Day 1020: First Floods, Now Tornadoes
June 12, 2008 - Filed Under travel, weather, wisconsin
Today, my parents celebrate 44 years of being married. Holy cows, are the sixties that far back in our past? I called Mom and Dad this morning to, as we desis say, “wish them.”
In typical Mom fashion, my mom told me to be very careful when traveling in Wisconsin this weekend and not to get “caught up in the water.” I’m a) going to be in northeastern Wisconsin and b) not partial to flooding of any sort after witnessing what went on here in 2005. Following that, even more typically, she expressed sorrow regarding the news that four people died last evening in a freak tornado in Little Sioux, Iowa. Flood. Tornadoes. Friend’s sister’s house almost caught on fire from extremely near and tremendous lightning activity.
Are rains like this going to become more typical in the Upper Midwest? Will this nation step up to the challenge of infrastructure repair? Should humanity abandon the flood plain? Where is safe?
Points to ponder as I head into the sky again. I’m a-comin’, Wisconsin. See y’all next week.
Day 998: Up Into The Air Again Today
May 22, 2008 - Filed Under photographs, travel
Day 996: Travel, Sick Relatives, Computers. Gah.
May 20, 2008 - Filed Under computing & internet, family & friends, health, travel, wordpress
Things have been rather hectic here at VatulBlog HQ lately. So busy that I have neither the time nor the inclination to blog. I’ve seen more of the insides of airports and geophysical data than any human should and the best part is that it isn’t over. More travel and data schlepping ahead.
This past weekend, I flew up to Ohio to spend some time with my parents and grandmother, the latter of whom I haven’t seen since my wedding around sixteen months ago. This is Patti’s (Tamil for grandmother) second battle with that awful beast known as cancer and she has just come out of another demeaning round of chemotherapy and radiation. Yet, she got out of bed and walked into the living room to spend time with one of her favorite grandchildren and, through coughs and sniffles, lovingly related to me all the things I used to do as a precocious young kid visiting my grandfather and her in India. I want to take this opportunity to say the following to my grandmother: Should this fate befall me, Goddess help me be half as strong as you are and look half as beautiful as you do after swallowing harsh, cancer-killing chemicals and being zapped by gamma rays, neutrons and protons that make you sicker than your illness provides. You, my dear lady, kick ass. I love you. (I also admire the hell out of you for tuning out the inevitable, heated discussion on American politics that went on among your children and grandchildren.)
Should this fate befall me. Let’s see - paternal great-grandmother and maternal aunt dead of breast cancer, paternal uncle dead of lung cancer, grandmother fighting non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and I live on Cancer Alley. Nice. When I mentioned this to him, Herr Doktor Brother assured me that nanotechnology will cure all within the span of a decade and that I’ve got to have faith in the coming and unstoppable advancements in medical science. I’m similarly optimistic about the oil industry and alternative sources of energy, but, like any passive consumer of products I don’t know much about, I’ll believe the cure for cancer when I see it.
Speaking of frustrating illnesses, Dangerblond’s blog is on the fritz. More specifically, we are battling File ‘./blog/wp_comments.MYD’ not found (Errcode: 13), which probably means a corrupt Comments file/table which in turn means a Wordpress upgrade. I may not be able to fix cancer, but I will make her blog cry Uncle, by gum. Tonight, I go in with a Ka-Bar between my teeth. Wish me luck.
In my last post, I mentioned the possibility of travelling to Myanmar later this year to help the victims of Cyclone Nargis rebuild. Thanks to the latest actions of the military “leadership” there, Americans may not be let in until then. 0 comments #
Day 973: River, Lake, Fossil, Rock, River
April 27, 2008 - Filed Under geology, photographs, travel
A Very Full Mississippi In Memphis
Lake Mendota And Picnic Point From The Edgewater Hotel
University of Wisconsin Geology Museum’s Latest Trilobite Acquisition
Rare Botryoidal Fluorite
Bonnet Carré Spillway
Day 968: Sporadic Blogging Ahead
April 22, 2008 - Filed Under photographs, travel
The rest of the week will see me in Houston and Madison on business. I hope to catch up with Scout when in Mad-town and will report back with results. Until the next post, here are a couple of sobering photos I took recently.
Click on photos to enlarge.
Day 923: Musical Dilemma
March 7, 2008 - Filed Under music, new orleans, travel
On Friday, April 25th, Robert Plant and Alison Krauss will play the Jazzfest in support of their album, Raising Sand. Plant and Krauss work well together even though they didn’t write any of the songs, a matter easily overlooked thanks to their two great voices and T Bone Burnett’s production genius. I’ve always liked both artists independently, dig the album and now have an opportunity to see them perform in my city. It’s really the only JF offering for me, as I’ve already seen a lot of or am not as excited about the rest of the lineup.
Enter problem: The UW geology alumni board has scheduled a meeting in Madison that same day. I was unable to attend last fall’s gathering due to a business trip and really ought not to miss two meetings in a row. In addition, I am on the committee for a fundraising iniative that kicks off this year.
Hence, the dilemma: Stay in New Orleans, watch the Plant-Krauss show, miss the meeting and beat myself up for being irresponsible? Or travel to Madison, return to New Orleans on Saturday and sulk my way through the rest of Jazzfest? It does not help that the Raising Sand tour leaves for Europe after Jazzfest and, on its return stateside in June, will be nowhere near me.
