Einstein - World's Smallest Horse

EINSTEIN- TEENY WEENY HORSE, BIG HEAD

BLUE EYES!

"IT'S MY CAMERA, MS. HORSE"

THIS PONY WHISPERS DAKTARI!

Today I find out that the world’s smallest horse lives in the ‘hood. Of all the places on the entire planet he was foaled 10 days ago in Barnstead, NH. His name is Einstein and he weighed only 6 pounds at birth. His parents are miniature horses but Einstein (as you can see by his photo) is a genuine mini-miracle.

“Hey Kat. Wanna go see the world’s smallest and only fairy horse?” “Not possible,” she shoots back. “I’m busy, busy, busy with lots of important stuff to do.”
(My friend Kat is usually good for an adventure, although she sometimes needs poking with a sharp stick to get her started . . . mornings especially.)

“Come on. Just think of it,” I wheedle. “What are the odds that of all the places on all the planets of this solar system the world’s smallest horse would incarnate just one hour drive from Amesbury. It‘s gotta be a sign from the Gods! It’s once in a lifetime.”
“Oh, all right,” concedes Kat. “If you put it that way, I’ll go.”
“Atta girl. It will be fun. You’ll see.”

We hop into my ten-year old adventure-wagon. (The white Pontiac -- Mass 74-A-JOI with the purple “Don’t Postpone Joy” bumper sticker glued securely above the rear plate)
Supplies include the usual water, peanut butter sandwiches, and M&M’s for dessert. We also have duct tape, twine, bailing wire, an electric drill and a garden hoe. (just in case)

Joy, it seems, is eminent!

The White Mountains are just above the horizon to the North as we drive up to Einstein‘s birthplace at ‘Tiz a Miniature Horse Farm‘. A three- inch orange barrier tape extends across the driveway, which is further blockaded by the family Ford.

“Looks like they’re expecting visitors,” I offer.
“And looks like they’re not too happy to see them,” opines Kat. “Also, what about the dogs?” (Kat is deathly afraid of dogs.)

“Think nothing of it,” I reassure my canine-phobic colleague. “You wait here and I’ll go see what’s happening.”

I duck under the ‘Do not Cross’ tape and walk up the drive to be greeted by three barking sheepdogs and an elderly Cro-magnon sharpening a long pointed stick, who I identify from the website as the farm’s owner, Larry Smith.
“Probably fashioning a crude spear to go with the barrier tape,” I surmise.

“Hi, I was wondering if we could see Einstein,” I enquire politely.
“Einstein’s not here,” answers the laconic Mr. Smith. “He’s away in a heated barn until Saturday.”
My disappointment shows. Larry eyes me head to toe. After a short silence, he relents.
“Come on in, you two, and see the others.”
“Bingo,” I chortle to myself.

I return to Kat waiting in the car, surrounded by the troika of suspicious sheep dogs.
“Well the bad news is that Einstein’s not here,” I explain. “But the good news is that we can go in and see the other ponies.”
“What about these dogs?” Kat asks dubiously.
“ We can see them too!” I enthuse. The good news is they’re Sheepdogs not Dobermans. Their bark is worse than their bite.”

Kat is not entirely convinced. But she gamely exits the vehicle as the dogs nudge and sniff.
“You do know how to dog-whisper, don’t you?” I tease.
“ No but I know CBT and it doesn’t seem to be working,” quavers fraidy Kat.

Larry calls off the dogs and we go inside the barn. Everything is just like a regular barn only smaller. Tiny stalls and mini-bridles. It’s a fairy barn! Kat is fascinated by the blue eyes of the mini-stallion in the first stall and takes lots of photos.
The rest of the horses are in a paddock at the back. We stand at the gate to watch.

“Go on in,” exhorts Judy Smith (Larry’s wife). “Just close the gate after.”

No sooner does Kat close the gate and start photographing the mini-horses, than a quartet of pint-sized pintos starts nudging her into a corner between the gate and the barn.

“I don’t like this,” says Kat testily. “I’m being corralled by horses!”
“I’m on it,” I encourage, as I insinuate myself to Kat’s left.
A tiny tan pony is nipping at her camera strap. Other horses are sampling the cuffs of her jeans. Kat is trying her darnedest to stay calm. She mutters “CBT, CBT” softly to her herd of equine admirers.

