Durango Day 3 - January 3, 2008 - The Chaco Ruins

Daniel and Mom - throwbacks to the sixties?

Chaco Ruins- Aztec, New Mexico

Daniel Bean blows into Durango about 8 PM. His hands are soot-stained, his clothes steaming with the cold and (when he finally thaws out) he’s more than a tad odoriferous. Dan has just spent two weeks on the high desert of Utah as a head staff person with Open Sky Wilderness Therapy.

A century ago Dan would have been poking cows and rounding up stray heifers on horseback. In 2007, he and two other modern-day wranglers ride herd on 8 troubled adolescents in hiking boots and backpacks. For the kids, it’s two months to shed their hang-ups and deal with their issues. Dan and his companeros keep them safe and working as a group while the wilderness strips them of their conceits and deals them a big slug of reality. After two months, most of them “get it”. A structured after-program tries to insure that they don’t “lose it” again once they return to civilization.

The responsibility is huge . In the two years since he’s been in this line of work, Dan has acquired some amazing skills. I’m so proud of him – my full-grown, dreadlocked, cowpoke, therapist son.

Dan cleans up nicely and we go out with him to a local brew-pub for dinner with the Open Sky Wilderness crew. It’s a tradition whenever they hit town after two weeks on the range. Rena and I skip the equally traditional wine party that follows and meet Dan for a wonderful breakfast at the New Rochester the next morning.

After breakfast we leave Durango to check out the original inhabitants of this high desert- the Anasazi. There were actually two native cultures that thrived in the area around 1100-1300 C.E. The more well-known is the most recent – that of the ‘Mesa Verde’ cliff-dwellers. The ‘Chaco Canyon’ culture preceded the cliff dwellings by a couple of centuries and we are going to see their ruins today.

The Caddie whisks us South on US 550 to Aztec, New Mexico. Mad Marvin is feeling particularly low today so we have to stop in town to get an earful of directions from the nice lady at the Aztec municipal museum. We find the Aztec Ruins National Monument just north of town. The ruins are those of a typical “Chaco” style Pueblo Indian community.

“I just love their sandals,” enthuses Rena.

She’s disappointed when we tour the small museum inside the visitors’ center and find a pair of original Chaco sandals in a glass case. They are woven out of yucca fiber and look like tiny placemats with a hole in one corner for the big toe.

“No wonder they died out,” sniffs Rena, “with sandals like that!”

We’re the only visitors at the ruins this morning. It’s like being the last people at the end of a civilization - just before the inhabitants close the doors, throw away the keys and leave. Although the Chacos have been gone 1000 years, their structures survive. Some are three stories high! This is a very spiritual place. If it wasn’t so cold we could plop down and meditate a bit.

Meditation would be a culturally appropriate activity. It seems the Chaco people did not actually live in these ruined cities. They lived in the surrounding countryside and commuted to the capitol city for ceremonial occasions and cultural events. Sort of the way Washington, D.C. is today.

Chaco architecture is a cross between leggo-land and an ant farm. The hallway had not been invented so each room is connected to another by a low skinny door (apparently arches weren’t invented yet either). If you had neighbor problems, you could just brick up the door and poke another through one of the other walls.

In the afternoon, we return to Durango where Dan and I borrow a pliers from the Rochester Hotel desk clerk and wrestle with the lock on Dan’s Van’s rear door. After a struggle, the door yields to our efforts. Now we can’t close it but at least Dan can get to his wardrobe.

Meanwhile, the Caddie has been ticketed by the local gendarmes. Maybe tomorrow I’ll read about it in the Durango Herald police blotter. (4:46 PM Black Caddie ticketed in the 700 block of Main Ave. for attempting to drive on snow.)
Here’s todays entries:

9:05 AM A man was getting into another man’s face and yelling at him in the 800 block of Camino del Rio.
1:02 PM A woman’s boyfriend stole her paycheck and cashed it.
1:04 PM A controlled burn was out of control and burning next to a barn in on County Rd. 213.
4:17 PM A dog attacked another dog in the 700 block of Animas Avenue.
6:20 PM Someone saw a person in a black van pull into a driveway and go through another person’s mail in the lower 100 block of Folsom Place.
7:28 PM A woman reported that her aunt was harassing her in the parking lot of the Durango Mall.
9:05 PM A drunken man was refusing to pay for items in the 600 block of Main Ave.

