Finding Treasure in Mexico's Sierra Madre; Remembering Germany's White Rose; The Winter of Revolt: Tunisia to Wisconsin

The Welcome Mat On The Not-So-Great Wall’s Southern End

Basket-maker Manuel Valdez in Magdalena, Sonora

Crossing through Uncle Sam’s border wall into Mexico is a study in contrasts. In Mexico no one looks at your papers. Now there is even a line to leave the U.S. with agents lined up to inspect vehicles. Feels a little like breaking out of prison, fortress U.S.A-- United States of Alcatraz. 

I’ve never had a problem with Mexican law enforcement authorities, but in the U.S. everyone is part of an ongoing movie—on a good day it’s the Keystone Cops, on a bad one it’s Rambo. Once two Border Patrol vehicles with lights flashing converged on my truck. They yelled for me to stick my hands out the window before they would approach. I was hauling dangerous cargo-- a load of utility tables.

Another time I got pulled over as I was about to cross into Mexico—wouldn’t they be glad if you were smuggling people back to Mexico? But my best role was when an agent threatened to arrest me for illegal entry into the U.S.—I was taking photos along an unfenced section of border and he claimed I had stepped across the invisible line.

Another refreshing difference in Mexico is the change in collective mentality. For example most Mexicans are quite politically astute, and don’t expect much from government. Our friend Stetson Kennedy, Florida’s great folk historian, once commented that the U.S. population is the only oppressed people in the world who think they are free.

Mexicans still continue the legacy of resistance from the Revolution of 1910 that claimed a million lives. The Zapatista indigenous rebellion of 1994 remains alive. Popular uprisings have occurred over the past decade in places like Oaxaca in 2006, where a broad front tried to oust a corrupt governor, and Atenco, near Mexico City, whose residents rose up in 2002 and 2006 to block construction of an international airport.

Hot Springs in Aconchi, Sonora

However political reeducation is not the reason to spend time in Mexico---it’s the rich and beautiful culture found throughout the country. History is alive. There are many places where it seems like the clock turns back decades, even centuries. But it’s not a museum or some gentrified historic district common to the U.S; it’s the real deal.

Aconchi, Sonora

There are gems waiting to be discovered in every part of the country. I just returned from a couple of days spent in an area I’ve frequented over the years —La Ruta del Rio Sonora, the Sonora River Valley Route, which is promoted as a tourist destination (fortunately few tourists go there to spoil it). It’s only a few hours drive south of the Arizona border, and well worth it.

The area enjoys spectacular mountain scenery as part of the Western Sierra Madre. The jaguar roams here in the former lands of the Opata indigenous culture. The valley road winds through several beautiful little towns with ancient mission churches: Arizpe, Sinoquipe, Banamichi, Huepac, and Aconchi.

Some have migrated out of the area to find work, but many still cling to life here struggling to make ends meet, but struggle is part of life in Mexico. For those with fears of Mexico's potential for violence, here's my personal travel advisory for the area: In ten years of visits I can’t remember hearing someone even raise their voice towards a fellow human being (not counting my behavior with my own kids).

Banamichi, Sonora

My favorite destination are the wonderful hot springs in Aconchi, where camping is allowed. But avoid coming here on major holidays if you seek peace and quiet, because camping for Mexicans usually means an outdoor party. That’s when my cultural adaptation skills fail me: strike one-I don’t drink; strike two—I can’t sleep with loud music; strike three—I especially don’t care for the type of music one lies awake listening to--- ranchera.

Friends For Life Thanks To A Sack Of Chicken Feed

After a nice soak in the hot springs I headed home and stopped to pick up a couple hitchhiking, Jorge and Pancha, who were hauling a sack of corn they had bought for their chickens. As is common in Mexico, an instant friendship blossomed.

Jorge, Pancha, and their dog Pinto

Jorge spoke good English he learned while living in the American Northwest for ten years: Washington, Oregon, and Montana. His main jobs were tree planting and timber harvesting. He also worked two seasons in Alaska at a salmon cannery.

After the short ride they invited me in for coffee and sweet rolls. The house had one main room with a bed, kitchen table and stove, along with a TV and CD player. They had nearly finished a one-room addition to the house, which was built “paying for one block at a time.”

El Picacho, near Sinoquipe, Sonora

Jorge was missing a number of his front teeth which led to a story explaining their demise: “At the cannery I worked with people from all over the world—Chinese, Eskimo, the U.S. and other countries. We all got along great. The only trouble I got into was with some guys from the Philippines. When I was drunk I got in a fight with them and got beaten to a pulp.”  He added that getting kicked in the face by a horse made matters worse.

