Spider moneys get angry at you if you look at 'em! Image issues...

Goodness me! I just got back from our jaguar hunt in Amboro National Park and I'm not sure who is thinking "bugger Noel Kempff for a joke!" more - Fiona or yo...

We trekked for less than three days, and lets face it, we aren't getting any younger, and we haven't quite been doing triathlons to prepare for the event and so, while Fiona is in bed (at 9.26pm) and I'm trying not to pass out at the computer nextdoor, sitting waiting for my leg bones to go solid again, Noel Kempff Mercado National Park is getting a little bit more distant everyday (not that 700ks from ANYwhere is spitting distance away). Anyway, we saw the most brilliant kingfishers flying down the gorges, saw spider monkeys, and two other kinds of monkeys that I don't have my little reference notebook here to elaborate on, a dead honeybear..., the tracks of an endangered deer, tapir tracks (these are incredibly dificult to catch up with in person) and lo and behold - a jaguar footprint! This was a boon really. Our guide (you must have one to get into the park) has only seen one before in his life in the park - he came around a bend in the track to be faced with it 50 metres away and was scared poo-less he admitted. It roared at him and he stood frozen solid, then backed away. I think the print was fun enough to take photos of. Oh, and the butterflies did indeed blow our socks orf!

We're back in Buenavista now, tossing up our thoughts on a six day river boat cruise to Trinidad with our salads (they only have monkey food on the barges up the river).

Bueno, nos vemos, or as they say in this part of the country - no vemo.

Michael.

Nothing doing...

Well, you wouldn't believe it! Fiona and I arrived in bloody Santa Cruz and lo and behold, every godarned information and tourist agency in the land told us that if we tried to get to Noel Kempff Mercado National Park, on our own or even on a tour, we'd be wasting our time while our notion of "adventure" would become a notion of hell on earth. We'd certainly have something to write home about but it would probably be just one of us writing, including the inside story of how we killed the other in a non-jaguar devouring massacre after a waterless, foodless, energyless arguement. The rain has made the reconstruction of every road and path into the park impassable. Well travelled Kempffers looked at us without trying to laugh telling us it's stupid to try it. So, there goes plan number 42 of trying to be utterly romantic in Fiona's life. Foder.

Yep. We're out of Santa bloody Cruz and in Buena Vista now, with more wildlife rich incredibility at it's doorstep and an Irish Pub in the middle of the square. It's nothing like an Irish pub except for the name (and I surmised, it's ownership in Santa Cruz). Amboro National Park is just across the river from here, where tapirs, jaguars, howler monkeys and butterflies that'll blow your socks off (always wanted to say that about butterflies) are available for viewing if you're lucky.
I called Amboro AmborING after not being able to go to the Kempff, the motherlode of all national parks. But perhaps we'll be able to access the park in a couple of weeks when we get back from the Jesuit missionary circuit - a lovely historical experience of local meets the conquistadors. It's supposed to be fun, beautiful and informative.
Right, godlovingly slow and expensive here. Chau,
Michael.

Goin' on a jaguar hunt, but I'M not afraid!

O.k. this is the last email from my days living in Cochabamba.

It's a little bit of an anticlimax, the whole feeling, because of the fact that Fiona and I were supposed to be leaving last Wednesday, then Saturday, then Monday night, then this morning, and now it definitely looks like tonight for an overnight bus to Santa Cruz.

The few delays we've had have also given me the chance to have a catch-up with friends I possibly wouldn't have organised before leaving, and has shown me how close we are and how much I'm going to miss everyone and I suppose vice versa.

Cochabamba will of course, always hold that special place in my heart and I wish I could detail a few items of greatest influence while I still hold it in my hands, but I'll do that, hopefully, on our return here for Luke an Anny's wedding. We'll be here for around a week before heading on the home stretch jaunt.