Looks like I’m going to have to cut out Kat from the rest of the herd.

“Just slide between me and the barn,” I instruct.
Kat sneaks behind me and then tries to go in back of one of the ponies to head directly to the gate..
“Watch it!” I exclaim. “Even small horses can kick. Horses can only see sideways, just keep yourself in their field of vision and you’ll be OK.”

Safely behind the gate, once again, Kat regains her composure.
“Way to go,” I encourage her. “We’ll make a cowgirl out of you yet!”
“Or a casserole for horses,” sez Kat.
“Don’t worry, they’re strict vegetarians.”
“Well, you coulda fooled me!”

DAKTARI

Daktari Retires!

Free at Last!

Last Friday was a life-changing event for Daktari.

It was my last day of work - ever! I’m officially retired as a practicing doc and now can return to what I do best - playing. I now have all the time in the world. And every day brings a new adventure. Not that I won’t someday take up my stethoscope again. For now, however, school is out and summer vacation has no end in sight.

My last day at the office was bitter-sweet. Patients brought lots of presents! I got gift certificates to favorite restaurants and contributions to Amesbury for Africa. I even received a gift certificate for zip-lining at Deerfield Valley Canopy Tours in the Berkshires from my staff! Yippeee!

My most unusual gift was from Jimmy R., a large and boisterous diabetic patient of mine who has managed to turn a boyhood fondness for blowing up things into a vocation. Jim owns his own demolition company. His work allows him to indulge his inner child to the max. For my retirement, he managed to locate a British Army pith helmet worn by a Scottish soldier in the Zulu wars which he gifted to yours truly. Two things are known about Drummer Buchanan, the helmet’s owner: 1.) He survived the battle of Rorke’s Drift in 1879 and 2.) He had a very small head (size 6).

During the battle, Buchanan and 150 comrades fought off some 4000 Zulu warriors. I don’t know if his helmet made it through the battle unscathed. But its successor now resides on my mantel next to three hand- painted figurines representing Shaka Zulu‘s assegai-wielding impi warriors.

Jim promises to keep in touch and notify me when any big demolition jobs are upcoming. He says I can even press the button if and when! Ka-boom! What are the chances that on the big day I can wear kinsman Buchanan’s pith helmet instead of more traditional protective headgear? Sounds like an excellent jpeg for a future blog adventure!

My first full day of retirement was May 1st. This coincides with the pagan holiday of Beltane and with my friend Ellen’s 60th birthday.

Beltane is a ‘cross-quarter’ day, meaning it’s exactly midway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. About a thousand years ago, Britain’s druids began lighting two need-fires on top of a hill on this sacred day. Following various rites and rituals, the local Celts would drive the village's cattle between the two fires to purify the animals and bring luck to their owners. The subsequent celebration on the hill would last all night, after which each local Celtess would carry back a torch lit by the Beltane flame to re-kindle her family’s hearth.

What better way to celebrate my newfound freedom and Ellen’s sexagenarian upgrade, than to perform an ancient Gaelic cow-cleansing ritual?

At dusk, we assemble at Ellen’s house and build a fire outdoors. (Lacking cattle, we decide it’s OK not to build a second fire.) Before the ceremony, each participant writes down on a piece of paper the aspects of his/her life which she/he wants to purify. Then . . . let the wild rumpus begin!

First we beat drums, shake rattles and blow our various whistles and flutes. Ellen leads us in a Sacred Circle dance and teaches us a paean to the Four Elements. We hold hands, dancing and chanting counterclockwise around the fire. Round and round we go. Gazing at the dancing flames, I feel transported to an earlier millennium – a wild and alien place and time. One of the dancers is a friend of Ellen’s named Deirdre whose willowy figure, copper tresses and lithe silhouette against the coruscating firelight seem a throwback to Celtic pre-history.

During the dance, we each choose a moment to approach the flames and toss our purification paper into the fire. The night is overcast and there’s no wind, so our transformational intentions soar with the smoke straight up to the dark heavens. As a final salute to the fire deity, we light a Chinese Fire Lantern (hot air balloon) that soars high over the Artichoke Reservoir before flaming out.

The evening is too soon over! “Wicked fun” - as we say in New England! I leave the celebration, if not purified, at least in a pleasantly pagan flame of mind and with the feeling that Summer 2010 is off to a promising start. Beltane blessings to all and best of luck.