Jorge, who occasionally philosophizes with biblical references, has left those adventurous days behind to raise a family with Pancha. He works as a diesel mechanic in Hermosillo, four hours trip by bus. By working eleven days straight, he gets four days off to return home every two weeks. Jorge and Pancha seemed very content with their life—never heard a single complaint.

Remembering Germany’s White Rose 

“...why do you allow these men who are in power to rob you step by step, openly and in secret, of one domain of your rights after another, until one day nothing, nothing at all will be left but a mechanized state system presided over by criminals and drunks? Is your spirit already so crushed by abuse that you forget it is your right - or rather, your moral duty - to eliminate this system?”

From the White Rose’s Third Leaflet

Hans Scholl, Sophie Scholl, Cristoph Probst

Feb. 22 will mark 68 years since three young German university students were executed in 1943 by the Nazi regime. Siblings Hans and Sophie Scholl, and Christoph Probst, father of three young children, were members of the White Rose group that published leaflets condemning the Nazis and calling for people to rise up against Hitler. They also occasionally painted anti-Nazi slogans and “Freedom” on walls. The three were the first of their group to go to the guillotine.

As adolescents Hans and Sophie had briefly belonged to the Hitler Youth, caught up in the fervor of the moment. Their father, who opposed Hitler, refrained from discouraging them—he believed that experience was the best teacher—both became disillusioned and quit.

The members of the White Rose led lives of comfort as university students enjoying concerts and outdoor activities, but their underground work couldn’t have been more risky—if caught they would face certain death.

From June 1942 to Feb. 1943 the White Rose anonymously mailed and distributed five leaflets, as their group slowly expanded to include even some high school students. The White Rose was on the verge of working with the national anti-Nazi resistance movement, but the Nazis caught them the day Sophie Scholl threw a stack of their sixth leaflet from an upper level at the University of Munich. The Gestapo tried to break them to turn in their friends, but they couldn’t be broken.

Top (l to r) Hans and Sophie Scholl, Kurt Huber: Bottom (l to r) Christoph Probst, Alexander Schmorrell, Willi Graf

 Sophie Scholl’s last words were "How can we expect righteousness to prevail when there is hardly anyone willing to give himself up individually to a righteous cause. Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?"

One professor, Kurt Huber, had joined the students writing a leaflet. Before committing he had been at a meeting where the discussion had turned political and he spontaneously exclaimed, “Something has to be done, and it has to be done now!” He had crossed the line.

Awaiting execution,  Kurt Huber tried to finish a book he was writing, but he ran out of time. He wrote his wife Clara and his children a final letter thanking them for making his life rich and beautiful. “In front of me in the cell are the Alpine roses you sent...I go in two hours into that true mountain freedom for which I’ve fought all my life. May the Almighty God bless you and keep you. Your loving father.”

Huber was executed along with students Willi Graf and Alexander Schmorrell. The excellent book “Sophie Scholl and the White Rose” recounts a final visit by Alexander’s lawyer as he awaited execution: “Alex was calm and reassuring; he said he not only accepted death but welcomed it. ‘I’m convinced,’ he told the distraught attorney, ‘that my life has to end now, early as it seems, because I have fulfilled my life’s mission. I wouldn’t know what else I would have to do on this earth.”

Playwright Lillian Garrett-Groag was quoted in Newsday on February 22, 1993, that "It is possibly the most spectacular moment of resistance that I can think of in the 20th century... The fact that five little kids, in the mouth of the wolf, where it really counted, had the tremendous courage to do what they did, is spectacular to me. I know that the world is better for them having been there, but I do not know why."

  

There is a stunning  Academy-nominated German movie about the White Rose, “Sophie Scholl, The Final Days.” Here’s the link to view the trailer:  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XM5A4ETW_Io

The Winds of Revolt in Tunisia, Egypt, Yemen, Bahrain……..and Wisconsin

People power has been contagious of late in the Arab World. This blog avoids recycling news you get elsewhere, but here’s a good audio/visual piece "Spreading Revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt"  from the New York Times (not a recommended media outlet).
 http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/world/middleeast/2011-spreading-revolutions.html#intro 

Also this interesting piece about the U.S. from New York Time's columnist Bob Herbert, "When Democracy Weakens":

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/12/opinion/12herbert.html?_r=1&emc=eta1

Then there's the tens of thousands of teachers, students, and their allies in Wisconsin who are entering their fourth day of mass protest at the state capitol against a radical attempt by the legislature to end collective bargaining by public unions.  Democratic lawmakers fled the state to prevent a vote. Here's an inspiring thirty seconds of direct action from cold and snowy Madison:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edt3rjqghg4&feature=player_embedded 

Finally here's the crowd as they disrupted business as usual inside the state capitol. Hundreds of students have been sleeping there. 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCsG4g0dzJo&feature=related

Photos: A Stand For Peace in Elkin, N.C.; Tarheel Amish; Snow Bliss

Peace Vigil in Elkin, N.C. (pop. 4,000) on a cold December day. For three years a group of folks have been standing on a downtown corner every Thursday.

