The Seagull Has Landed

The seagull has landed…….

At thirty seven minutes past the hour of twelve. On the17th of October 2006 that being yesterday. A British built seagull engine, serial number 75466 was released from custody. After being held captive for over three weeks without sunlight, petrol, not a drop of oil, and with slim chance of ever getting out of the clink.

I, Andy, the new owner of afore mentioned motor, forthwith known as 'Jonathon', declare this day a day of celebration in the name of justice and fair play, and raise a toast to the men and women of the Argentine postal service and to the slightly dodgy and yet extrodinarily pleasant south American customs officials whom work within said service.

The tale.
After a horse and cart ride through a German forest, six bratwurst and a few schnapps, it transpired that Michelle's father, David, aka David 'king of the outboards' Vaughan, had in his possession an old, slightly dented, 1970's British Seagull outboard motor (2hp short shaft for the spotters)….

I was in the market for a smaller outboard and so …things were looking good.
Michelle went back to the states, talked with David, and a deal was struck.
David gave me the outboard! I had to wonder, but put it down to him being a decent sort of a chap.

Correspondence between David and I began to take place. Now I am not saying he is a man of few words, but when at one point I asked for an 'Aye' if the address to post the seagull to was working out for him, the emailed reply was.

AYE!

Thank you David that made my day.

The crux of the matter.

The seagull 'Jonathon' was being sent by post from California to Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing an address was organised via a friend of Rhian's: 'Marcello'. I had not yet met with Marcello. Things were indeed looking good.
I had arrived in Ushuaia. The seagull was in the post. Marcello was primed, the date was set; all we needed now was….. Argentine customs!

Marcello "Hola Andy the motor is here."
"Perfect shall we pick it up tomorrow?"
"No first we must let customs know what is in the box!"
"Ok Tomorrow?"
"No next week"
"Ok Monday?"
"No Thursday!"
"Oh so two weeks!"
"Si!"
"Ok"

Thursday next week.
Police man. Very dapper tight jeans, leather jacket, mirrored shades.
Me, flip flops. One had broken on the way to the post office I had tied it together with soldering wire, wearing a big woolly hat with lamas on it.
The scene was set we eyed one another suspiciously and each began his play.

Police Man "Senor what is in the box?" 'He's serious'
Me "An old Seagull motor" 'smile' I can't see his eyes…
PM "The motor is petrol"
Me "Si" 'smile' yes I can speak Spanish.
PM "Old."
Me "Si" 'keep smiling.
PM "How old?"
ME "Oh you know, Very!" Really grinning now do I look dodgy?
PM "Hmmm you can't have it."
Me "Oh" smile fading.
Both "Hmmm"
Both continue to eye one another suspiciously. Marcello says something fast… Lots of gesticulating. I feel like I'm going to the wall.

It's the hat isn't it ….what about the smile?
Oh bollocks.

Further conversations with Marcello
Ok he (customs man) now requires an accurate list of exactly what are in the boxes and a realistic price……. Dear David, you and I may agree that the value of contents comes to the sum of $1, but Argentine customs smell something small and rodent like at such times.

David and I emailed one another, Ok David I need you to detail what is in the box and say its worth around $75.

Email from David:
Dear Sir
Contents of box 1x seagull engine outboard. Cost of contents $75.

Brilliant that ought to swing it!

Back we go to Mirrors.
Buenos Dias senor, jo tengo une letter para usted con el contents y el pricio… told you I could speak Spanish…

Mirror's was stumped the letter trembling in his hand.
Contents of box 1x seagull engine outboard. Cost of contents $75…
It was all there black and white; I could see him quiver, his lip trembling, sweat on his brow, he was folding right there in front of my very eyes.
I've got him.

PM "Senor!"
Me "Si" 'smile'
PM "You cannot send a used motor through the post, we must send it back!"
Me "Ah senor, back?! But through the post?"
"Si!"
Marcello moves in more hands; talking gets faster.

Bugger!
It's the hat again, isn't it?

Marcello and I convene over coffee.
Ok Andy, I think things are looking good (really Marcello?). I have spoken with the customs and we must now tell him the contents of the box that is not a motor!!!!! And the exact price of those contents!!

I was stumped, surely not.
I wasn't sure, but we were men looking for a solution, and the dulcet tones of the 2 stroke phuutt phutting its way through the fjords of Patagonia depended on our nerve and skill as negotiators. In short we were desperate and would try anything.

Twelve a.m on the 17th cue fistful of dollars soundtrack, Marcello and I roll in with the big guns. A scrap of paper I had quickly knocked up complete with Zephyrus watermark, the coffee cup ring stains resembling something of the Olympic flag on a bad day.

Printed below the olympic rings were random boat bits and a list of made up prices. We were hung over and the lamas were in full force, we couldn't fail…… My thoughts? None, I was calm and Zen the seagull was already mine! And if you believe that!

Mirrors and I greeted one another, horns were locked, there was no going back.
Mirrors first "Buenos Dias senor"
"Buenos dias para usted senor"…so far so good
"You have a list of contents for me complete with prices"
"Si"

So what is in the box?
Deep breath and begin "errrm some rope la corda" I'm going to jail!!!
"And the cost"
Bloody hell "errrr fifty dollars."
"Que mas" "What else" (told you I cold speak Spanish)
"Errr some winches"
"The cost"
"Really" Bloody hell "errrr sixty dollars"
"No! They cost so much?"
Is this guy for real…."errrrm yes about that."
"Que mas"
I was warming up …"ohhh a propeller; I'd like a new propeller"
"How much"
This is fun "70 dollars"
His turn "what about some steel wire! That is very difficult to find in Argentina!"
You have got to be joking …"Yep steel wire 60 meters of the stuff I reckon…."
"Cost?"
No hesitation "Oh fifty."
"Bueno sign here."

You are free to go……Free to go! I've only posted a bloody letter! Shut up shut up…..

What an incredible place I was sure I was going to feel a heavy hand as I walked towards the door but no nothing and then sweet sunlight and fresh air.
I felt like we had been through the mill and triumphed good over, well not quite evil, not even close.
Just a different kind of postal service, you can see it in royal mail now…. What do you mean a birthday card you must be barking! What do you think this is, a Post office?! Get out!

