"SEARCHING FOR SUGARMAN"

Today I saw for the second time a fascinating documentary film called Searching for Sugarman, and  I think there is a very good chance the film will be nominated for an Academy Award.

The story is about an American musician -- Rodriguez, a singer -- who recorded two albums in the 1970s while living and performing in two-bit clubs in Detroit, Michigan.  Both albums were flops, so Rodriguez returned to obscurity and continued working in blue collar jobs like heavy construction and building demolition.  In the meantime, bootlegged copies of his albums began circulating in apartheid-ridden South Africa, and over the next two decades Rodriguez became more famous in that country than Elvis Presley.  Despite his popularity, no one in South Africa knew who Rodriguez was or that he was even American.  It was generally believed in South Africa that Rodriguez had died by setting himself on fire during an onstage performance.  What made his music so popular was, like Bob Dylan in the '60s and '70s, Rodriguez's music had anti-establishment overtones, which gave young people in South Africa permission to question, demonstrate and eventually rebel against apartheid, a political system that supported crimes against humanity.

This movie may wind up as one of those poignant word-of-mouth blockbusters.  I feel that seeing the film with as little information as possible is a gift that I don't want to spoil by giving too much of the story away.

I hope you will search for this film in your local theaters and see it as soon as you can.   I can say without hesitation that you won't be disappointed.   It's one of the best films I've seen in a very long time. 

THE KITTIES KITTY

Did you know that an adult cat has 30 teeth?  Well, after spending a thousand dollars at the animal hospital,  my beautiful Tonkinese has only 24.  For almost an hour this morning I watched with fascination as the animal tech extracted three pre-molars that were infected and causing her pain, although, like most cats, she didn't give me any clues.  The other missing three?  Well, they were most likely vacuumed up from the rug or the floor some time in the distant past.

Indie, age 9

Indie, short for Indigo, is a platinum mink Tonkinese breed (a cross between Burmese and Siamese) with  aquamarine eyes, a thick coat of taupe-colored fur,  and a muscular build,  weighing in at a little over seven pounds.  She's the sweetest cat I've ever owned, although she can be quite demanding at times with a multi-meow vocabulary that says "Please feed me, I'm hungry" or "Love me, Love me, Love me."  Indie shares the many cat beds scattered throughout our house with her beloved litter mate, Sophie.  As they nuzzle and lick each other's faces and ears with unconditional love, I could sit and watch them for hours.

Tonks, as they are often called,  have been described as being very dog like, which,  for a true dog lover like me,  is a real gift.  It is not unusual for them to follow me around, whether I'm going up the stairs to grab my cell phone and then quickly coming down again to work in the kitchen or just walking from one room to another.   Very slowly they take the stairs one step at a time and then with gusto they race back down like they are heading for the finish line.   When we are having a dinner party, it's not a time for them to sleep.   Each cat selects the guest they think will love them the most, and once they have found a soft, comfy lap, they like to curl up and hang out.  Some times at the dinner table,  it is not unusual for one of them to jump up on the lap of an unsuspecting guest.  Often they are quickly shooed away, but we know of instances when no one has said, "there's a cat sitting on my lap."   If that someone is wearing light-colored clothing,  no one will ever suspect,  but if that someone is wearing a cat hair magnet color like black, then they are in for a hearty brushing with a sticky roller before they leave our house.

Bruce and Indie playing Spite & Malice 

When Bruce and I took Indie to the vet a few months ago,  we learned that she had a significant amount of dental plaque and one tooth that had to be removed.  We were a little taken aback when we heard the estimated price of $650-$850 and possibly higher, depending on the extent of the extractions.  In our case it was a lot higher.   Fortunately,  we already had $450 in a kitty that had accumulated after years of an almost- nightly card game that we always play for money, except when we are on vacation.   Bruce taught me Spite & Malice when we first got together, and although I was not much of a card player, it was easy to learn and interesting because it is a game of strategy and luck.   The essence of the double-solitaire-like game is for each player to get rid of his or her pile of 26 cards,  and the person who loses has to pay 25 cents for each remaining card in their riddance pile.  Some times the losses only amount to fifty cents a game or maybe a couple of dollars, but if you can't get rid of all 26 cards, then the loser has to put $6.50 in the kitty.  It doesn't sound like much each night,  but after years of playing and one of us paying a nightly fine, quite a few dollars have been squirreled away.   The first time we had over $100, Bruce and I wondered what we would do with the extra money.   "Let's use it for the opera," I suggested, "or perhaps a night at a B&B. "   "Naw",  my pragmatic husband replied, "Let's use the kitty to help pay for the kitties' medical expenses," and that's exactly what we've done.  This form of self insurance we call the Kitties Kitty.    