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Horse and Buggy Used By The Amish in Yadkin County, N.C.

Amish School in Yadkin County, N.C.

Demolition of Bridge Built in 1931 Over the Yadkin River connecting the towns of Elkin and Jonesville. Many hoped the bridge would be saved and used as a pedestrian park.

Dec. 25 snowstorm in Elkin, N.C.

Kitchen Table On a Snowy Day at the Old Homeplace, Elkin, N.C.

Cold Coconuts, Prison Pals, Dr. King's Call For Revolution

December 25 Snowstorm in N.C.

           Cold Coconuts And A Warm Dirt Floor

In Sonora, Mexico. My old friends Marcelino and Susana are doing well, still selling cold coconuts, honey, and acorn nuts at their roadside stand. After you drink the coconut's water they chop it up and cover with hot sauce and lemon juice. A week ago they moved to a house they built among the saguaros on the edge of town. The temporary structure, with no plumbing or electricity, is made entirely of used metal roofing. At night Marcelino brings in his truck battery to power a light bulb and a portable TV. After renting for years, Susana proudly told me, “It’s not much, but it's ours.”

I went to see their new abode and they welcomed me in for a cup of coffee while Susana prepared fresh tortillas. From the outside their “shack” hardly appears habitable, but the inside has all the touches of home sweet home: kitchen cabinets, neat rows of jars with sugar and spices, and pictures on the walls, The love that was put into the details trumps the finest castle.

Most Mexicans are used to living in a permanent financial crisis—if you don’t have spending money you do without. Lifestyles don’t evolve around the high wire act of financing—so no home foreclosure crisis or credit-driven bankruptcies. Putting food on the table is a big enough concern to deal with.

Being around people like Marcelino and Susana sure helps me get grounded after just having traveled more in the past month than they ever will in their lifetime. Social interaction in Mexico rarely involves inquiries about one’s work and travels. Instead offering hospitality and camaraderie are the priorities. Also no advance notice is necessary to drop in on friends—spontaneous visits are the norm.

Snow Dreams

We visited my hometown of Elkin, N.C. (pop. 4,000) for the holidays. Snow was predicted for Christmas Day. I have many fond memories from the sixties of sledding and snowball fights, but after a decade of winter visits with no snow, my own kids thought I was blowing hot air. As Christmas Day approached the predictions of several inches diminished to calls for only a dusting of snow—another winter wonderland bust loomed.

Still we set out to make the best of things. My mother supplied the artificial Christmas tree and a friend gave us a load of firewood. On Christmas Eve we made a stop at one of Elkin’s two Mexican stores to pick up a few items. The friendly folks there were giving out hot chocolate and tamales to all who dropped by. The two plastic sleds we purchased at Kennedy Auto Supply hardware store, in Elkin’s downtown for 57 years—a dinosaur from the pre Wal-Mart era, sat at the ready.

We woke up on Christmas Day to overcast skies but no snow, but about 9 a.m. the first snowflakes fluttered down, and they didn’t stop coming down until late into the evening. Over the next couple of days we nearly wore out the plastic sleds.

Before the snowstorm we visited the nearby Amish community, a beacon of self-reliance and spirituality, and to purchase their delicious baked goods sold at the Shiloh General Store. One of their many cottage industries are outdoor sheds. One of the sheds is sold as a playhouse for children, which would make great starter homes in many parts of the world.

Finding Community Behind Bars; Reflections On Violence

For the past thirteen years a big part of my community of people has included prison inmates I’ve met through the Alternatives to Violence Project—the first ten years in a state prison in Tucson, and the past three years in a state prison in Mexico. One common denominator I’ve found is that inmates will always make you feel welcome and appreciated—in fact you can get rather spoiled with the attention.

At one of our AVP gatherings this month we reflected on the horrible violence that took place in Tucson on Jan. 8 (I was camped on a mountain overlooking Tucson that Saturday). We discussed how understanding the context of violence in the world today is important, and we talked about ways to counter violence. Decriminalizing drugs often comes up when the discussion focuses on the disastrous consequences of the war on drugs in Mexico.

