Wild-eyed-cam

Order Out of Chaos

2009-10-18T00:05:00.002-04:00

Palm Beach Photographic Centre
Juried Exhibition
November 13, 2009 - January 3, 2010

Sunset Tree

2009-02-26T18:08:00.005-05:00

A recent weekend camping trip (yes, me, camping) gave me an opportunity to see a remote part of the Everglades and experience this area in a very different way.

On the southwest coast of Florida there are small islands reachable only by boat and populated mostly by mangroves and racoons. The trees are twisted and weathered from exposure to hurricanes. The night skies only show the remotest glow from the far off city lights and the stars seem close enough to touch. Sunrise and sunset was an amazing time -- sometimes with so much color that is seemed someone had cranked up the saturation in photoshop.

This photo from the trip has been selected for exhibition in the 2009 Boca Raton Museum of Art - The Art School Exhibit from March 3 through April 10, 2009. Needless to say, I am very pleased!

Windows, Doors and Diamonds

2008-12-05T12:57:00.007-05:00

While there are still stories to tell, this post just revels in a few of the doors, windows and random colors that captured my attention....

Terra red walls and leather

Stained glass reflections

Through sunset colored windows

Diamonds and stars

Moroccan Travels

2008-11-14T17:58:00.011-05:00

The car takes us only so far and then we follow a gravel road on foot toward a collection of quonset huts; mud and rock walls roofed with bits and pieces of tin and plastic. A young girl quietly falls into step with Fazia, our guide. Chickens and roosters scramble at our approach to the first hut. The door sits slightly askew in its makeshift frame and on the roof, a small solar panel is angled to catch the sun. It is perhaps large enough to power a few electric lights. There is no electricity in this village, no water and no sewage.

A broad smile lights the face of the woman who opens the door and calls a greeting. She speaks no English so our communication is through Fazia. Despite the language barrier, her openness, her smile, her eyes welcome us. Aicha is dressed simply and functionally; her age is hard to determine but she seems an easy leader. She manages the project that brings us here.

Other women join our little group as we climb a small steep hill that forms the buffer in front of the village. We reach the crest of the hill and, in the distance, I see the source of their building materials – the city dump of Ifrane, a wealthy resort town in the Atlas Mountains.

Modernization, climate change and the continued desertification has affected each of Morocco’s citizens differently. This group of Berber shepherding families less able to survive by their traditional means has squatted here for access to that which the rich discard. When combined with shepherding services, the dump’s assets provide basic subsistence; however, without something more, they will never break the cycle that holds them in the last century.

At the base of the other side of the hill, is a group of huts that represent hope and the future of this village. Building on the knowledge and skill of a few of the women, the village has become the site of a hand loomed wool rug making cooperative. With the help of the local university and donations from Morocco, the US and Canada, primitive looms have been built, wool sourced and the women of the village trained to weave rugs and other small items for sale to tourists and through outlets that specialize in hand crafted items. A chicken moves from its roosting place next to one of the wooden string looms as we enter the first hut.

I bought a sweater once in Piccadilly Market in London – it was a wonderful gray and white Irish bulky knit. Handmade by Irish lasses of yarn spun by Irish spinners from the sheep shorn by Irish lads after grazing on rich Irish lands…. I loved it. I loved the thought of it and especially the feel of it – the yarn had a rough texture with the slight feel of the lanolin still in it. And, it was a bargain, to boot! I held it to my face in the cold outdoor market and it had a rich, sweet, earthy smell that I still associate with warmth.

Ducking through the doorway into the hut in Tarmilat, I smell the same warmth. The only light comes from the doorway and two openings in the roof farther in the room. From behind the looms, the women begin to bring out their designs – some masterful, some more primitive –all beautiful colors and each with a tag identifying the woman who wove it so that when it sells, they know who gets the proceeds.

Soon there is a pile of rugs of every size, bags, purses, and runners strewn on the dirt floor in front of us. Each is tagged with a price in Moroccan dirhams. I pick up a bag of a rich brown and blue pattern with cream fringe and convert the price to about US$8.75.