Adobe Animal Hospital is an amazing place in so many ways.  There are 24 veterinarians on staff and about 120 employees.   They have operating rooms for orthopedic and soft tissue problems, and several rooms dedicated for other types of surgeries and dental care, plus radiology, ultrasound and an ICU.  In addition to providing emergency and general services 24 hours a day, they have some of the most compassionate staff I have ever encountered.  As an example, they encourage the family of their patients to be with the animal during most procedures, including dental.  From their experience this helps put less stress on the animal and less stress on the family.   I've been told that there isn't another animal hospital that anyone knows of that encourages this.   For me it really was an education and gave me more insight into the skills and compassion animal health care professionals utilize in their daily work.   I stood along side the highly talented dental tech and watched her use the latest equipment and with her nimble hands make my little girl feel better and healthy again.    I can certainly understand why it's so expensive:  pre-surgery blood tests, anesthesia administered through intubation, heart rate and blood pressure monitoring, lubricants for her eyes that don't blink while she's under anesthesia,  and an x-ray before each extraction to determine whether there is a root surrounding the damaged tooth.  Prior to the procedure, they injected Indie with an analgesic so she would be ahead of the pain curve just a little bit.  In her case, they did a urinalysis because her kidney function, as noted in the blood test, was a tad high.  The results were negative but my veterinarian will monitor this on a regular basis.  After the delicate extractions, the dental tech cleaned Indie's remaining teeth with a high powered tool and finished by polishing with a gritty paste like my dental hygienist uses on me.    After she finished, Indie's teeth gleamed like tiny pearls.   

"Do you ever work on your own pet's teeth?" I asked the dental tech who was working under my veterinarian's indirect supervision.  In a sweet voice that was a little muffled by the surgical mask she was wearing, I heard her say,  "With Indie, I think of her and love her as if she were my own pet."  Wow!  Her heartfelt response gave me the comfort I required to know that my little girl was feeling double love on a day when she needed it the most.  

So, Indie is in our living room now and sleeping in her small carrying case with her devoted sister Sophie curled up by her side.  The metal case lined with soft fleece seems to provide some security, and thankfully doesn't remind her of how she travels to the animal hospital.  I hope she will forgive me over the next three or four days when I have to squirt some awful tasting medicines down her throat.  As unpleasant as these drugs may be, they are absolutely essential to alleviate her discomfort and to prevent infection in the days to come.   

I love my little girls

CITY BIKES

When I stepped off the curb in the city center of Dresden,  I could see the way was clear because I was able to cross between cars that were stopped for a traffic light.   I thought I was perfectly safe.   What I didn't see was the cyclist bearing down on me and traveling at lightening speed in a bike lane between the curb and the stopped cars.  I didn't even notice him until I heard the sound of screeching brakes and saw the terrified expression on the cyclist's face.  We were nose to nose with  his bike twisted  and the front wheel turned up in the air like a pretzel.

"Oh, my God," I gasped in amazement,  shocked that I wasn't knocked down or worse yet, badly hurt or even killed.  "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you.  I wasn't looking for a bicycle. "    In Dresden, like most cities, a bicycle lane is equivalent to a car lane.  In other words,  pedestrians need to keep an eye out for bicycles in the same way you would look for cars.    The young German rider, speaking perfect English, apologized profusely as if it had been his fault and not mine.    

"Are you okay?" we asked each other, and while we were both okay, we were definitely shaken up.   Fortunately,  this cyclist was paying attention and obviously saw me in time to apply his brakes that thankfully were in excellent  condition.   We were really lucky.   Nevertheless, this terrifying incident was a very near miss, and I couldn't help but think about the elderly gentleman who died last year when a cyclist knocked him down in the middle of a San Francisco street.

During our vacation in France and Germany last month, I watched the locals (and maybe a few tourists) navigate back roads and city streets by bike.   I also saw some close calls similar to the one in which I was involved in Dresden.   Riding skills required to maneuver in crowded city conditions aren't ones I've mastered yet.  I would find it challenging to ride a heavy bike that is loaded down with groceries or maybe with a small dog sitting in a front wicker basket.   Exploring a new city by bicycle is not an option I would favor,  although I know this is preferred by some of my biking friends.  I have to admit I'm intimidated by city traffic and crowds of pedestrians on busy, narrow streets.   In some cities, like Montreal,  bike lanes have two way traffic with their own signals,  but those lanes are very crowded so I am sure collisions are common.    In Berlin I discovered that red painted sidewalks are for bicyclists not pedestrians.    One rainy evening I was surprised by the chutzpah of riders who were not wearing bright clothing nor a helmet.  A flashing light somewhere on the bicycle would have added to their visibility.   I even saw a few women wearing high heels and mini skirts as they pedaled by on wet city streets in the dark.

Transporting food by bicycle in Cuba

In India and Vietnam, I rode in a bicycle rickshaw and felt the same vulnerabilities, but I put my faith in the experienced drivers who wore rubber flip flops to pedal on uneven cobblestone streets.  Although I had to hold my breath at times,  I had confidence that they would be able to avoid the speeding scooters, especially in Hanoi and the tuk-tuks and holy cows in New Delhi.  On a bicycle tour in New Zealand,  there were a few times when I forgot to ride on the left and not swerve to the habitual right, especially when making a turn onto another street. 

Next week I will tour San Francisco by bike on what my girlfriends call "A ride of a thousand views."  Fortunately this is a city I know well, so will not have the same apprehensions  I would have if I were to ride my bike on city streets in other parts of the world.  Regardless,  I will keep my wits about me and my eyes peeled for pedestrians,  like the careless pedestrian I was in Dresden.   