I shared some insights from the film “Bowling for Columbine.” Like Littleton, CO. where the Columbine tragedy occurred, Tucson is also a major defense contractor city with Raytheon Missile Systems, southern Arizona’a largest employer. This month marks the fiftieth anniversary of President Dwight Eisenhower’s final speech warning about “the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, of the military-industrial complex.” During Columbine the U.S. was bombing Kosovo, while the U.S. is currently bombing three other countries.

It’s been encouraging to hear the debate about the vitriolic political discourse in this country, but it barely seems to scratch the surface. The political center of gravity has shifted so far to the right in this country that the recent health care bill, which saved the private health insurance industry from extinction after single-payer and even a "public option" were rejected, is often called "socialism."

Then there’s the renewed debate about gun control and banning the 33 bullet magazine used in the Tucson massacre, and the need to return to the 2004 legal limit of 10 bullets. How about Deputy Barney Fife’s one bullet? (“The Andy Griffith Show”) or following Sheriff Andy’s example of not carrying a gun. Chris Rock has said guns aren’t the problem, it's the bullets. They should cost $5,000 apiece; then people would be more reluctant to ever use them.

Dr. King’s Words from 44 Years Ago--More Relevant Than Ever

Perhaps the greatest national holiday in this nation is the celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday on Jan. 15, though Dr. King’s slaying on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis might be the more significant date to recognize. According to a jury verdict in the wrongful death civil trail brought by the King family, “governmental agencies” were parties to the assassination plot.

On April 4, 1967, exactly one year before his death, Dr. King gave perhaps the most important speech of his life. So much of what he said that day at Riverside Church in New York City (at a meeting of Clergy and Laity Concerned) resonates loud and clear today. Here are some excerpts from his speech entitled “Beyond Vietnam: A Time to Break Silence.”:
“As I have walked among the desperate, rejected, and angry young men [in northern ghettos in the U.S.] I have told them that Molotov cocktails and rifles would not solve their problems. I have tried to offer them my deepest compassion while maintaining my conviction that social change comes most meaningfully through nonviolent action. But they asked—and rightly so—what about Vietnam? They asked if our own nation wasn’t using massive doses of violence to solve its problems, to bring about the change it wanted. Their questions hit home, and I knew that I could never again raise my voice against the violence of the oppressed in the ghettos without having first spoken clearly to the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today—my own government. For the sake of those boys, for the sake of this government, for the sake of hundreds of thousands trembling under our violence, I cannot be silent.”

“Before long they [the U.S. troops] they must know that their government has sent them into a struggle among Vietnamese, and the more sophisticated surely realize that we are on the side of the wealthy and the secure while we create hell for the poor.”

“They [the Vietnamese] watch as we poison their water, as we kill a million acres of their crops. They must weep as the bulldozers roar through their areas preparing to destroy the precious trees. They wander into the hospitals, with at least twenty casualties from American firepower for one “Vietcong”-inflicted injury. So far we may have killed a million of them—mostly children. “

“What do the [Vietnamese] peasants think as we ally ourselves with the landlords and as we refuse to put any action into our many words concerning land reform? What do they think as we test our latest weapons on them, just as the Germans tested out new medicine and new tortures in the concentration camps of Europe?”

“The war in Vietnam is but a symptom of a far deeper malady within the American spirit, and if we ignore this sobering reality we will find ourselves organizing clergy-and laymen-concerned committees for the next generation. They will be concerned about Guatemala and Peru. They will be concerned about Thailand and Cambodia. They will be concerned about Mozambique and South Africa. We will be marching for these and a dozen other names and attending rallies without end unless there is a significant and profound change in American life and policy. Such thoughts take us beyond Vietnam, but not beyond our calling as sons of the living God.”

“In 1957 a sensitive American official overseas said that it seemed to him that our nation was on the wrong side of a world revolution. During the past ten years we have seen emerge a pattern of world suppression which now has justified the presence of U.S. military “advisors” in Venezuela. This need to maintain social stability for our investments accounts for the counter-revolutionary action of American forces in Guatemala. It tells why American helicopters are being used against guerillas in Colombia and why American napalm and green beret forces have already been active against rebels in Peru. It is with such activity in mind that the words of the late John F. Kennedy come back to haunt us. Five years ago he said, “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.“

“Increasingly, by choice or by accident, this is the role our nation has taken—the role of those who make peaceful revolution impossible by refusing to give up the privileges and the pleasures that come from the immense profits of overseas investment.”