I had determined not to buy anything while in Morocco (no room in the suitcase) and certainly nothing wool as there is more to my Piccadilly Market story: I was scheduled to leave London the day after buying my lovely Irish sweater. I somehow stuffed it into my duffle that night but I was already developing buyer’s remorse. Indoors and without the benefit of a brisk cold breeze, my sweater smelled a bit stronger – like the sheep might still be attached to it.

The return flight from the UK is numbing and I’m sure I didn’t give my Irish sweater another thought until I opened my bag on my bedroom floor and gained overwhelming respect for the plight of a shepherd. Unzipping my bag, I was met with the odor of what was surely a whole herd of woolly creatures. My wonderful bargain and everything else in my bag was redolent with the smell of sheep. Many launderings eventually dulled the smell and it still hangs in my closet as a reminder against romantic shopping notions.

So, I wasn’t initially inclined to buy until, as I picked up each piece, I saw the reaction of the women and children that watched me judge their work. There was pride, there was appreciation that I was there, and there was hope.

In the close, still air of the hut, I held a wool panel made by the oldest woman in the cooperative to my face and breathed deeply – no sheep, only warmth.

Fazia and the oldest member of the cooperative

I came home with several pieces, wonderful memories of meeting these women and a deep admiration for their determination.

Moroccan Travels... Donkeys and Diesel

2008-11-07T10:19:00.022-05:00

Through passport control in the modern Casablanca Airport we descend an escalator into masses of swirling white robes in baggage claim. We reach the bottom as three robed women pass hurriedly by and I catch the scent of roses that lends to my impression of being amid a host of angels. Men and women are distinguishable mainly by their head dress. The women, with white scarves wrapped securely over their heads, mostly veiled but some not, sort and search through baggage. Men, heads topped with white round close fitting caps, look regal and important as they talk seriously and with animation to airline employees. I don't understand Arabic so I assume it is the universal “lost baggage” query. Despite the guide books and internet research, nothing has prepared me for the uniformity of dress that surrounds me as I stand expectantly by the baggage carousel. I pray my bags show up.

As I listen to the cacophony of voices around me, I wonder why I am here. Southern Africa has come to feel a bit like home to me – when I step off the airplane I can feel and smell the difference in the air. It is familiar and evokes a sense of evolution in me. I am never ready to leave. I wonder if I’ll come to feel that kind of connection with the northern end of the continent over the next two weeks.

From the onset, I am struck by the contrasts.

On the way from the airport to Fez, the car radio plays a mixture of 70’s disco – Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff”, “Night Fever” by the BeeGees and other artists I haven’t heard for years. Disco is interspersed occasionally with a Moroccan tune. I find it strange; our driver doesn’t understand. Soon Sayeed interrupts our drive and conversation about his passion for American movies, TV and his budding acting career. We pull into a very modern looking gas station to rival anything seen along US expressways. It offers petrol, restrooms, a convenience store, a fast food restaurant and a prayer room to accommodate the devote in their call to pray that comes five times a day. We “rest”, Sayeed prays.

We drive on and pass donkeys and camels dragging wooden plows through fields making slightly ragged patchworks on the hill sides.

Over the next two weeks these low tech plows are a regular sight. Then, out of the blue, John Deere will loom on the horizon amid fields manicured to perfection by a combustion engine.
Still, donkeys are the Ford F-150’s of Morocco.

From the rooftop of our riad, I can peer onto a neighbor’s roof and watch her squat next to a flame fueled by a small bright blue tank of propane gas. A steaming pot perches above the heat balanced on a flimsy metal stand; garlic and onion waft my way. The robed pot watcher stirs the ancient vessel with a coarse wooden spoon and speaks rapid Arabic into her hot pink cell phone replete with camera. Oversized satellite dish antennae attached to the highest part of the roof seem to watch her as she cooks as her grandmother did while enjoying the best of new communication technology.

