I was reading an interesting article just now ... Western reporters in Africa struggle over when to help .
JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA – It was three school-age siblings, orphaned by AIDS and fending for themselves in rural Swaziland, who were the last straws. They finally made Canadian reporter Stephanie Nolen question the age-old journalistic principle of not giving help to people she encounters while reporting.
Every morning these kids, whom Ms. Nolen met last year, would put on their school uniforms and stand outside their home, watching other children go to school. They couldn't follow because they didn't have money for school fees.
Years of seeing such situations finally got to Nolen. During a "somewhat sleepless night," she argued with herself: "I can't do this, it's a slippery slope." But in the morning she made a beeline for an ATM and withdrew $150, enough for all three to go to school for a year.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Writer’s block is caused and reinforced by fear--fear of success as much as fear of failure. Compelling writing draws its strength from honesty about one’s limitations.
Chip Scanlan
from Ten Paradoxes of the Writing Life
Chip Scanlan
from Ten Paradoxes of the Writing Life
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
News over at Blogher
Pam, over at Blogher, wrote up some more on the anti-facist protest group that has taken to disrupting neo-Nazi and facist gatherings in Germany.
But Blogher is an interesting site ... they write: BlogHer is the brainchild of three bloggers who joined forces to meet a need in the blogging community. In February 2005, journalist Lisa Stone recruited entrepreneur Elisa Camahort to start a conference for women bloggers. Camahort in turn recruited media strategist and writer Des Jardins as our third founder.
There is a rather good interview with Lisa Stone over at the New West Network.
The idea of creating a community of women bloggers has quickly gone from an esoteric discussion to a full-blown conversation about the diversity of voices in and out of the blogosphgere. This has all led to BlogHer.org, a conference and community for, by and in support of women bloggers (it is, according to the site: "a network for women bloggers to draw on for exposure, education, and community. By holding a day-long conference on July 30, 2005, and establishing an online hub, BlogHer is initiating an opportunity for greater visibility, learning and success for individual women bloggers and for the community of bloggers as a whole.")
But Blogher is an interesting site ... they write: BlogHer is the brainchild of three bloggers who joined forces to meet a need in the blogging community. In February 2005, journalist Lisa Stone recruited entrepreneur Elisa Camahort to start a conference for women bloggers. Camahort in turn recruited media strategist and writer Des Jardins as our third founder.
There is a rather good interview with Lisa Stone over at the New West Network.
The idea of creating a community of women bloggers has quickly gone from an esoteric discussion to a full-blown conversation about the diversity of voices in and out of the blogosphgere. This has all led to BlogHer.org, a conference and community for, by and in support of women bloggers (it is, according to the site: "a network for women bloggers to draw on for exposure, education, and community. By holding a day-long conference on July 30, 2005, and establishing an online hub, BlogHer is initiating an opportunity for greater visibility, learning and success for individual women bloggers and for the community of bloggers as a whole.")
A Little News
I hold Mark and Erkan entirely responsible for any journeys I make into the land of 'Blogthings'.
By the way, Mark has posted an absolutely horrendous piece on HFCS or High Fructose Corn Syrup ... bad taste removed by a more amusing post on rules for online dating .
| Your Band Name is: |
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By the way, Mark has posted an absolutely horrendous piece on HFCS or High Fructose Corn Syrup ... bad taste removed by a more amusing post on rules for online dating .
Life in Tirana, Albania
I had to link to traveller one's gym story here.
It's interesting on two levels ... at one level it's about the crazy things expats do. We go into gyms despite the huge police-like presence taking notes.
And two, well sometimes bureaucracy is just downright insane.
It's interesting on two levels ... at one level it's about the crazy things expats do. We go into gyms despite the huge police-like presence taking notes.
And two, well sometimes bureaucracy is just downright insane.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Walk a while with me ...
I received a letter today, from the people who organise immigrants.
I have already completed all that they ask me to do in this leter.
I did it way back on September 29, 2005 ... although the overuse of the words like 'obligation' and the oft quoted 'you have to be prompt to present yourself' might have made me move a little more slowly.
