As the plane descended, I observed the dirt roads etched in the expansive grassland below. We touched down just before dusk. Stepping out onto the runway, I peered at the hollow purple sky. It looked like it was going to burst, but it did not. Inside the airport Rob, Karen, and I met our taxi driver, Ellis, who drove us thirty minutes in the dark to Windhoek. Hyped on adrenaline we bombarded him with many questions along the way, and he answered them calmly and unfazed. He dropped us in front of the Cardboard Box hostel for which we had booked a reservation. We clanged through two metal gates and entered the lobby. I plunked my pack down and raised my head up to see a scruffy, long-haired kid leaning in a doorway on the other side of the room. He must have been standing there for a whole minute before we recognized him, but then we hugged the crap out of him for the next three. With Nick, our quartet was formed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Karen and Nick shared a "shag pad" while Rob and I each filled a spot in a six-bed dorm room. Nick nonchalantly scooped up a seven-inch millipede from our dorm floor to play with, then we paid a visit to the hostel bar. There we sipped draughts and lagers and listened to Nick tell us about his adventures. Nick is easily the best storyteller I know, and his stories provided a much-needed pep talk to get us in the right mindset for our two-week road trip. Soon bedtime came, but it was impossible to sleep because a gaggle of drunk girls was shouting the question "Are we human, or are we dancer?" until at least 4 AM. At about 7 AM, the Dutch couple sleeping in the bunks below Rob and I got up and so did we. Free coffee and pancakes were served, so we had our share. When we were all up and fed Nick led us out into Windhoek, Namibia's capital. The city is hilly with wide roads. The sidewalks are sort of crumbly and the air is sort of dusty. We approached some street vendors for some fatcakes (balls of dough soaked in a bucket of oil) and bought a few. After some errands and a stroll through city centre, it was time for lunch. That's when we met Ian.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Afterwards, we walked over to Hertz to rent a car, but they made it difficult, so we rented from Budget down the street. Then Rob took the driver's seat, a very tough seat to sit in considering the following information: 1) Namibian's drive on the left side of the road, 2) the steering wheel is on the right side of the car, 3) the stickshift is on the left side of the driver's seat, 4) Windhoek's roads are crowded with seemingly reckless drivers 5) it began to rain. Rob's great escape from Windhoek was not flawless, but then we all agree that he deserves some kind of medal of honor. In the next hour or two, our 4WD Toyota Hilux rumbled into the small town of Usakos, Nick's Peace Corps site. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">We swung around and parked in his dirt backyard. A girl was on the porch picking at a raw fish in a pan. Nick tended to his green basil garden thriving in the porch shade, out of the Namibian sun. Inside, there were some empty spacious rooms and then there was Nick's, which was full and cozy. We dumped out the goodies from our suitcases onto Nick's bed and he grinned like mad. And when Rob unloaded the holy PlayStation 3, Nick's face lit up like fireworks and he squeezed Rob real tight. Next we went down the road to a little internet cafe to shoot off some emails to our families to let them know we had arrived safely. Then we were joined by Nick's Peace Corps friend, Natalie, who hitched in from the neighboring town of Arandis, known for its excess of uranium, and we were five. Nick showed us the building where he works and walked us around Usakos, which is really no more than a T-intersection.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">By early evening we ventured on out of town, over the Khan River bridge (the Khan is just a dry winding sand channel), and up to Nick's friend Carl's place. Carl's family has long driveway with a nice home at the end of it, and a vast piece of open land behind that. As we strolled up, the sky started spitting big rain loogies on us, so we took cover in chairs under a shelter with two walls and roof. Wearing his trademark smile, Carl provided prompt service and was quick to serve a platter of tall glasses filled with orange Fanta. After some soda and chit-chat, the sky cleared. We gazed out on the land, watched the horses grazing down in the field, and admired a rainbow stretching out from behind a mountain in the distance. Moments later, out on the western horizon, a radiant orange sunburst shot through some purple storm clouds. I was pretty much jumping up and down about the glory of the sunset. Soon the sun was down and we were all huddled around Carl's firepit. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">In Namibia, they call a barbecue a "brai", and that's what we were having. Carl is an extraordinary brai chef, and he cooked oodles of kabobs, steak, and chicken for us. What a guy! He had the juices seared in real nice and just the right amount of char on them. That combined with the fact that Namibian beef is untainted and grass-fed, this meat was fantastic. We ate and talked on his porch in the massive African night, then, completely satisfied, we threw the bones to Carl's delightful dogs who crunched them up down at our feet. For dessert Carl's mom prepared a thick white pudding-like concoction in a bowl. Carl tried to fool us that it was curdly milk, but when we swigged it down, it was really just a delicious brandy-enhanced milkshake. </span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">Carl walked with us back down the road to the Khan River bridge. Each of us shook his hand and thanked him for his generosity and hospitality. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;">It's a scary thing to walk on the side of the road at night. It's very dark, the vehicles move fast, and not many of the nighttime drivers would pass a sobriety test. Thankfully, we made it back safely to Nick's place. On his laptop we watched a sweet video of him playing marimba at a joint in Capetown over New Year's. Turns out he shlepped two large authentic marimbas hitching his way back from there. I admired them propped up in the corner of the room. Natalie, Rob, and I laid on mattresses on the floor and stayed up late exchanging stories. Natalie did most of the talking. Her Peace Corps tales had us captivated well past 2 AM. After a 15 hour flight, a big switch in timezones, and a poor first night of sleep, there is only one thing we could have been running on: the mystique of Africa.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span>Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-43703175172786337662009-01-11T08:42:00.000-08:002009-01-14T17:13:43.918-08:00Unbearable lightness!"Can't be whatcha wanna be, gotta be what you oughta be."<br /><br />I am listening to a psychedelic jam with a bratty singer. Above is a lyric I snagged out from the jam by mere chance, but it really fits the mold of what I want to talk about. "What will you be when you grow up?" It's nice to have a dream (springsteenian rocker), but if you simply can't play the part well enough or you don't receive the necessary luck to get the part, then you gotta be what you oughta be. But how do you know what you oughta be?<br /><br />A few days ago, I checked out from the library a career help book called "Do What You Are". The premise is that we can't change who we are (our genetic makeup) and therefore we will be happiest and most fulfilled in a career that allows us to be our natural selves. It first helps the reader to narrow down what their personality type is, and then it suggests career matches.<br /><br />After 3+ hours in the library vacillating back and forth between personality types, I landed on ESFP, Extroverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving. Granted, the personality type descriptions are written like horoscopes so everyone can connect the dots and form make the relationships in their heads, but I did it enough times from enough angles to make it seem justified. The motto for the ESFP type is "Don't worry--be happy." Careerwise, I know it is just one book's opinion, but it's very reassuring to see Environmental Scientist listed under my type. Check out <a href="http://www.personalitytype.com/">www.personalitytype.com</a> or <a href="http://www.personalitypage.com/">www.personalitypage.com</a> for more info.<br /><br />Reading this "Do What You Are" book not only opened up my eyes about who I am, it broadened my clairvoyance about who other people are, what they value, and what their needs are. As the book says, my type has a certain "play ethic". In college, my play ethic was certainly in action, but for many others with different personality types, the play ethic may have seemed immature or frivolous. I have since gained a new perspective about where the "party poopers" were coming from. Playing just wasn't in their personality code.<br /><br />This play ethic could pose problems for grad school or a job. I can't sit down and execute a task independently for several consecutive hours very well (the GRE test!). I desire human interaction too much. No matter where I end up, a requirement will be interaction with others or working as a part of a team. But I am motivated to tough out some periods of hard-working isolation in order to broaden my opportunity horizon.<br /><br />Over New Year's, I was kindly given by Ms. Bellin a copy of a book called "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" by Milan Kundera. It's a clever European romance/philosophy book that's beautifully written. Here's a sexy thoughtful passage from near the beginning:<br /><br />"The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in the love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man's body. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar to new heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are significant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?"<br /><br />So far, only a small portion has been philosophy, the rest being the interesting sad story of a promiscuous man and an unstable woman. It's deep though, deeper than I ever normally think about anyway.<br /><br />As for "weight or lightness?", I think, like with everything, you need a balance. My personality type lends itself to lightness, but lately I've had too much free time. Free time is something many would envy, but I don't like it right now. Not without some substantial weight, work, and activity to balance it out.<br /><br />I think the American way of life pushes us all to be more burdened than light. It seems that BURDEN=PRODUCTIVITY=MONEY=HAPPINESS=FULFILLMENT....or something like that. But what if you don't desire money or a lot of the things you can buy with it? I need food, friends, sleep, family, nature, clean water, and shelter. Bob Dylan summed it up in some interview for Rolling Stone a while back:<br /><br />"Happiness to me is just being able to breathe well."<br /><br />If any of the seven things I mentioned get tampered with, I might not be able to breathe as easily. Oh, and I guess a slimy mucus cold might also tamper with my breathing. Add health in there to make it eight. Also add helping others to acheive those eight. Now THAT would take a lot of work...damn, have I got a lot of work to do!<br /><br />I can't wait to shake this unbearable lightness.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br /><br />Big A<br /><br />(try not to read as big gay)Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-37961272668273508502008-12-19T16:50:00.000-08:002013-12-13T15:34:53.639-08:00Africa, Apps, Assorted AnglesMan it's dark.<br />
<br />
The darkest time of the year is a time of great contrast. For people who are in school, the strapped-down weighted feeling of stress gives way to some therapeutic family time at home for the holidays. On Christmas, in the blackness of the night, there is light of the lord. There are presents and there is coal. You give gifts and receive gifts. There is cold snow and hot cocoa. There is sullen sadness and jubilant joy. The waning of 2008 becomes the dawn of 2009.<br />
<br />
All this contrast makes it a good time to evaluate one self and where they plan to go. If the year is like a springboard, this is the time when it is pushed all the way down. There is a lot of potential energy waiting to be released.<br />
<br />
My time has been spent (in addition to holiday shopping/decorating/cookie consumption) filling out graduate school applications and planning for a trip to Africa in February. Both are time consuming. Friends and I have agreed that the application process is so arduous that all applicants who successfully submit an application should, without question, be granted admission. Due to "these times" more people are applying to grad schools than ever before, making an already competitive field seem insurmountable. Schools also have none or limited funding to take on new students. It's tough this year.<br />
<br />
Africa is a whole other animal. Holy shit, what a chaotic place. I have been reading up on all the diseases and recommended innoculations and it frightens me. I've recently lost considerable sleep about it and I rarely lose sleep. Simply put, every shot is recommended. Even polio, a disease I thought the world had conquered decades ago, is a real threat. Ninety percent of people with malaria caught it in Africa. Yellow fever, also called black vomit or american plague, breaks out sporadically between the tropics. AIDS is abound.<br />
<br />
I got started on my shots today. I received a typhoid shot, malaria pill prescription, and antibiotics to settle the stomach after I inevitably eat something dirty. Insurance doesn't cover this stuff. Generally, doctors and insurance companies are not completely supportive of administering and covering vaccinations, because they know what going to Africa means. I've even lost the support of my parents and my family regarding this trip. They all think I am young and foolish, which I admittedly am. But we are young only once and we are only for awhile.<br />
<br />
For all the tribulations of travelling to this rampant continent, I know it's beauty is bound to astound. In Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, and Zimbabwe I will bear witness to most extreme conditions and upon my return I will be a messenger of it's wild majesty. Please pray for Rob, Karen, and I that we may return safe, unharmed, and unplagued.<br />
<br />
I've been having some deep life-thoughts. These thoughts arise from a comparison of life in the USA and my impression of life in Africa. In developing countries like Africa, they seem to value nature, the gift of life, and each other. In developed countries like the USA, we seem to value money, things, and perhaps each other. Places like Africa have chosen the simpler stress-free life with it's resulting flaws. Places like the USA have chosen the stress-saturated life with it's resulting benefits. Neither country is "better" than the other. An 80-year life of hard work in the USA with all of it's pleasures might not be much better than a 40-year life of faith and joy in Africa. I think somewhere in the middle could be the best way to live.<br />
<br />
<br />
Now I would like to whine about fashion, treadmills, and outdoor heating.<br />
<br />
Fashion. I was hanging out with a desirable girl wearing a coat with three buckles, like the ones that hold up pants, fastened across her front. She also had matching triplets of buckles on each of her high boots. It took me a few minutes to notice these buckles. Why did I find this girl to be desirable? She certainly was not extraordinary. But then I figured out the psychology of the buckles. What do you do with buckles? You undo them. By appearing all locked up, I think it triggered the manliness in me and I subconsciously thought of unfastening those buckles. Having three of them emphasizes this point further. Those fashion designers know how to flirt with men's minds.<br />
<br />
Treadmills. Our family owns a treadmill and no one uses it. What a waste. This dust-gathering aspect is the first thing I find wrong with treadmills. The more important, more aggravating thing about them is their inefficiency with respect to energy. Who uses a treadmill? Fat people or people trying not to get fat. How do people get fat? They eat too much and exercise not enough. To begin with, it takes lots of energy to harvest food (machinery/farmhands), ship it (trucks/barges), and maintain it (refrigeration/packaging). Then eating this food supplies a person with calories or energy. The energy of producing this food and the energy contained within this food have now been consumed by this person. Persons all too often consume too much, so they buy a treadmill to burn off energy they should not have put into themselves. What does a treadmill need to work? It needs electricity or <b>energy</b>. This energy is supplied by power plants, which convert tons of energy into electricity on a power grid. To sum up, treadmills expend excessive energy to help people expend their own excess energy. I think it would make more sense to eat less and to run outside.<br />
<br />
Outdoor heating. Sometimes in the winter certain outdoor establishments will light up fiery heat lamps so they can still do business. Sure, it's neat to be outside in December, but think about how wasteful it is! These lamps are burning full blast and all the heat and energy is lost to the endless vacuum of winter cold. What makes it worse is that the lamps don't really keep you warm. All the heat is emitted from the top of the lamp about 7 feet up. The hot air rises, but the people stand below--they are cold. Outdoor heating should be abolished. Either stay inside or wear a thick coat instead.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am going to finish off with an idea about the roots of success. I think you need three main things: drive, talent, confidence. If you don't have one, then you get stopped up. It's damn hard to have all of those, especially since the best way to get confidence is from some prior success. The bottom line here is that you need to find a way to be confident BEFORE you achieve success. Confidence is everything.<br />
<br />
Cheers to the season,<br />
<br />
<br />
A-mangAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-10016116975506359242008-11-18T19:38:00.000-08:002008-11-18T22:32:29.190-08:00GREtest, and which group is the greatest?I got some alleviation getting the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) out of the way last week. The test is basically a computerized version of the SAT with an analytic writing section tacked on. You have 45 minutes to take a side on a controversial issue and support it using the breadth of knowledge you've supposedly gained over the course of your undergraduate career. Then you have 30 minutes to rip apart a fallacious argument in a concise essay. The quantitative and verbal sections are virtually identical to the SAT, you know, with analogies, complete the sentence, antonyms, reading comprehension for verbal and choice A, B, they are equal, or it cannot be determined from the given information. The only catch is that the test is computer adaptive, which means if you're doing well answering questions correctly, then the questions will get progressively more difficult. If you are choking, botching, flailing, then the questions get easier. So the test can psych you out. Oh no, these questions seem easy, did I fuck up before?!<br /><br />Fact is, the test is done now. I drove 90 minutes to get there, went in prepared, practiced, and confident, endured 3+ grueling hours in front of the computer screen, tolerated the greasy keyboard and fidgety mouse, and got it done. And thankfully, my scores are competitive enough so that I never have to take it again.