Durango Day 2- January 2, 2008 -Riding the Rails

LOCOMOTIVE # 486
Cliffhanger!

All Aboard!

Durango’s main claim to fame (other than National Lampoon Vacation) is the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad (D.&S.N.G.R.R.). Thanks to Alfred Nobel’s invention of dynamite in 1867 (money from which invention allowed him to endow the Nobel prize), 19th century navvies were able to blast a track over 26 miles of steep mountains from Durango to Silverton in only nine months! The first train made it through on July 4, 1882 and since then the Durango to Silverton has never stopped operation!

Our original steam powered, coal fired locomotive (#486 above) does a five hour round trip to the historic Silverton mines. (Although in winter we only go as far as Cascade Canyon to avoid avalanches.)

The track is “Narrow Gauge” meaning the tracks are about half the usual “Standard Gauge” width. This allows the locomotive to negotiate tight spaces and sharper curves while saving on the cost of construction. The Standard Gauge is 4 feet-8 ½ inches between the inner sides of the parallel rails. About sixty percent of the railways of the world use this gauge.

A legend exists that “Standard Gauge” comes from the width of existing wagon ruts on 18th century roads in England. These ruts, in turn, were carved when Julius Caesar built the first roads and brought Roman military chariots to Britain during his conquest of 55 B.C.E. All subsequent wagons built on the island were made to this dimension so that wagons could easily follow the Roman chariot ruts. Hence a 2000-year-old chariot became the ‘Standard’ measurement for most modern railroads.

We hop aboard the D.&S.N.G.R.R at the Durango depot. Our car is a 1920’s vintage with leather bench seats and oak trim. As we enter, we both look at each other in consternation. It’s another scene from National Lampoon Vacation! We’re surrounded by families with small children. The Dads are paying big bucks for the “authentic steam train experience” advertised in the slick RR brochure and their children aren’t buying it. Kids who aren’t sprouting ear-buds or playing Nintendos are impatiently kicking the seats in front of them. Rena is not amused. As the train picks up steam, the Dads begin to escalate and the kids won’t even look out the windows!

“Well, cow-lady,” I drawl to my spouse, who looks like she may escalate sometime soon. “I’m thinkin’ it’s high time to blow Dodge City.”
“Agreed,” replies Rena tersely.

We mosey to the back of the train. Just as we can’t go any further, we zig left then zag right and step into the last car. It’s another world – plush carpet, hardwood tables, brass lanterns, and velvet-cushioned seats – the whole exuding a smell of fresh-brewed coffee and oiled teak. A fully-stocked bar occupies the front of the parlor. And a private outdoor viewing platform at the rear completes the ensemble.

“Follow me,” I whisper. “This looks like an opportunity for adventure.”

Using Julius Caesar’s tactics of boldness combined with the element of surprise, I stroll down the car and take two seats at the only unoccupied table. Rena, still smarting from kicks to her backside by pint-sized impatient feet, dutifully tags along.

Sarah, our server, approaches:
“I see you folks decided to upgrade,” she says with a smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Purely by accident but it seems the right thing to do. What a magnificent car you have here!”
Without a wink or a blink, Sarah asks, “Coffee, tea or soft drink? All complimentary.”As she departs to draw our café-au-lait, I turn to Rena and ask how she likes the accidental upgrade.
Rena closes her open mouth and takes a deep breath. “Can’t complain,” she acknowledges.
“Now, now - Sarah’s a girl who knows how to earn a generous tip,” I aver soothingly.
“Chutzpah,” mutters Rena.