Unfortunately, it appears they have no central data base for collating registrations by immigrants ... perhaps I'll get another wee uplifting letter in a few more months or perhaps they'll just come over and fine me.
Anyway ... the letter:
Dear Madam,
Dear Sir,
As you have only recently arrived in our country (no actually, I've been here for 10 months and 'in process' for 8 of those months), the Flemish government draws your attention to the fact that it is your obligation to attend an integration programme. This will allow you to learn Dutch and receive a lot of useful information about Flemish society.
Among other things, your obligation implies that you have to be prompt to present yourself at the reception office. Upon your registration at the reception office, a contract mentioning the courses you should attend, will be drawn up with you. If, within three months of the registration in the municipality, you do not present yourself at the reception office or do not observe your contract, you may be sanctioned with a fine.
In some cases, you may be exempt from your obligation to attend an integration programme ... etc (yes, I am exempt because I have a university degree, we did this already)
(information about how to contact them)
We are confident that you will present yourself promptly at the reception office.
Yours faithfully
etc ...
It takes a lot to infuriate me ... but Gert had an enraged Kiwi on his phone just after I read through my mail.
But perhaps it's all just a big test and when I eventually find my way through the maze that is moving countries, there will be a big surprise party and gifts in the centre garden of Puzzleworld ...
I have already completed all that they ask me to do in this leter.
I did it way back on September 29, 2005 ... although the overuse of the words like 'obligation' and the oft quoted 'you have to be prompt to present yourself' might have made me move a little more slowly.
Unfortunately, it appears they have no central data base for collating registrations by immigrants ... perhaps I'll get another wee uplifting letter in a few more months or perhaps they'll just come over and fine me.
Anyway ... the letter:
Dear Madam,
Dear Sir,
As you have only recently arrived in our country (no actually, I've been here for 10 months and 'in process' for 8 of those months), the Flemish government draws your attention to the fact that it is your obligation to attend an integration programme. This will allow you to learn Dutch and receive a lot of useful information about Flemish society.
Among other things, your obligation implies that you have to be prompt to present yourself at the reception office. Upon your registration at the reception office, a contract mentioning the courses you should attend, will be drawn up with you. If, within three months of the registration in the municipality, you do not present yourself at the reception office or do not observe your contract, you may be sanctioned with a fine.
In some cases, you may be exempt from your obligation to attend an integration programme ... etc (yes, I am exempt because I have a university degree, we did this already)
(information about how to contact them)
We are confident that you will present yourself promptly at the reception office.
Yours faithfully
etc ...
It takes a lot to infuriate me ... but Gert had an enraged Kiwi on his phone just after I read through my mail.
But perhaps it's all just a big test and when I eventually find my way through the maze that is moving countries, there will be a big surprise party and gifts in the centre garden of Puzzleworld ...
I believe the power of film, image and sound, lies in its ability to evoke empathy. If war negates humanity, then film – maybe especially film that shows war from the inside – can ensure that even when we fight, we hold on to and bear witness to our humanity. We found a way in this film to smash through that wall. We found the possibility of empathy in the middle of war.
Deborah Scranton
director of The War Tapes
Deborah Scranton
director of The War Tapes
War Tapes, the Movie
Erkan's blog ... source of so many interesting things.
Today he posted news about a war documentary called 'The War Tapes'.
Deborah Scranton, the director wrote this: We all have pivotal defining moments in our lives. For me, one of those was stumbling across James Agee and Walker Evans' Let Us Now Praise Famous Men'.
Agee's philosophy of "living journalism," of getting close enough to hurt, of investing to the core of your being in the lives of those you are documenting, became my mantra. To get their stories, you have to give of yourself – confront the wall of "objectivity" and smash through it. It's about being human first, a journalist and filmmaker second. And it is only when we are a human being first that we approach truth.
"War Tapes," a documentary filmed by National Guard soldiers in Iraq, won the best documentary award, wrote ABC News .