“Lang may your lum reek.” (Long may your chimney smoke) as they say in Scotland.

(for more on the Daktari/Scots-cowherd connection click on: Meet the Masai part 5 )

DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - The Lion King - Part 8

Mama Black Rhino
Hell Bent for Lions!
Mama Hippo gives Me the Hairy Eyeball
Barefoot in Africa

Don't Tread on ME

The Lion King -or Bait as the Case may Be

Letowe has arranged to gather the four of us at 8:20 AM for our trip to the Ngorongoro crater floor. First we breakfast on scrambled eggs, croissants and fried tomatoes. The coffee in Kenya is just as good as in Tanzania – pure Arabica.

Once ensconced in the van, we pass through dense forest, switching back and forth down the steep crater rim. Some 2000 vertical feet later we arrive at the bottom of the caldera. We are now in a typical East African savannah – dry grass spotted with beautiful acacia trees and lots and lots of animals.

The first thing we see is zebras and wildebeests. The latter are watching closely as a Belgian couple on their honeymoon change a flat on their Rover. If you’re a local with some beadwork to sell, sprinkling a few nails on the game park road is a sure-fire way to get tourists to stop. But this puncture seems legit. The Ngorongoro Masai are nowhere in sight.

We join a group of vehicles clustered around a lion kill. The lions are there but they have feasted and are now resting. At binocular distance, we can view three jackals fighting over the remains of a wildebeest ribcage. Suddenly there is a rush of vehicles across the crater floor. We join the stampede and come up to a Mama Black Rhino who is taking a leisurely walk in the grass.

After the rhino, we detour to the hippo pool, conveniently located next to the only flush toilets on the crater floor. Then it’s off to a picnic area to enjoy box lunches prepared by the chefs at Sopa Lodge.

There is always something new out of Africa – as Pliny the Elder wrote some 2200 years ago.
And today is no exception. The picnic area is on a flat grassy knoll with scattered acacias for shade. We are enjoined by Letowe to eat in the van. “Not safe if you’re on foot around here,” our guide explains.

Letowe drifts off to eat lunch with the other drivers who are all chums. I cautiously exit the Range-rover. “Hey, guys I think it’s safe? Wanna go for a little stroll?”
No one responds. I try a little enticement – taking off my shoes and socks and doing a little barefoot Masai dance. “Perfect for jumping,” I exclaim. “Anyone else want to try a few leaps?” No takers. They are really missing out. In my 13 trips to East Africa I’ve never run barefoot on the savannah before. And guess what? The grass is fantastic- very soft and spongy and the blades are so narrow and fine that it feels like you’re walking on cotton batting rather than on regular grass.

I stroll out under the acacia trees – being careful to watch for lines of siafu – or soldier ants. I have trod on army ants before and it is quite a sight to see an ant-bit muzungu stripping down to his jockey shorts in a mad frenzy to kill every last ant-soldier!

No ants and the going is good. Soon I’m out of sight of the vans and enjoying myself immensely. No lions or elephants accost me but I do feel quite brave and pleasantly buzzed on adrenaline. I see lots of butterflies and a wicked large black and yellow beetle.
After returning from my stroll, I finish my fried chicken and lay out on the grass for a snooze in the sun. If it’s good enough for lions it’s good enough for one well-fed and self-satisfied tourist. In fact I feel exactly like Simba – the Lion King c’est moi!

DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - NgoroNgoro Crater - Part 7

Panorama of Ngorongoro Crater
View from the Caldera Rim

Rena on the way to our Modest 5-star Hut

John and Margaret in front of the Main Dining Hall

Flying High and Fast at the Sopa Lodge Pool

Our new driver is a full-blood Masai named Letowe (pronounced Let –toe-way). Masai’s come in two varieties: 1.) traditional ones who still wear blankets, walk everywhere and are very tall and thin as rails. 2.) modern ones who wear khakis, drive SUV’s everywhere and are tall and fat as American tourists.

Letowe is the latter. He has been to college for two years to get an associate’s degree in wildlife tourism and knows every animal, bird, flower and insect in Tanzania.