Fiddlesticks.
Day 921: Every Ting Be Eire, Mon!
March 5, 2008 - Filed Under culture-society-history, family & friends, food & drink, geology, global, photographs, recovery, travel
Last Saturday, 1100 miles away on the island of Jamaica, I turned the same age as Jesus and John Belushi when they died. Perhaps this will be the year a woman breaks into the Stonecutters Freemasons and is then promptly axed. Axed to leave, that is.
For one week, our friends, Olga, Osbourne and Salome, took six of us from the Wisconsin gang into their villa and arms once again. We swam in a lovely pool, sat by it while soaking up the sun, ate scrumptious Jamaican dishes cooked by Olga herself, walked and swam in the Caribbean and enjoyed meeting and hanging out with Runaway Bay and Swansea locals. Not once during the seven days did we know what was going on back home or in the worlds of politics, sports and entertainment. Nor did we care to know. I’ve come to realize that it’s not all that important, unless there’s a missile being lobbed in your general direction or Brett Favre retires. “Why did it take us five years to come back? Are we collectively insane?” we wondered, especially the ones who live in Wisconsin and Ohio. Two years is as long a gap we will now afford before returning to paradise.
While we vacationed, life in Jamaica went on around us. The general economic atmosphere in the portion of the north coast that we travelled (from Montego Bay to Ocho Rios) is one of building, quarrying and transportation. You couldn’t say the same five years ago, when the pothole-ridden streets and almost-dead silence of the place frightened me, until I came to know certain parts of New Orleans before and after the flood. The only troubling aspect of the enthusiastic construction there is the sheer number of sprawling mega-resorts and tall condominium towers rising up on the Caribbean waterfront, impeding views and access to locals. One observes a lot of cranes in the sky, but few are for Jamaicans, reserved instead for foreigners with money who will live part-time or permanently in Jamaica.
From what I heard and observed, the island as a whole seems to have recovered nicely from Hurricane Dean with newly paved roads and other facets of rebuilt infrastructure like schools, hospitals and shops.
[Aside: During a visit to the vast and breathttaking rock-gasm that is the Green Grotto cave system, I learned that the word hurricane arrived in our vocabulary from Hurákan, the storm god of the Mayans and the Taíno, the indigenous people of Jamaica better known to the west as the Arawak. In fact, in above-ground clearings surrounded by immediate entries to the caves, the Taíno performed many a ritual to appease the angry storm god. It is unfortunate that the current existence of the Taíno in Jamaica can only be speculated upon thanks to their massacre by successive waves of colonists. When pressed, our tour guide referred to them simply as "extinct."]
There is a price to pay for living in paradise. “Had Dean not veered away, there would be no more Jamaica,” our friends muttered slowly. Some asked me about New Orleans and what is taking us so long. When I explained that the onus of post-Katrina/Flood recovery is on the New Orleanian and the communities we form, they laughed and asked us why we don’t riot and get rid of corrupt politicians like they do. “If we don’t like those in power, they don’t stay in there too long,” said Olga. “You are Americans. We are not so rich, but we fight. What’s your excuse?” What is our excuse? Sheepishly, I grabbed my plate of fried plantains and walked away to mull it over. That was my excuse.
Mmmmm, fried plantains. The most inexpensive and delicious fruit, vegetables, seafood, spices and sweets cooked and served three times daily. Mangoes, breadfruit, pineapple and papaya to die for alongside jerk chicken and freshly-caught lobster and fish. After every meal, we promised one another not to get used to it, lest we come back home and expect the contents of the refrigerator to magically transform, auto-cook and appear on our dinner plates.
Popular Jamaican music, however, is not as insipring as the food. There is, it seems, no limit to the number of times an artist or dj can insert an airhorn into an otherwise relaxing bit of reggae, while the islander obsession with country music baffles me. Why, oh why, must my eardrums get damaged by listening to Garth Brooks and Shania Twain lyrics in off-key patois? If the fad persists, please stick with Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson. Thank goodness, however, for the melodious respites offered by Bob Marley, Jah Rule and Lady Saw.
The end of the week came. Olga and Osbourne shed tears as we hugged and said our goodbyes. When asked why, they responded that we are some of the nicest folks they’ve ever met, they are surprised we’ve stayed friends for half a decade and we don’t put on airs around the help. Apparently, not many visitors treat black Jamaicans with the equality and camaraderie we bestowed upon our hosts. I’ve noticed that, in general, middle-class Americans who travel abroad may not be the most cosmopolitan and, hence, stick out like a sore thumb, but do not put themselves in a class above the locals or help. The wealthy from any nation and all classes of Europeans, on the other hand, tend to maintain a strict social barrier between themselves and foreigners or those who serve them. I view it as a remanent of the baron-serf, colonist-colonized, owner-slave relationships that existed between these people and may persist until nations like Jamaica are not viewed as former colonies but as freestanding nations. Understand that this is a cultural nuance, but not one that has to endure or be tolerated. Olga, Ozzie and their families are my people now, as it should be.
Reminiscing about this trip, the one thought that floats to the top over and over again is “Thank you for letting me see, hear, feel, eat and breathe this. Thank you for the time to let go. I’m so lucky.”
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