It was directed by Deborah who gave digital cameras to five U.S. soldiers to film their one-year deployments in Iraq. Edited from 800 hours of film, it is a candid and instantaneous inside look at what it means to fight a war from a soldier's point of view.
There's always a little bit more ... and this search took me to the Tribeca Film Institute online. It's well worth exploring if you're into that kind of thing. The Film Festival site can be found here.
Today he posted news about a war documentary called 'The War Tapes'.
Deborah Scranton, the director wrote this: We all have pivotal defining moments in our lives. For me, one of those was stumbling across James Agee and Walker Evans' Let Us Now Praise Famous Men'.
Agee's philosophy of "living journalism," of getting close enough to hurt, of investing to the core of your being in the lives of those you are documenting, became my mantra. To get their stories, you have to give of yourself – confront the wall of "objectivity" and smash through it. It's about being human first, a journalist and filmmaker second. And it is only when we are a human being first that we approach truth.
"War Tapes," a documentary filmed by National Guard soldiers in Iraq, won the best documentary award, wrote ABC News .
It was directed by Deborah who gave digital cameras to five U.S. soldiers to film their one-year deployments in Iraq. Edited from 800 hours of film, it is a candid and instantaneous inside look at what it means to fight a war from a soldier's point of view.
There's always a little bit more ... and this search took me to the Tribeca Film Institute online. It's well worth exploring if you're into that kind of thing. The Film Festival site can be found here.
A Park in Tervuren
On Sunday, Alison and Andrew took us home via Tervuren and we strolled through the African Musem park ...we didn't have the time to explore the museum itself however the park at Teuvern was interesting all on its own.It's a huge green area, with paths through the forest and a waterway. And there's this thing that I haven't seen done back in New Zealand but I noticed the activity as we wandered round Flanders Fields in the rain recently.
The fishermen here ... they really set up well, as hinted at in the photograph. I thought the massive umbrella was just for the rainy days in Flanders but no, they were using them in yesterday's heat too.
The fishermen have everything, even an alarm to alert them to activity on the line. I was fascinated. Even more stunning, perhaps not to those in the know ... they catch one of the big fish we saw lazily floating around, and then they release it.We had this image of a fish being reeled in with a hook in its mouth and saying something along the lines of 'Dammit, that's the sixth time this month'.
The Musuem is a place we'll return to ... we've heard really good things about it and its mission statement reads "The Museum must be a world centre in research and knowledge dissemination on past and present societies and natural environments of Africa, and in particular Central Africa, to foster - to the public at large and the scientific community - a better understanding and interest in this area and, through partnerships, to substantially contribute to its sustainable development."
A Bosnian Fable
A Bosnian fable about public opinion:
A man comes into town sitting on his donkey, led by his son.
"Oh, how could you make the poor boy walk like that!" say the people on the outskirts.
So the man changes places with his son and leads the donkey himself. "Oh, what a fool!" comes the reaction from downtown. "The boy plainly needs the exercise."
So they both climb on the donkey. "Heavens, look at that poor animal," says the crowd in the marketplace. "Being made to carry such a load!"
So the end result is that the boy and his father end up carrying the donkey themselves ... in an attempt to please public opinion.
excerpt from 'The 8.45 to Baghdad'
Andrew Eames.
A man comes into town sitting on his donkey, led by his son.
"Oh, how could you make the poor boy walk like that!" say the people on the outskirts.
So the man changes places with his son and leads the donkey himself. "Oh, what a fool!" comes the reaction from downtown. "The boy plainly needs the exercise."
So they both climb on the donkey. "Heavens, look at that poor animal," says the crowd in the marketplace. "Being made to carry such a load!"
So the end result is that the boy and his father end up carrying the donkey themselves ... in an attempt to please public opinion.
excerpt from 'The 8.45 to Baghdad'
Andrew Eames.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Happy Birthday Shannon
One of the best things about expat life (yes expat, as opposed to immigrant life) is often the other expats you meet along the way. They are travelers but that's not all, the baggage they carry is often their tales of lives well-lived; lives full of stories.