We clamber into Bushbuck Travel’s Range Rover after finishing our expensive Arusha lunch and head West for the bush. Kilimanjaro, the little hill on the prairie, is covered with thin high clouds. We pass coffee plantations on the slopes and lots of Tanzanian ladies in their colorful wraps – called kangas. Clothing is much more traditional on this side of the border – no designer jeans or double-knit polyester suits.

Our destination is Ngorongoro Conservation Area a natural phenomenon which is on the UNESCO list of official World Heritage sites. The crater formed when a giant volcano exploded and collapsed on itself some two to three million years ago. It is 2000 feet deep and its floor covers 102 square miles. Estimates of the height of the original volcano range from fifteen to nineteen thousand feet high. (And yes, there were people at that time. We will meet three of them later in this narrative.)

We arrive at the crater in late afternoon at the Park entrance. While Rena looks for good deals in jewelry at the gift shop (there aren’t any), I peruse the natural history display. The crater is 14 miles across and is the largest caldera in the world. It is unique in Tanzania as the only conservation area providing protection status for wildlife whilst allowing human habitation. Land use is controlled to prevent negative effects on the wildlife population. I take it that this means the local Masai can’t graze cattle in the caldera. Watch for circular road-signs with a cow in the middle and a slash across.

A population of approximately 25,000 large animals, mostly wildebeests and zebras inhabits the crater floor. Ngorongoro reputedly has the highest density of mammalian predators in Africa. There were 62 lions at latest count. Leopards too! Black rhinos, hippos, eland and gazelles make up the rest of the mix. Primates are represented by two particular species with well-deserved reputations for nastiness – baboons and homo sapiens.

We can’t wait to visit the park but today we have just enough time to get to the Lodge before dark. We climb the 2000 feet up to the crater rim on a red clay and gravel road with many switchbacks. “Must be treacherous in the rain,” I think to myself.

At the top is a magnificent panoramic view of the caldera. There are two lakes in the bottom and the wild animal herds are just visible. It is so green and lush compared to the surrounding savannah! The altitude is such that there is no dry season and the animals in Ngorongoro are non-migratory. They live in a year round ungulate paradise.

Our destination is Ngorongoro Sopa Lodge, where we are greeted by teams of baggage handlers and maids who escort us to the reception area for a glass of fresh mango juice before escorting us to our respective bungalows. We shower and change clothes, then head back to the main dining hall. I linger at the swimming pool to snap photos of this amazing crater spread out at our feet. I don’t linger long because sunsets are very short in the tropics.

On the way into the dining hall, I contemplate the physics of the current situation. Right now, I am on the Equator and therefore at the furthest point from the earth’s axis of rotation. The earth’s circumference at the equator is roughly 25,000 miles. If I stand here for a full 24 hours I will travel in a circle the entire 25,000. Divide 25000 by 24 and here at Sopa Lodge swimming pool, I am spinning at roughly 1000+ miles per hour – twice as fast as the jet plane that brought me to Africa and faster than I have ever moved relative to earth’s center in my entire life.
And that is why, my friends and fellow travelers, sunsets are over so quickly in the tropics and linger so long over Lappland.

A mite peckish, after essaying this short detour into the world of physics, I join the others at our table. We dine on tilapia and prawns in opulent surroundings. All the other tourists are from Europe and are svelte in their tailored khakis and bush shorts. I think we see only one other group of Americans in bright colored shorts and horizontal striped tops.

After dinner we walk from the dining area to the open-air patio. In the whole 102 square miles of Ngorongoro Crater there is not a single light shining. We are standing at 7500 feet above sea level. It’s the dark of the moon, the sky is pitch black and the stars are spectacular. I am totally blown away as I contemplate the astronomy that surrounds me.

I am facing due West. On my right I can see the great square of Pegasus with the big dipper lower in the Northern sky. On my left is the Southern Cross and the vast expanse of the Milky Way. What wonder and joy to be in Africa gazing out across the galaxy on a balmy night at the dark of the moon glued by gravity to the surface of a giant nickel-iron ball with a thin stony crust spinning at 1000 miles per! I am exquisitely dizzy just thinking about it. I look toward the center of the Milky Way, stretch my arms to the skies, throw back my head, balance on one foot and let out a long howl of satisfaction. King of the Universe and top of the heap!

The staff, after a brief startle, re-arrange themselves and grin at my outgassing of delight. They like American tourists the best. We are big tippers and more fun to watch than the sedate European wazungus.