<br /><br />So onward with graduate application process!<br /><br />I'm having trouble showing that I <strong>want</strong> to be admitted. My joy and drive comes from acceptance. Once I'm in, I am so your man. You can count on me. The fear of rejection dampens my desire to give it my all on these applications. Every day I ask "why does everything have to be so damn competitive?" If someone is smart and reliable, why can't they go to school any place they want? The accepted ones are the people who know exactly what the admission officers want to hear. Funny thing is, I know what they want to hear, and for that reason I don't really wanna give it to 'em.<br /><br />I'm also having trouble finding a third recommender. That's what I get for not going in for extra help and not going out for a coffee or whatever with professors at Gettysburg. None of them knew me that well and for the most part, I liked it that way. Three hours a week (6 hrs if you count labs) was enough professor time for me.<br /><br />It's troublesome narrowing my interests down to the scale of one professor's research. It's like I have to pretend I like something before I try it. How can I know if I haven't done it, dude?<br /><br />I'm a big whiner about all this. And I'll just have to deal.<br /><br /><br />In the last week, I had the privilege of meeting a few new groups of a few new people. The first was a party up in North Jersey in a town called Clark (ironically a GRE testing site, but I chose Toms River in South Jersey instead). There was no booze at this party. The party host was a chemist who develops new mascaras for L'Oreal. And there were others at the party, too, but I never got to talking with them. They were just plain. Plain in personality, plain in looks. Maybe a notch below plain in looks. But these folks were the remarkable young survivors from a competitive, expensive, populous part of New Jersey. They all seemed intellectually sound, and if they weren't intellectually sound, then they made up for it in professional grit. Maybe they were just fried from the tough work week. Anyway, the plain people opened a game that was a hybrid of taboo and cranium, played it for a blink, then I was driving home down the Jersey Turnpike. That was the first group.<br /><br />The second group was just two girls, really. Rob met them a month ago at Clyde's martini bar in New Brunswick and at the end of that night they plugged it into their phones to meet again in exactly one month. In true Rob fashion, Rob kept to his word, and by by golly them gals did, too. On Friday night when Rob got off work, we met up and found the girls taking drags outside Clyde's. I never caught their ages, but I suspect one was older than us and the other was younger. These girls had a head start on Rob and I boozewise and it showed. They yapped complete nonsense for about 15 minutes before the older one declared that I wasn't having a good time, so she ordered me a 9 dollar "cruzan for a bruisin". I told them politely that I couldn't participate in their talk because it was so jumpy and random and unfocused. The younger one insisted on speaking with an annoying artificial english accent all night and used her word of the week "incognito" about twenty times. The older one wore a shiny engagement ring and discussed a honeymoon plan to go on a cruise around Greece in about a year. This was right after she fanned out her winnings from a successful gambling trip to Connecticut. At some point in the evening, I learned that both girls had gone to Middlesex Community College and both held some kind of accounting job. This was the second group.<br /><br />The third group was made up of many with an affection for nature. We gathered for a hike in Palisades park along the Hudson River. The group, in addition to two former fellow AmeriCorps members, had a three very normal guys and two interesting girls. I had a sweet day with them. The guys were gregarious and excited about professional sports. They talked up the New Jersey Devils hockey team. Maybe I'll go to a game with them someday soon. One of them was a lawyer who told me some interesting things, which I won't go into, about the US government that make me feel both very safe and very paranoid. The guys also talked enthusiastically about their environmental jobs while also showing curiosity about other people's jobs. They also admitted how great it was going on the hike and meeting new people like us. The lawyer even confessed at the end of the day that he would rather have us drink his beer than the mooches that do it now. As for the girls, one was the mosquito control superintendent for Essex County, NJ and the other had moved from California to do some environmental thing in the city. The mosquito woman was well-versed and a pleasure to walk with. The other was also a pleasure, except it saddened me when she said she hates where she lives in Brooklyn and hates her job. Bottom line here though is that this was the best group, by <strong>far.</strong> And to cap off the day we all gazed south, and we all reveled in the Manhattan skyline that was aesthetically silhouetted by the amazing glow of orange stratus clouds.<br /><br />Now, I would like to judge the groups based solely on the quality of the people in them, but I cannot ignore some of the glaring external factors. The first group was the shortest meeting, at a house, boozefree, and at night. The second group was medium length, at a bar, boozy, and also at night. The third group was for a good several hours, outside, sober, and during the day. So I'm thinking that maybe I just prefer more time, the outdoors, the sobriety, and the daytime over the other settings. If the people from the third group were placed in the first two settings, I genuinely don't think I would've liked them quite as much.<br /><br />My point is: maybe it's the <strong>setting</strong> of our hangouts that make for really good times. Perhaps the setting deserves just as much attention as the <strong>people </strong>when determining what sort of gatherings are best. Granted the first group was plain as hell and the second group was not very stimulating to me, but now I wanna go for an all-day hike in the Palisades with both of them and see if I still have the same opinions about them by sunset. But then there's the argument that certain types of people will only put themselves in certain situations and a Palisades hike might not be one of them. The plain folks and bar ladies might not do hikes. So maybe it's the <strong>person</strong> who chooses their preferred <strong>setting, </strong>making the qualities of the person the determining factor after all.<br /><br />These anecdotes about hanging out with new groups of people are not things to be called fallacious arguments, but the analysis at the end sure feels similar to that GRE analytical writing section.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-79616068579882810692008-11-05T06:44:00.000-08:002009-03-03T19:54:15.298-08:00The Dawn of Obama<a href="http://media.charlotteobserver.com/smedia/2008/11/05/01/Obama_2008.sff.standalone.prod_affiliate.138.jpg"></a><br /><div>President Barack Obama. Say it a few times. Lord, how did this happen? (I say this with a grin). I don't know the answer, but boy, is this moment beautiful.</div><br /><div></div><div>Two score years ago, Martin Luther King Jr made his "I have a dream" speech, and on November 4th, 2008 the entire United States of America judged an African-American not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character. Last night I cried sweet tears of joy and the tingles on my skin were electric and nothing could stop the swelling of my heart. After such a long spell of dissatisfaction, it feels like America again. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>At an AmeriCorps diversity training event in Paterson, NJ earlier this year, a video showing a psychology experiment featuring black children was shared with the group. Two dolls were placed in front of each kid. One black, one white. Then they were asked questions. "Which doll is prettiest?" The majority of the kids picked the white doll. "Which doll is the bad doll?" The majority picked the black doll. Finally the kids were asked "which doll do you look like?"</div><div>Here is the link: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybDa0gSuAcg&feature=related">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybDa0gSuAcg&feature=related</a></div><div>It warms the soul to theorize that by having Obama hold the most powerful office on the planet, the results of future replications of this experiment will change.</div><br /><br /><div>Election day was surreal. My mother and I drove over to the Princeton Junction Fire House to cast our ballots around 10:30am yesterday. On the drive to the polling station, I could feel the weight of the moment. Inside the fire house the old lady at the sign-in table said I looked a bit like a boy who'd been in just a bit earlier. When she flipped to Andrew White, I saw that my brother Dan, who had turned 18 in October,had escaped from the confines of his high school and already voted. My father Larry had voted before he sputtered off to work in his '95 Honda Civic. After I signed next to their names, the old lady gave me my ticket, then I gave it to the poll man, and went through the curtains. After I moved the X into the Obama Biden rectangle, I stared at it for a few seconds, smiled like mad, and punched the CAST VOTE button. And when the curtains opened I was still smiling. I smiled right on out the door and met with my mother soon after. In the evening, my sister called to say she had driven in rush hour, back to her old apartment, all the way back to Clinton, NJ where she was registered, just so she could vote. This is the first time everyone in my family was old enough to vote. And I got some real feelings of family pride on this Election Day.