PUTTING A HUMAN FACE ON THE TRAGEDY IN SYRIA

 About five or six years ago my husband's daughter was living and working in Rome and in a close relationship with a young Syrian man who was working and going to school there.  Neither of them spoke each other's native tongue, but it didn't matter because they were able to communicate well  in Italian and learn about each other's values, their hopes and their dreams.    Our daughter is Jewish.  The young man is a Suni Muslim.    Over time their relationship morphed from romantic to platonic, and today she still calls him one of her closest and dearest friends.   While she now lives in America,  he still lives in Rome.

 During the course of their Rome relationship, she traveled to Syria several times to learn more about his country and experience some of the Middle Eastern customs which were so different from hers.   She has always been drawn to people who come from different parts of the world.  She is eager to know them as individuals and not make judgments based on a person's ethnicity or the color of his or her skin.  Rather than emphasize people's differences, she prefers to find similarities to identify with and keep an open mind.    

One of her visits was a two month stay to immerse herself in Syrian life and try to learn the complicated Arabic language.    During this extended time, she saw a lot of her best friend's family,  whom she admired and enjoyed spending time with.     Like most Syrians, they place great value on family, tradition, duty, and most of all they are very, very proud.    Middle Eastern families are generally large and this family was no exception -- three and four generations living happily together under one crowded roof.   When our daughter visited there, they wrapped their arms around her and brought her into their fold, treating her as though she was one of their own, even though they knew she was an American Jew.  This Suni Muslim family knew there were huge differences between them, but like our daughter, they preferred to find similarities and keep an open mind. 


Fast forward five years.  It's September, 2012 and Syria is in the midst of a devastating civil war,  almost reaching genocidal proportions.   Under the repressive dictatorship of the Assad family regime, political tensions are the result of opposing views of the ruling Alawite minority and the Suni Muslim majority.   During the Arab Spring of 2011, pro-democracy protests in Syria began in early March.  Massive anti-government demonstrations quickly spread throughout the country and the Assad regime responded with violent attacks on civilians, slaughtering innocent men, women and children with a death toll reported by the Damascus Centre for Human Rights Studies at around 14,000 people.  The Houla and the al-Qubayr Massacre on June 7th killed over 200 civilians, many of them women and children who were executed by gunshots to the back of the head.    Eye witnesses testified that the Syrian Army and Assad's militias were responsible for these mass killings.   Every attempt to stop death and destruction, short of international military intervention, has failed.  After months of trying to negotiate peace, even a United Nations humanitarian committee headed by Kofi Anan admitted there was nothing they could do.   Rather than risk a life of torture or even death, tens of thousands of Syrians have fled their homeland and have gone to neighboring countries like Turkey, Jordan and Lebanon to live as refugees.

Because of our daughter's close relationship with this Syrian family, we followed the war and what was going on there in a much more personal and intimate way.   Every day we would ask her how they were and what she knew.   Her grief and sadness over what this family must be going through occupied the majority of her thoughts,  and she was extremely worried that  something awful might happen to them.   They had to flee their home and move to a safer section of Damascus and over time feared for their lives and looked for a way to safely leave the country.   We shared her anguish as we were reminded of Hitler's assassination of millions of Jews in World War II  and in my mind's eye, I could see my mother as a little girl leaving her bombed out village during the war in northern Greece.   

Desperate to help in whatever way she could,  our daughter asked her closest relatives if they would be willing to give some money to help this family escape.  It was a long shot, but she gave it a try.  Within hours of her plea, she received $400 from a few family members who wanted to do whatever they could even though they were Jewish and knew the political tensions.  When I learned of this admirable endeavor,  a lightbulb turned on.   Why not use my skills as a professional fundraiser and write a letter to sympathetic and compassionate people we know and ask if they wanted to get involved in this life-saving effort.   This is what I wrote: 

Dear Family and Friends:  

This may be one of the most important and urgent fundraising letters I have ever written because there is so much riding on it and there is so little time. 

We’ve all been hearing, almost daily, about the plight of Syrian civilians dying and displaced in the midst of a brutal civil war. While we may feel a real sense of sadness, this is a crisis in a faraway land that does not touch us personally. But it happens that I do have a personal connection with a Syrian family in desperate straits.

The best friend of my husband's daughter lives in Rome, but his family in Syria, whom she has visited there in peaceful times, has lost everything, fear for their lives, and are now desperate to leave.  Our daughter has written details about their situation in an e-mail that I have copied below.

When she told me about this desperate and life- threatening situation affecting her close friend’s immediate family, I was very saddened and extremely moved by their plight.  I felt that something should be done and I wanted to be a part of it.

After thinking about it for a while I said to her,  "Let's try and see if we can raise the money we need from our family and friends to help the family get out of Syria as soon as possible."

I am now coming to you in hopes that you will want to be part of this life-saving effort to help a displaced Syrian (Sunni Muslim) family in desperate need.  Every day in the news and on TV, we hear stories about and see photos of people being massacred in Syria and now we all have a chance to get involved on a very specific personal level.   Our daughter has raised $400 so far, but has a long way to go and funds are urgently needed because there's a very good chance that the airport in Damascus will be closed soon and it will be difficult for people to leave.

What follows is her letter describing the situation to you and the proposed plan for them to leave Syria.    If you are as moved as I am, please follow your heart and consider contributing to this humanitarian effort.   