“A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.”

“These are revolutionary times. All over the globe men are revolting against old systems of exploitation and oppression and out of the wombs of a frail world new systems of justice and equality are being born. The shirtless and barefoot people of the land are rising up as never before. ‘The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light.’ We in the West must support these revolutions. It is a sad fact that, because of comfort, complacency, a morbid fear of communism, and our proneness to adjust to injustice, the Western nations that initiated so much of the revolutionary spirit of the modern world have now become the arch anti-revolutionaries. This has driven many to feel that only Marxism has the revolutionary spirit. Therefore, communism is a judgment against our failure to make democracy real and follow through on the revolutions we initiated. Our only hope today lies in our ability to recapture the revolutionary spirit and go out into a sometimes hostile world declaring eternal hostility to poverty, racism, and militarism.”

Respite for The Weary Teacher, and Guerilla Fighter?

Respite for the Weary Teacher, and Guerilla Fighter?

November is a good month to be a school teacher in Panama. Nov. 2 is the traditional Day of the Dead celebration so no school that day. Nov. 3 celebrates Panama’s separation from Colombia, followed by Flag Day on Nov. 4. Then came Friday, Nov. 5 which isn’t a holiday, but school was cancelled anyway. Nov. 10 celebrates some uprising, followed by Panama’s version of July 4^th on Nov. 28. No problem if teachers and students still feel run down after all the festivities—summer vacation starts in mid- December.

Jaque is a peaceful little town but gets lots of unfavorable publicity due to its proximity to the Colombian border. An older version of the popular “Lonely Planet” travel guide had this to say about the village, “Unless you’re here to surf out front of town or explore the Rio Jaque, there’s really no good reason to come here.” The latest version has no mention of Jaque.

A 2004 article in “Outside” magazine about Panama’s Darien Gap mentioned the author’s visit to “Jaque, a village of a few thousand where the guerrillas buy groceries and get their cavities filled.” (he forgot to mention them taking surfing lessons). Then there’s that billboard sponsored by the Colombian government a block from our house calling on the guerillas to turn themselves in for an amnesty program (see attached photo). With an image like this no wonder tourists never visit Jaque, which suits me just fine.

REVOLUTIONS: The Journey (part 2); Graduate Studies at Hitchhikers University

The first ride was liberating, the adventure door flung wide open-- free transportation, new people and places, and unfiltered exposure to human nature . Remarkable freedom, crashing anyplace I landed: the side of the road, under bridges, in the woods, in people’s yards.

The hitchhiking culture of the 1970s provided the opportunity; a hobo by choice. I had a book, “Hitchhikers Bible,” with all kinds of advice. One trip I traveled with a banjo getting rides even faster, no matter that I was just learning to play.

For many the hitchhiking journey was a rite of passage. My two best friends in high school also hitched west. We read and were fascinated by Jack Kerouac’s “On The Road.”

But times have changed; the age of homeland security and perpetual war has arrived. Signs warn against picking up hitchhikers near prisons, as prisons expand like wildfire.

The legacy of the hobo now lies mainly with those traveling out of necessity-- migrant workers. For house repairs I once hired a man from Mexico who was missing half of one foot due to an injury from hopping a freight train. He’s now picking grapes in California, and paying for his daughter’s college education.

The hitchhiking journey may no longer be popular, but certainly not extinct. Chris McCandless, traveling as Alexander Supertramp, did his trip in 1990-92, finding people just as generous as I did fifteen years earlier. Stories like “Into The Wild” show that accepting a ride from a stranger, or picking up a stranger, isn’t just another risk to be avoided, but a potentially life changing experience.

I haven’t completely retired. Several years ago the bus I was riding broke down in Mexico, where hitchhiking is common, so I decided to hitch instead of waiting. I was relieved to discover that after thirty years my thumb still had the magic touch.

“I have walked 25,000 miles as a penniless pilgrim…. without ever asking for anything, I have been supplied with everything needed for my journey, which shows you how good people really are.” Peace Pilgrim (born Mildred Lisette Norman, 1908-1981)

The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view." from "On The Road." by Jack Kerouac (1922-1969)

Between 1975-1977, after graduating from high school, I made three trips to the western U.S. Following are excerpts from my travel journal (summarized and recreated in large part after losing much of the original), starting off with a couple of prior formative experiences.