Ensconced in parlor class with complimentary beverages in hand, we make the acquaintance of our parlor mates, Allan and Joan of Elkhart, Indiana. Allan is a railroad buff and commercial pilot (retired). Joan is an opera singer. She’s a mezzo-soprano. Somehow the conversation turns to yodeling, and Joan obliges with “The Lonely Goatherd” from the Sound of Music. This cheers Rena up immediately; she always laughs when someone yodels. From Joan I learn a new medical fact – the loss of estrogens at menopause causes your vocal cords to dry up. That’s why post-menopausal sopranos are few and far between.

As we yodel our way up the mountain, the train noodles it’s way through tight passes and across swaying wooden trestles. The Animas River is visible some 500 feet below. The view is vertiginous and the rapids far below are a beautiful jade color. This may be due to copper in the old silver-mine tailings. At one stop, the water tank is frozen solid, and we have to back down the tracks to find a tank with liquid water. Allan informs us that a steam engine without water is called a bomb!

We stop at Cascade Canyon for a light nosh and a hike along the river’s edge. Our return to Durango is uneventful. We arrive at 3 PM and Rena partakes of some retail therapy. Durango’s Main Avenue boasts used book shops, boutiques and outdoor outfitters. Also good bread and hot chocolate.

Our son, Daniel, plans to return from the desert to meet us this evening. We try his cellphone but it’s still out of range. We wait at the NLV for a long time and finally order Chinese take-out. It’s the night before the Iowa Caucuses and we watch election hype on TV while plying chopsticks on Chevy Chase’s eponymous bed. When did Chinese food first come to Durango? Were the navvies who built the Durango to Silverton Chinese? I peruse the police blotter for the day:

10:17 PM A woman in the first block of Pinon St. is bitten by a dog/wolf hybrid.
6:41 AM Delivery personnel, who didn’t have the code, trip a back-door alarm at a building on Florida Road.
8:56 AM The driver of a dark-colored van is tailgating and making obscene gestures at the driver ahead of him on US Highway 160.
10:10 AM A garbage can is reported stolen Christmas Eve in the 400 block of Jenkins Ranch Road.
3:10 PM A pedestrian was not hurt when struck by a silver-colored van.
11:49 PM A caller reported loud music from the vicinity of the Middle School.

Dan finally arrives around 8 PM to liven up our evening. But that really is another story!

Durango, Colorado - January 1, 2008

Durango is my kind of town!

The New Rochester Hotel

Durango – what a great name for a town in the Wild West! We’re on our way to see our son, Daniel, who works nearby and hangs in Durango in his 2000 Chevy Van when he’s not working. He’s not really a cowboy but close enough. More about Dan later.

Our li’l CRJ 90 regional jet descends from Salt Lake City over the folded foothills of the San Juan range.
“Cute airport,” says Rena. “Only two gates.”
Marge and Roy unload our bags onto the airport’s only baggage carousel while I pick up my chariot of choice.
“Holy ostentatious,” blurts Rena. “A black Cadillac! What kind of a snow cruiser is that?”
“Hey, it may not be much in snow,” I enthusiastically reply. “But get a load of this heated steering wheel. And the trunk alone is as big as your Suzuki!”

Rena settles dubiously into the luxurious tan leather upholstery. The car is so hi-tech that I can’t figure out how to start it – there’s no key, just a key-ring with nothing on it! The National car rental guy shows me the right button to push and we’re on our way.

After a while we find the cigarette lighter and plug in Rena’s GPS which is named Marvin after the quirky, depressed robot in “A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” Mad Marvin, the GPS, is in a snit and doesn’t talk to us for many miles. Using dead reckoning, Rena’s sense of direction and whatever grudging advice Marvin is willing to part with, we arrive at our “pied-a-terre” – the New Rochester Hotel in Durango. I think the last time I was in Durango, some forty years ago, it was a flophouse and brothel. But that, as they say, is another story.

The New Rochester is now an old-West style bed-and-breakfast with wagon wheel chandeliers, saddles on the stair railings and mosaic bathroom floors made of tiny black and white hexagonal tiles. There are ten rooms, each one named after a movie that was filmed in the environs of Durango. Movies like “The Naked Spur”, “Support Your Local Gunfighter”, “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon”, and “City Slickers.” For some reason we are assigned to the “National Lampoon Vacation” room! This means we brush our teeth while a poster of Chevy Chase leers at us from over the toilet. Well, that’s our room – we call it the NLV for short.