I told Fiona, after she joined me spontaneously this morning in the excitement of a possible jaguar sighting (we're going to Parque Nacional Noel Kempf Mercado - look it up), that they're probably really dangerous, when she replied that they're more scared of us than we are them. I explained that no, that's spiders and snakes and that jaguars are usually more hungry for us than we are them and referred her to National Geographic docos where the whispering lion hunters are suddenly faced with their photographic prey and we see that ever terrifying camera shot of them running like, well, running slabs of lamb chops back to the safety of the truck. I've got her worried. I giggle, but then, I have no fodden idea what I'm talking about.

I was waiting for it... He's started reading at last.

Sheesh! 'Bout time I got some 'spect from important people on this blog site (see comments under "But Then" Wed. May 2, 2007.)

Bit callous, but you know... wake up!

One day you’re gonna wake up, America.By David Michael Green

05/04/07 "ICH" -- - And, like every other one since last you can remember, it’s gonna be an ugly morning.

One day you’re gonna wake up and go to your lousy job with its lousy salary and non-existent benefits. You might even remember the good job you once had. Or that the government you once supported gave tax breaks to companies like the one that exported that good job of yours to the ThirdWorld (which is what they’re now starting to call your country). Or that that same government undermined the labor unions which fought to get you your good wages and benefits.

One day you’re gonna wake up and be furious at the monstrous tax burden you are carrying, a tab which accounts for fifty of the seventy hours you must work each week just to eke by. You might even figure out why your tax bill is so high. You might remember that the government you once supported shifted the tax burden from the rich onto people like you, and from the taxpayers of the time onto those of today. And that they borrowed money in astonishing quantities to fund their sleight-of-hand, so that you work thirty hours a week just to pay the interest on a mountain of money borrowed decades ago.

One day you’re gonna wake up in anger at the absurdly poor education your children are receiving. You’re gonna remember that it wasn’t always that way, that even after the military’s voracious appetite was temporarily sated, your country still managed to find a few bucks to at least educate a workforce. No more. And you’re gonna remember how you applauded when your educational system was twisted in to a test taking industry that is careful, above all, not to teach children how to think.

One day you’re gonna wake up literally sick and tired. You’re gonna want treatment for your maladies but you won’t be able to touch the cost. You’re gonna wonder what you were thinking when believed your country had the best healthcare system in the world, even though it was the only advanced democracy in the world that didn’t provide universal care, even though it devoted fifty percent more of its economy than those other countries to pay for a system that left fifty million people uninsured, and even though there were massive layers of unnecessary and harmful private sector bureaucracy skimming hundreds of billions of dollars of profits out of the system in the name of free enterprise.

One day you’re gonna wake up too tired to go to work anymore. You’re gonna want to retire in dignity but will be left instead to laugh bitterly at the cruelty of that joke. And you’re gonna wonder what in the world you had been thinking voting for a president who’s primary goal was to allow Wall Street to raid Social Security, destroying what had once been considered the most successful domestic program in human history.

One day you’re gonna wake up and wish that it wasn’t so bloody hot, and that there weren’t so many diseases and species eradications and violent storms lashing the planet. And maybe you’ll even remember that you once supported a government that lied about the very existence of global warming – back when it might have been curtailed – a government that scuttled the barest remedy for the problem in order to protect oil company profits.

One day you’re gonna wake up and wish you had a government that could simply and competently do the basic things it was designed for. A government that could protect you from foreign attack, that could come to your rescue after a devastating hurricane, that could properly manage a new program or other people’s security. An administration that didn’t pervert the purpose of every agency within the government to its opposite, using civil rights lawyers to fight civil rights, for example, or the EPA to protect polluters.

One day you’re gonna wake up and cry out for simple justice, blindly applied without bias. And perhaps you’ll remember when that principle died. When your country stood by and watched the politicization of its judicial system for purposes of partisanship, and said nothing. When it stood by and watched its highest law enforcement officials in the land lie about their failing memory of events and pretended to believe that was acceptable.

One day you’re gonna wake up and wish that you weren’t being drafted to go fight wars you don’t believe in. You’ll remember how soldiers were sent to their deaths for lies. You’ll remember how badly they were treated when they came home maimed and twisted. You’ll remember how real, patriotic, former soldiers were mocked and humiliated by dress-up, unpatriotic, former non-soldiers. And suddenly you’ll understand why no one would volunteer for the military anymore, and why people like you had to be drafted.