In the market, sides of meat and a sheep’s head hang in the open air stalls unprotected from flies while in the background sit huge stainless refrigeration units.

All over I am met with the juxtaposition of modernity overlaid starkly on the last century.

Scantily clad images peer down from billboards that tower above groups of Muslim women covered from head to toe. Only their eyes visible as they wait for the traffic light to signal them across the street and away from the tasteless advertising for a western product.

Nikes and espadrilles peak from beneath djellabas, the caftan like garment of many Moroccans. There is a plethora of western brand names….

And products available...

Yamahas wait by ancient gates…

Boys in jeans and leather jackets slip past traditionally dressed contemplative men in the markets. No apology, no defiance – it is simply a world with one foot planted firmly in this century and another, seemingly, in the last.

As the time passes, I am struck, too, by the warmth of the people, the mysterious glimpse we are allowed of their complex culture, the colors, the foods... so, more stories to come.

The Most Difficult Animal To See...

2007-10-12T15:58:00.000-04:00

Memories of past safaris are rekindled easily on my current trip...

Cheetahs are sleek, amazingly fast and powerful. I imagine that capturing a defenseless impala or wildebeest will be easy for the three cheetah males we track in the Savuti area of Botswana. We stalk them much like they stalk their prey. Knowing only that they were seen in the area yesterday, the open land rover patrols several kilometers of a dried up channel, the perfect hunting ground for cheetahs. All afternoon, binoculars scan the raised banks, stopping to examine termite mounds carefully as Tony Reumerman, our Wilderness Safaris guide, has explained that cheetahs favor the vantage point of these structures.

The light begins to change to golden and the cats show themselves.

The coalition of three males move down the channel at a relaxed pace. They look hungry with mouths slightly open and bellies obviously empty.

A small herd of wildebeest grazes at the widest point in the river of grass. The brothers stop, interested in the proximity of the "made by committee" animals. They separate and watch.

Crouched, ears back, their muscles show a slight twitch of anticipation.

I think of Pico, my cat, and the similarity of the hunter’s stance. The difference being that Pico relies heavily on the can opener rather than the moles she toys with in the backyard.

One by one, they begin to approach the herd with agonizing slowness. First, they move along the edge of the channel and then, creep closer through the grass.

I am not sure how I will feel when the cheetahs kill but I have developed a kinship with these brothers after hearing their story. They move up and down the Savuti channel avoiding lion activity and sometimes loosing their prey to the hyenas that also call the area home. One of the brothers limps, perhaps from an encounter with a lion or hyena, and clearly couldn’t survive on his own.

I am rooting for the brothers as they approach the wildebeest – until I suspect that they will single out a youngster born only months before in the spring. Suddenly, with incredible speed, they sprint toward their prey. The herd only becomes aware of the danger when the cats are almost upon them. It seems hopeless and I am not sure I can watch.

Late afternoon into the twilight is my favorite time of day on safari. While I hate for the days to end, it is the part of day I wish would stretch out, extend, and last forever.

First, the late afternoon light is golden and it enriches the colors of the African landscape and turns the dry season air to gold dust.

Then, there are the sunsets, always different, always spectacular.

The animals begin to get active – either heading for a drink and out of harms way, or coming out into the safety of the dark to forage or hunt. Either getting up or bedding down, everyone is doing something.

Tanzanian parks require safari activities cease by dark and so, this year, we race to make it back to camp each evening. Something of interest to photograph or to watch always delays us.

In Tarangire, the road to camp runs along the edge of a lush swamp. Each night we watch the moon rise as elephants take one last drink

or have a mud bath at water’s edge.

Trees take on a different shape as birds choose a roosting spot. When vultures roost, it looks eerily like Halloween. This year, open billed storks roosting look more like Saturday morning cartoons.

Heckyl and Jeckyll

Over the years, as I have ticked off “most wanted” sightings from my list, cheetahs remain, for since that first trip to Africa and the remarkable hunting scene; I have only had one other brief glimpse of a cheetah.

