All posts by rbowen

No vacancy

Well, apparently, you can’t just drive to Pigeon Forge and expect to find a place to put up a tent.

Sheesh.

I got to the north end of Pigeon Forge at 7pm, emerged from the south end a mere 45 minutes later (about 3 miles), and drove to the camp site I had chosen. Only to find that it was full. So I went to the next place that I had chosen, which turned out to be about 15 miles further than I thought it was. The surly attendant wanted a $30 deposit, and could not tell me for sure what it would cost for a night. So I didn’t stay there.

Around 9:30 I had just about decided to just go home. But I stuck it out. With the help of my GPS, I located several other campgrounds that were full. I finally ended up at the KOA on the north side of Sevierville. 35d59.416,-83d36.144 The drive down here was about 150 miles, and I’ve driven about another 70 or 80 looking for a camp site.

So, at about 11:00, I got my tent set up, and got my dinner. Chicken noodle soup never tasted so good.

It’s nice here. I think. I couldn’t actually see anything when I drove in, so for all I know I might be on the edge of a oozing swamp.

So much for my plans of writing a chapter this evening. Good night.

802.11

For a couple days, I seem to have trouble getting to hosts on my own network, and I recently noticed that I’m getting IP addresses in the wrong range. This should have been a clue. 😉 I just realized that I’m on my neighbor’s wireless network.

Not good.

Reading group

In college I was an RA (Resident Assistant). That means, roughly, that I was supposed to keep the children … um … men from destroying the dorm, killing one another, or operating illegal businesses out of their rooms. At least, that’s how I understood my tasks.

(Typical conversation: “Room check! Ok, you still have a room.”)

One of the rooms on my hall contained two freshmen who were intent on annoying everyone else to the point of distraction, keeping the noise level at or above the pain threshhold anytime that someone might possibly want to sleep, give the hall the aromatic features of a petting zoo, and carpet their room entirely in banana stickers. Names are withheld to protect the guilty.

So, fast-forward 14 years.

Last night, one of these fine gentlemen called me and invited me to attend a reading group, which will be reading books on the topic of social justice, featuring the writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, among others. I was honored that he would think of inviting me to the gathering of upstanding young men who will be attending. And although I like telling college stories about this guy, he’s a great young man, and, as long as I’m complementing him, he’s got a beautiful wife and daughter, too.

Oh, and, for the record, the other guy is operating a mission organization that works with street kids in Kathmandu and Calcutta, among other places. So he turned out ok too. Although he’s still a little weird. 😉

School fundraiser

I’d like an option where I just give $20 directly to the school, rather than spending $20 for $5 worth of junk I don’t want so that the school can get $2. Is that so unreasonable?

Safari Rally

In 1988, I think it was, we went out past Ngong to watch the Marlboro Safari Rally. We waited at the checkpoint, where the cars had to stop and register.

I can hear the cars long before you see them, since they always remove their mufflers. It’s part of the tradition. I can hear the roar miles and miles away. Then, suddenly, they appear over the top of the hill, and around the corner, moving faster than I’ve ever seen cars move. They’re driving around 180 Mph, on unpaved dusty roads. Speed limits, such as they are, are suspended for the Rally.

In a mere few seconds, the car arrives at the checkpoint where we’re standing. The noise is deafening. As the car slows for the checkpoint, the people waiting there realize who it is. While most of the drivers these days are foreigners, this is is one of the few Kenyan drivers, and actually favored to do very well this year. The people crush around the car so that it has to come to a complete stop for fear of running over someone. The driver leans out the window, happy at the adulation, and irritated at the delay. He wants to move on, but wants to soak in the cheers of his fans.

The codriver hops out, quickly signs the log book, and gets back in. The driver screams at the people that he must be going, and revs the engine. People scatter, and he can move on. And, as quickly as he arrived, he’s disappeared into a cloud of dust.

The Rally used to be called the East African Safari Rally, and stretch over all three nations of British East Africa – Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania. Idi Amin’s reign of terror ended that practice. Then, later on, corporate sponsorship gradually changed the nature of the race. But it’s still one of the most untamed road races in the world.

I remember watching at the Mercedes service stop just outside of Kericho, and watching the cars roar in, have all four tires changed, and a full tank of gas, and roar back out, all under a minute. I remember seeing the famous Joginder Singh drive through there, and feeling that I was in the presence of greatness.