That afternoon I wound up at a dentists, between ahhhhhhs and ahhhhhhs we discovered we liked each other, that being Dentist and I, later after some more ahhhhs i was invited to Argentine Asado. Like a Bbq but serious. The fire is lit and cooking starts at midday, eating not till midnight it's a bit of a long affair, but you get into it. .
A fine and fun evening of Argentine carnes 'steak' and corrdero 'lamb', and plenty of excellent Argentine red wine.
I met the dentist's family his wife and children, played guitar with his brother and talked stars with his father.
As I toddled home with time to ponder the day 'Where else and to who do such things happen'.

Or is it just the hat?

Either way I leave the final word to Marcello. 'You know Andy, sometimes my country works in strange ways."

Si. Pero me gusta.


Phuuutt phuutt x

Posted by Andy at 21:41 EST | Comments (4)

Water Water Everywhere

Written on 20 September (by Kirsten)… at Khartoum airport before getting on a plane to Cairo

Ever been so soaked, so wet and muddy, that it no longer matters how much muddier and wetter you get? Well today (and its only 5am) has been hilarious. I am cold and wet and muddy and my white shirt is somehow streaky blue from my wet blue bag bleeding onto it but I do think the whole situation rather funny. What people must have thought of this crazy Khoweja (foreigner), I don’t know!

Today I was meant to (am still meant to) catch a flight from Khartoum to Cairo for my first R&R (rest and relaxation, or recuperation, or something like that). The travel agent forgot to issue my ticket (for yesterday) so instead I got a flight at 6am, meaning I was meant to be at the airport between 3 and 4 am. No UNDP driver available (not that they would have been able to get to me anyway) so my incredibly kind friend Mary showed me the directions to the airport (only 20 minute walk and pretty simple directions) and I set my alarm for 3am. I was woken at 2 by a loud bang as the door slammed shut, wind knocked the building, and thunder crashed outside. At first I thought this was a huge sandstorm picking up items and slamming them into the building and I saw palm trees being whipped furiously, but then rain started to pelt down. Out of the window lightening was filling the sky and trees were being blown onto power lines. Sparks were flying and a tree a few hundred meters away burst into flame, subsided, then more sparks and more flame and then subsided again and there were crackles and sparks in a number of areas I could see from my vantage point, the 9th floor of the highest building in this direction. Then the electricity went, and thank heavens so did the electrical sparks and fire, as rain pummeled and shook the building and came in under windows in bedrooms and kitchen and bathroom. By this stage my kind hosts were up and we watched the gods madness from windows on three sides. I was hoping it would stop soon as there was no way I could walk in that! By 3.30 it had settled, no more noise, so I decided to venture outside. I put a plastic bag over the top of my backpack, and put my computer in another, locked the door behind me, slid the key under the door, and braved the madness.

The wind had stopped and it was barely raining. But the road? What road? The muddy pot - holey bumpy road out the front of my friend Mary’s place was a calf-deep pond. I rolled up my tracksuit pants, turned on my torch (thank god for a torch! No electricity even if there had been decent street lighting!), and started wading through plastic bags and bottles and goodness knows what, stepping on bits of sidewalk where possible. I got to the next road and at this stage it was getting deeper. I rolled my tracksuit pants up to my knees (there was no one about and Khartoum would just have to deal with seeing my legs) and waded across the road, trying to find what I hoped would be a footpath. And then I took another step and was suddenly in water up to my waist. My back pack, my hand bag, my CLOTH COMPUTER BAG (that’s not good for computers!!) were all in the drink. I hauled myself out of the ditch not noticing the graze on my left ankle, leg and knee sweating away in the dark and wondering if I had also killed my torch. Well the torch came back to life (strap come adrift) and I pulled myself back to the area of the road where water was only knee deep.

A few more metres and it was only calf deep, at which stage I remembered the problem of ultra comfy tracksuit pants. They get wet and they get LOOOOONG. And don’t like being rolled up. So I was tripping in the mud over my wet and heavy tracksuit pants trying to roll them up and hold them up and hold a torch and my back pack still on my back and computer bag (was the computer alive?) and my handbag (soggy ticket, money, book, was my phone alive??). I made my way slowly to the next slightly wider and more traveled road. A kindly boab out the front of the world bank building advised me to try the middle of the road as the first car gamely and slowly made its way past me. The road became more paved, less flooded and a couple of slow cars appeared. I stumbled and fought with those drippy long muddy tracksuit pants until I got the main road to the airport, Africa St, and saw cars and a footpath! At this time I had decide the whole situation was hilarious. A wet Khoweja woman with multiple bags and hair everywhere and wet foggy glasses and scarf askew in a white (and now semi see-through) shirt with blue streaks from my wet blue bag, clutching my trousers trying to keep from tripping with a torch dangling from one hand, and laughing. Such a pity no one else was there to also laugh at me! Would have been such fun to share. About ten minutes later I could see what I thought looked vaguely like an airport and turned off the main road. Then it started to rain again. I was at the “bugger it who cares” stage by this time, although my fear and hope for my computer remained, so I sped up a little. Got to the car park and was advised this was not THE airport but I believe he was telling me it was the cargo airport or something like that. So I followed the direction towards the real airport.

On the way I managed to snag my tracksuit pants in a piece of metal sticking out of the drain and fell twice, although not right into the still ankle-deep river that was once a road. I slipped my way up the steps into the airport and joined a queue of slightly less bedraggled people going through the scanner. As I waited in the queue to check in I debated finding a bathroom to change but realized the floor of the airport was also ankle deep in water so that might be even scarier. I rescued a dry pair of trousers from the top of my bag in case I found somewhere. The lady who searched me before the waiting lounge let me use the room where she searches the women for a quick change, so at least I now had dry trousers (although the bottoms of these were soon wet too). And then I found the driest spot I could and sat and hauled open my computer to discover its wetsuit material case was saturated, but , humd’allah, it still worked!!! And hence am writing this.

Post script…

The man next to me in the line to get on the plane kindly told me I looked terrible and couldn’t possibly get on the plane like that. He then tried to change his seat to sit next to me and received a less than welcoming response. My t-shirt was still damp when I arrived in Cairo (the poor man sitting next to me – I cant have smelled too sweet) but I was sooooo happy to arrive. And the funny thing was that this bedraggled day ended completely the opposite… a call from my former flat-mate who was staying at the Four Seasons and invited me to waffles on her balcony on the 30th floor overlooking the Nile and pyramids, then to lie in the sun by the pool to eat ice blocks… at which stage my entire waterlogged adventure seemed wonderfully far away and even more hilarious. Will taking r & r always be this much of an effort?