Last night Shannon and Gabe were celebrating Shannon's birthday and had invited a few people over for the night many months ago, giving their American friends time to fly in for it ... a lovely couple from San Diego really did.
We arrived with Alison and Andrew, the Canadians who had popped over to pick us Antwerpens up. We were immediately made welcome and our glasses were filled before we were whisked off for the first of the many interesting introductions made through the night.
I chatted with all kinds of people ... and here I stumble into a strange kind of silence, aware for the first time that some people might not want their interesting lives all over my blog without me first asking permission from them.
Perhaps it's permissable to say that I talked with three Turks who had spent 5 years living and working in Brussels, whose conversation ranged from their work that got them home regularly, their history ... that of Cyprus, the Armenians and Turkey's EU membership bid, and Sarma ... a dish that is much-loved and much-missed by this yabanci from Yeni Zelanda.
There was the British Brussels-based anthropologist whose life was book ... not just one story but many complex and interesting stories; a warm-hearted person who was a pleasure to meet and to talk with.
And there was the French teacher who had no problems with this mono-lingual Kiwi woman. He talked of linguistic philosophy (as I understood it), fascinating in that he knew the power of words. We talked of French/Euro politics and I listened, curious to know what a French man might have to say about the state of politics today.
I met Shannon's cat. I tasted some of the Latvian drink she had been gifted, stuck with the red wine and turned down the reportedly stunning Cuban Mojitos that were being made by one of the Turks - note, the same guy who whips up the difficult Sarma recipe with ease.
We left with the Canadians around 3am and drove out to their place in Everberg for the night; a small village near Brussels. By way of a thank you, we wandered off to check out the local bakery this morning ... pistolets and koffie koeken are one of the best ways to begin a Belgian day, even if that day does begin sometime around 11am.
The trip home was made via Tervuren but that's a whole other post with photographs of men in deckchairs under huge umbrellas on the edge a man-made riverbank catching fish that they have to release ...
Last night Shannon and Gabe were celebrating Shannon's birthday and had invited a few people over for the night many months ago, giving their American friends time to fly in for it ... a lovely couple from San Diego really did.
We arrived with Alison and Andrew, the Canadians who had popped over to pick us Antwerpens up. We were immediately made welcome and our glasses were filled before we were whisked off for the first of the many interesting introductions made through the night.
I chatted with all kinds of people ... and here I stumble into a strange kind of silence, aware for the first time that some people might not want their interesting lives all over my blog without me first asking permission from them.
Perhaps it's permissable to say that I talked with three Turks who had spent 5 years living and working in Brussels, whose conversation ranged from their work that got them home regularly, their history ... that of Cyprus, the Armenians and Turkey's EU membership bid, and Sarma ... a dish that is much-loved and much-missed by this yabanci from Yeni Zelanda.
There was the British Brussels-based anthropologist whose life was book ... not just one story but many complex and interesting stories; a warm-hearted person who was a pleasure to meet and to talk with.
And there was the French teacher who had no problems with this mono-lingual Kiwi woman. He talked of linguistic philosophy (as I understood it), fascinating in that he knew the power of words. We talked of French/Euro politics and I listened, curious to know what a French man might have to say about the state of politics today.
I met Shannon's cat. I tasted some of the Latvian drink she had been gifted, stuck with the red wine and turned down the reportedly stunning Cuban Mojitos that were being made by one of the Turks - note, the same guy who whips up the difficult Sarma recipe with ease.
We left with the Canadians around 3am and drove out to their place in Everberg for the night; a small village near Brussels. By way of a thank you, we wandered off to check out the local bakery this morning ... pistolets and koffie koeken are one of the best ways to begin a Belgian day, even if that day does begin sometime around 11am.
The trip home was made via Tervuren but that's a whole other post with photographs of men in deckchairs under huge umbrellas on the edge a man-made riverbank catching fish that they have to release ...
Friday, May 05, 2006
Cats and Dogs in Belgium
Sometimes I can't resist posting things that are perhaps unnecessary but that appeal to me.