Dear Friends of Pam and Dad,

As some of you know, one of the most important people in my life is trying desperately to get his family out of Syria to safety. His family is from a district in Damascus called “Qaboun”, and it is one of the most dangerous areas in Syria to be living at the moment. It has been bombed many times by the government because many protestors and anti-government fighters have been active in this area.  I have spent much time with this family in Syria (both over my winter vacation there before the fighting broke out, and my summer months there while I was studying at the University of Damascus), and the thought of this beautiful family (who took very good care of me during my stay there) in this situation with no money, little food, and serious danger is truly unimaginable and beyond disturbing. 

Over the past months, his family has had to leave their home and travel to other areas of of Damascus to avoid the fighting. Until now, they have been able to go back to their home in the periods when the fighting has died down. However, now that the situation is life threatening,  they have taken only a few personal belongings and have fled their zone for good.  Their goal is to flee Syria  and  take the entire family to Egypt where they know a family who will take them and where it is less expensive to live. I am trying to raise funds so that their son who lives in Rome can purchase airline tickets for his family.  His father ran out of money for the family a long time ago.   There are 12 members of the family,  ranging in age from 74 to two years of age, who are trying to leave.                             

The decision to try and take refuge in Egypt is because life there is considered inexpensive compared to other countries around them (and definitely cheaper than European countries) and because they will not have to worry about visas. They also have a place where they can stay upon their arrival (a friend has offered his house to the family). All of them now have valid passports and are just waiting to get tickets. 

Currently the family is in an area outside of Damascus (Quatanah, about 60 chilometres from Damascus) where there is no electricity, no internet, and very little phone service. Supermarkets everywhere are missing staple food items. Some of the supermarkets have even been completely destroyed. All of the information that I have about what is happening is coming through my best friend, who has been in constant touch with his brother and father up until now. 

In the family's district the other day, there was a public execution of 48 people who were suspected to be anti-government “terrorists”.  My friend's brother just told him that the pro-government militias are coming by in cars and tossing out dead bodies in the streets with knives still stuck in them in order to terrorize the people. There is no possible way for them to go back to that area, and at this point we are looking to help get them out of the country as quickly as possible before the airport closes. I have heard that the airport will not be open for very much longer. If we raise more money than the cost of the tickets, the family will use the money to survive in the first months of their stay in Egypt.

From the bottom of my heart, I appreciate you taking the time to read the above. I hope that we may be able to make a difference in this family's lives during this horrible time. The first available flight out as of today with enough seats for his family is September XXX 

The response to our letter was immediate and very generous.  We were incredulous when the checks immediately began to arrive in the mail.   One of our daughter's friends gave almost $2000.  Several gave $500 and many others made $200, $100 and $50 contributions.   In the meantime, we learned that the Syrian government would not let citizens fly out of Syria without a round trip ticket, so our costs went up substantially, but since we were still receiving generous contributions,  we were very optimistic that we could be successful.    Within five days we had sufficient funds to purchase twelve (round trip) tickets on Egypt Air from Damascus to Cairo.   We immediately booked 12 seats on the September XXX plane.  We put a 24-hour hold on the tickets until we could transfer the money to the son in Rome who would buy the tickets since it was best if Americans were not obviously involved.   Transferring the money turned out to be relatively easy, but paying for the tickets was complicated because there wasn't anyone we knew in Rome who had a credit card with enough credit to pay this whopping bill.  We were afraid to pay in cash because there was less of a paper trail,  and the seats might be sold a second time to another Syrian family who was willing to pay more money and by someone at the airlines who could be bribed.  And then we'd be out of luck.   Desperate to do something rather than do nothing, the  son in Rome took a huge leap of faith and bought the twelve tickets with cash.   After we heard this, we nervously crossed our fingers, prayed to whatever god would listen, and waited until September XXX.   

Of course, we were very worried that something terrible might happen to someone in the family in the week before September 6th.  As it turned out,  our fears were relevant because one afternoon while the parents were out on the street searching for food, they were caught in a heavy cross fire not far from where they were staying.  Somehow, by the grace of God, they managed to get themselves to safety without any serious repercussions other than being horribly frightened after going through this life-threatening ordeal.    

The day before their flight, the family returned to their real home to gather a few personal belongings and to sleep there that night,  as this location was much closer to the Damascus airport than the temporary place where they had been staying.  They knew it might be dangerous to go back to their real home because of all the fighting that had taken place in that area, but they took the risk hoping that being closer to the airport might mean avoiding military police who would ask too many questions and take up too much valuable time.  

It was hard for us to sleep that night.  With a nine hour time difference between California and Syria, my husband and I hoped we would hear some news when we woke up on September XXX. 

As soon as I opened my eyes, I ran to my home office, turned on my computer, and this is what I read:

Pam,

I am so happy...

They made it to the airport and are now ON THE PLANE.

The flight has yet to take off but they are all on it. Can't believe we all did it. !!!!!!

I will update you once family calls their son in Rome from Cairo. :)

When I read this, I felt such a huge relief and was so happy that I let out a Tarzan-like yell, but there was no time to shed any tears.  There were other anxious donors sitting by their computers also waiting to hear the news.  

When they logged on, this is what they read in an email letter from our daughter:

Dear All,

I wanted to let you all know right away the wonderful news that I heard from my best friend in Rome today. I can now confirm to you that we OFFICIALLY did it. His entire family made it to the airport today and left Damascus on Egypt Air. The flight has landed in Cairo and now this family can begin to settle into their new home.