Posted by kirsten at 7:56 EST | Comments (4)

The Mundane Stuff about Living in Dafur

Nyala, where I am, is a great town. The commercial capital of Darfur and a thriving metropolis in Darfur terms. It has a couple of sets of traffic lights, some bitumen roads, and about 3 restaurants. The streets aren't packed but there are 3 wheel tuk tuks, little yellow cabs, Utes (pick ups for the non Aussies) and UN /NGO 4wds everywhere. There is a market... stalls of wilted vegetables, plenty of oranges and grapefruit, dodging ditches of muddy water, lots shoes for sale on tarps and bright cloth and spices and orange lentils and sundried tomatoes and okra laid out on more tarps to dry in the sun. Piles of huge watermelons and platters of oil with taameya (falafel) bubbling away. Many of the sellers are women with bright cloth wrapped around them and half-heartedly draped over their heads. There is even an open air cinema here – Arabic films only – and plenty of shops and a bus station and an airport. Around the corner from our guest house is some kind of function centre – some days lots of men sitting outside watching football or something on TV, other times wedding parties, complete with reggae bands and people dancing and yelling.

Nyala is also surprisingly green! So much for being in the desert! It's actually rainy season here, meaning it pours down at least once every 3 days, and the thunder bellows and shakes the house, rain slams in through every crack and it’s a great show before it comes with huge sky scapes of bright sheet and fork lightening. After the rain the wadis (dry creek beds) fill with water, everything goes green and the roads (largely dirt) turn to bogs. We need the 4wds and access to camps can be tricky. 15 kms takes a good 45 minutes to navigate. There are even frangipani trees and palm trees.

So many things are different and weird to get used to. We (UN) have a curfew at 10pm and the NGOs curfew is 11 – much later than in other cities. We have radio check each evening (I never knew my foxtrot charlie delta indigo stuff before now) and you have to remember to carry your heavy clunky radio with you everywhere. And in theory have it on. As for phones, the mobile phone network is temperamental at best. So email and skype it is!

Electricity is up and down and the back up generator gets regular use. We live in a "guest house" like most UN agencies and NGOs, which effectively means its rented by the organization and we have a per night rate. It has 3 bedrooms and a living space above the office with the usual high walls, barbed wire, sleepy smiling security guard or two, the tattered UN flag, and a couple of land cruisers. The kitchen is downstairs in another small building and a lovely smiling Sudanese woman comes and cooks us Fatoor (breakfast) each day at about 11am consisting of beans, eggplant, bread, chilli, and omelet, so the office eats together during the week.

Getting from Khartoum to the field, and between places, we go on the World Food Program (WFP) planes (the airline is called UNHAS – UN Humanitarian Air Services). There are also UNMIS flights (but unless you are UNMIS staff, your priority is wait-listed after the baggage). There are also AMIS (African Mission in Sudan) helicopters to remote places but I understand they are low on fuel so not flying so much. The down side of these flights is the limit: basically a day pack… and when you have computers and radios it doesn’t leave much to live in until the rest of your luggage arrives by cargo.

As for getting around here – big white UN 4wds, some with snorkels and roof racks, large radio antennae and often covered in mud. There is one blue car with UN painted on in orange. The story (and I have no idea if this is true) is that it came from Iraq. Apparently all the militia had got themselves white land cruisers. So the UN were told they had 24 hours to paint all their cars blue because the next day anything white would be fair game. So we have a blue and orange land cruiser floating around.

It's hard to realize at times that there is a conflict here – life in town is pretty easy, especially for the aid workers. Although I have seen plenty of trucks of armed men driving through town. Some in uniform, many not. I am gradually learning who these groups are. Sometimes we see men with camels in town and as you drive out of town many more camel herders, and herds of cattle too. What we do see is the frustrations of the work here, some things which should be easy somehow take on a political dimension and become impossible.

Outside of the town are the camps of persons displaced by conflict. 90, 000 or more in the one I visit most regularly. And these people all have their stories and fears. But I know that elsewhere, in the north of Darfur and in the south of this state, it is more tense.. just watch the news, the numbers of military growing, especially north of El Fasher. And here I wonder how long till we too see these changes?

Posted by kirsten at 12:15 EST | Comments (2)

The Big Green Gathering

We have had the most glorious, scorching, heatwave of a summer in Britain. Not glorious at all actually: too hot. For everyone, even sun worshippers. The first couple of weekends were a novelty but that rapidly wore off. Once again, the collective voice of the country complaining about the weather.

Despite the recent evidence to the contrary, or maybe because of it, this moment still feels distinctly British.

I am in a tent, in a field, on a chilly, windy night, at a Festival.The scorching heat we have recently had inflicted on us 'turned' this week and we are once again at risk of being drowned by good old summer rains. No-one is complaining.

Day One.

Arrival after 10pm, by train, taxi, and foot. We're not let in. It would have been easier, and more satisfying, to jump the fence than experience the rewards of paying £95 for a legal entry. We eventually convince a different gate to let us in and even more eventually, find our group and set up camp.

A multitude of faces, tents, stalls, classic randomness in the darktime introduction. A chai tent playing live music all night. I leave at 2am, being wrongly instructed to 'turn right at the multi-coloured fish'. I get very lost and have to return to square one before attempting the journey again.

Back to my tent. My beloved, 14 year old, tent. Perfect for just me and my explosion of stuff. Night one drags out with the usual wrigglings of discomfort and new surrounding.

Day Two. Part One.

Rude sluggish awakening by lack of oxygen and crying babies. There is a 7 week old human in the tent next to mine. I am later to discover she is far from the only one. Stripey crusty hippy parents with their offspring. A higher child density than I have experienced since, since I was one, I guess. I'm not sure I like them. They certainly do nothing for my maternal instinct. Offspring of anti-capitalist campaigners finding every possible excuse to earn money. My favourite belonged to the group I was camping with: a seven year old boy [voluntarily] flouting Fair Trade Footballs emblazoned with NO CHILD LABOUR on two sides.

I go on a mission to find bread and orientate myself. I haven't yet relaxed into festival oblivion, keeping my mind focussed on my hungry companions awaiting carbs to accompany their sausages. Most stalls are closed at this crack of 10am dawn. There are a few wandering souls like myself and plenty of opportunities for coffee, pancakes, or a veggie breakfast. I resist; I have a mission.

Mistakenly, I find myself in what can only be described as the Angry Field. Caravans of campaigners dedicating their lives to Issues. Climate Change, Nuclear Power, Squatters Rights, Home Schooling, Homelessness. It's enough to make me consider a serious career change. For a brief moment however, I still have my work hat on and I wonder if I should be enaging in conversation, building connections, networking. That's a mistake I will make in a couple of days time. For now, I stay silent, walking away with a flyer promoting a ten day Camp for Climate Action. I seek bread.