I was web-wandering and discovered a Belgian survey that revealed just how many cats and dogs there were in Belgium back in 2000.
It states that there were about 1.1 million dogs and 1.7 million cats living in Belgian households. But that's not all ... read on if curious.
I was web-wandering and discovered a Belgian survey that revealed just how many cats and dogs there were in Belgium back in 2000.
It states that there were about 1.1 million dogs and 1.7 million cats living in Belgian households. But that's not all ... read on if curious.
Der Spiegel and Fighting the Neo-Nazis
Der Spiegel has good news, people are fighting the alarming rise in neo-nazism here in Europe. Grandad would have approved of the humour in this new approach.
A Leipzig performance artist has found an original way of disrupting neo-Nazi marches and demonstrations. When the skinheads come to town, the German Apple Front is there to meet them -- complete with its very own Führer of fruit.
The Apple Front has appeared at counter-demonstrations to protest neo-Nazi marches since the autumn of 2004 with May 1 and October 3 having become two dates permanently marked on their calendars. The group was founded after the right-wing NPD party was voted into the Saxony state parliament.
While the counter-demonstrators gather at an intersection and sit down -- exactly along the route Worch is expected to follow -- the Apple Front establishes the appropriate revolutionary atmosphere. "Theees interrrrsection must be helllld at any prrrrice!" Alf Thum growls into his megaphone as demonstrators erupt in laughter. Part of the apple-fighters' strategy is to ridicule the far right by using exactly the same intonation and vocabulary as both Nazis and neo-Nazis. A policeman observing the scene -- who refuses to be identified -- is glad the parodists are there. "They relax the situation," he says.
Public appearances are only part of what keeps the Apple Front together. Every two to three weeks, members meet for a film or game evening -- also a helpful method of recruiting new members. "Führer" Thum is excited by his group's successes: "Young folks have been working with us for the past year and a half without us requiring any sort of formal commitment. Everywhere they are being told that they should do something against racism. With us, it just happens." Indeed, it is exactly this lack of commitment that gives the Apple Front an advantage over groups organized by teachers or political parties, Thum believes.
A Leipzig performance artist has found an original way of disrupting neo-Nazi marches and demonstrations. When the skinheads come to town, the German Apple Front is there to meet them -- complete with its very own Führer of fruit.
The Apple Front has appeared at counter-demonstrations to protest neo-Nazi marches since the autumn of 2004 with May 1 and October 3 having become two dates permanently marked on their calendars. The group was founded after the right-wing NPD party was voted into the Saxony state parliament.
While the counter-demonstrators gather at an intersection and sit down -- exactly along the route Worch is expected to follow -- the Apple Front establishes the appropriate revolutionary atmosphere. "Theees interrrrsection must be helllld at any prrrrice!" Alf Thum growls into his megaphone as demonstrators erupt in laughter. Part of the apple-fighters' strategy is to ridicule the far right by using exactly the same intonation and vocabulary as both Nazis and neo-Nazis. A policeman observing the scene -- who refuses to be identified -- is glad the parodists are there. "They relax the situation," he says.
Public appearances are only part of what keeps the Apple Front together. Every two to three weeks, members meet for a film or game evening -- also a helpful method of recruiting new members. "Führer" Thum is excited by his group's successes: "Young folks have been working with us for the past year and a half without us requiring any sort of formal commitment. Everywhere they are being told that they should do something against racism. With us, it just happens." Indeed, it is exactly this lack of commitment that gives the Apple Front an advantage over groups organized by teachers or political parties, Thum believes.
The Unpredictable Nature of Gas Ovens
Things happen when you move countries ...
In Istanbul, I discovered the gas cooker; an appliance previously unknown to me. New Zealand, or my South Island experience of New Zealand, had only exposed me to cooking with electricity.
The gas cooker sat unused during that first year in Istanbul ... I later discovered that even those who knew how to cook with gas couldn't make my oven work. This only confirmed to me that, had I attempted to use it my life would have ended in firey ball of gas which quite frankly, would have embarassed me.
Stuff happens to me so playing with gas seemed unwise.