Now, in the fading light, with only moments before our curfew, we come upon two cheetahs flanking the road back to Oliver's Camp. Despite the hour, we stop and it is easy to see the cats are alert; they look ready to hunt.

I think back to the cheetahs in Botswana and visualize the hunt again in my mind. Three cheetahs against a small herd of wildebeests with several young in their midst -- seems like bad odds for the wildebeests. Nature evens the playing field with funny curved horns, tricks and agility. The wildebeests scatter, some run in circles, some run behind the cheetahs. In the dust they kick up, I can’t distinguish the adults from the young, the young from the cheetahs. That is the point, I realize, as I watch in amazement as out of the dust, a phalanx of adult wildebeests forms to march on their attackers and separate them from the rest of the herd.

Score one for the wildebeests but the brothers go hungry. How many times do they try and fail?

In Tarangire, I want to follow this pair of cats to their hunt just like I followed the Botswana cheetahs. I want to see if their luck or skill is better. The park rules and we move on to camp.

Murky twilight is perfect for hunting however, not for photography. Before dinner, I check my photos of the pair and see only unrecognizable blur. Fortunately, Jill Snyder's luck (and skill!) was better and she captured this wonderful image of one of bothers in truly difficult lighting conditions.

Hopes of getting a better look at this pair of cheetah are gone -- we are off to the Serengeti the next day. With its vast plains, the Serengeti also provides prime hunting grounds for cheetah and my search begins anew.

Every time a kopje comes into view I scan it hopefully as the elevation provides a great survey position for cats.

Robert, our guide, hears there is a cheetah in the area and we search, driving back and forth along the plain. It is a male, we are told. He has eaten recently and is resting from his exertions in tall grass hidden from our view. We look for the smallest sign of movement. His tail flips to chase flies trying to land on the blood still clinging in places to his fur. The motion gives him away and we drive closer.

He is beautiful. Healthy and regal, he feeds easily on the herds of wildebeest traveling through the area as they migrate to the northern plains in search of fertile grasslands. In this photo by Carl Zanoni, he has captured “The Hunter” perfectly.

Yet, as he rolls on the ground, it is hard to imagine a killer.

A group of wildebeest move close to his resting spot; he forgets he has just eaten and instinct takes over. He begins to stalk them and I think he will hunt. His full belly brushes the ground perhaps reminding him he is full and slow.

He decides to just watch.

The fate of the cheetah brothers in Botswana? They finally make a kill. We get word the next morning. A night of keeping the wildebeests on edge wearies the herd and the cats succeed in separating out one of the young. They made their kill less than a kilometer from camp.

Thanks to Jill and Carl for letting me share their photos. The best part of a photography based trip is the chance to meet and learn from other photographers. More of Jill’s photos can be seen at http://www.photosbyjilles.com/, the site for Jill E. Snyder Photography.

The most difficult animal to see...
...is the one you haven't seen.
Cheetahs remain near the top of my list.

Photographic Memories

2007-09-28T17:59:00.002-04:00

Going through my pictures of Africa is like reading a journal. I recall the smell of the air, the morning chill and the thrill of a flash of color in the corner of my eye signaling a bird that might be one I have never seen before. Looking at this year's photos sends me back to past trips to renew and remember. My memories are filled with anecdotes, tales of the bush and of the animals.

Great guides tell little stories of the land, the people and the animals to fill the waiting that is a safari.

As I sit by a bend in the river watching for the herd of elephants that frequently come to drink at this time of day, the stories come out quite naturally. Robert, our guide in the Serengeti, rambles that the horned group of impala drinking are a bachelor herd all either too young or too old to earn and keep their own harem. Once a buck gains control of a herd, their reward is short-lived. They will spend so much time keeping other males away and expelling, from the herd, the maturing male offspring of the harem, they won’t have time to eat.

Within three months, they grow too weak to defend their territory and are overthrown to join a bachelor herd, and, hopefully, regain their strength to fight their way back to power.

The ellies arrive and I watch the interactions of the family group.