Yesterday I read an article on reuters about refugees flowing into different parts of Europe. It featured the story of a Syrian couple who fled to Sweden. I wanted to share with you the end of the article because it really struck me:

"Everyone who comes here is losing something," said Antony Sawires, who reached Sweden with his family a month ago after leaving a house in Damascus and a job in the communications industry. "But we win the safety."

Though counting himself lucky after seeing two cars blow up before he left his home, he was still adjusting to life as a refugee: "I will never have the same lifestyle here," he said as he waited to be called forward to fill out more paperwork.

But his wife, who did not give her name as her eyes filled with tears, was quick to reassure him: "Home," she said, "Is where you feel safe."

-(from "Syrians fleeing war start to trickle into Europe" by Mia Shanley for Reuters)

And I think that is really such an insightful and true statement. We begin to feel at home in places that we feel safe, both physically and psychologically. What I find most beautiful about what you have all done is that you have given an opportunity to this family to have a home again. I will never forget what you have all done for my best friend and his family....

Thank you....

I am still amazed by what we were able to do in such a short amount of time.    We raised more than $7000 in one week and were able to dramatically change and may have even saved twelve people's lives.  I raised millions and millions of dollars during my professional career, but I don't remember having the same impact or level of satisfaction.  I'm not denouncing my work, but the opportunity to do something that has such an immediate and satisfying effect doesn't often come along when one is a retired fundraiser.   As one of my good friends and donors to the project so eloquently said,  "We couldn't save a nation, but we saved a family."

The Syrian family, now safe in Egypt, is overwhelmed with gratitude as is their son in Rome . The following letter that the son wrote and translated from Italian by our daughter says it all.

This message of mine is a message of thanks to all of you dear people…

Even if I put so much energy in finding the words of thanks and appreciation, I would say that I could never return your generous gesture, you who gave me back hope, and you the reason I achieved something that in the beginning seemed impossible.

With this good will of yours, you reinforced the idea that unity between people makes miracles happen and makes the achievement of difficult things possible....

This generosity shows the sense of humanity that you have inside yourselves.

My friends, I was amazed by your immediate response, and deeply moved  that you helped me without even having ever met me. 

This gesture of yours threw me into another dimension, making me believe that race, religion, nationality are not divisions. 

You confirmed that all of us are united by the word "humanity", and you enriched this word, and you materialized it into a reality.

I can imagine the smiles on the faces of my family members--especially the younger ones--knowing that they will be able to leave.

In the name of my family I thank you from the bottom of my heart. A special thank you to Pam and Bruce, and I will not forget the enormous work and energy that my beloved and best friend put in to this.

I love you all.

I hope one day that I will be able to do something as important for somebody else as you have done for me.

ROMA, Italy

August 30, 2012

EVOLUTION OF A BLOGGER

Back when I was in high school,  I was given a writing assignment that was required to get a diploma.  The project was called "The Grandfather Theme."  We were told about this when we were freshmen, so I had four years to write a story about how my Greek grandfather fled his bombed out village during the war and made his way to America with five children and a wife in tow.   In those days I was more interested in American Bandstand and wearing some guy's class ring than giving the teacher my full attention, so when the time came to turn in our writing project,  I was woefully unprepared.   After watching my friends three-hole punch and bind their masterpieces, I pulled an all nighter and concocted a story that my mother said would make my grandfather proud, even though some of it was made up.

 In college I joined the staff of the school newspaper, and learned what a deadline meant,  but I took it more seriously this time around.   One of my first stories was about a deliberately-set  fire in my college dorm room,  and how all the beautiful clothes my mother bought me for school were pretty much destroyed.   After that sensation,  most of the stories I wrote were about trivial things.  As Stephen King implies in his famous memoir, a newspaper writer I'd never be.  

After moving to California,  I enjoyed documenting my new life out West  in typed letters I wrote to my family when things were slow at work.    Off and on over the years I filled up several spiral-bound notebooks, now called journals, and documented my tears over two painful divorces and my bitterness over nasty comments from egregious bosses.   And yet, I never wrote about the joys in my life, falling in love or  being recognized for a job well done.  

 In one of my first positions out of college I struggled to learn how to take weighty minutes of controversial meetings in the university hospital where I worked.   After a nice promotion,  I was challenged even more with assignments to write complicated position papers, lofty letters of recommendation, and extensive documentation justifying faculty tenure decisions.  When I became a university development officer,  I blew way past my comfort zone and wrote marketing plans, solicitation proposals, strategy memos, and talking points for the university president to use when he asked a potential donor for a multi-million dollar gift.   One of the best things I ever wrote was my speech in celebration of my retirement after 35 years of writing, talking, writing, and talking.