The NLV is on the second floor and there’s no elevator. Rena eyes her suitcase dubiously.
“ Maybe we should ask for help with the luggage,” she advises.
But this is not Boston. This is the old West, where men are men (and so are women).
“Nope,” I reply. “If this luggage is yourn, Ma’am, then I’m yore luggee.”
I’m beginning to feel more like a Westerner already. I spit on my hands and rub them together before grabbing the bags. Spurs jingle faintly in my imagination.

By the time I get to the NLV, I’m sucking in great lungfuls of Durango’s thin atmosphere. We’re at 6512 feet above sea level – enough to give pause to Jack Palance even.
Rena is standing just inside the door and sniffing suspiciously.
“Do you think this room smells funny?” she asks.
“No, Ma’am. I surely don’t,” I wheeze.
“Well, I do!” she says. “You didn’t pee on the rug, did you?”
“Not yet,” I reply. “Better make way!”
I rush to Chevy Chase’s toilet and return greatly relieved. Breath and color are returning to my body. We open the window to air out the room and head down to the lobby for tea and homemade cookies – yumm! While there I peruse the police blotter of the Durango Herald. There’s nothing like the local police blotter to give a visitor insight into the ebb and flow of community life:

8:24 AM – a woman with a brain injury leaves home to hitchhike.
11:33 AM – a bale of hay is found in the northbound lane of Camino del Rio.
11:56 AM – guests at a local motel try to leave without paying.
2:24 PM - a caller is concerned that a big dog on a short chain might be suffering from the cold.
5:55 PM - a four year old girl mistakenly dials 911. Her mother says there is no emergency.
7:43 PM – four or five men, all dressed in black, are hanging around a business parking lot. They are gone when an officer arrives on the scene.
1:43 AM - a drunken woman is being “over-dramatic” in the 700 block of Main Avenue.

Apparently, not much ebbed and even less flowed in Durango yesterday. “Better luck tomorrow,” I muse.
We hit the sack early. Being it’s Tuesday, no cowpokes are emptying six shooters on Main Avenue. Tomorrow we take the narrow gauge to Cascade Canyon and meet up with Dan.

Coyotes at Christmas - December 25, 2007

"The strength of the wolf is in the pack." - Rudyard Kipling

"And the strength of the coyote is in the cocoa." - Daktari Mark

Calling the Coyotes for Christmas – December 25, 2007

It’s been a typical Jewish Christmas in Amesbury. The Powow River is frozen solid and the hills snow-covered. Rena and I go skating on the river in the morning and then off to see Juno, the movie, with our friends Carol and Katie. Very good flick! Afterwards we try a new Chinese restaurant in Topsfield. We have the restaurant all to ourselves! There aren’t many Jews in Topsfield, it seems.

Back at home Rena settles in with her crocheting to watch the Country Music Channel. “Where’s the adventure in that?” I think to myself. The nearly full moon rises over the white fields and sparkles off Lake Gardner. “Ah,” I think. “The Call of the Wild.”

I phone my good neighbor, Bruce. “Looks like a good night for an adventure. What do you think?”

“I’m way cool with that,” says Bruce. “Whazzup?”
(Bruce works from home. Too much jazz on the internet has affected his speech.)

I explain to Bruce that I was at the Whistling Kettle yesterday and Dean the pool guy was there. He was taking a break from snow-plowing. The breakfast conversation turned to coyotes. Dean claims the best way to find coyotes is to go out in the boonies and set off your car alarm for one minute. When you shut it off, all the coyotes for miles around will be howling. Then drive to where you think they are and repeat the process as necessary until you locate the pack.

“Count me in,” says Bruce.

We assemble at Bruce’s house. Bruce, Bruce’s son Luke and myself with the two dogs Panna and Brixton and our respective collections of coyote gear. I carry the binoculars and wear the official decoy hat. Bruce has a stout cudgel, rope, flashlight and camera. Luke thinks we are way over the top and settles for dog leashes and a Petzl with red filter for night vision. We are ready for whole packs of coyotes. If this were Transylvania, we could probably even take on werewolves or charge Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. But that, as they say, is another story.