Tomorrow we descend the caldera!

DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - Tanzania - Part 6

UPLOAD TANZANIA

DOWNLOAD KENYA


BRING LOTS OF MONEY!


BORDER BREAKFAST

CRESTED CRANES

BYE BYE KILIMANJARO

BYE BYE ELEPHANTS

It’s a bright sunshiny morning as we upload our luggage into the minivan and say ‘Bye-Bye’ to Amboseli National Park. But first we have to stop for a few more photos. Amboseli is definitely the best place in Kenya to take elephant pictures. And the birds aren’t too shabby either. I love the crested cranes!

Then it’s time to hit the road. Back across dusty Lake Kilimanjaro and onto the single- track dirt-road to the park entrance. At the gate, we wait in the van for Robinson to pay the exit fees. Rena scores three really nice necklaces of hammered copper and tiny glass beads from some Masai Mamas. Margaret and Jon resist the hard sell by rolling up the windows and looking the other way. But I am careful to make eye contact with each vendor and apologetically shrug shoulders while gently saying, “Hapana pesa, pole.” (‘sorry out of money’ in Swahili). I’m trying my best to dispel the impression that all foreigners are harsh. The Masai must marvel at how threatened mzungu’s are by markets and bargaining. I find that a kind look costs nothing and is greatly appreciated, wherever one travels.

From the park entrance it’s a one-hour drive to the border at Mahanga. Outside Mahanga, we stop at a lovely café for breakfast. I spring for some mandazi – the square donuts of East Africa . Everyone else is afraid of food poisoning but I overdose on hot, sugary fried dough. Lucky for me, I’m protected by a cast iron stomach and the doxycycline antibiotic that I take to prevent malaria. (Incidentally, the Swahili word for diarrhea is tchi-tchi-tchi. I believe it’s onomatopoetic for the sound of thick liquid dropping into a pit latrine.)

At the border we have to change everything – our minivan for a 4-WD Range Rover and our drivers and money for their Tanzanian equivalents. We soon find out that everything in Tanzania is more expensive than in Kenya – beginning with the visa to enter the country. In Kenya a visa costs $50 as you enter – in Tanzania it’s double that! But only for Americans! At first I thought we were singled out because we’re supposed to be wealthy. The real explanation is that America charges the most of any country in the world for its entry visas. So Tanzania, Brazil and a few other countries are asking Americans to pay tit-for tat at their borders. Payback is a b**ch!

After emptying our wallets of major moolah, we cross the border. (and find that lunch in Arusha, Tanzania is twice as expensive as in Mahanga, Kenya.). If you go on safari in Tanzania be sure to bring lots of cash.

Tanzania travel tip #1 :) On second thought, the next time I cross into Tanzania maybe I'll take off my underwear, don a plaid blanket and hike across with the Masai. There are benefits to being a member of a traditional tribe that has never been conquered, doesn't believe in school, and has no concept of borders. The Masai just follow their herds and if the animals head south from Kenya into Tanzania - so be it.

Tanzania travel tip #2 :) Many places in East Africa will only change U.S. bills Series 2006 or later. Apparently, counterfeiters have a much easier time making fake bills to match earlier Series. We had to go to three banks in Amesbury to find $1000 in Series 2006 spending money to bring with us! (By the way, paying with plastic is OK in Nairobi but not common anywhere else in East Africa.)

DAKTARI

Africa 2009 - Meet the Masai - Part 5

One small Leap for a Man

One Giant Leap for everyone Else

Honored Guests
Tough Competition - Peter is on the left

They're not Kidding!

Before heading to the Tanzania border, I meet a Masai named Peter in the hotel lobby.
Being a wee more than a wee bit Scots (the new-world Beans of North America are a black sheep offshoot of the Clan McBain), I feel a shared bond with this tall warrior wearing a red tartan blanket and no underwear.

I offer the traditional greeting to my new-found kinsman:
“Eyeh, Sopa!” (How are you?) I intone.
“Eyeh, Hepa,”(Fine and you) replies Peter.

This greeting in the Maa language, is followed by the traditional queries:
“How are your children?”
“And how are your cattle?”
(These comprise the two main measures of Masai wealth.)
“My cows and children are well,” says Peter.
I tell him my children are fine too and lie about the cattle.
(Although once upon a time I did own a small herd of Hereford's. But that, as they say, is another story.)