One day you’re gonna wake up and want very badly to run outside and scream in anger about a government that long ago stopped serving your interests in favor of the narrow interests of a tiny oligarchy. But instead you’ll stay inside and keep your scream tucked safely in your belly. Because you’ll know that in your country dissent has long since been outlawed, on pain of torture and death. You’ll remember concepts like due process, limitations on government search, seizure and wiretapping, habeas corpus, trial by peers, legal representation and prohibitions against cruel and unusual punishment as historical artifacts no longer even taught in schools.

One day you’re gonna wake up and want so badly to change governments. You’re gonna treasure the concept of democracy like no Soviet dissident ever did. You’re gonna crave the opportunity to own your own government, to make your own societal choices, to make a change of direction never before so desperately necessary. And you’re gonna wonder why you didn’t speak up as you watched first-hand the dismantling of the democracy you had been handed by previous generations of patriots. You’re gonna wish you had been patriotic enough yourself to demand, above all else, free and fair elections, and you’re gonna shake your head in puzzlement at how you stood by watching in silence those that patently were not.

One day you’re gonna wake up and want to get the hell out of your rotting, repressive country. You’re gonna remember a time when that wasn’t true. But, oddly enough, you’ll find that other countries remember too. They’ll remember your country’s arrogance, its unilateralism, its walls, its racism, and its politicized abuse of immigrants. And they’ll remember how your government undermined and violently replaced theirs whenever corporations from your country had their profits threatened. You’re gonna want to leave, but there will be nowhere you’ll be welcome. You’re gonna find out that walls can face both directions.

One day you’re gonna wake up in a hostile world where your country no longer has any friends. There will be governments of other countries – former long-standing allies – that cannot afford to have anything to do with you, lest their publics angrily remove them from office for collaborating with a country as hated as yours. Nor will those governments trust yours anyway. They will perhaps possess intelligence that could save your life, but they will not share it. They will possess forces that could help you survive real security threats, but they will not provide them. Your country will have become an international pariah, the South Africa of the twenty-first century.

And because no one will assist you, one day you’re gonna wake up fearing for your life as your country is brutally attacked by angry militants deploying weapons of mass destruction against your cities. Long dormant connections in your brain will resurface, and you will dimly understand why. On this day – perhaps March 20,2023 – you might be assisted in your comprehension by the message of one of the attackers, someone whose family your country callously destroyed in its mission accomplished in Iraq, and who spent the next twenty years plotting this day’s revenge. And you will wonder again why you stood by as your country attacked Iraq on a completely bogus pretext. You’ll remember applauding when this mailed fist was long ago sent. And, just as it comes hurling back in your direction at a lethal velocity, stamped “Return to Sender”, you’ll wonder what you were thinking. And you’ll realize just how much you weren’t.

One day you’re gonna wake up, America, and you’re gonna find out what was happening while you were sprawled on the couch watching endless mind-numbing loops of CSI, Desperate Housewives or Dancing with the Stars.

One day you’re gonna wake up and realize that catching all the action during week seven of the 2011 NFL season really wasn’t so critical in the greater scheme of things after all.

One day you’re gonna wake up and wished you’d invested a little more energy into monitoring and choosing the people who made monumental decisions on your behalf.

One day, with a flash of remorse greater than you thought it possible that one human vessel could contain, you’ll remember the ignored warning shots across your bow. Moments later, you’ll discover the human capacity for searing remorse is actually even greater still, as you contemplate your inattention even to the shots that were fired right through the bow. With a fury you would yesterday have thought yourself incapable of, you’ll hurriedly attempt to affix Band-Aids to the tattered splinters remaining from your country’s once sturdy hull. But you’ll learn quickly the toll of those years spent wasted in a civic coma. You’ll find that no amount of patchwork can any longer save this sinking ship from its appointment with the dustbin of history.

In shame, you’ll regret the callous arrogance with which you laughingly dismissed those who sounded the early clarion call. “We are destroying ourselves”, they tried to tell you. But even on the rare occasion when you roused yourself from your stupor long enough to learn the slightest bit about the very threats that jeopardized your life and that of your species, still you found it more reassuring to follow the blustering worst amongst us, with their patently absurd pretended confidence, and their ever constant resort to the cheapest of false solutions, and the rudest of demeanors.