We get in Bruce’s 4-WD Cherokee (the only vehicle with an alarm) and head out. Our ears are pricked and our tails (for those who have them) are wagging. As we head east on S. Hampton Road we pass a darkened cruiser parked at Syvinski’s farm, trolling for speeders and scoff-laws. Collectively we entertain the same thought at the same time: If coyotes can hear the car alarm, then so can Officer Krupke!
”What would you call our crime exactly,” asks Bruce.
“How about disturbing the peace on Christmas night,” I opine.
“Groovy,” says Bruce. On the way to Battis farm we rehearse our cover story:
“OK, when I went to unlock the car I pushed the panic button by mistake and the keys fell in the snow. We all had to hunt through the snow to find the keys,” says Bruce.
“Groovy,” I reply.
“Incidently, Mark, you should ditch the wolf hat, if we see the cruiser,” says Luke.
“Even Officer Krupke might tumble to that one!” I agree.

We stop the car and get out. Clear and cold with no wind at all and not another car in sight.
“Plunk your magic twanger, froggy.” Boiing-oing-oing.
Bruce presses the panic button for as long as he dares. In the dead silence that follows, we hear nary a coyote. We try again with a longer blast of the alarm.

“Maybe, it’s the wrong type of alarm,” I say. “Let’s go see if Officer Krupke will let us use his siren.”
I am outvoted 2 to 1. It would be better, we decide, to beard the wild coyote in her den.

We start hiking up Po Hill – at 331 feet above sea-level it’s the tallest hill in Amesbury. We tramp through the packed snow to the top. What a marvelous panorama – the great sweep of Atlantic shore from Cape Ann in the South to Mt. Agamenticus in the North. 'All is calm, all is bright.' Not one coyote yip intrudes on our silent night The stars in the sky look down where we lay, resting for the return tramp through the woods. The moon, herself, lights our way back to Bruce’s for a Rob Roy. Exertion and alcohol commingle nicely. Peaceful and pooped after a long day, I too will be soon be 'away in the manger asleep in the hay'. Peace on earth, goodwill to men -- and good night Officer Krupke, wherever you are!

On Another Hand - Connecticut Road Trip Dec 14, 2007

ON ANOTHER HAND – DECEMBER 14, 2007

Last week’s blog recounted an adventure with the 1000 year old hand of St. Stephen.
Little did I realize that another old hand would become fodder for this week’s blog!
Unfortunately I forgot to take photos! Read on MacDuff –

We are driving to New Haven in Ali & Chris’ 1998 Subaru Forester. I prefer a less antiquated set of wheels myself. However, the last time the kids visited Amesbury their Forester was acting up so we swapped cars.

Now the Subaru has a new water pump, timing belt and thermostat – (Happy Hanukah, Chris and Ali) – and Rena and I are delivering it back to them. Knowing something about 1.) bad cars and 2.) winter travel, I stop at the NAPA store on the way out of town to pick up a jug of windshield fluid and a gallon of pre-mix anti-freeze. The jumper cables, rope, baling wire and trusty roll of duck tape are already in the way-back.

Sure enough, we are just across the Connecticut border when a casual glance at the dashboard reveals trouble. Rena and I are going South in the Subaru on I-84 but the needle on the water temperature gauge is going North faster than Santa heading for home after a hard night. In about 5 seconds it pegs out in the red zone!

“Holy Thermometer, Batman!” I yell to my life partner as I careen across the highway, coming to a stop in the breakdown lane. As I switch on the emergency blinkers, I think to myself, “It’s time for another travel adventure.”

Rena is not too keen on this particular type of travel adventure. “I knew this was a bad idea,” she mutters as wisps of steam emerge from under the hood and the sweet, burnt-sugar smell of propylene glycol wafts gently through the open window. While the engine cools, Rena lets off steam by crocheting faster and faster.