By and bye, Peter invites me and my clan to an exhibition of traditional Masai dancing.
Jon, Margaret, Rena and I march single-file from the pool area to a shaded dance floor where the bare earth is packed hard and smooth. We are greeted by 4 women and 5 men all in traditional Masai plaids.

The women garland us with fine Masai beadwork and we are led to seats as the honored guests. The Masai Moran (warriors) enter with spears and whisks to begin their low, rhythmic, hypnotic chant.

Then the jumping starts. Each Masai warrior takes a turn doing serial leaps as high as he can.
“Wow, these guys can really jump,” whispers Jon.
“Not bad,” I agree. “But watch this.”
I call Peter over. Before long I'm in with the dancers.
At 5 feet 10, I'm the short guy in the back row.
As the chant progresses I work my way to the front. It's show time!

OK! Now for the big jump. One, two, three – Heppa!
That's one small leap for a man, (and no great leap for mankind, either).
I cast a glance at my fellow dancers.
Most of the Moran are smiling. Perhaps it is in appreciation. More likely they are whispering softly to each other in Maa, “It's true what they say - The white guys can't jump.”

I get a more honest response from the front row of the gallery where I have obviously impressed the royalty. Milady Margaret is laughing herself silly and her handmaiden Rena is about to pee in her pants. We buy sodas for all the guys and contribute a thousand shillings to the Moran’s 'Children and Cattle Welfare' fund.

“I love watching the Masai drink Coca Cola. It's just like the commercials on TV!” enthuses Rena as we head to the van.

Robinson puts the pedal to the metal and we're on our way to Tanzania. The road signs are looking more ominous. It's rough, it's dusty, it's an adventure.

DAKTARI

Africa 2009-Amboseli Game Drive- Part 4

LION WATCHERS
LION LOVERS
WHAT MAMMALS DO BEST BEER FOR BREAKFAST?
HAPPY TRAILS

The game drive at Amboseli starts promptly at 7:30 AM. We have no further brushes with squirrel monkeys or other varmints and after our coffee and cake we assemble in the trusty Toyota van to see what the rest of the park has to offer.

Our driver, Robinson, is a whiz at birds. On our way in to the gamepark, we spot a lilac breasted roller, a black bellied bustard and two spur winged plovers. I can’t tell one avian from another but I love the names!

One of our first sightings of the morning is two lions humping. Never seen that before! I'm reminded once again that on my 13 visits to East Africa, I’ve seen lions doing lots of different things, but I’ve never actually seen a lion kill anything. What’s with that? Where is ‘nature red in tooth and claw’?

In fact, as I reflect further, I’ve never seen any animal murders at all in my 20 years of visiting East Africa. It makes me wonder, why are real-life safaris so different from the usual serial killings that one watches on National Geographic specials or Animal Planet shows?

Rather than predator versus prey, mostly what we see on safari is lions making babies and lots and lots of breast feeding. We see baby elephants, baby wildebeests, baby zebra and their lactating Moms. Maybe Darwin and his followers have it all wrong! Maybe the survival of the species doesn’t depend so much on how great a hunter your Daddy is but on how great a nurser your Mommy is. That’s why Mammals are us. And Tyrannosauri are extinct. In which case, we humans would be wise to spend more of our resources improving the quality of our support for nursing mothers rather than beefing up our military might. Call it the “Boob Theory” of evolution! Just think, if Darwin had been a woman, perhaps ‘survival of the fittest’ would have a whole different meaning. It may be only a theory -- but I like it. Go mammals!

After the game drive, we arrive back at the Serena Lodge for a hearty safari breakfast. Gotta love those fresh mangos! There's no Kenya AA coffee for the young ones however. Seems like they've discovered the pleasure of Tusker for brunch. After breakfast, the expedition splits up – most of our fellow travelers head back to Nairobi where they will catch a plane to Kisumu and eventually meet the truckload of luggage in Esabalu village.

Next stop for John, Margaret, Rena and me is the Tanzania border for more safari adventures. A sign on the track to the border promises a bit of rough travel ahead! As does the sign on our Tanzanian land-rover – “It’s rough, it’s dusty, it’s an adventure.”

DAKTARI