My second year in Istanbul and I moved from Atakoy to Mecidiyekoy; into a much older apartment ('but built on solid rock and safe in an earthquake', the landlord assured me). There was a gas cooker and this time the stovetop was used, although the kitchen was so small that one risked burning one's bottom when working at the kitchen bench. My life was never dull.
Enter Gert ... Belgium also uses gas and suddenly I was almost ashamed of my avoidance of any cooking that required an oven ... almost, and only because a New Zealand woman can sometimes find herself defined by her cooking prowess if moving in the wrong circles.
Gert had a mother, a sister and ex-wife, all proficient cooks ... I realised that judgements could be passed.
I watched him use the gas oven and he was nearby the first time I lit it. Of course his gas oven isn't normal (are any of them?) and he bought a thermometer just after I burnt my first Made in the Northern Hemisphere batch of NZ Peach Muffins. You see, his oven lacks any kind of predictable heat ... one needs to monitor it constantly as it can shoot up to 240oC while on gasmark 2.
So tonight is the night of the roast lamb ... New Zealand roast lamb of course. Belgium has some nice specials on it and it's almost the same price as I recall it being back home. It's a lovely looking boneless roast (yes, kiwis think odd thoughts about roasts when away from home for too long) it will need nurturing and constant monitoring and so what happens ... the needle has fallen off the thermometer.
I didn't do anything...
I opened the oven, moved the oven rack down to allow for the height of the roasting dish and voila, I noticed the needle that tells me how hot or cold the oven is, lying inside on the bottom curve of the litte round thermometer clock.
Sigh ... it's all guesswork now and I've been out of the roast dinner crowd for so long that there's no 'instinct' for it left in me.
Let's see how it goes ...
In Istanbul, I discovered the gas cooker; an appliance previously unknown to me. New Zealand, or my South Island experience of New Zealand, had only exposed me to cooking with electricity.
The gas cooker sat unused during that first year in Istanbul ... I later discovered that even those who knew how to cook with gas couldn't make my oven work. This only confirmed to me that, had I attempted to use it my life would have ended in firey ball of gas which quite frankly, would have embarassed me.
Stuff happens to me so playing with gas seemed unwise.
My second year in Istanbul and I moved from Atakoy to Mecidiyekoy; into a much older apartment ('but built on solid rock and safe in an earthquake', the landlord assured me). There was a gas cooker and this time the stovetop was used, although the kitchen was so small that one risked burning one's bottom when working at the kitchen bench. My life was never dull.
Enter Gert ... Belgium also uses gas and suddenly I was almost ashamed of my avoidance of any cooking that required an oven ... almost, and only because a New Zealand woman can sometimes find herself defined by her cooking prowess if moving in the wrong circles.
Gert had a mother, a sister and ex-wife, all proficient cooks ... I realised that judgements could be passed.
I watched him use the gas oven and he was nearby the first time I lit it. Of course his gas oven isn't normal (are any of them?) and he bought a thermometer just after I burnt my first Made in the Northern Hemisphere batch of NZ Peach Muffins. You see, his oven lacks any kind of predictable heat ... one needs to monitor it constantly as it can shoot up to 240oC while on gasmark 2.
So tonight is the night of the roast lamb ... New Zealand roast lamb of course. Belgium has some nice specials on it and it's almost the same price as I recall it being back home. It's a lovely looking boneless roast (yes, kiwis think odd thoughts about roasts when away from home for too long) it will need nurturing and constant monitoring and so what happens ... the needle has fallen off the thermometer.
I didn't do anything...
I opened the oven, moved the oven rack down to allow for the height of the roasting dish and voila, I noticed the needle that tells me how hot or cold the oven is, lying inside on the bottom curve of the litte round thermometer clock.
Sigh ... it's all guesswork now and I've been out of the roast dinner crowd for so long that there's no 'instinct' for it left in me.
Let's see how it goes ...
The PSD Blog
I was over on mozza's site when I noticed a link to PSD Blog otherwise known as The Private Sector Development Blog.