“Buck up, sweetie,” I say, cautiously eyeing her speeding crochet hook. “Remember the movie ‘Apollo 13’ – they thought they were goners, too.”

“But they had Ed Harris at mission control in Houston,” wails Rena.

“True,” I respond. “But don’t forget that I have anti-freeze, duck tape and 20 years of listening to Click and Clack on the radio.” Rena groans. Why am I not inspiring confidence here? O ye of little faith!

I switch off the engine and turn the key to ‘accessories’. I turn on the heater & the fan & the A/C full-blast to cool the engine. Then I pop the hood on the gently steaming Subaru. Anti-freeze is everywhere except in the radiator where it belongs.

“It just needs some anti-freeze,” I call reassuringly to my crotchety, crocheting co-pilot. (Best not to alarm the passengers.)

While the engine cools, I meditate on the treachery of radiator caps and the physics of steam under great pressure. With trepidation, I don an insulated ski glove and lean my full weight on the heel of my hand, as I slowly un-screw the radiator cap. No burst of super-heated steam emerges! A quick fill-up of Prestone and we’re back on the highway.

We make it about three miles to Exit 71, coasting down the exit ramp and gliding to a stop as the temperature gauge pegs red once again. Lucky for us, we have arrived at a classic gas station owned by the three Canestrari brothers.

I explain the situation to the eldest brother, “Lefty”. (not his real first name) He listens to my tale of woe, opens the hood and gives the engine compartment a long, hard look. “Don’t know if I can help you folks,” Lefty opines. The steam from the radiator has barely dissipated. Deftly, Lefty palms the radiator cap and whips it off!

“OK fire it up,” orders Lefty. I start the engine. Sickly fluorescent green coolant bubbles up from the radiator’s core and pulses out the fill pipe. Quick as lightning, Lefty covers the open radiator pipe with his bare left hand and pushes down hard. Coolant squeezes around the edges of his palm. “OK shut her down,” he says.

I rush forward expecting to treat second-degree burns. Lefty is shaking his head slowly as he wipes his intact hand with the traditional greasy rag. “Nope, can’t help you,” says Lefty laconically. “Blown head gasket.”

“How can you tell?” I inquire.

“Coolant pressure much too high,” explains Lefty. “Gotta be a blown gasket.”

(Later, I figure out that high-pressure cylinder gas is escaping through the blown gasket and pressurizing the coolant in the water jacket. That pressure was what Crusty was feeling when he sealed off the radiator with his bare hand.)

“What’ll we do?” I ask.

“Plan A is get towed to the Subaru dealership in Vernon,” says Lefty.

“And what’s Plan B?” I inquire.

“Do you have fire insurance on this heap?” asks Lefty.

Being a true adventurer, I select Plan B, although not without more mutinous mutterings from the crew. “Come on,” I say. “It’s only 12 miles. We’ll keep her under 2000 RPM and I’ll watch the gauge like a hawk.”

It takes the better part of an hour and three stops for overheating to make it to the dealership using Plan B. Rena and I while away the hour discussing what items to grab while exiting the Subaru in case of fire. I’m down to my last pint of Prestone and Rena is half done with the afghan by the time we coast into Suburban Subaru in Vernon. But we’ve made it. The Eagle has Landed!

After about 90 minutes of computer analysis, engine scanning, and compression testing the consensus at Suburban Subaru is that we do indeed have a blown head gasket. However, I credit the correct diagnosis to the experienced left hand of our savior, ‘Lefty’ Canestrari. For me, it was the greatest left-hand maneuver since Diego Maradona’s “Hand of God” soccer goal against England in the quarter-finals of the 1986 World Cup. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hand_of_God_goal)
But that, as they say, is another story.

Daktari

The Holy Right Hand of Hungary - August 23, 2001

St. Stephen's Interior _______________________The Holy Right Hand

August 23, 2001 – The Basilica of the Holy Right Hand

After a short 2 1/2 hour flight Rena, Bernadette and I land at Ferency Airport in Hungary. Our captain, Nigel, is a bit eccentric. “We are now entering our final approach. I’ll just dangle the Dunlops. There we go. Now we’ll just put out the cat, land the plane and we’re there. You’re certain you want to go to Budapest are you?” This expostulation is accompanied by angry cat noises from the overhead speakers.