South Fork New River, Blue Ridge Mtns. N.C.- summer 1972—Did a float trip on the New River in a cheap inflatable rubber raft; the first day with my Father and then alone. The third day I stopped near Jefferson at an old farm house to ask for matches, and ended up staying several days with the Lyalls family, who were quite poor with no car or indoor plumbing but incredibly hospitable. After that break floated downriver four more days finishing in Virginia, where I saw a deer swim across the river just before taking out. Called my Father to come get me— he was on the verge of calling the sheriff’s department since he hadn’t heard from me in a week.

Elkin, N.C.—1973. Hopped a freight train today. All the box cars were closed so a friend and I climbed on top of one. Only complication was my friend’s aunt and uncle spotting us from their back yard by the tracks—we innocently waved. When the train made a stop railroad employees came for us. They were real friendly letting us ride in the engine to the end of the line at North Wilkesboro, and then told us what time to meet them for the trip back to Elkin.

Idaho, summer 1975—Working with the U.S. Forest Service on backcountry patrols in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness Area. Before Idaho I hitched to Yellowstone and Olympic National Parks to visit friends working there. Hitchhiking has been a breeze. Only one bad experience when some drunken men in Washington State found out I was from N.C. and responded, “Out here we kill Tarheels!” I didn’t take them seriously but their driving terrified me and I pleaded to be let out.

Banner Elk, N.C.—Winter 1976. Today I worked my first and last day as a ski-lift operator at Beech Mtn. Resort, which involved standing in an unheated booth all day. Had to shut down the lift down at one point, but never got the return call to restart, so watched helpless skiers swinging on the cold metal seats with artificial snow blowing all over them, for close to an hour. I was lucky I didn’t get fired on the spot, as I had accidentally left the phone off the hook preventing return calls. I’m hitchhiking south tomorrow to Florida and warmer climates. They can keep my wages.

Key West, FL —Hitchhiked straight here from N.C. in only a couple of days, getting long rides, one all night. Last night myself and another traveler were offered a place to stay by this hustler at a bar. His pad turned out to be sleeping under a truck trailer near some discarded fish parts, the three of us lying side by side wedged between the tires.

Belle Glade, FL-- Had my backpack stolen, with my money foolishly stored inside it, by a man who took off when I got out for a bathroom break. An elderly couple at the rest stop gave me a sandwich and ten bucks. I hitched into Belle Glade, the closest town, acquired a blanket, and am sleeping behind a fallen tree beside a convenience store. Bought a cup of coffee at the store with remaining pocket change and chatted with a black youth whose Mother works there. Later he came out to my tree to give me some bags of chips and cookies. The second night here night a rare cold snap hit south Florida, with temperatures in the upper 40s. Couldn’t sleep so walked the streets to stay warm, and was questioned by police. Then disaster hit-- in the darkness I walked right into some sort of sludge pit. Crawled out in shock, covered up to my chest with a coat of wet slime. My salvation turned out to be some motel’s flood lights which I huddled around for warmth and to dry my clothes. A day later I went down to the town center at 5 a.m. where hundreds of mostly Jamaicans and Haitians assembled to take buses to the fields. Got on a bus taking African-Americans to pick green beans. I was so pitiful at this task that my fellow workers threw handfuls of beans into my basket to help fill it. At the lunch break I pulled out my peanut butter sandwich which was covered with ants. I asked the guy sitting sitting next to me if he thought it’d still be ok to eat it. He replied “If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat anything,” so I did. Finally bit the bullet and called my Father to wire me some cash, then heading to the Southwest.

El Paso, TX— Spent the night at the Salvation Army, my first night in a bed in weeks. Before supper we all had to attend a short chapel service which some slept through. Told there’s work building a bridge in Yuma. Met a drunken hobo by the train tracks who I asked about trains going west but he just rambled on about being a Mason and how the Masons would take care of him wherever he was. Gave up and decided to hitchhike.

Tucson, AZ--Rode into Tucson with a fugitive, returning to turn himself after a drug bust a year ago. We spent the night at his brother’s house, where they threw a big welcome home party. As I was leaving the next morning I asked if he was still going to turn himself in, and he replied, “I don’t know, I’m having too good a time.”

Yuma, AZ.—In downtown Tucson a man who had obviously been drinking approached and offered me a ride if I would drive him towards Las Vegas. He rode in the back seat drinking whiskey and boasting about his skills as a short-change artist. At one stop he tried unsuccessfully to convince a store clerk he had given her a twenty dollar bill instead of the ten. When he passed out cold I decided to drive myself on to Yuma. He woke up just as we arrived, so I pulled over and hopped out before he realized where we were . A man in an old car with “Junior” painted on the side offered me a ride to where I could stay for free, which was the home of an African-American woman named Dorothy, who is Yuma’s saint for the down and out. She lets everyone stay in several travel trailers in her backyard. I’m sharing a little trailer with a guy named Utah who just got out of jail. No luck on the bridge job; weren’t hiring.