I remember when Suki Drews’ dad brought his race car to Turi, and let us look at it up close, and even get in it to see how stuff worked. I particularly remember the water straw that came down overhead so that the driver could drink while driving. And I remember wondering if he could pee while driving too, and how hysterically funny that seemed.

Every year around the same time as the Safari Rally, we would have the Dinky Safari Rally at Turi. But, of course, that’s a story for another time.

Buying technology in Lexington

Today, another chapter in the always-frustrating saga of buying technology in Lexington. I’ve been shopping for a digital photo printer. I finally found the one that I wanted, but nobody in Lexington carries it. I found one that is almost what I want, and finally found it at Circuit City. The Sony DPP-EX50 Picture Station.

Although the sales guy promised me that it would come with a starter kit of ink and paper (Circuit City didn’t actually carry these supplies), it didn’t, so I had to go back out on a hunt.

Office Max seemed surprised that Sony made printers, as did Office Depot. Best Buy carried the printer, but not the ink. And CompUSA, finally, had the ink, although I had to practically goad a lethargic sales person out of the way to find it, having circled the printer cartridge aisle three times.

This thing better print wondeful pictures.

Mother Africa

I wrote this a long time ago, and recently rediscovered it. I’ll resist the urge to edit, as well as the urge to add commentary, and just reproduce it as I found it, written on yellow notebook paper from long ago.

=====

I want to tell you about my mother. Her name is Africa. Perhaps I don’t look like her; indeed I have many brothers who do not resemble me. And there are many who claim to be her children who never met her. Many who claim to be her lovers who never slept with her. Many who write her love songs, but have never heard her sing.

She used to sing to me, as I fell towards sleep. Sometimes in the deep voice of the bullfrog, while the owl sang tenor. Sometimes the throb of the KR train on the tracks down the hill. And I remember that night, high on mount Kenya, when she sang to me – a beautiful sound. A sound that millions will live and die, having never once heard. The sound of total, uninterrupted, silence.

To the world, her name is Africa, and her face is black. To her children, she has many names, and many faces.

Her name is Congo, with the richest soil on earth, but where the people starve, because tilling the soil is not a noble profession. She is also called Sahara, where nothing grows, but the sheikhs can live like kings because of oil.

Her name is Cairo, an ancient city which has prospered for thousands of years, and produced great thinkers, rulers, and artists. Her name is Soweto, created in prejudice, governed by opression, but producing men who changed their world.

She is called Dar es Salam – the city of peace – and Bulowayo – the place of killing.

Some remember her as Shimoni, where her children became property, some as Liberia, where those same people became rulers again.

Her children are as diverse as her names: Haille Selasse. Shaka Zulu. Mzee Jomo Kenyatta. Idi Amin. Steven Biko. David Livingston. Tut Ankh Amon. Myself. And perhaps you … perhaps not.

She cannot be trusted, or predicted. She is always a mystery, even to those who know her. But though we have been apart for many years, I am still her child, and I will always love her.

Exotic and strange

As I’m reading “Don’t Let’s Go To The Dogs Tonight”, I find myself thinking, hey, maybe I could write something about my Time In Africa, since these books seem to do fairly well. And, since I’ve been struggling to write a novel for an inordinately long time here, with no apparent progress, maybe that would get things moving in my brane.

But, then, this is followed by the obvious observation that my life was hardly as exotic and strange as the ones depicted in the latest bunch of “growing up in Africa” books that I’ve read. (Although *someone* should write about the body that those guys found in the woods.)

And, of course, this observation is immediately followed by …

If their lives were exotic and strange
they would likely have gladly exchanged them
for something a little more plain
maybe something a little more sane.
We each pay a fabulous price for our visions of paradise.
(Rush – Mission – The Spirit of Radio – 1980)

There’s also the problem that my memory isn’t the keenest. I tend to have a foggy impression of some of the events of my time in Kenya, with Turi probably being the sharpest memory, or perhaps Nairobi. I suppose I should write some of this stuff before it blows away completely.

Mancala

I taught my daughter to play Mancala. She didn’t quite get it, and I didn’t think much more about it. That was perhaps 2 months ago. This evening, she wanted to play. She remembered the rules, and she beat me about half the time. I was so proud. 🙂