Our luggage arrives safely and we change our dollars for forints at the airport. Our cab driver, a reliable looking older Magyar with the unlikely name of Barney Farkas, gets us to the Hotel K + K Opera by noon. Unfortunately the room won’t be ready until 3 PM so we decide to take a hike round the town.

We walk just one block from the Opera to St. Stephen’s Basilica. Ol’ Steve was the first Christian King of Hungary and his actual hand is on display inside the basilica! On special days they parade it around town. This isn’t one of them so we are forced to go inside the cathedral. Generally, I am not big on going inside cathedrals. ‘You’ve seen one you’ve seen ‘em all,’ sort of thing. But since my first name is Steven and therefore he is my patron saint, I figure it’s a must see. We enter the cathedral.

The interior is your usual – high ornate ceilings, bad heat and lots of gilt (spelled without the ‘u’ between the ‘g’ and the ‘i’). Being the first Christian king of the Magyars qualified Stephen for Sainthood in the year 1083 CE. That was a long time ago and most of St. Stephen’s saintly remains have disappeared during succeeding centuries due to high demand from the ever-popular market in stolen Saint body-parts. (The sacred relics market has quieted down recently but during Medieval times it was bigger than Ebay.) Anyway, all that’s left of St. Stephen is his severed and pickled right hand which is preserved in the Basilica. Amazingly you don’t pay a single forint to see the famous fist! It has It’s own little gold dollhouse covered with frescoes, naked babies with wings and other catholic chazerai. Inside is the hallowed hand, which is shriveled, brown and rather small. I figure good King Stephen’s hat size couldn’t have been much either.

I will now write 100 times – “ I will not go into another cathedral again”. Sorry not my thing.

After shaking the dust of centuries from our Reebok’s, we exit St. Stephen’s and stroll through a small plaza. Here a visiting oompah band from Poland is playing polka’s while an authentic Hungarian mental patient beats time on the garbage cans with a couple of sticks.

Nearby we encounter the statue of “Anonymous”. He was the famous Hungarian philosopher and advisor to King Stephen (his left-hand man so-to-speak). “Anonymous” remained anonymous his whole life. Consequently he has no cathedral, basilica, chapel, boat-dock or other significant edifice to his memory anywhere in Hungary except the appropriately nondescript and obscure statue to him near St. Stephen’s church. What a find! We hurry back to the hotel through smallish spritzles of rain to take possession of our cozy hotel room for a nap and a shower.

For dinner we go to a restaurant in Pest which features a gypsy band playing violins, accordions, hammer dulcimer, a musical saw and other implements of the gypsy armamentarium. While they saw away at Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody #2, we saw away at paprika chicken, spatzles, and wild forest mushrooms. Yumm!. My favorite is the strudel sampler for dessert. We eat so much we decide to walk home, only to be caught in a Magyar downpour. The three of us escape to the shelter of the subway and are pleasantly surprised to find that music is indeed ubiquitous in Budapest. Gypsies again - only this time they are playing old Country and Western hits under the city streets. “The Tennessee Waltz” and “I Walk the Line” arranged for violin and accordion - most unusual. We catch a passing cab back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep.

Daktari

WORLD AIDS DAY - December 1, 2007

Samantha Gets Wrapped

AFA President Li in Kenya garb

Saturday was World AIDS Day and I was attending a course in “Fundamentals of Grant Writing” at North Essex Community College with my young friend Samantha.
That’s Sam getting wrapped in a Kanga during an opening day ceremony at the new Bailey/Whaley Health Clinic in Esabalu, Kenya. Sam turns 21 this week and last year she and her friends raised over $8000 to buy school uniforms for 400 AIDS orphans in Amesbury’s sister village of Esabalu. Then last January, Samantha, Jackie, Colleen and the others distributed the uniforms at three primary schools in Esabalu and at the Ebukuya Deaf School, where many of Esabalu’s deaf children attend special school. Even though primary education is free in Kenya, a child can’t attend if she doesn’t have a uniform to wear. Imagine what life would be like if you were that child with no parents. Every day you see the other kids on their way to school. How lonely and hopeless you feel. What can life possibly bring for you? Sam & Friends are changing lives from hopeless to hopeful one kid at a time.