One day, you’ll desperately search for hope of any sort, but none will remain. Nothing will be left to save you.

One day you’ll realize that once there were solutions, but that that day is now long past. You’ll see that human technological capacity ran its evolutionary race with wisdom, and the latter came in second. You’ll sadly realize that you stood by while your country led the once great tool-making species to its own destruction.

One day you’re gonna wake up, America, and realize how far it’s all gone. But if that day isn’t very soon, it won’t matter.

Because one day you’re gonna wake up, and it will be far, far too late.

David Michael Green is a professor of political science at Hofstra University in New York. He is delighted to receive readers' reactions to his articles (dmg@regressiveantidote.net ), but regrets that time constraints do not always allow him to respond. More of his work can be found at his website, www.regressiveantidote.net.

A scary article. As usual, Bush and the military are involved...

The Crusaders

“The Christian Taliban is Running the Department of Defense”By Robert Koehler

05/03/07 "ICH" -- -- Sixteen words may be all that stand right now between the apparatus of government and the Founding Fathers’ worst nightmare. And those words are starting to give.
“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof . . .”

When George Bush, in the wake of 9/11, puffed himself into Richard the Lionheart and declared he would lead the country in a “crusade” against terrorism - you know, crusade, as in slaughter of Muslim infidels - turns out . . . oh, how awkward (if you’re on White House spin duty) . . . he may have been speaking literally.

What’s certain, in any case, is that a lot of people in high and low places within the Bush administration - and in particular, the military - heard him literally, and regard the war on terror as a religious war:

“The enemy has got a face. He’s called Satan. He lives in Fallujah. And we’re going to destroy him,” a lieutenant colonel, according to a BBC reporter, said to his troops on the eve of the destruction of that undefended city in post-election 2004.

“I knew my God was bigger than his. I knew that my God was a real God and his was an idol,” Deputy Undersecretary of Defense Jerry Boykin notoriously boasted a few years back, speaking of a Muslim warlord in Somalia. And by the way, George Bush is “in the White House because God put him there.”

And, of course, just the other day, Lt. Col. Ralph Kauzlarich, who conducted the first official investigation into Pat Tillman’s death, opined that Tillman’s family is only pestering the Army for the, ahem, truth about how he died because their loved one, a non-believer with no heavenly reward to reap, is now “worm dirt.”

Until I read the newly published “With God on Their Side” (St. Martin’s Press), Michael Weinstein’s disturbing account of anti-Semitism at the U.S. Air Force Academy, I shrugged off each of these remarks, and so much more, as isolated, almost comically intolerant noises out of True Believer Land. Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do . . .

Now my blood runs cold. Weinstein, a 1977 graduate of the Academy and former assistant general counsel in the Reagan administration, and a lifelong Republican, has devoted the last several years of his life to battling what he has come to regard as a fundamentalist takeover of the Academy, turning it, in effect, into a taxpayer-supported Evangelical institution. He charges that the separation of church and state is rapidly vanishing at the school, which routinely promotes sectarian religious events, tolerates the proselytizing of uniquely vulnerable new recruits and, basically, conflates evangelical interests and the national interest.

If you think this is just a fight over some abstract principle, with ramifications only for atheist, Jewish, Buddhist and other cadets who may be “offended” by fundamentalist God talk, I urge you to check out Weinstein’s book or website. He documents a chilling phenomenon: The whole U.S. military, up and down the chain of command, is coming to be dominated by members of a small, characteristically intolerant sliver of Christianity who truly regard themselves as Christian soldiers, on a God-appointed mission to harvest souls and battle evil.

Weinstein, whose family tradition of national service is pretty impressive, does not do battle lightly with those who now run his alma mater. One of his sons is a recent graduate of the Air Force Academy and the other is still a cadet there. The fact that both of them endured anti-Semitic harassment initially spurred him to take action. But this goes deeper than disrespect for other faiths. The attitude he has encountered in his attempt to hold the institution, and the rest of the military, accountable smacks of a coup: “The Christian Taliban is running the Department of Defense,” he told me. “It inundates everything.”