They write, 'The PSD Blog gathers together news, resources and ideas about the role of private enterprise in fighting poverty. The blog is informal and represents the quirks and opinions of the bloggers, not the World Bank Group'.
They write, 'The PSD Blog gathers together news, resources and ideas about the role of private enterprise in fighting poverty. The blog is informal and represents the quirks and opinions of the bloggers, not the World Bank Group'.
Aly Colon, Poynteronline
I recently discovered and wrote of a fascinating site called Poynteronline .
This article by Aly Colon is an interesting one, especially in the wake of Stephen Colbert's criticism of the media.
Aly subtitle 'What's Our Message?' with 'Lessons on journalism from a San Antonion cab driver'.
He opens with 'I like talking to cab drivers. I learn where they're from. I find out what they think of the city and its people. I ask their views of the local news media. And I get their opinion of journalism in general. Sometimes I get their names in case I want to follow up with them.
During my travels, I've encountered cab drivers with a wide range of experiences and opinions. I talked to a New York City cab driver from Algeria who felt that the news media unfairly stereotypes Arabs. I spoke to a Portland, Ore., cab driver who said she was bi-polar and thought the news media sometimes stigmatized mental illness. I listened to a New Jersey cab driver from El Salvador who told me she works three jobs, yet sees characterizations of Latinos as people who don't work hard enough.
This article by Aly Colon is an interesting one, especially in the wake of Stephen Colbert's criticism of the media.
Aly subtitle 'What's Our Message?' with 'Lessons on journalism from a San Antonion cab driver'.
He opens with 'I like talking to cab drivers. I learn where they're from. I find out what they think of the city and its people. I ask their views of the local news media. And I get their opinion of journalism in general. Sometimes I get their names in case I want to follow up with them.
During my travels, I've encountered cab drivers with a wide range of experiences and opinions. I talked to a New York City cab driver from Algeria who felt that the news media unfairly stereotypes Arabs. I spoke to a Portland, Ore., cab driver who said she was bi-polar and thought the news media sometimes stigmatized mental illness. I listened to a New Jersey cab driver from El Salvador who told me she works three jobs, yet sees characterizations of Latinos as people who don't work hard enough.
Sebastian Junger, writer
I read of this article over at gangrey.com, on the left in my links list. I can't access the site today but popped over to National Geographic and cut these extracts from a superb piece written by Sebastian Junger, titled Welcome Stranger.
As an introduction he writes, 'First impressions are often wrong—and other hard-won lessons from the road'.
An old friend of mine once observed that the arrival of a stranger in a rough town often presents locals with two options: Feed him or kill him. He was referring to some ancient time when the dilemma was literally that stark, but his larger point was that all societies must choose whom they let in and whom they keep out, and letting someone in entails more than just opening the city gates. Once you do that you become to some degree responsible for the stranger's welfare. Travel, then, at its crudest, is the art of convincing people to take care of you rather than spurn you—or worse. It's a knife-edge that makes a life spent at home feel not fully lived.
... Since every person I've interviewed has lead a life unique to them, they have something to say about the world that I couldn't get from anyone else. That gives them a value that transcends any job or social rank they might have. I began to see that you could divide up the world in many different ways, and some of those ways actually put a homeless man from Wyoming at the top. He might not have known it, but I do, and the point of much of my work has been to communicate that.
... Many years later I confronted the daunting task of walking into a fishermen's bar in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and asking the bartender — a woman named Ethel Shatford — about the death of her son. A local boat, the Andrea Gail, had gone down in a massive storm in 1991, and the book I wrote about her was eventually published as 'The Perfect Storm'. The Crow's Nest was the sort of bar where everyone turns to look at a stranger as soon as he walks in. I ignored the stares, took a seat at the bar, and ordered a beer from Ethel.
I had no idea how to begin, but I had help. They were all still with me, I realized—the man in Wyoming, the insulted Mexican vaqueros and the rest—they were still there, guiding and informing me, whispering their lessons in my ear. And in one way or another they all had something to tell me about how I should approach Ethel Shatford.