Oklahoma, summer 1977— Got stuck for most of the day in a horrible location for hitching. In the heat my frustration boiled over and I started yelling at passing cars; no cussing or words at all, just a loud primal yell. Finally a car pulled over—the man told me after hearing my desperate yelling he had doubled back to pick me up.

Tuba City, AZ.-- Hitchhiked across the Navajo and Hopi reservations with a young Navajo, Robert, who invited me to visit his home. Hitching is real easy here as many locals depend on it. We stayed at his grandparents’ place, who spoke little English. I slept on the ground in a traditional hogan behind the house.

Gallup, N.M .-- Walked into a little roadside carnival where a carny called me over for a free turn at a ring toss game. After several throws I was convinced it was a sure bet to win several hundred dollars if I just kept playing. When it finally struck me that the game was rigged it was too late. I stared into my wallet which led him to point to a sign stating “Don’t Overspend.” I had blown $125 and had $15 left for the trip back to N.C. My luck improved after that—a friendly young couple with a cooler full of food took me all the way to Oklahoma.

Memphis, TN, Aug. 18, 1977-- As my ride approached Memphis traffic suddenly began backing up for miles, it wasn’t rush hour so I asked the driver if he had any idea what happened. He responded, “They’re going to Elvis Presley’s funeral.” It was also the last day of my final cross-country hitchhiking trip.

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Hollywood's Marlin; Revolutions: Supertramp, Burro Lady, and Ben Linder

On the dark blue sea a boat suddenly approached carrying two men holding weapons, one staring menacingly through a black ski mask. The entire front of the boat displayed the image of a shark with its mouth wide open as if to swallow us up. Just a routine police check as we approached the Tropic Star Lodge, Panama’s most famous fishing resort.

The students disembarked into a foreign world where the wealthy fish for the prized black and blue marlin. John Wayne and Lee Marvin spent time here, as have presidents. Our group of students arrived during the off season, so no jet set to mingle with.

The last field trip to the Tropic Star two years ago was an unforgettable ordeal since some students refused to depart Jaque through the “boca” or mouth of the river, so we had to hike over a mountain in a terrible downpour. Coming back we almost had to spend the night outdoors in the rain with two umbrellas and no food. A police boat rescued us as darkness fell.

Running the boca requires skill and nerve. Weekly cargo boats use an experienced local man to pilot them in and out. Smaller boats come and go regularly, relying on perfect timing to avoid breaking waves, but during rough seas traffic shuts down as the boca becomes treacherous.

This time due to good weather and gung-ho students we went for it. It was a thrilling ride on a maritime roller coaster, students whooping and hollering as we bounced over the waves.

Two men who volunteered to drive the boat that day and one of the students in the group were survivors of the terrible tragedy at sea in March, 2009, that claimed the lives of 12 youth. Two of the victims were students from the school. Two students traveling with us lost family members. The trip was an encouraging sign that the grip of grief and trauma has lessened.

On another note a new crop of baby sea turtles is being released from the hatchery. Before the project most turtle eggs were eaten. Now several people patrol the beach, collect the eggs, and then are paid for delivering them to the project.

Revolutions: The Journey (part 1)

“The rebel and the revolutionary find it easier to obey the demands of religious life, because this obedience is revolutionary—one has to rebel against oneself in order to achieve it.” Ernesto Cardenal, “Vida Perdida”

Currently reading “War and Peace” by Leo Tolstoy. Earlier this year I saw an excellent movie about him, “The Last Station,” with Christopher Plummer as Tolstoy and Helen Mirren as his wife, Sophie Behrs. After the movie I checked out some Tolstoy short stories out of the library and sampled his brilliance for the first time.

Tolstoy, who died in 1910, was a great inspiration to one of the 20^th century’s most redeeming figures, Mahatma Gandhi, who called Tolstoy “the greatest apostle of non-violence that the present age has produced.” The two men had a regular correspondence in the last year of Tolstoy’s life. Gandhi named his ashram in South Africa “Tolstoy Farm.”

“The Last Station” culminates in Tolstoy leaving home to escape his unhappy marriage and his wife’s obsession with preserving family wealth, a decision which tormented him for decades. When the moment finally came he was 82 and in poor health. Tolstoy died at a train stop not far from his home.