So there I was a retiree who really missed the challenges and enjoyment of writing,  so I engaged in an extensive daily email exchange with a high school girlfriend that continues to this day.  I also wrote unsolicited restaurant reviews on foodie websites and a Christmas letter which probably no one ever got around to reading.   After traveling to a few exotic places, I thought maybe travel writing was in my future, but that notion was quashed when I attended a travel writers' conference  and learned that you weren't accepted for writing a compelling story but were evaluated for submitting a clever pitch.   This process seemed too business like for me, after all I'd been making pitches for years when I was a fundraiser, and now that I was retired, I didn't want any pressure.   So,  I enrolled in a creative writing class that seemed less daunting and more fun.      The teacher suggested writing a story on a subject we knew very well.   For weeks  I spent polishing a 2500 word essay about how I fell apart when my second marriage ended.  Writing about love and all its complicated endings was what I knew best and had years and years of journal entries to prove it.   I thought my essay  was pretty good, but was stabbed in the heart by my classmate critics who told me it needed a lot of work.   After taking their severe criticisms to heart and implementing some of their suggestions, I boldly and foolishly submitted it to the New York Times not knowing that they only accept published authors.

A few years after that I began reading a blog  -- one written by a Hindu friend of mine in collaboration with a Christian and a Jew.  That was the name of their blog "Hindu, Christian and Jew."  They drilled down on heady topics like American politics,  and less heady topics like Things Oprah said in her show that day.    

This year someone suggested I create a blog to document a 2000 mile bike ride I was planning to take with Womantours from New Orleans up the Mississippi River to the Canadian border.   I played around with Google's Blogspot website and created a design, found some wild photos and came up with a catchy name.   BIKER CHICK GONE CRAZY went live with my first post in March, 2012.    

A medical emergency had me off the bike after five days going up  river, so I had to think of other stuff to write about, but I was so consumed by my painful condition that this was all I could think to say.   My topics were pitiful ones, like how sad I was not to be riding my bike.  Then I remembered something  my friend Helen Page at Daily Writing Coach said in one of her instructive posts:   "Stay away from feeling sorry for yourself.  Don't be self-absorbed."  She was talking to me!   I knew I had stories to tell.  I just had to learn how to tell them in my own voice.  In the old days writing minutes of meetings eventually became easy and fundraising proposals and marketing plans were formulaic, but writing a story with a beginning,  a middle and an end and a piece that someone might actually enjoy reading has truly been a creative outlet for me.   I even feel my heart skipping a beat when I click the orange publish box on my Blogspot draft page,  knowing that in a few minutes my story might be read by a stranger in Malaysia, Thailand, Germany or the Middle East.  

A good friend of mine read one of my early blog entries and said, "Your  comfort zone post  is the best thing I've read in a long time.  Keep writing honestly like that and word of your blog will spread."  I had no idea what he meant by "Your blog will spread," but as of today Biker Chick Gone Crazy has exceeded 5000 hits in five months.      The way I look at it,  5000 hits is like making the best seller list -- an unusual form of notoriety that quite frankly bowls me over, and I suspect my posts are mostly read by people I don't know.   Now that I am back on my bike and no longer feeling sorry for myself,  I want to write about topics that lift my heart and not drown my sorrow.   I guess I can now call myself a published writer, but I'm not planning to submit any more stories to the New York Times.  

WHY I RIDE A BIKE

A little more than 18 years ago I was about to turn fifty.   It was not a pretty picture.  I was getting older and needed to do something about my sagging muscles and my mental fatigue from a stressful job.   I found an old bike in the garage I hadn’t ridden in many years, but after a little spit shine and some elbow grease,  I went for a short ride around the block and was relieved I didn’t crash.  I rode eight miles and decided to ride the next day and the day after that.   A few months later I bought a new bike, a sturdier helmet and some stylish spandex,  joined a bike club, made new friends, rode a metric century, then another, took an international tour, and became a cyclist.

Before I rode a bike, I didn’t know I had it in me to be athletic.  I flunked softball and field hockey in high school.   I didn’t know I could be anything I wanted to be and that’s how biking changed my life.  In my early forties I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.  My joints ached and I hurt most of the time.  Walking 18 holes on a golf course was impossible.   Eventually I was put on some new medication and with that I gained some self confidence.  I wanted a new life, so I started to push myself, have fun, and exercise.   Then I found the old bike in the garage and the rest is history.    For years I was a weekend warrior and now I’m considered hard core.   Eighteen years later I have ridden my bicycle thousands of miles in some beautiful places,  like the South Island of New Zealand, Hawaii, the national parks of Utah, the challenging Oregon Coast and parts of bucolic New England where I grew up.  My body feels good most of the time, I’m off the medication, and when asked, I say my fibromyalgia is no longer  

Someone once asked me what was the most interesting thing that happened to me on a ride and this is what I said:

"I fell in love" 

This is the story.  We were just dating at the time.  Wanting to be my constant companion, he bought a bike, a helmet, spandex, the whole fancy retail package.  One day after a wonderful ride together out in the country,  I discovered after we got home that I had left my front wheel by the side of the road after loading the bikes in the car.   We quickly drove back to where we had parked, but the wheel was gone.   I was really upset because wheels are expensive.  When I went to my bike store the next day to buy a replacement, the clerk said,  "A nice man called ahead and gave us his credit card to pay for your new wheel."   This gesture showed a kindness that was totally unexpected but truly appreciated.   Two years later we were married and his kindness remains today.