Two unsuccessful attempts to leave the Angry Field return me back to the leaflet source. My straight line was apparrently a circle. So I try to walk a circle and am relieved to find the 'Food and Farm field' complete with organic bakery. Unfortunately, the woman in front of me in the queue is from the Environmental Health Department and the stall is consquently closed for 15 minutes while an inspection ensues.

During the course of the festival, I see this several times. A safety officer protesting at low cross bars in a geodesic dome chai tent: any bar below six feet must be marked with luminous tape and carpets are a trip hazard. One quiet solo soulful guitarist, acoustic, with a stupidly quiet sound system is told she has to finish because their licence from the council doesn't extend past midnight. Poetry ensues.

I try to find the general store, resist the Hippy Fields overflowing with their blissed out vibes, and end up in the Angry Field again. It's too much. I return to the bakery and take a wild shortcut back to the tents. The hungry mob, the hungry mob, I must've been hours. I am almost stressed. I am not blissed out. I still retain an element of real-world responsibility. I might be approaching festival spirit but I certainly haven't embraced it yet.

A few more tent-filled fields and I at last find the rainbow fish, my beacon home. I can breathe again. Landmarks are so critical when every field is populated by identical randomness, hippies, tipis, and colourful fair trade creativity.

I make it home. Sausages are on and my freshly bought bread is stale. £6.50 badly spent (on two loaves). Tomorrow, I'll just buy breakfast.

Day Two. Part Two.

It is perfect festival weather. Sunny but not too scorchio, a reasonable wind, dry. A beer has catalysed my journey into festival bliss. From now on, time won't matter and friends will bump into each other, or not. Mobile reception is poor so once you're lost, you're lost. And that's when the choices overwhelm. Low reception also means a wonderful lack of phones, texting, and the planning of any activity that isn't right now.

A man walks past wearing nothing but a flowerpot over his willy. And a walking stick. People cheer as he goes past.

I am sat next to the rainbow fish drinking coconut water from the shell.

The Healing Fields are quiet and relaxing. Fully of pamperings on offer: shiatsu, yoga, reiki massage, crystal healing, shamanic healing, something involving a huge gong, singing, drama therapy, dancing, breastfeeding support circle, women's tent, men's tent, gay tent, quiet tent, a beautiful phoenix temple, various temporary gardens and trees.

The main drag is full of stalls selling jewellery, clothing, rugs, artwork, lanterns, food, and the obligatory chai. There are solar powered showers, wood powered saunas, and a pedal powered stage. A field of tipis and various thematic yurts. I consider entering a raffle to win one but thankfully won't be around for the draw. Multi-coloured streamers and lantern balloons dance in the breeze. There are still children everywhere but somehow their laughter, the space, and the great obligatory outdoors, dilutes them to a happy hum. Or perhaps I am just relaxing into the place.

Tonight I expect music, fire twirling, and general revelry. As church feeds the spirits of christian souls, or philatelic meetings support stamp enthusiasts, festivals nourish a group of different like-mindeds. A chance to be colourful, pierced, relaxed, happy. No explanation necessary.

Day Two. Part Three.

Memory of the evening is a pleasant blur. A large bonfire circled by drummers and a couple of dancers wearing wedding dresses. Crusties, hippies, pikies, people. Layers over layers, colours, reincarnated clothing cut at an angle, gypsy style skirts, tassles, blankets, painted faces, ball dresses and tiaras, hats, wigs, top hat and tails. A few balloons of laughing gas are passed around, pedlars interweave the crowds whispering their wares: "tequila", "beer", "coconut guarana energy balls".

We had been told you could buy no alcohol or meat on the site, though bringing your own is not a problem. It changes the atmosphere from other festivals, makes it even more family friendly. We were however, told wrong. Back in the furthest field from anywhere, right in the middle of everywhere, in the Food and Farming Field of bread memories, is a bar and grill. Or pub and hog roast. Beer and Meat would be a better description. Fresh and local. The field is run by local farmers selling Local Ale and Cider at the bar, and a meat stall called Pirates of the Apocalypse offering pig roast, lamb stew, or barbequed beef. We had the latter, sliced from delicious slabs of just-cooked steak. The cow had been raised in the next door field.

Of an evening, our group had a vague base near the Small World music tent. Folk music and chai. I went for a wander, seeking chocolate, and got lost amongst tipis and fires. Collecting a few friends who were also bored of violins, we went to explore the Magic Canyon. My compatriots scoffed: it will be a plastic tunnel, it will be an overgrown nettle and thistle filled ditch. O no. A proper canyon it was, and magical too. The rocky walls lit up by tea lights in paper bags. We set up camp and talked rubbish all night, the group waxing and waning as various strangers joined in the debate.

Day Three.

It turns out I have only seen about a third of the site thus far. The far side of the Angry Field is actually remarkable chilled out. Peace Campaigners, the Green Party, examples of alternative energy and composting. Beyond this is the Green Crafts Field, my favourite so place so far. Woodwork, chalk carving, felt making, leather work, make your own rag rug, gardening, country dancing, pedal-powered wood turning, cart building, and a hundred workshops to try your hand at new skills.

The permaculture and eco-living areas were next along, and then a fanstastic big green space designated for nothing but playing. Impromptu magic shows, kids playing frisbee, sock twirling poi, the field's perimeter a collection of music, bar, fair, and face-painting. At the far end, best for last, the Horse-Drawn Field. Travellers, horses, carts, hand crafted gypsy vans, tents and tarps, black kettles hanging over fires. The real-ist field of all. These folk hadn't just come out for the weekend.

I think there's only one field left to discover, but you never can tell. Even at the most familiar spots, new poetry tents and opportunities to exchange cash for stripes surprise me. Today, the population is mostly fairies and people in patchwork. Knee-padded kids on bouncy stilts, stilt walking butterflies and trees, real Ents in fact. Bells precede footsteps. Horses clip clop as they carry bands to venues. There are no cars. Children sell watermelon and ice cream, or busk. Tattooes and tipis, babies in wheelbarrows on sheepskin rugs. And still, on day three, negligible litter and incredibly clean toilets.