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>A corollary to this notion of family pride includes my late grandfather, Grandpa White. He lived in Indiana, a steadfast Republican stronghold, all his life, but always <em>always</em> voted democrat. An image of my Grandpa White sitting on a lone blue throne in a vast red field is forever carved out in my mind. The image is even crisper considering he spent his last years sitting in a fluffy blue easy chair. Anyway, nobody could have ever expected such a conservative state to turn blue, especially not in this election--but it did. And today my Grandpa is proudly smiling down on us from heaven.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>At 7pm, my mother burst out of her TV den to announce that the networks had already projected Vermont to go for Obama and Kentucky to go for McCain. From that point on, the excitement of the night never let up. I nuzzled with my mommy for about an hour as the results from a few more states filtered in. By 9pm, five friends had made it to my house to watch the election outcome on my father's prized HD tv. We joked, drank beer, and watched as 150,000 people began gathering in Chicago's Grant Park, the same site as the Lollapalooza music festival which I had attended in August exactly three months prior. When the networks called Pennsylvania for Obama, it was special. When the networks called Ohio for Obama, it was over. Well, essentially over. We had to wait one more hour for the polls to close in California before they could officially project Obama as President-Elect. I was foolishly fumbling around with Comedy Central's InDecision 2008 program when Rob's phone rang. He answered it, turned his head, grinned, and said, "He won." I quickly flipped to CNN, and behold, in bold, white, highly defined letters, it said BARACK OBAMA ELECTED PRESIDENT.</div><br /><div></div><div></div><div>Obama addressed McCain's supporters:</div><div></div><div>"As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, "We are not enemies, but friends…though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection." And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn – I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too."</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Then he assured all that we had made the right choice:<br />"And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world – our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those who would tear this world down – we will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security – we support you. And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright – tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope."</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>So there we were, six subtwenty-five-year-old people, sensing the historical greatness, soaking up the moment, and peering into the future, all at once. A fruit fly researcher slightly offended by GOP VP candidate Palin's belittling remarks about science. A scholar geared to be an English professor. An insightful sociological thinker aiming for a Master's. A middle music teacher aspiring to be a choral conductor. A decision science guru receiving a job offer with internet juggernaut, Facebook, a medium so instrumental in this campaign. And finally, myself, a future environmental scientist riding the wave of the green movement. Amidst all the swirling energy of the moment, we made a toast to change as I let the melodious song of hope wash me away. </div><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Cheers,</div><div>Andy</div>Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-77609748365203143312008-10-26T07:24:00.000-07:002008-10-26T09:42:57.336-07:00Everyone is a pretenderYou know, when I was a wee lad (and then later a not-as-wee bloke) I thought the world and everything in it was a just a large swirl of chaos and confusion that was completely incomprehensible. And all the people I met <em>seemed</em> to know what they were talking about. When it came to judging people's competence, I naively gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. I genuinely believed that <em>I</em> was the one behind and pretty much everyone else somehow had a leg up on me. This false assumption that I was out of the loop and uneducated and therefore unintelligible about many of the worlds problems drove me to work very hard, maybe even too hard, in high school. I had nearly flawless grades, knew quite well what was going on in my classes, and this achievement gave me a little foundation of power and confidence. But still, I almost always felt like a novice in every intellectual conversation, and this often led me to silence. <br /><br />Only now am I realizing that everyone is a novice, all fakers. To some extent, everyone is a pretender. We are all human and a human can only read and remember so much. The fact that we all share this intrinsic human handicap means that none of us are the all-confidant all-knowing all-powerful individuals we make ourselves out to be and, in this cruel competitive world, <em>need</em> to make ourselves out to be. It's amazing how someone can spit out all three things he/she knows about a topic and how the listener's perception of that person will then swell up to be much much bigger than that person's actual size. There are a few professor-like people who really are as smart and bright-witted as they make themselves out to be, but it's undoubtedly a rare thing. So, when you're out and about chatting, and you're feeling maybe slightly outclassed, remember that people are pretenders. We all have fears about our abilities and pride issues, so we do our best to gloss them over by talking about the few things we do know. When someone's getting high on a topic, think is this rhetoric substantive? or just a blaze of verbal confidance? More often than not, when you scrape off the ego facade, we're all vulnerable. We're all the same: pretenders.<br /><br /><br />Once you're out of college, there is this glorious welcoming party to the working world. Fact is, I don't know much about how it all works. Seems like it's networking that gets you a nice job, and it's not as much the result of hard honest work. This is troubling, but it's the truth.<br /><br />What constitutes a nice job? The theory is that there are three integral things you can have at job, and you need at least two of them to be satisfied. They are: 1) liking the job itself, 2) liking the people at the job, 3) liking the pay from the job. Most people right out of college are not going to get thing number 3. That leaves you with liking the job and the people at it. It's mad crazy hard to find an authentic job with both of those. Which leads me to my next thought...<br /><br />Working in America, are we truly free? Seems like the majority of americans work long hours. And only if you're lucky, you're getting paid what you deserve. The number of vacation days available is often slim, not enough. It's rare that you love your job itself. You've only convinced yourself that it's alright and you've adapted as was necessary. And you need this job to stay afloat, pay all the bills, send a child to college, etc. I don't know. To me, it sounds like most people aren't free, as in they have very limited power or control over their circumstances. Sounds more like wage slavery than freedom. I just may be an actual cynical bastard.<br /><br /><br />As I pick out a graduate school, people claim the location of the institution is a very important factor to consider while making my choice. I agree. But, only because of the close proximity with my family. Everything is so much easier when the drive home is a mere few hours, rather than a 3-day road trek or a cross-country flight. Calling the place important because of the deemed potential quality of the place is incorrect. I love the saying "there are no boring places, just boring people." No matter where you go there are always new things to do and new people to meet (unless you're in a sparsely populated zone like Wyoming). Your ability to enjoy a place is contingent on the quality of those people you meet. And at a top notch school in the academic arena, it is inevitable to be surrounded by interesting, enthusiastic, creative minds. <br /><br /><br />One more thought. I feel like I'm more clear-headed and intelligible when I eat less. This hypothesis has been corroborated many times over the last few weeks. The only explanation I think of is that if less food is in the stomach, then less blood is required by the stomach, leaving more oxygen rich blood for the brain. The other idea is the long established concept of fasting, reputably providing ascetics with amazing moments of clarity. Eat less, think more.<br /><br />The clocks fall back in a week, condemning us to darkness in the cold months ahead. So let us enjoy this pretty autumn days while they last! Go outside! Jump in a leaf pile! <br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-86463419033921786632008-10-07T16:33:00.000-07:002008-10-07T23:12:30.572-07:00Rewarding Eloquence and EtiquetteI've realized that, at this point, three months after the fact, the excitement surrounding my June/July Guatemala service trip has all but dwindled. When I had just returned, I was keen to quickly make an online photo album. Those in-the-moment pictures and captions capture the eye-widening experience better than any words I could say here. So here they are, the links to my photo albums from my Guatemala service trip with the First Presbyterian Church of Cranbury:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2037843&l=2e532&id=19300423">http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2037843&l=2e532&id=19300423</a><br /><a href="http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2037850&l=79ab9&id=19300423">http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2037850&l=79ab9&id=19300423</a><br /><br /><br />As of late, I've been slothful to say the least. Fantasy football matches and fantastic presidential election gossip have been baneful to my productivity. I've learned that I am a polar person (not a soon-to-be-extinct bear). I either do a lot of stuff or I do nada. When I was enlisted in AmeriCorps I was busy all the time, but still found extra time to do more. Now, even the mundane tasks of the day don't get accomplished. I sleep in late, read the newspaper, cook a breakfast, brew a coffee, browse a internet, eat a dinner, watch a Daily Show, then go to bed. It's hard to sleep at night knowing you've wasted a blessed day of your glaringly finite life.