When I am on my bike, I easily focus on everything around me -- the beauty of being outdoors, how the air smells, the cool breeze blowing on my cheeks, the clicking noise my gears make, and the silence that comes with riding on quiet country roads.  The feeling is hard to describe without sounding cliche.  I wouldn't call myself an athlete, but I love feeling athletic, like the way my body works hard and is under my mental control.  I even like to sweat.  My legs are toned and my friends comment on my muscular calves but are nice enough not to ask me why I'm not faster.  Bike coaches say,  "Pretend you are wiping your feet on a mat and start pulling up at 4 o'clock."  My legs are like pistons, making smooth circles as I push and pull in the clips.  At the beginning of most rides my breathing is deep, loud, and irregular,  but after catching my second wind, my breathing is quiet, smooth, and shallow.  It's almost like I'm not breathing at all because I'm in the zone.   I'm conscious of my surroundings, but at the same time I'm in a meditative state of bliss.   How this happens I really don't know.  Maybe endorphins in the brain or something like that.  

The best part of riding a bike is the feeling of authenticity, being my true self.  No judgment, no self criticism, just being free.   I love when I feel one with the bike and riding in the zone. 

REMEMBERING TIMBUKTU

A Mosque in Timbuktu

I don't remember the first time I heard the word Timbuktu, but I certainly didn't know it was a place, as in a city or a town.   I also didn't know Timbuktu was a special place, an ancient city, situated on the Southern edge of the Sahara Desert in the West African country of Mali.   I thought it was just slang for in the middle of nowhere or out in the sticks.    So, when a friend asked if we wanted to travel to Timbuktu and attend the remotest music festival in the world,  I thought she was kidding.  But she wasn't kidding, she was serious.   Always searching for the exotic, we had no hesitation in saying Yes,  even though we had no idea where Timbuktu was or what to expect.   So that's how I came to visit the ancient city of Timbuktu, a special place which acquired mythical status synonymous with inaccessibility and an end-of-the-world allure.  It was definitely not easy to get to and you felt like you were on another planet. 

I want to tell you about my trip because the ancient city of Timbuktu is in peril as I write.   It's heartbreaking to see what is happening over there.    A few months ago certain military officers overthrew the democratically-elected Malian government allegedly because the government had not adequately dealt with an uprising by nomadic Tuareg tribes in the northern part of the country.  Ironically, shortly thereafter, a struggle erupted in the north between Tuareg rebels and Islamic extremists affiliated with Al-Qaeda, and the ancient city of Timbuktu was caught in the middle.  This insurgency has devastated the city, one of the world's great UNESCO World Heritage sites:  cultural icons and thousand year old religious shrines have been destroyed and people have been stoned to death for violating Shariah law.  Timbuktu will never be the same, certainly not how I experienced it when I visited there in January 2008.

The changes occurring in Mali and specifically Timbuktu make me appreciate the travel philosophy my husband and I adopted when we started traveling in early 2001 -- to visit places that are on the brink of change, whether it be environmental, social or political.  

The three-day Desert Music Festival was the anchor for a 17 day adventure seeing many parts of this extraordinary country.  The trip will remain in my memory as one of the most unusual experiences I have ever had.

Excerpts from my travel journal dated January, 2008......

"Our heads are filled with impressive images of the West African Country of Mali, a place that is struggling on almost every front.  At the same time we are struck by the beautiful spirit and the dynamic of the people who live here."  

"In the capital city of Bamako we experienced the Grand Marche, which offered exotic shopping with fettish stalls of shrunken monkey heads, highly embossed camel saddles, rank-smelling healing herbs offered by medicine men with wild hair do's, and the ubiquitous "Mr. Good Price" who greeted us at every merchant's booth.  Loaded donkey carts wobbled as they weaved their way through the crowded streets along with the masses.  Amid the market din, we watched the constant parade of stunning women dressed in colorful caftans with matching turbans.  Despite their lowly status in life, these elegant women take enormous pride in how they are dressed."

Children of Mali

"A major portion of our travel in Mali was in SUVs,  and we bounced around for many hundreds of miles, much of it over badly rutted dirt roads.  We stopped in a number of small villages and observed a way of life that has not changed much in a thousand years.    Hoards of barefoot children with encrusted noses swarmed around us and grasped our fingers as if to say "Please be my friend."   

Dogon Country

We visited the legendary Dogon people, including a major trek down the rocky escarpment to their unique villages tucked into sandstone cliffs that in centuries past protected them from Muslim invaders and slave traders.   We treasured our conversations with smiling vendors selling coveted Dogon masks and elaborately carved doors, and  we politely declined their generous offers to taste whatever mush was cooking in their heavy iron pots.  We were shocked to learn that women are victims of genital circumcision at age ten by an older woman with a razor blade  and no anesthetic."  

"It seems as though every trip we take tops the last one and Mali  was no exception.  Traveling from Dogon Country to Timbuktu on very rough terrain took over 16 hours.   Dozing and reading were impossible because it felt as though we were driving on a washboard.   The trip involved crossing the Niger River on a small ferry that was only able to carry two or three vehicles at a time, so our wait in line was lengthy but definitely not boring.   Observing the frenzy of a poor life in a tent encampment located on the water's edge was heart wrenching.  Mali is considered one of the poorest countries in the world, and this situation was a validation of the statistic"

One of the beautiful doors in Timbuktu

"In Medieval times Timbuktu was a major commercial hub in a vast camel caravan route for the gold and salt  trade that linked West Africa and the Mediterranean.  It was also a rich intellectual and spiritual center where religious scholars were instrumental in the spread of Islam throughout Africa.  Timbuktu's sandy streets are lined with architecturally interesting 14th century mud mosques with massive wooden doors decorated with silver studs.   Libraries in run-down buildings contain thousand-year-old Islamic manuscripts that sit unprotected on dusty shelves and document Timbuktu's significance in centuries gone by.   The city's isolation from the rest of the world was important in that it served as a seasonal encampment for Tuareg nomads whose traditions and lifestyle have been impeded by recent border and migration rules." 