I would love to know where all these people come from, what they do when they're not here. I spent yesterday evening with an ecologist zoologist, a social worker, an eco-builder, my friend who works with refugees and asylum seekers and her partner who's speciality is affordable, sustainable, urban housing. As Kim says, "the jobs section of the Guardian". And remember, everyone wearing an orange armband paid £95 to be here. Individually, not hugely radical. Collectively, thought provoking. People with blue armbands are working here in some capacity. Craftspeople, alternative therapists, caterers, litterpickers, seamstresses, artisans, musicans, gypsies, farmers, mathmeticians.

That wasn't a typo. One familiar [to me] got in touting 'Free Maths Information'. Seriously. My friends loved it. I had to leave. When I returned, he was surrounded by no less than sixteen people listening to the story of the first mathematical martyr, Hippasus of Metapontum. Drowned at sea for divulging the irrationality of the square root of two. And further, camouflaged by Pythagorean lore, our acquaintance divulged this information as well.

Day Four

The toilets are still remarkably clean, though I have used my pee funnel twice now in the urinals. At night time admittedly, but it was still very amusing.

My friends left this morning so I've spent the day experimenting with workshops and activities. Tai chi in the morning, a nice way to start the day. Climate Action in the Angry Tent in the early afternoon wasn't such a good idea; just left me angry. Sing Your Heart Out harmony singing from 3-4 was great and brought me back into the spirit of things. Reverberating harmony. Delicious. With music still filling my head, I ambled back to the tent via a loud humming and babbling tipi. The noise might be what called my attention to the area, but the vision was even more astounding. There, at their rendezvous, were about 20, naked, painted, bicyclists. Preparing to cycle the site. The noise inside was unrelated; the end of a workshop called 'nurture your inner cynic'.

After a brief tent interlude, I headed for my final rendezvous of the day: the sauna.Two and a half hours later I emerged blissed out and, for the first time since arrival, clean. Ready for my journey home tomorrow. I am now back at the meat stall, in line with the carnal carnivorous. I love this end of the Earthy spectrum. The spear-fishers. Beer and Meat, the bloodier the better.

I suppose this evening will blur into another repeat of music, tents, aimless wondering, pondering, and wandering. Further immersion into timelessness.

Memories from last night include Breton line dancing, vinegary cider, sitting outside a thumping marquee wearing a blue head scarf, ranting, a warm chai tent with chocolate cake, carrot cake, and sweet flapjacks, a light rain, and an all night poet. A father near me, and probably not much older, rationalising with his adolescent son who had just come across the concept of not going to school as a viable alternative. The parents defence: " ..if you go to school, to college, you'll have choice about what you want to do.. some of the people here, they've had no choice."

Day Five

I wake up to a delightfully grey morning. No-one likes the bright sun in the morning, especially not when you're in a tent. After the heatwave of recent weeks, we're still all revelling in the more typically British summer. Bring on the mizzle! It's time to get up, pack up, and go home.

Posted by Rhian at 11:50 EST | Comments (1)

Visiting Camps in Dafur

I have now been in Darfur about 4 weeks and I am definitely happy to be here. I love my work, I love the people and believe what we are doing is worthwhile, despite the frustrating context and the bigger political situation. One friend commented a few days ago that if we can keep things in stasis this is actually an achievement, but I would like to think we do more than that.

We visited Kalma camp last week, an enormous sprawling camp of tents and dust and mud and mud brick huts and tattered plastic sheeting which took us a good forty minutes of dusty indistinguishable roads to get to. NGOs here estimate 95,000 people in the camp alone. There is even market as you drive in, women selling vegetables, donkeys pulling carts, beautiful children waving at the car, goats climbing around, women in bright cloth carrying posts on their heads, men in white jalabeyas and white turbans and NGO flags flying (somewhat tattered) from some of the buildings. Kalma has also recently been in the news - to give you some idea of how bad things are, for people who are displaced, especially the women.

At night I try to run along the road near the airport with friends and climb the hill overlooking Nyala. There are two camps close to town you can see from the top of the hill blue and white plastic, and tents, distinguish them from the mud brick and wood square buildings and tukuls which make up the town. I am gradually learning the names, who runs them, what NGOs are involved, the problems each faces.

We also went to Kass, where the IDPs (internally displaced persons – ie refugees but haven’t crossed a border) live in the town as part of the host community. It's about two hours on a theoretically tarmaced road so full of pot holes that at times the cars would head off on the dirt roads carved next to it, and through the mud, as these were more passable. We went with cars from two other agencies (minimum convoy of 3 according to UN security requirements). The whole trip was really green, passing herds (are they called herds?) of camels, and small villages made of round tukuls with conical roofs. On, over wadis filled with water, kids playing in mud puddles, women on donkeys, and buses with people on the roof, sometimes army with guns, at other times passengers on luggage. Kass is much smaller than Nyala but we arrived on market day and drove past huge tarpaulins spread with sun drying tomatoes and okra. No mobile reception, no tarmac, and no UN presence except from the World Food Programme.

Posted by kirsten at 17:48 EST | Comments (0)

Hedgehogs in Al Fasher

Week two in Sudan and I have now seen the capitals of north and south Darfur, but still not been able to get to the camps due to security concerns. That inability to move, and do what I need to, will be the most frustrating thing about this job, I am sure.

I am sitting outside on the concrete floor of the compound of the UNDP guest house of El Fasher, with a hedgehog. Its about 10pm and this gentleman is apparently one of a family of 5 who lives here. I have seen a couple here this evening, and added to the hedgehog I rescued from the bathroom of the medecin du monde guest house during the party in Nyala, I seem to be doing a fair bit of hedgehog spotting. Apart from the hedgehogs there are plenty of other animals - donkeys braying during the night, roosters as a morning call (and this was no duet: we are talking grand orchestra). The next noise was the army singing as they jogged past – songs in Arabic about beautiful women apparently (I think that is the nice euphemism from my Sudanese colleague) and then the children starting school across the road singing the national anthem.
Seen plenty of donkeys, but missed the horses and camels. And until now no glimpses of the dreadlocked janjaweed fighters, just African Union and Sudanese Army troops driving about town.

We left Nyala on Tuesday morning, flying in what I am told is called a caravan (I thought is this was a joke - the latest in chitty chitty bang bang theories? Caravans?). Technical term (?) for a 12 seater little single propeller plane where you sit behind the pilots for the best view and they can throw coke bottles out the window a la gods must be crazy if they want. As we rose above Nyala we did a loop above Kalma IDP camp – huge, 90,000 people is the estimate, and it looks like a city. It is so big, but its made of tents. Leaving green Nyala the scenery quickly became desert with the odd wadi (dry river bed) snaking across the desert floor. Some areas were clearly agricultural plots at some recent time, but not now. It is planting season yet you see no sign of recent activity. The villages, squares of brick fences with round tukul huts, all look deserted. We flew over many of these. Closer to Fasher there were more signs of activity but the absence of activity in what appeared to be the majority of villages on the way was stark. It would seem everyone is too scared to farm so food production limited to the major city surrounds now. What will this mean for the people of Darfur come harvest season?