<br /><br />I believe the saying: the more you do, the more you <strong>can</strong> do. And the similar saying: If you want something done, give it to a busy person. It seems counterintuitive at first, but it's the truth. So, in order to combat my passive sloth approach, I am assigning myself routine activities. One is writing in this blog often. Another is walking with my mom in the neighborhood each morning. Another is cooking dinner for my family once a week. Another is exercising regularly. But let's get to the real task at hand here:<br /><br /><em>Applying to Environmental Studies Graduate Programs in the United States, matriculating in Fall 2009.</em><br /><br />This process is a lot like applying for jobs (of which there are few to be had right now). You want to sell yourself. It's like you have to earn a self-marketing degree before you are eligible to apply for a position. It's not about what great work you've done or what great skills you have--it's how you present those things to the employer or the admission officer. What if marketing & sales is not your forte? Sorry. You're fucked, dude. <br /><br />What do you need to sell yourself? Effective writing, speaking, and communications skills, that's what. When your high school english teacher said his/her course was the single most important course you'd ever take, they weren't lying. Why do you think Gettysburg College made me take English 101 my first semester? It wasn't just because I botched the verbal part of the SAT. It was because they knew it was the linchpin for our future, no matter what field of study or career we would decide to pursue.<br /><br />Speaking is a whole other animal. Unless you took a speech class, how did you learn to speak? It was probably through the regular discourse of your life, whether it was telling ghost stories to your buds around a campfire or smooth-talkin' your honey on the other end of the line. Generally, they don't formally teach the subject of "talking". In fact, you get reprimanded if you're talking in class. The acceptable behavior in school is to go zip-lipped. And nobody ever taught me about body language and etiquette. I pick my nose. I stroke my wannabe-goatee. I don't stare people in the eyes for too long. I don't prefer button-down shirts or bowties. My hair is rarely nice, kempt, or even there at all.<br /><br />In our society, the job search and graduate school application processes blatantly favor those with 1) good looks, 2) nice clothes, 3) a pleasant voice, 4) eloquence, 5) graceful manners, 6) effective writing skills. It seems that shining up my shoes and plucking my eyebrows and whitening my teeth are the best steps I can take to further my career. Some people are born ugly. And some just aren't wired to speak clearly and fluidly, but excel in other areas of intellect. There have been studies done showing that people with dyslexia often have an easier time analyzing multiple variables at once and tackling abstract spatial problems than people without dyslexia.<br /><br />We are breeding our work force to mold to a certain set of character traits. We reward charm and people skills more than we reward hard work and substance. By excluding the eccentrics, the overall potential of our work force is considerably reduced. Change and innovation seems to come from the soft-spoken wacko, not from the prom king or mister best personality. <br /><br />I understand why we reward eloquence and etiquette the way we do, but I do not like it. I think it's a shallow way to assess a person's level of qualification. Alas, but we have no choice if we want to get accepted or employed--we must play the game, and play it well. I'll always be a rebel, but I'm old enough and smart enough to know that "the game" is the only way you can make it in this sad world.<br /><br /><em>"Life is a game, boy. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules."<br /></em>-The Catcher in the Rye<br /><br />Yours truly,<br /><br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-28164717469163804122008-09-05T12:27:00.000-07:002008-09-05T14:07:46.209-07:00Obama, Paradoxical Lessons, and Football!Still holding off on the Guatemala entry. It was two-and-a-half months ago, so the passionate afterglow that goes along with it has retreated a bit. But I'll conjure my thoughts up again soon enough.<br /><br />After the national conventions of the two political major parties, I really don't have anything very new or original to say. Fact is, Obama has always taken the high road, advocating his ideas never stooping to smear his opponent. His campaign has been tight, efficient, and well-run with a clear, unwavering message of needed change in Washington. His Veep pick in Biden was a very good one, probably the best available choice he had. And most of all, he has that natural-born ability to inspire. He takes us to that other place every time he speaks, hopeful and magical. And his use of Springsteen's "The Rising" as a campaign song sure don't hurt his chances in my mind.<br /><br />We had a training for AmeriCorps at Sedge Island near Island Beach State Park at the Jersey Shore back in May. There, before Obama had even won the democratic nomination from Hillary, I made a surprise announcement on the beachfront before my Corpsmates declaring Obama would be our next president. I hope my foresight is right. I will say here that it is 99.9% certain Obama will win all the same states Kerry won in '04. He is also currently leading the polls in Iowa (where he won the caucuses over Hillary in January), New Mexico (where they got SuperDem Bill Richardson), and Colorado (the Democratic National Convention was in Denver), which puts him over the 270 electoral threshold. At minimum, those are the only states he needs to snatch up in order to clinch the presidency. Obama don't need no Ohio, Florida, or Virginny to win it (Florida is leaning Republican while Ohio and Virginia are virtually tied) but McCain <strong>definitely</strong> does. Obama might also turn Nevada and Montana blue. So, unless Obama seriously Obotches the debates, he's won this thing--it's his election to lose in November.<br /><br />I found a handout from an AmeriCorps "Disaster Preparedness" training when I was sifting through my old materials from my recently completed program. The training seemed pretty useless at the time, telling us about crisis management and how to come to together when Katrina-style catastrophes strike. This handout, though, has some simple lessons that you can bridge over to your approach to life. Take from it what you will, but it sure gave be some ying-yang feelings. Here are the lessons:<br /><br /><em>1. Be Prepared.</em><br /><em>2. You will never be completely prepared.</em><br /><em>3. Accept chaos.</em><br /><em>4. Emphasize order and structure.</em><br /><em>5. People can behave at their worst during a crisis.</em><br /><em>6. Crisis can bring out the best in people.</em><br /><em>7. Expect that people are resilient, will recover, and a sense of normalcy will be restored.</em><br /><em>8. Expect that nothing will ever be quite the same again after a significant crisis.</em><br /><em>9. Good judgement is the product of experience.</em><br /><em>10. Experience is the product of mistakes.</em><br /><em></em><br />Ah yes, football season is here. After a seven month drought, I have the comfort of knowing there will never be a Sunday without football until the last weekend of January, the weekend before the Big Game. Football is powerful stuff. And not just because the players are beastly. When the favorite team of a devoted fan succeeds, especially after a longwinded winless streak, it brings the fan long-awaited glory-filled feelings of jubilation. It's almost religious. In fact, you could make the argument that the Church of Football has, in essence, replaced the Church of God on American Sundays. Instead of cheering for the Lord in the sanctuary, we're cheering for our Herculean gridiron heroes on the couch.<br />At Rutgers University in NJ it's been reported that the head football coach makes more money than any other university staff member, including the university president. There's mad crazy money in football. They rack in the dough from ticket sales, merch sales, sponsors--they run the gamut. We all know money leads to more funding for better programs, better facilities, better professors, better everything. And it's not just physical things that you buy. A winning football team can instill pride in an institution (or a city if we're talking about the NFL) and bring about a true sense of unity. No matter what race we are, what our income is, or where we grew up, we can <strong>all</strong> be football fans. It's something common that anybody can latch onto.<br />I'm thinking about the Saints right now down in New Orleans. The city was evacuated upon the warning of the imminent storm Hurricane Gustav earlier this week. Looking at the footage, the levees barely held and the place is still in shambles from Katrina three years prior. I was down there 21 months ago with a Lutheran group from Gettysburg College and I saw the calamity firsthand. But I also soaked in the N'awlinz spirit through the people I met and the music I heard. The Saints were a shitty football team leading up to the 2005 season, but after Katrina, they seemed to kick it up a notch. They were one game away from the Super Bowl in 2006 (they lost to the Chicago Bears). I genuinely believe the success of the Saints lifted up the hopes of that flood-ridden city in some oblique, intangible way.