Pam & Bruce heading for the Desert Music Festival

"To travel from Timbuktu to Essakane for the music festival was a 33 kilometer adventure we will never forget.  We left in the  morning and arrived late at night.  There were no roads, only undulating tracks in the soft deep sand where others had traveled before us.  Much to our dismay only one of our SUVs had a functioning four-wheel drive train even though all four were supposedly guaranteed to work.  As a result,  it was no surprise when three of our vehicles got hopelessly stuck in the deeply rutted sand time after time.  We were within shouting distance of a few passing travelers, but no one had the brawn or the tools to get us unstuck   Up until this point I wasn't too concerned, after all I grew up in the deep snow of New Hampshire where getting stuck was par for the course, but now I was beginning to get a little scared.   The sun was low in the sky, we weren't making much progress, and we were truly in the middle of nowhere.   With no working cell phones, we were very happy and surprised when the AAA of the desert arrived in the form of the Malian Army.  

While my sister-in-law and I  watched the burly guys work on getting our vehicles unstuck,  a man we hadn't seen before appeared right out of the blue.   He was very stooped and his face and body were covered by a well-worn robe.   The only physical feature I could discern were his glazed eyes, and they told me he was pretty old.    He walked slowly towards us not making a sound and extended his bony arm in our direction.  He was holding a metal vial in his hand,  and  I knew from previous travel experiences, he was asking if we had any medication.   Since I usually carry some analgesics in my bag,  I pulled out my Ibuprofen and put a dozen or so pills in his hand.  I pointed to the tablets and held up two fingers hoping he would understand.   "Two pills every four hours," I repeated over and over, although I knew he didn't understand a word I said.  He nodded, and I could tell from the look in his eyes that this was what he wanted.  I dug deep in my purse to see what else I could spare, but when I looked up, the old man was gone, nowhere to be seen.  He vanished as quickly as he appeared.   "Was he a mirage?" I asked  my sister-in-law.  She shook her head and said he was the real deal."
  

Festival Goers

"It was dark by the time we arrived at the desert camp where we were greeted by heart-pounding sounds of rhythmic African music and thousands of indigenous people all wearing their traditional garb.    The scene was pure magic.   Surely this must be a dream.   The next morning after a restless sleep in our group tent, we discovered that we were among a handful of Westerners (mostly Europeans) and surrounded by ethnic groups representing the Tuareg, Bella, and Fulani tribes.  

Tuareg nomad

The Tuareg nomads are often referred to as the blue men because the dark dye from the fabric rubs off on their skin.  They were certainly the most notable wearing their fancy robes and riding exotic white camels.  Their diaphanous head scarves protected their face from the sun, wind and sand, and they sat high on the saddle while riding their white beasts with determination and pride.   The spitting camels were decorated with brightly colored ribbons and gorgeous turquoise leather headbands.     They too traveled for hours to attend the festival but never worried about getting stuck in the sand like we did." 

Bruce's video of Tuareg women dancing 
(sorry for the quality of the video which was challenging to embed)

Dancing at the Festival

What a feast for our eyes.  During the day we wandered around the large campsite with hundreds of white tents and mingled with an array of music lovers and performers.    A market had been set up in the sand where sellers displayed  beautiful Tuareg necklaces, earrings, and silver bracelets,  soft fabric for turbans, and hand-woven spreads and heavy rug-like blankets.  What a shopping bonanza!   There was a small stage and an impressive sound system that had been transported on flat-bed trucks.   Everything here was basic except for this small piece of high tech.    The festival was founded in 2001 as a way to bring the Tuareg culture to the outside world and to expose talented Malian musicians to the masses.  Under hot daytime skies we enjoyed impromptu jam sessions of cluster groups cultivating their individual tribal sounds and dancing hypnotically to the intricate haunting rhythms on indigenous instruments we'd never heard before.   Music is their life and their environment.  I was spellbound. 

As I read through my travel journal, what grieves me most is that the Essakane Desert Music Festival no longer exists.  Mali and Timbuktu have been devastated.   It is too dangerous to live there, let alone to visit.   Music is an expression of freedom for Malians and the Tuaregs, and the festival was its manifestation.  But now their freedom has been ripped from them by terrorists and murderers.  Their culture is being destroyed.  People are dying. Their stories will never be heard.  When you were at the Desert Music Festival, you were one with the people and the people were one with the artists.

Vivid images of what I saw and what is now lost will be embedded in my memory forever.  I will never forget the people of Mali, the beauty and flavor of Timbuktu or the spectacular Desert Music Festival in Essakane. 

"As the sun goes down behind the dunes, we watch the traditional camel races* where thousands of people cheer for their favorite camel galloping across the sand.     Hours later the temperature drops thirty degrees, and we shiver on the cold sand beneath the star-studded sky and listen to the haunting music of these fascinating people.  As you sit on the dunes and take this all in,  something inside of you changes."

*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvn351vh6EM