Al Fasher (we are here for the all Darfur protection working group meeting) used to be the capital of all of Darfur – it is much older than Nyala but also much poorer. The old Sultanate of Darfur was based here and it apparrently has Darfur’s best university. But its much poorer than Nyala. There are a few paved roads, including one near the guest house, only the cars can't actually drive on it but only on the mud gutters on either side. It is under construction apparently. There is mud everywhere. The wadi has flooded and the stadium is now part of the river. Half of the roads have become enormous mud puddles that the UN four wheel drives plow through happily and we traipse mud into the compounds on our shoes. And still it's hot, and the rains come loud and noisy daily here it seems, and when they come there are crashes and the electricity goes. Which is fine except the back-up generator here decided to give up the ghost so that was it for fans and lights and email (the server battery died after being starved of electricity for 2 days). Kind of makes working hard, but we just shrugged and headed to the workshop and pray it will be fixed. And then tonight there was electricity again.

Posted by kirsten at 0:18 EST | Comments (3)

New Security

It's 4am, local New York time, 9am UK time, and Felix waves his laptop at me saying 'write this up now, while you're "fresh" '. Not the adjective I would have used, perhaps.

I didn't need to come here, it wasn't critical. And I was already feeling guilty about burning the carbon, despite offsetting, in order to meet colleagues in Maine. When the terrorist threat brought all British airports to a halt, I resigned myself to the fact that I was going nowhere. And that was fine. But when I rang American Airlines, expecting them to be relieved when I offered to have myself bumped, the customer services woman sounded perplexed. And when I asked, therefore, how I early I should turn up before my flight, she answered two hours, as always. (Funny, I thought the official check-in time for trans-atlantic flights had been three hours for a few years now).

It took a little while after I arrived at Heathrow before I realised why.

Packing was weird. I decided to not take my laptop in the end but rather a disc of documents. I can borrow computers in the US, or share my boss's, and ultimately the most useful time for having the laptop is in the departure lounge. I wondered if we would have still organised this meeting if flying rules stated 'no laptops, reading, or writing, material after security'. That would certainly discourage me from a few long-haul work trips.But this one was going ahead.

There were long queues at the airport, as expected, but not that long. It took about an hour and a half to check in and pass through [initial] security checks.

There were plastic bags, as expected. Only passports, travel documents, essential medications, sanitary requirements and nappies, milk for babies (to be drunk in front of security personnel), glasses outside of their cases. No books or magazines. No pens. Definitely no laptops.It was the pen deficiency that hurt me most.. I'd even printed my e-itinerary on three pages of A4 so I had something legitimte to scrawl on.I was told I could buy reading material in duty free, which I did, but it was later confiscated.Those damn exploding books.

What I didn't expect was the calm, even the smiling faces. The entire staff at Heathrow seemed to have been fed chill pills, were available and informative, relaxed even. And, thankfully, had a consistent story.Whether the training for this scenario has been practiced many times, or was just pieced together in the last 24 hours, they were on top of it.

The man at the check-in desk was young and quite cool. Him and his colleagues all had funky assymmetric haircuts and a relaxed demeanour. He admired the stamps in my passport and, to my dissapointment, was much more impressed by the one from Wide Awake Airport at Ascenscion Islands than any of the ones with penguins on. He asked about my job, why I'd been to the Falklands. These weren't security questions, just chat. No hurry to process the queue.They'd been here for a day and a half now and the queue would not diminish this week. No-one was in a hurry, everyone was atleast four hours early because all planes had been delayed. People would make their flights and if they didn't, they'd make a different one. This wonderful air of calm and resignation. No hysterical passengers hurrying for a plane. No hassled staff overwhelmed by the system.

No pens.

The mood inside the duty free area was similarly quiet. Quite a few people bought magazines or newspapers. I read the first few chapters of my new book:..... No-one was speaking on a mobile phone as these had all been checked or confiscated. No-one was working on laptops, hanging out in the wifi corners. No-one was shopping much: liquids were prohibited on all flights and chocolates on most. Hamleys toy store ingeniously had a magician entertaining kids. The duty free shops passed out trays of free sweets. I bought a beer and some pizza, and asked for a glass of tap water. They sold bottled but I didn't want that as I'd only have to leave it behind. In the end the server poured me a glass from his bottle.

I was intrigued to see how westerners would cope with forced inactivity. No shopping, no reading, no writing, no tv. And I was impressed. It seems we do, after all, in the face of inevitability, know how to wait.

Our 1830 flight was delayed by two hours. I knew that already at check-in. When it was finally called, we were all segregated by gender and searched again. My book went. One poor woman had bought three bags of presents from duty free Harrods and had to leave them behind (they shouldn't have sold them to her, atleast at the book store I was warned that my odds were 50:50). Lots of strangers chatted to each other in the queue.

We were on the plane by 2100 and then sat at the gate for another two hours. But again, we had been told to prepare ourselves for a long delay. I didn't really understand the point of this second delay. They apparrently had to check each passenger's details individually, and also send in more fuel as they hadn't prepared for sch a long wait. We were comforted with the information that once we were in air we would be on the safest flight we'd ever experienced. We were served snacks and drinks, they started the [terrible selection of] movies rolling, and kept us informed of how ill-informed they were.

I didn't hear a single grumble, just sighs of resignation. Weirdly, the flight was full but not packed and I was fortunate to get a window and aisle to myself.

We finally left at 1830 NY time, 2330 local. We arrived in New York seven hours later, 0630 UK time, 0130NY.. and had another hour or two's wait to collect baggage. I arrived at Felix's at 0330, pretty chilled really.

Everyone assumed I had a terrible trip, but I didn't. In fact, it was better than many, just longer. No-one seemed to understamd the security measures, why exactly I wasn't allowed my book or pen, but today rules is rules. My theory is just that you can process passengers quicker if they are carrying minimal stuff. And you know what,- there was no rush for the overhead locker and no bags under the seat in front. Is this the way of the future?