<br />Then there's the fantasy football phenomenon. It's a lot like stock-trading. You have a draft at the start of the season where you pick players at each position that you think will perform the best. You get to start or bench your players each week based on their past performance or based on what the matchup looks like for that week or based on what all the analysts are saying. The value of a player rises if he scores 3 TD's. If you think the 3 TD's is just a fluke, then you might want to trade the guy. Trade now while his value is high! Do you pick the old veteran with 10 years experience running on creaky knees OR the new fresh-outta-college hotshot who doesn't quite know the NFL ropes yet? Tough choices all the time. Then there is the moral dilemma of picking fantasy players from teams you don't much like. Doing that would force you to root for a player on a team you despise, just so you can squeak out an unsatisfying victory. I intentionally crippled myself this year, opting for only players I like. Thus, my team is weaker and less likely to win, but funwise it's better this way. Team loyalty trumps bad-tasting triumph. To sum up, fantasy football is a frivolous, addictive, albeit highly recommended activity that allows for practice in morals, hypothesizing, and swindling your friends.<br /><br />To me, and so many others, football matters. God almighty, it's here at last.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Go Giants!</span><br /><br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-8176795091405645272008-08-20T16:39:00.000-07:002009-11-07T08:53:41.565-08:00Back in the BlogosphereI realize my two-month summer hiatus. Since I last posted I've been to Guatemala as an amateur dentist with a church group, the Delaware Water Gap for some birthday camping (I turned 23 on July 12th), Cape May for a family beach vacation, Chicago for the Lollapalooza music festival, and Vermont to visit Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream Factory, Green Mountain Coffee Roasters, my uncle's family, and my grandpa. A post dedicated to Guatemala is coming soon.<br /><br /><br />When my dad goes to the grocery store, he buys whatever is on sale and sometimes without looking at the label. Cereal was on sale this week. The box he brought home said: <span style="font-size:180%;">"NEW! <strong>Unfrosted</strong>" </span><span style="font-size:100%;">My cereal spirit has never been so dejected. Honestly, who wants </span><span style="font-size:130%;">UN</span><span style="font-size:100%;">frosted Miniwheats? C'mon Kellogg's, you're breaking my heart (or maybe rescuing it).</span><br /><br /><br />As I was on the verge of closing down my AmeriCorps email account today, I came across peculiar message in my inbox:<br /><br /><em>Hi guys, Is the Andy White mentioned on your website the same Andy White who drummed on the first single of The Beatles? I gather he now lives in New Jersey. If so I would like to contact Andy for interview in a new book about The Beatles. Many thanks, Martin Creasy (author of Legends On Tour - The Pop Package Tours Of The 1960s).</em><br /><br />Uh, yes Mister Creasy, in fact it was me who drummed on that first single of the Beatles. Any thoughts?<br /><br /><br />I've interacted with quite a few people younger than me over the last year or so. Some of them were in high school. Some were already in college. As a college graduate, I offered each of them these four pieces of advice:<br /><br />1. <strong>Go to class</strong> --It's really easy to skip lectures, especially if you're hungover or it's a Friday, but why would you do that? When I was at Gettysburg College, a few of us did the calculations. Each lecture costs over $100, with one hundred being a conservative estimate. Why waste the money? Why waste the education? Because I went to class, I didn't have to spend as much time studying on my own and catching up on things I had missed and I ended up earning good grades. There are so many people out there who would be damn happy for the opportunity to go to college. If you are blessed with the privilege to be there, then GO. Woody Allen sums it up: "Eighty percent of success is showing up."<br /><br />2. <strong>Do not go Greek</strong> --There are exceptions to this, but if your school is anything like Gettysburg, then you ought to stay away from the frats and sororities. In essence, each greek group has a personality and you get the chance to pick which one you want to be like. In your first year, you get to sample each one by way of parties and various events. By year's end, you probably have a good idea about which greek brothers or sisters you admire most and where you'd fit in best. Why become a greek clone when you can develop into your own person independently? Greek values, from my experience, are not very good ones. Getting shwasted and getting laid seem to be the things at the top of their to-do lists.<br /><br />3. <strong>Study abroad</strong> --Do it. That's all I can say. You will certainly come back anew with a changed perspective about pretty much everything. It doesn't matter where you go, just GO. Mark Twain says it well: "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things can not be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."<br /><br />4. <strong>Choose courses based on the professor who teaches the course, not the subject of the course </strong>--I know for some majors you may not have a lot of flexibility when putting together a course schedule, but trust me on this one. If you've heard a bunch of your friends yapping about just how awesome their Sociology professor is, it's usually not by fluke. The approbation or negativity of the yaps is often a good indicator on how much you'll get out of a course. Students don't praise professors who suck (obviously), nor do they praise professors who don't give homework (they just say "easy A"). The students praise the ones who are intelligent, entertaining, and challenging--the ones who make you better. The enthusiasm of a professor can be contagious. You can tell which professors are there because they want to sculpt the young minds of the future and which ones are there because that's just what they were asked to do. Let's just say I learned more pertinent life skills in college from an engaging ceramics class than I did from a litany of poorly taught science courses.<br /><br />Any other college tips you would add?<br /><br /><br />My AmeriCorps exit interview was last week. I am done with that now. These days I'm at home sifting through piles of AmeriCorps-related literature that have accumulated over the past year, extracting only the goods. I'm also preparing for the GRE test and beginning to search for graduate school programs. I would like to start in Fall 2009.<br /><br />It's nice to be back.<br />Cheers,<br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-81061483121194182942008-06-11T19:04:00.001-07:002008-06-11T21:05:38.959-07:00Oh, baby. Oh, doctor.Last week a close colleague of mine named Beth brought her three-month-old daughter, Emily Elizabeth, into the office. There were only two of us up on the 3rd floor and we were mesmerized by this little miracle of a baby. At first Emily was asleep, silent and still. But then, a little saliva-enhanced gasp and she was awake! Look at those dark blue eyes! She would stare and dribble and smile and we would melt. Even complete strangers fall for babies. Babies have some real power. But for all the power they possess, they are whiny and virtually helpless. Beth was describing how Emily had colic, a condition where the infant cries or screams for hours at a time and there is nothing anyone can do to stop them. I don't think Beth slept much in the last three months. But even through those uncontrollable cries, there is still unconditional motherly love. Disregarding the colic, babies pretty much just eat, sleep, and poop--and yep, mama deals with it. We don't give moms enough credit. Please, let us thank our mothers.<br /><br />I didn't get my mom a mother's day card or gift. Seeing baby Emily made me think about what my mom did for me when I was a wee thing so I gave her a nice hug when I got home. Then she told me a story about how she brought me to a work meeting when I was baby. I was making baby sounds and her intimidating, macho boss thought the sounds were coming from a kitten. The boss was fuming about the idea of a pet in the meeting and as he was about to blow, his eyes fell on little me, and then his anger was instantly quelled.<br /><br />On the other side of the spectrum, my long-time pediatrician Dr. Levin died this week. He had some sort of blood cancer. This is the man who charted my growth, watched me mature. I remember he did a spot on Donald Duck impersonation. That's how I identified him. But I was frightened of him as a little one. One time he reached down to pick me up, but I clenched my small fingers around the leg of a nearby chair. Dr. Levin still proceeded to lift me, but when he did, the whole chair went airborne. I was a strong baby.<br /><br />Dr. Levin was also the one who to make a diagnosis about my hair loss ailment. He incorrectly prescribed Nizoral, an anti-fungal shampoo. It just shows that you can only see what you are prepared to see. Dr. Levin never read the chapter about Alopecia Areata too closely, I suppose. I've learned since that the kind I have is more of a mental condition, and in the same family as obsessive compulsive disorder. It is something that defines my character. It's called perfectionism and sometimes it prevents me from trying new things. I always want to be perfect at the outset, so I tend to avoid bouts with imperfection. Because I know this about myself, I combat it by blindly signing up for adventures. My next adventure is a ten-day service trip down to Guatemala with my church. I leave on June 26th. I'll tell you all about it.<br /><br />Life is short, sweet, beautiful, and fragile. Babies are born. Doctors die. And golly gee, go give your mom a hug.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-88369859945886018342008-05-29T19:11:00.000-07:002013-12-13T15:32:19.403-08:00Time, Money, EnergyYou can never have all three.<br />