Just tell her, I finally thought. Tell her she knows something about the world that a lot of other people might need to hear.
As an introduction he writes, 'First impressions are often wrong—and other hard-won lessons from the road'.
An old friend of mine once observed that the arrival of a stranger in a rough town often presents locals with two options: Feed him or kill him. He was referring to some ancient time when the dilemma was literally that stark, but his larger point was that all societies must choose whom they let in and whom they keep out, and letting someone in entails more than just opening the city gates. Once you do that you become to some degree responsible for the stranger's welfare. Travel, then, at its crudest, is the art of convincing people to take care of you rather than spurn you—or worse. It's a knife-edge that makes a life spent at home feel not fully lived.
... Since every person I've interviewed has lead a life unique to them, they have something to say about the world that I couldn't get from anyone else. That gives them a value that transcends any job or social rank they might have. I began to see that you could divide up the world in many different ways, and some of those ways actually put a homeless man from Wyoming at the top. He might not have known it, but I do, and the point of much of my work has been to communicate that.
... Many years later I confronted the daunting task of walking into a fishermen's bar in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and asking the bartender — a woman named Ethel Shatford — about the death of her son. A local boat, the Andrea Gail, had gone down in a massive storm in 1991, and the book I wrote about her was eventually published as 'The Perfect Storm'. The Crow's Nest was the sort of bar where everyone turns to look at a stranger as soon as he walks in. I ignored the stares, took a seat at the bar, and ordered a beer from Ethel.
I had no idea how to begin, but I had help. They were all still with me, I realized—the man in Wyoming, the insulted Mexican vaqueros and the rest—they were still there, guiding and informing me, whispering their lessons in my ear. And in one way or another they all had something to tell me about how I should approach Ethel Shatford.
Just tell her, I finally thought. Tell her she knows something about the world that a lot of other people might need to hear.
There's something so sweet about finally being able to work next to an open window again ...
It's 1am and the motorway a few kilometres away sounds more like the surf at St Kilda beach in Dunedin; the way that it sounds from my sister's house, and Jacques Brel is a good companion, quietly singing in French.
My day ended well and was full of good people. Ms Baker reminded me that "every delay has its benefit in disguise" ... a quote translated from Arabic, and I do know it's true, the last year has proved it, even if I have the occasional day of forgetting.
I had pulled out a photo of Grandad and propped it up near my laptop, the Grandad who keeps popping up in my posts ... George Gideon Murray of the Otago Mounted Rifles; the man who fought in Gallipoli and then in here in Flanders ... French Flanders perhaps.
I wish he was around now. I have so much to ask him, although he still might not answer. He was cute when I knew him ... short and shuffling, so old and supposedly as deaf as a post. My grandmother was shorter, a little bundle of mischief who suited him. She would confide 'I have to shout before he hears what I say', and Grandad would turn and wink at us kids from someplace behind her back. She suspected he turned off his hearing aids ... I imagine he did.
He was born too early and I was born too late.
It's 1am and the motorway a few kilometres away sounds more like the surf at St Kilda beach in Dunedin; the way that it sounds from my sister's house, and Jacques Brel is a good companion, quietly singing in French.
My day ended well and was full of good people. Ms Baker reminded me that "every delay has its benefit in disguise" ... a quote translated from Arabic, and I do know it's true, the last year has proved it, even if I have the occasional day of forgetting.I had pulled out a photo of Grandad and propped it up near my laptop, the Grandad who keeps popping up in my posts ... George Gideon Murray of the Otago Mounted Rifles; the man who fought in Gallipoli and then in here in Flanders ... French Flanders perhaps.
I wish he was around now. I have so much to ask him, although he still might not answer. He was cute when I knew him ... short and shuffling, so old and supposedly as deaf as a post. My grandmother was shorter, a little bundle of mischief who suited him. She would confide 'I have to shout before he hears what I say', and Grandad would turn and wink at us kids from someplace behind her back. She suspected he turned off his hearing aids ... I imagine he did.
He was born too early and I was born too late.
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