“Hi Mark,” said Sam as we seated ourselves in the NECCO College classroom. “I brought you a present.” And she handed me an AIDS pin – made in Kenya by our friends in Esabalu. That flashed me back to January of 2007 when she and I and 13 other members of Amesbury for Africa were visiting Esabalu. So here is my story for AIDS Day 2007.

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Through an organization called Sister Cities International our small town of Amesbury, Massachusetts (pop. 13,000) has been linked to the small farming community of Esabalu in Western Kenya since 1987. For the last 20 years New England Yankees have been exchanging home visits with Abaluhyia farmers in Esabalu and their husbands. Our visits are usually 2-4 weeks and promote individual friendship and cross-cultural understanding. We call this rather unique relationship “a friendship-based development partnership.”

Last January 15 of us including Sam and Amesbury for Africa President Li were in Esabalu at the opening of the new health center. Before the speeches, singing and dancing, Li and I were chatting and a woman of perhaps 40 years old approached. She looked me in the eye and addressed us in very good English.

“You don’t remember me do you?” she inquired.

I looked at her closely and all of a sudden I saw something familiar. “Nancy, is it you?” I flashed back even further to 18 months earlier – June 2005

It was my first visit to Esabalu in a year and I was spending my first two days visiting all the compounds where a family member had died. People of Esabalu bury their dead in the yards of their home compounds (shambas) and not in cemeteries. That way the deceased are still part of the family. Visitors stop first at the graves of the newly dead for half a minute to pay respects, before they move on to the front door and greet the living.

So I walked with some friends from shamba to shamba looking at fresh graves and having sad thoughts. It was painful to do it but very bad manners not to make these obligatory visits. There were so many calls to pay because of AIDS. People in the rural villages like Esabalu knew that there was now treatment for the disease but no one knew anyone who had received it yet.

Nancy Otwoma was still among the living but just barely. Nancy had been one of the founding members of the Esabalu Health group back in 1991. She was so energetic with loads of enthusiasm and had become a trained community health worker. Now it took two people to get Nancy out of her bed in the morning. She was short of breath with slight exertions. Her smile was as bright as ever but the rest of her was melting away. The HIV virus had changed her from a fat jolly sparkplug to a thin weak skeleton.

I thought at that time that this was the last time I would ever see Nancy. Before returning to the states, I left a card and some money with the family for the funeral. And now here she was greeting me at the dedication of the Health Center which had been her dream since she started the Health Group so many years ago. We hugged and laughed. “Mlembe mno, mno, mno, mno, mno,” is what you say in Kiluhyia. “Greetings again, again, again,again” We said it over and over.

It seems that shortly after I said my last goodby to Nancy in 2005, the Global Fund and the Gates Foundation in cooperation with the Govt. of Kenya had established a network of 400+ clinics in hospitals all over the country to diagnose and treat victims of HIV for free! Nancy had been one of the first. It was truly a miracle! Now thanks to their efforts everyone is under treatment at one of three hospital clinics near the village. More people know their HIV status then ever before and the rate of new infections is below 1% per year. Kenya is one of the 10 hardest hit countries in the world which are being targeted to roll out these programs for getting control of this horrible tragic epidemic. Fewer orphans, not more uniforms is the real solution to HIV!

So on this, the 20th World AIDS Day, I give thanks every night for Bill and Melinda and their family members; also for Bono, Nelson Mandela and Bill Clinton. They have brought new life to my friend Nancy Otwoma. Thanks also to Samantha, Colleen, Jackie, Irene, Annette and the Amesbury High School Interact Club for providing AIDS orphans in Esabalu with a uniform and hope for the future. Best wishes on World AIDS day,

Daktari

To see more about Esabalu go to the Internet at www.amesburyforafrica.org