Posted by Rhian at 0:09 EST | Comments (0)

Boaty Dawn

It is 06:25 a.m. I woke, about an hour ago, with a sparrow greeting the dawn directly above my head. It sung with such clarity, in fact, that I wondered if she wasn't inside my bedroom. Uncharacteristically, I opened my eyes a fraction more to assess the situation through the window. A beautiful river mist was rising, thick clouds on the water, swirling, floating, and evaporating. A rising sun piercingly bright at eye height on the horizon. On a boat, in a flat plain, you live at the horizon. I had two choices.

To return to bed. To climb under the covers and sink into blissful oblivion. To maximise on my Saturday morning, to gloat into it infact. Or to get up.

A close friend recently suggested to me that if I got up when I woke, the first time rather than the fifth, I might be less sleepy throughout the day. Or atleast it's first four hours. The self-discipline this requires however, is generally too awesome for me. The self awareness, presence of mind, internal negotiation skills and counter-intuitive nature of the action are all pitted against me. The slumbering self wins every time.

Today, however, I was presented with a conundrum, a challenge even. The call of the sparrow had resulted in me becoming vertical, and with open eyes no less, far before any sense of sanity or lethargy had been given a chance to over-rule me. Next step: self-discipline.

At rare moments like this, tai chi is my salvage. (What are these moments: when I am lost for activity, when I am seeking the creation of space? Why can't I just sit and do nothing?) Tai chi allows me to move very slowly, to not speak, to stand outside and watch the day for half an hour. Without this refuge, what would I do? Read a book? Do the washing up? Look at bills? What does one do at 6am? I have no idea. Really. Another reason I never get up: there is no reason, no motivation. (If I have to get up early, for instance to catch a plane, I only succeed begrudgingly and after a restless night.)

I munched around in my wardrobe for a while looking for suitable clothes. Flowing trousers, a top, a warmer top, thick purple socks, my new bright orange sandals. I look the part. Boat crusty doing 6am tai chi by the river as the mist swirls and sun rises into the expectant clouds above that define the approaching day. Of course, in the time it takes me to find my clothes, my shoes, my brain, and to question why exactly I am doing this, the river mist swirls upwards, the dawn glow turns into a morning sky, the day becomes already slightly less magical.

Climbing out of the hatch, the sparrow jumps from my roof, to my bike, and off. Her cheeky work is done. A spider has worked hard all night weaving a beautiful web, now glistening with dew, right across the exit from the deck. I'm sorry to break it, but what alternative is there? The spirits of sparrow and spider, a shoulder each, battle for my will. Once the sun is higher and dew evaporated, I wouldn't even see that web. Let alone stop to consider the ethics of passing through it.

I make it onto land, the sparrow triumphant, the spider swinging. A feat indeed. Wet grass, long blades, refreshing chill in the air. Looking for a good spot, I leave the boat and walk west to an area most likely to become sunny fastest. In a field, by the river, next to the drooping willows, I begin the motions. Twenty minutes later I am warm, and awake.

I am moored by a field, grass and grains both sides of the river, by a lock, between a couple of boats, though one has gone adventuring recently, a third of the way between Cambridge and Ely. The shorter third gets you to Cambridge though it doesn't matter really for the writing. It's a good spot anyway. I get to see light coming through both sides of the boat, unlike in Cambridge where I was moored next to a high wall. I get to stay here with a restful conscience, unlike in Ely where I stayed for two weeks on a forty-eight hour mooring and eventually got asked to move on. I get to moor right next to an authoritative sign that definitively states NO MOORING. The only traffic noise is the commuter train to London (travelling via convenient station nearby) or freight train with squeaky wheels.

I am lucky to have found this spot, to have found my way to the landowner who considers new tenants only via personal recommendation. I am lucky to be in the loop. Now I have a place to moor while my name works it's way up the Cambridge waiting list. I reckon it could take a year yet: the turn-over is usually faster but not many people will have signed up and paid for a mooring license if they knew they were about to move on. The introduction of licenses on the river has, I think, changed the river culture a bit. And more, it makes it nigh on impossible to join. You can only get a license if you've lived on a boat, on the Cam, for over a year. If you don't have a boat, you don't even make the waiting list. I'm on the waiting list: the first person to not get a license infact, but seventh in line to the first available license because six 'temporary' licenses were issued that have to find permanent homes first. So where do you go if you want to be on the list, and to live on a boat, but have no license?

Truth be told, the mooring situatiuon has provided me with a wonderful opportunity to explore my options, and the river. To use my boat as a boat, with a functioning engine, rather than a floating abode. (No offence to the wonderful Robin at floatingabode.co.uk) At the beginning of June, I unchained myself from the Cambridge railings and drove to Ely (15 minutes by train, 2 hours by bike, 5 hours by boat). My neighbours warned me: you'll not get your spot back, last time someone was here his place was taken while he filled up with water.

We puttered away from the big smoke.

Ely was magical. A whole gear more relaxed than Cambridge, which is already two gears down from London. People who smile at you, a chandlery which delivered new batteries and took away my old, a marina with diesel, and rivers to explore in multiple directions. Boaty heaven. Except for the 48-hour mooring rule.

All I want is somewhere to park my boat, and be able to leave it for a couple of weeks while I explore the world elsewhere. Is that asking too much? When I got the eviction notice from Ely I was positively annoyed. I don't generally like breaking rules but I'm not allowed anywhere (within commuting distance to work) so have little choice. I felt a surge of sympathy for itinerant communities, constantly being shuffled along. And a little amused about now being a proper river gypo.

Now, in my field, I am one of the lucky ones. The ones who pay for priveleges and know the right people. It's okay though, this boat mallarky is providing me with more than enough challenges, I'm quite happy to have , atleast for now, found a solution to one of them.

Posted by Rhian at 12:11 EST | Comments (0)

The Great Bass Mystery

I came home late tonight from the Three Penny Opera to find an upright bass in a white case standing next to my front door. Of course, I was a little surprised by this and asked it what it was doing next to my door... no answer. I went inside my apartment: bass... Mark in #4R plays bass... Mark popped over to ask if I could let his friend inside his apartment next week to pick up a bass... hmmm... but Mark left for Canada this morning.

Did Mark leave his bass for me to keep for his friend?? There was no note on it. I looked for clues... there was a Delta sky miles card attached to it, but no name. I tried to move it, but it was too heavy (and about the size of a refridgerator!). I thought maybe I should open it and see what was inside - but it was locked. I freaked out: what if there was a dead body in there?!?

I quickly ran back into my apartment and panicked. Then I made myself a drink. "There is a bass sitting outside of my door and I don't know what it wants", I mumbled. Then I thought of Dan. Dan in #5F... maybe he knows, maybe musicians talk to each other and share musician ideas. I crept upstairs... and it was a little quiet. Too quiet. I didn't want to knock on his door at midnight.