<br />
Today, I went to a Rain Garden/Bioretention Symposium in New Brunswick where I met an 80 year old man. Since he is retired and essentially unoccupied during weekdays, the Montgomery Township (Robbily Bobbles Connacher's township!) Environmental Commission selected him to go as their representative. The man had just returned from Paris. He said that after converting euros to dollars and liters to gallons, gas costs over $9.00 per gallon there. Rather than driving, he said there was a nifty rent-a-bike service. It's as simple as: you swipe your plastic, the bike unlocks from the rack, you ride it to your destination, dock it, and swipe again. And the rental converts to something like 50 cents per hour. Exercise, no carbon emissions, convenient, and inexpensive. What a concept!<br />
<br />
"Why did you choose Paris?" I asked the man.<br />
"Because I likes it there," he slurred slowly in a viscous eastern european/russian accent.<br />
"And I am retired so I haves the time and money," he added.<br />
"Well, where should I go?" I asked.<br />
"Anyvere...go anyvere...but do not go by yourself. Go with friends."<br />
"<i>Any</i>where?"<br />
"Have you been to Europe?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Go dere. Go soon while you are young." His grey eyes were shiny and he put up three fingers.<br />
"Time, money, energy," he said counting them off. "In life, dere are three things--but you can never have <i>all</i> three. Ven you are young, you have time and energy, but no money. Ven you are older, you have money and energy, but no time. Ven you are even older, like me, you have time and money, but no energy."<br />
I laughed and asked, "So which one is the worst?"<br />
"The last one," he said matter-of-factly.<br />
<br />
It was hard to take him seriously though. His off-kilter tuft of combed-over hair had a distracting, comical personality. Tuft aside, I like his insight. We all know the mantra of economics 101 even if we've never been to a lecture: Time=Money. And you can't have both. <br />
<br />
This old man brought energy into play. Cherish the energy we have. Expend it everyday for the common good. We are young.<br />
<br />
With boundless liveliness,<br />
<br />
<br />
AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-58177013526470427742008-05-08T17:32:00.000-07:002013-12-13T15:28:26.659-08:00Leave the Light OnOK, I've been remiss in my duties as a blogger. But I am back now.<br />
<br />
For starters, there is Hillary Clinton. She is running until the end. It's like a game of poker and you know you should fold, but then you think maybe the river card will bridge the gap and you'll get that unlikely straight. But let me tell you, I think her staying in the race is a good thing. First, it's getting more democratic voters registered. Young people, black people, educated white people...yeah all of those and more. And Hillary's campaign message has sort of changed. It's not all about Obama being inexperienced and how she's the stronger candidate. It's more about how she'll support the democratic nominee in November and a positive shout out for the the Dems. Having Obama and Hillary campaign in all these states is like double the press for the democrats--a wonderful, liberal two-headed monster.<br />
<br />
I should just say here that I enjoy John McCain's hunch. No, not his political instincts, but rather the terrific hunch on his back. I just find his posture and gesticulations to be hilarious.<br />
<br />
I got this book from the library, Mythology by Edith Hamilton. She says in the intro how the Greek Gods were corrupt. "Almost every one of the radiant divinities could act cruelly or contemptibly," she says. I mean, the Greeks worshiped these misbehaved deities. But shouldn't the Gods be perfect? Shouldn't they be role models for the mortals? This makes me think of other notorious people that we praise, like Benjamin Franklin and most of our other lauded forefathers. By indulging in booze, sex, partying and drugs does that make us God-like? Personally, I have this overwhelming moral compass that just pours on the guilt if I do all that stuff. To me, the instant pleasure isn't as satisfying as the assertive sense of self-control and the ability to abstain. I guess I'm a mere mortal.<br />
<br />
I went to Gettysburg twice since my last post. The first time was for Springfest--alumni get free beers. I met my bud, Agatha, in her extravagant office in the admissions building before going to a Faculty Social Hour in Weidensall. The wine and appetizers were for free and I certainly had some. From then on, the night was good. It was like old Gburg times, bouncing around from room to room, bar to bar, just walkin' all over town and campus. Springfest, with featured act Rahzel, was just alright. I was more happy to socialize with my younger Gettysburg friends. The fact I still knew a large handful of people confirmed that I belonged there. The visit was legit.<br />
<br />
I cruised right on back to Gettysburg the following weekend, my first time doing all the driving, all six hours. I was content to get a smoothie and a coffee at my beloved Ragged Edge and buy a bottle of local red wine from this odd antique shop annex, but this weekend was different than the last. All my lovely acquaintences were all shut up inside their rooms pounding out papers or pulling their hair out over final exams. Rob, Liz, Morgan, and I saw The National at Messiah College that Saturday night. Best show in quite a while for me. Whatever potential music has or whatever it's supposed to do, The National accomplished just that that evening--busted through the sound barrier and took me to another place. That night I crashed at Morgan's Quarry apartment. It was kind of her to let me stay.<br />
<br />
Those last visits, I feel, were the capstone, the lid screwed onto the jar of my Gettysburg life. My only connection to Gettysburg now is a few people and a few professors, but both parties know it's not really worth six driving hours to see each other. The town will forever have a charm about it, but the chief Gettysburg legacy is undoubtedly my relationships with the people I met there. And maybe Steve Gimbel's blog, too. But that's all.<br />
<br />
AmeriCorps is almost up. I plan to be done before the end of July. All I have left requirement-wise is about 20 stream monitoring assessments ( you can bang out 4 in a day) and a couple volunteer trainings. My problem is that I sign up for all these other things like field trips at Duke Farms, the Envirothon, the BioBlitz, the Rain Garden/Bioretention Research Symposium, etc. These are all welcome, awesome distractions, but I really ought to get my priorities straight and just do what's asked of me. They'll stop sending stipend paychecks on July 20th.<br />
<br />
On Thursday night this week, Sam and I had the privilege of sitting in the second row of a Chris Smither concert at the Trenton War Memorial. The man has a most expressive face and a most impressive finger picking style, not to mention his wowzer philosophical lyrics written with a dash of laugh. He was out shaking hands with everybody during the intermission. Mr. Smither even signed a CD for me! He loves his fans. What a guy, that Chris Smither. I'll leave you with some of his words...<br />
<br />
If I were young again I'd pay attention,<br />
To that little-known dimension,<br />
The taste of endless time.<br />
It's like water,<br />
It runs right through our fingers,<br />
But the flavor of it lingers,<br />
Like a rich red wine.<br />
In those days we were single,<br />
We lived 'em one by one,<br />
Now we hardly see 'em,<br />
They don't walk, they run,<br />
But I got plenty left I've set my sight on,<br />
Don't wait up, leave the light on<br />
I'll be home soon.<br />
<br />
<br />
Forward-looking and hopeful,<br />
<br />
AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-29414700798310610902008-04-22T20:36:00.000-07:002008-04-23T00:12:48.089-07:00Change.I firmly support Barack Obama for President of the United States. The <em>United</em> States.<br /><br />Obama is intelligent, built with an honest moral foundation, and most importantly, he has the power to inspire an entire nation--to give us a kick in the ass. Every time I hear him, he makes me want to do better.<br /><br />For two hours, I frivolously watched the results come in for the Pennsylvania democratic primary. Listening to the slew of various partisan commentators at MSNBC, I was able to paint a picture in my mind of what the two democratic nominees really mean, what their agenda is, what their intentions are. Hillary exuded the impression that she really wants to <em>become</em> president and that Obama is not as fit for the job. She mocked Obama's campaign slogan "Yes We Can" by saying to her supporters, "No, not 'yes we can,' Yes We Will!". Her campaign seems to be against Obama more than anything else and she acts like presidency is the ultimate goal, like her purpose is complete once she reaches the prized presidential destination.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Obama clearly stands for hope, change, and unity. He does not give in to the squabble and bicker that frequents our notoriously corrupted political landscape. He is above that. He wants to <em>be</em> our president, bring us together, guide us back to being the <em>United</em> States, back to the exemplary country we once were. Obama has his heart and mind in the right place. Obama is for America.<br /><br />If Hillary actually wants what's best for the democratic party, then she would stop polarizing the fuck out of it and concede to Obama. She is attempting to play her political cards and pull strings to rig this democratic primary, just like Dubya did to Gore in the presidential election back in 2000. She is vying, clawing at all costs, to get what is now pretty much an unattainable nomination. And now pundits are discrediting Obama because he was unable to send Hillary a fat"knock-out punch" tonight. They think that since he failed to show tenacity and grit in Pennsylvania, he will surely lose to Senator McCain come November.