Can you imagine a contingent of religious zealots, with their contempt for secular values (and such manifestations of secular order as the U.S. Constitution) - and with their zest for holy war - in control of the most potent fighting force and weaponry in human history? Is this possible?
Well, said Weinstein, consider the 523rd Fighter Squadron, based at Cannon Air Force Base, N.M., which calls itself The Crusaders, and whose emblem consists of a sword, four crosses and a medieval knight’s helmet. Check ‘em out at globalsecurity.org, which reports that the payload on the F-16s they fly consists of “a wide variety of conventional, precision guided and nuclear weapons.”

And listen once again to Commander-in-Chief Bush, speaking in 2003 to Palestinian Prime Minister Mahmoud Abbas, according to the Israeli newspaper Haaretz: “God told me to strike at al-Qaida and I struck them, and then he instructed me to strike at Saddam, which I did, and now I am determined to solve the problem in the Middle East.”

If this is a religious war - a “clash of civilizations,” waged by competing agents of God’s will - victory may be indistinguishable from Armageddon. God help the human race.

Robert Koehler, an award-winning, Chicago-based journalist, is an editor at Tribune Media Services and nationally syndicated writer. You can respond to this column at bkoehler@tribune.com.

But then...

Of course much of the placating nature of Fiona's description of Cuba came directly from the added compensation of gifts! (Note the revolutionary's hat, that with the long hair bears me a strikingly uncanny resemblance to Che - surely you can note! and of course that's a Havana cigar. Note - don't inhale!)

She's baa-aaack!

Well, Fiona has certainly changed much of my life since her arrival (again) in Cochabamba last week, but in contrasting ways. She has softened my passion to experience Cuba firsthand, given that her description and analysis has been pretty satisfying to date and I give her judgement on these matters quite some weight. On the other hand she's inspired me to keep Cuba in my sights, even if a visit from me does have to occur after the fact (that fact being Fidel's demise). Cuba will continue to change politically as it has since 1959 (and obviously before), and perhaps more sharply come the new leader of the Republic, and maybe it will be one of those historic epochs one could regret missing, like pre-industrial society but then, any new era will give us the opporunity to continue the fight for a better world. It's all the same.

Given all that, I still hope to feel some of the emotion and conflicting interests that govern the Cuban culture that Fiona felt. These photos give some idea of that:

Fiona in the very impressive Che tribute square- a large square with an imposing figure of Che atop this block of his (I'm sure very inspiring) text.

This fellow (below) shows off one of the abundance of well-kept cars of the 50s - a necessity given the complete shut-down of trade from countries that could have helped Cuba's industrial growth (trade barriers an indicator of fear, and Cuba the most feared example of fair and equal development in the world).


Che (above), again and again and again, being flaunted there in Cuba as the martyr of the revolution much to Fidel's joy and luck (or WAS it?). And the music of Cuba being flaunted joyously and deservedly in a member of the famous Buena Vista Social Club, who Fiona met in a bar and who signed the CD she bought. The Buena Vista Social Club was a Havana club where musicians met and played in the 40s and were subsequently made an international success with recordings on an album of the same name from this fellow and others in the 90s. Fiona being back in Cochabamba contrasts my emotions more personally as well (as opposed to my personal/political). We commented yesterday, as we spent the Feria holiday afternoon walking around the botanical gardens, having ice-cream, talking of our future and our kids in the hideously American CineCenter, playing air-hockey and basketball in the pin-ball parlour, and booking tickets for tomorrow's premier of the only movie I'd ever consider buying advance tickets for (gee, can you guess what it is?!), ... um, yes, we commented that we felt very much at home, or that we didn't miss home at all as heinously when we had each other here (or anywhere), and even seriously put forward the incredibly corny notion that we indeed were home to one another. How sweet (and corny). Contrasting however, because the more we talk about not missing home (my family, friends, streets, cafes, pubs, parks, family, friends), well, der brain, I get homesick!