I took note years ago that “War and Peace” was one of the favorite books of Chris McCandless, whose life was chronicled in one of my favorite books, “Into The Wild” by Jon Krakauer. At 22 McCandless made his break giving away his entire savings, burning the remaining cash in his wallet, and assuming a new identity-- Alexander Supertramp.

After two years on the road, during which time he had no contact with family or friends, McCandless arrived at his ultimate destination -- the Alaskan wilderness. Shortly after hiking in with a 10 lb. bag of rice and a hunting rifle McCandless wrote, “Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. Escaped from Atlanta. Thou shalt not return, cause “the West is the best.”And now after two rambling years comes the final and greatest adventure. The climatic battle to kill the false being within and victoriously conclude the spiritual pilgrimage. Ten days and nights of freight trains and hitchhiking bring him to the Great White North. No longer to be poisoned by civilization he flees, and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild.”

After a couple of months surviving off the land, McCandless tried to return to civilization but a swollen river prolonged his stay. During his last month he became ill and severely under nourished, but the exact cause of death is unclear. He knew the end was imminent and made a final self-portrait showing his emaciated yet smiling figure holding a note, “I have had a happy life and thank the Lord. Goodbye and may God bless all!”

Some have hammered McCandless as a foolish and reckless youth, while others are attracted like a powerful magnet, admiring his independence and freedom, rejection of comfort, fearlessness in taking risks, and his quest for truth and meaning.

When I lived in West Texas I often saw a woman riding a donkey along rural roads. She was known as the “burro lady” and slept on blankets on the ground, covering herself with a tarp in inclement weather. I had a short conversation with her once at a truck stop--she was friendly enough, but not very talkative, never accepting charity and never discussing her past.

She died in the winter of 2007 after which newspaper articles revealed her name as Judy Ann Magers, 65 years-old. A store owner said she would always buy a sour apple lollipop for her beloved donkey “Merle” every time she came in. A restaurant owner told how she would come by for a hamburger but would leave when it got too crowded, always leaving a tip for local musicians who entertained.

Magers had five grown children who were contacted to attend her funeral in Terlingua, TX. They had no knowledge of her whereabouts during the twenty years she traveled Texas’s Big Bend at a donkey’s pace.

Magers seemed perfectly content with her lifestyle, but her inner thoughts remain a mystery. McCandless however kept a journal recording his often ecstatic reactions to the things he experienced. His poignant final note and photo from death’s doorstep, a time of profound regret for many, is practically a celebration.

McCandless’s life reminded me of Ben Linder, who was killed by the U.S.-backed Contras in Nicaragua in 1987 at age of 27. His journey was made as an engineer bringing electricity to rural villages and thrilling kids as a juggling clown on a unicycle. His story is told in the excellent book, “The Death of Ben Linder” by Joan Kruckewitt.

Linder worked closely with the Nicaraguan government knowing that the Contras routinely murdered anyone associated with the revolution, even if they only voiced support. Ironically the day Linder died in a Contra ambush, April 28, was also the date Chris McCandless hiked into the wilds of Alaska five years later.

During my time in Nicaragua I visited the site where Linder died with two Nicaraguan coworkers, where they were building a small scale hydroelectric project (it was eventually completed). A community solidarity center in Managua is named after him, Casa Ben Linder.

The year Benjamin Ernest Linder was born, 1959, was also the year Ernesto “Che” Guevara and his guerilla force overthrew the Batista dictatorship in Cuba. Seven years earlier Guevara, then 23, set out on his journey of self discovery wonderfully portrayed in the film, “Motorcycle Diaries,” which shows the beginning of the young man’s transformation from an aristocratic youth to the legendary revolutionary.

Guevara kept a journal during his travels and wrote aboard a ship in the Pacific Ocean: “At night after the exhausting games of canasta, we would look out over the immense sea, full of white-flecked and green reflections, the two of us leaning side by side on the railing, each of us far away, flying his own aircraft to the stratospheric regions of his own dreams. There we understood that our vocation, our true vocation, was to move for eternity along the roads and seas of the world. Always curious, looking into everything that came before our eyes, sniffing out each corner but only very faintly—not setting down roots in any land or staying long enough to see the substratum of things; the outer limits would suffice.

To Be Continued

Attached Photos: Trip to the Tropic Star Lodge

Link to article about Judy Lee Magers and photo: http://www.thelongridersguild.com/burro.htm

Link to short video tribute to Chris McCandless: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MRbpocetZM&feature=related

Link to the song "Fragile" by Sting, written for Ben Linder:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwPp05rQlgU