<br /><br />There are major flaws with this presumption. Firstly, this was just one state: Pennsylvania. Secondly, they are forgetting that these were registered democrats voting in a democratic primary and that the majority of Hillary's supporters will likely back Obama, the democratic candidate, in the presidential election rather than resorting to the GOP's McCain. Thirdly, they are also forgetting about all the unregistered, unaffiliated moderates who, by default, abstain from voting in primaries. These independents will hopefully see the blatant remiss of the republican party in the last 7 years and favor the other option in our little dual-party system.<br /><br />Anyway, the bottom line is, <em>anybody</em> will make a better president than "shrublet". In a recent poll among respected historians, more than two-thirds selected GWB as our worst president ever. A while back Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam sang a wonderful song on Vh1 storytellers that passionately conveys the popular feeling about the Bush Administration these days. Here is the link:<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5q-Jnj-hZzs">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5q-Jnj-hZzs</a><br /><br /><br />When I was at Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival in June 2007, Wayne Coyne, frontman of the band Flaming Lips, went on a little political rant before a sea of thoroughly stoned youth. After pushing for us to vote and stay more politically attuned, he broke it down for us: "Guys, let's just not have another motherfucker in the white house, okay?" Agreed.<br /><br />--------------<br /><br /><br /><br />Obama has two decades of experience as a community organizer. He has made it clear that he believes <em>change</em> starts with grassroots groups and works it's way up rather than starting at the top and trickling down.<br /><br />As an AmeriCorps watershed ambassador for 8 months, I've had a bit of a glimpse of what it means to be a part of a nonprofit, round up a community, and become more connected with the common folk. I think I understand where Obama's coming from and I'm beginning to believe that perhaps leading a grassroots style organization is for me. And lately, the idea of consigning myself to academia seems less appealing. I don't think I want to write stacks of detailed papers that only a few elite intellectuals would care about and fully understand. To me, the community approach carries much more weight. Literally, more weight when considering the 5 tons of litter the local volunteers pulled out at my stream cleanups this month. <br /><br />I don't know what my plans are. AmeriCorps will be done in two months give or take, and I don't have anything lined up yet. I might find another environmental position in New Jersey. I might move to Vermont with my uncle and search for something up there. And I might just have to move to DC to volunteer to help with Obama's forthcoming campaign. I truly do not know.<br /><br />But Mark Twain has offered me some reassurance about planning (or not planning) for the future. Recently, I bought <em>Essays and Sketches of Mark Twain</em>, essentially the glorified blog of beloved Samuel Clemens, and there is one particular sketch where he discusses his philosophy of Circumstance and Temperment. Circumstance is external, everything and everyone presented to you in your life. Temperment is internal, your gifts, skills, personality--all the characteristics that make you <em>you</em>. There is some elasticity for each of the two, but generally they are both fixed. You can change your Circumstance by maybe moving to a new place or maybe finding a new job, but you must consider costs, family, location and your qualifications, passion, desired wage. You can try to alter your Temperment, and maybe do it somewhat successfully, but there will always be your lingering residual demeanor underneath the new facade. I like to think of Circumstance and Temperment as set values on a figure, but you have some control with the range of the error bars.<br /><br />When Circumstance and Temperment line up nicely, you get somebody like LeBron James. You're throwing down sweet dunks over your opponents, winning basketball games, and making millions of dollars. His physical attributes and athletic prowess (Temperment) match very well with the sport of basketball and the NBA (Circumstance), which gives him the financial means necessary to live the high life in our society. But LeBron got lucky. Most of us spend our lives looking for a perfect match, but can never really find it. That's because a perfect match often doesn't exist. We are all unique individuals with our own genetic code of which the possibilities are nearly infinite, so the chances that our specific code will match perfectly with what the world presents to us is quite remote. <br /><br />But, we all end up settling into <em>some</em> kind of a match. And the match might not only with a certain activity or career, but also with another person or even a special place. Sometimes people forget about that. I know I did. <br /><br />So we must accept that our Temperment has a limited capacity to fluctuate and that Circumstance can change at the drop of a fez. That's why we mustn't worry too hard about planning. If you don't make the search for something, you might miss out on what's out there, but at the same time, if you do go out searching, you might miss out on something even better had you only stayed put and waited. Opportunities come about and opportunities slip away, but, in the end, we all tend to latch onto a pretty good one and make ends meet. <br /><br />Embracing the change,<br /><br /><br />AndyAndy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5322486918667033137.post-15593176517187784712008-04-14T17:10:00.000-07:002008-12-09T11:54:27.017-08:00Photographs and Numbers<div align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP5jTVy_ZI/AAAAAAAAAD0/SbFIc9_RjXM/s1600-h/April+5th+122.jpg"></a> <strong><em>2008 Second Annual Stony Brook-Millstone Watershed Stream Cleanup</em></strong> </div><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP3rzVy_VI/AAAAAAAAADU/k83n9qtkgds/s1600-h/Hauling+out+cart+in+Hightstown+April+5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189263527549009234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP3rzVy_VI/AAAAAAAAADU/k83n9qtkgds/s400/Hauling+out+cart+in+Hightstown+April+5.jpg" border="0" /></a>Councilman and Scout Leader pull out shopping cart from Rocky Brook in Hightstown.<br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP2-TVy_TI/AAAAAAAAADE/R220COZtCr0/s1600-h/D%26R+Cleanup+April+13.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189262745864961330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP2-TVy_TI/AAAAAAAAADE/R220COZtCr0/s400/D%26R+Cleanup+April+13.jpg" border="0" /></a> Delaware-Raritan Canal cleanup in West Windsor.</div><div align="center">From Left: Me, Rob, Jim Gambino, Mike Hornsby (Chair of WW Environmental Commission) </div><div align="center">with his wife, and Andrew Kulley.<br /></div><div align="center"> </div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP2xjVy_SI/AAAAAAAAAC8/GrRz2uaw6BE/s1600-h/Cleanups+April+12+006.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189262526821629218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP2xjVy_SI/AAAAAAAAAC8/GrRz2uaw6BE/s400/Cleanups+April+12+006.jpg" border="0" /></a>Weighing trash bags at Shabakunk Creek near Lawrence Shopping Center.<br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP11DVy_QI/AAAAAAAAACs/oySCpjH9IXk/s1600-h/Bulldozer+in+Frankin+April+12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189261487439543554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP11DVy_QI/AAAAAAAAACs/oySCpjH9IXk/s400/Bulldozer+in+Frankin+April+12.jpg" border="0" /></a>Bulldozer at Mile Run-Hawthorne Park.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP1jzVy_PI/AAAAAAAAACk/Y4-p70cjwzA/s1600-h/Dump+site+in+Franklin.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189261191086800114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP1jzVy_PI/AAAAAAAAACk/Y4-p70cjwzA/s400/Dump+site+in+Franklin.jpg" border="0" /></a> Stream litter at the dump site in Franklin Township.<br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP1EDVy_NI/AAAAAAAAACU/uUUY2YQyUZs/s1600-h/Korean+Club+in+Franklin+April+12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189260645625953490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_E2AZGWcBEnw/SAP1EDVy_NI/AAAAAAAAACU/uUUY2YQyUZs/s400/Korean+Club+in+Franklin+April+12.jpg" border="0" /></a> Rutgers Korean Club displaying their stream cleanup t-shirts.<br /><br /></div><div><div><div><strong></strong> </div><div><strong></strong> </div><div><strong></strong> </div><div><strong></strong> </div><div><strong>8 towns.</strong></div><div><br /> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><br /> </div><div><strong>237 volunteers.</strong></div><div><br /><br /> </div><div> </div><div><br /><br /> </div><div><strong>Over 5 tons of litter removed from our local waterways.</strong></div><div><br /> </div><div><br /><br /> </div><div> </div><div>A good many thanks to the Stony Brook-Millstone Watershed Association, American Rivers, New Jersey Clean Communities, and our other sponsors as well as the Environmental Commission, Public Works Department, and volunteers of Cranbury, East Windsor, Franklin, Hightstown, Lawrence, Millstone, Monroe, and West Windsor. <br /><br /></div><div>Keeping NJ beautiful,</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Andy<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Andy Whitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09058381002226715116noreply@blogger.com2