I went back inside and had a think: what if this wasn't Mark's bass? what if it was Dan's friend's bass and I dragged it into our apartment and then they went to retrieve it and thought someone stole it! what if a dead body WAS INSIDE? what if I left it out there, Mark wanted me to bring it inside, and it got stolen? then I'd be responsible for his stolen bass! I called Geoff.

First he thought I meant a bass like a fish. He was confused and it was late (who knows how much he'd been drinking) - then he accused me of drinking! I finally explained the situation (it took him a good long while to believe me on this one). He was like, "tip it on it's side and roll it indoors." But I kept telling him I didn't know for sure that this was Mark's and I was suppose to take it inside and ALSO I couldn't move the thing if I tried, it was the size of about 5 Michelles.

I heard a ka-bang of an outside door. I rushed to the hallway to see who was there. No one. Then, all of a sudden, Dan from #5F rounded the corner from emptying his garbage. I looked at him with big brown eyes:"DUDE!" I said. His eyes got big too: "WHAT?" and I said "do you know who's bass this is?" and he goes, "yeah, it's Mark's." (see? musicians always know the skinny). And I said, "WHY IS IT OUTSIDE MY DOOR?" and he goes, "because he's taking it to Vancouver tomorrow morning." And then, like a bright flash of a giant light bulb going on above my head, I got a big grin on my face. *Tomorrow?? He leaves tomorrow!!!*

Let me tell you - Dan thinks I'm a total freak now. But at least the great bass mystery is solved. And I'm sure Mark is very, very thankful that I did not attempt to drag his whale of a bass inside my apartment, only to appear tomorrow morning - bright an early - and find that his bass had gone missing. I can't imagine that one appreciates a pang of shock like that before a pending journey to the airport. And I would have been fast asleep, having pleasant dreams and patting myself on the back for hauling that boat inside my home and saving it from any future harm.

Posted by Michelle at 18:25 EST | Comments (0)

Great New Book about Climate Change

Elizabeth Kolbert has written the book I always wanted to write. Not so much because I wanted to write it, as because it needed written. And I'm really happy that she's succeeded, on the cusp of evangelical in fact. Finally, a book I can recommend to all those people who ask for more information, but not one that'll be too much work, or too long, but that's factual and interesting, and will tell them some stuff they don't know, but want to. A book for the interested, intelligent, concerned, but busy, individual.

More than once, back-cover praise for the book draws parallels with Silent Spring, with which, forty years ago, Rachel Carson alerted the world to the dangers of introducing synthetic chemicals, such as pesticides, to the earth system. More than once, people have told me they want a "Silent Spring for Climate Change'. Well, the book may well have arrived now.. but with the critical difference that it should have been published ten or twenty years ago for a true parallel. Alas. At least it has arrived.

Firstly, and most importantly, Field Notes from Catastrophe is a surprisingly enjoyable read. Not just surprising because I was expecting to have to wade through inherently boring facts that I either already know or have successfully avoided thus far, but surprising because it is really enjoyable, digestible, and interesting.

The chapters dance between science, scientists, politics, and society, and cover the central aspects of climate change, both scientific and political. To illustrate these, we are taken to a frozen research station in Greenland, butterfly hunting in Yorkshire, to the Costa Rican mountains in search of a golden toad, and back in time to the world's first empire established about 40,000 years ago.

One day, the Akkadian empire just stopped. Archaeological records line up with those taken by paleontologists. Life stopped. No more people, no more earthworms, just dust. The apparent end of a civilisation due to climate. (This isn't a rare event,- there is an excellent book devoted to this by Brian M Fagan called The Long Summer, How Climate Changed Civilisation.)

We are not only taken on journeys into recent academic discoveries, be it biology, chemistry, or anthropology, related to climate change. Kolbert takes the brave step that most scientists attempting similar might not dare. She explains, using equally interesting and readable stories, the politics of climate change. And the book is recent: it includes the July 2005 G8 summit in Edinburgh and Hurricane Katrina.

She also describes the evolution of climate change policy from the 1992 UN Framework Convention on Climate Change in Rio de Janeiro, through to recent ratification of the Kyoto Protocol. The stance of the current US Administration, while clearly explained, is nicely balanced by description of the, notably more proactive, 'US Mayors Climate Protection Agreement'.

I was, however, surprised that she doesn't spend more, or any, time explaining the reports and process of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC). This compilation of results is, for me, one of the most convincing cases for the reality of climate change as it is extraordinarily written: collaboratively and by consensual agreement of world-renowned, interdisciplinary, scientists.

To her credit though, she does describe the scientific debate occurring during one study that she attends. It unfortunately is not made clear that all scientific conferences on this topic debate on a similar basis, one that focuses on

"the uncertainties that remain about global warming and its effects - on the thermohaline circulation, on the distribution of vegetation, on the survival of cold-loving species, on the frequency of forest fires. But this sort of questioning, which is so basic to scientific discourse, never extended to the relationship between carbon dioxide and rising tempeatures. The study's executive summary stated, unequivocally, that human beings had become the 'dominant factor' influencing climate."

Refreshingly, Kolbert even goes beyond explaining the science and politics of global change. She dares to delve into the realm of the future, the "what now?"'s that we all really want to know. Is this thing too big for us? Is it too late? Is there any point in doing anything if America isn't on board? Is there any hope?

She talks with experts in climate prediction, technology, development, and policy change, and documents a variety of responses. There are options for carbon reduction, and we do already have the technological ability to tackle this problem, if we choose to recognise it. But none of the solutions are easy. They're not impossible either. She thankfully also explains some of the options, and their costs, and explains how many need to be implemented in tandem to make a difference.

As for a prognosis, one energy expert reminds us of previous issues we have faced, like child-labour and slavery. "..asking whether it's practical or not is really not going to help very much. Whether it's practical depends on how much we give a damn."

Field Notes from a Catastrophe: Man, Nature, and Climate Change is a good book: informative, readable, enjoyable, and interesting. I will recommend it to the skeptic, the scientist, and anyone who wants to know a bit more, without much more effort, in a short space of time, without getting depressed. (Some readers may disagree with me on the final point; it could just be that I am already more aware of the issues and so less upset.) Kolbert paints an accurrate and clear picture: the situation is not good, but the solutions are available. The conclusion, therefore, is optimistic. If we dare.

Posted by Rhian at 21:39 EST | Comments (0)

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