The guide explains that the tusked bull elephant that shakes his head at us is really just a preteen testing his prowess...

and it will soon be time for him to strike out on his own with the other bulls. The real power rests with the matriarch of the group. Intelligent creatures, aren’t they?

Moving on to another area, I learn that Dikdik’s are monogamous, living together in pairs rather than in herds. If you see one dikdik, there is likely to be another close by. Amazingly, they don’t need water to survive and will the stay in the same territory for as long as it remains safe and the vegetation is adequate. Bush suburbia.

So, when I look at my photos, they are more than the animals within them – I hear their stories, picture their antics, wonder at their fate.

Birds have been Africa’s surprise gift to me beginning with my first guide, Tony Reumerman of Wilderness Safaris. He has a way of sharing his knowledge of these creatures that sparks my interest to know more.

Now, after several years, one of the things I most look forward to on any trip, is finding a few new bird species.

Thinking about great guides and past sightings prompted me to add a post to last year's chronicle which even has sound effects along with a comedic kingfisher sequence. http://wild-eyed-cam.blogspot.com/2007/09/caped-crusader-and-kingfishers-dinner_28.html

With each new trip, I meet different guides. The constant is that the longer they have guided, the more they seem to appreciate the diversity and complexity of birdlife and that the better the guides appreciate the avian inhabitants of their world more.

I am delighted to find that Njano, our local guide in Tarangire, has a special knowledge of birds having worked earlier in his career with avian researchers. To capture birds for banding, researchers set up thin nets in roosting areas. When the sun comes up, the birds naturally try to leave the roost and fly into the net. One of Njano’s jobs was to go out early in the morning to band the birds before they had been in the net too long. His knowledge goes beyond what guide books can teach.

In Tarangire we keep seeing Secretary birds beginning the mating rituals of nest building and courtship. Named for the pen like quills that adorn their crowns, they perform elaborately.

A new one for me --the Yellow Necked Spurfowl -- so ugly, he's cute.

Fish Eagles are abundant. Similar to our Bald Eagle in looks and origin, they always make me think about how closely we are all related despite seemingly overwhelming distances.

An African Wood Hoopoe content to pose.

And this is the year of the ostrich! While I had seen a number of ostrich in Namibia, and a few sprinkled throughout other places in Africa, they love Tanzania.

For once, grass in the right place, at the right time.

And this is Njano, our guide from TrueAfrica. Special thanks to you!

The Caped Crusader and the Kingfisher's Dinner

2007-09-28T17:49:00.000-04:00

The birds of Africa add great beauty, interest and a few laughs to my adventures. Their antics and habits are fascinating, sometimes comical. Also, thought provoking.

Wandering through the Okavango Delta, our guide, Tony Reumerman, of Wilderness Safaris, points out the Slaty egret. I learn that the Slaty Egret is a red data species-- critically endangered -- and this sighting is "really quite special", in Tony's words. Then we see a Black Egret and his unusual fishing style. Looking like your normal, everyday egret,

he turns into the caped crusader to lure fish into a seemingly protective shadow.

Then, of course, he zaps them!

On a remote island near Xigera in the Delta, while the morning is still cool and fresh, we crane our necks to look up into the thick, overhanging branches to search out the elusive and, again, critically endangered Pel’s Fishing Owl. Finally, Sam, our local guide sees a splash of golden color among the leaves.

We stay for a while hoping he may call to us but I will have to be content with this recording of what I might have heard. http://www.owlpages.com/sounds/Scotopelia-peli-1.mp3
It is time to allow him to return to his solitude.

When I look at this magnificent creature it is difficult to comprehend that within a few years, none may survive. Man continues to encroach on his habitat and their numbers decline in some areas at the rate of 25% per year. My grandchildren probably will never have the chance to see this rare species.

With over 3500 animal species threatened or endangered, there are creatures that will become extinct before I have the chance to see them, nevermind my grandchildren. If I were to see one endangered species a day, it would take .... Well, you do the math.

Thinking positively, I could run out of animals to see in that ten year period because we reverse the trend of endangering species by protecting habitats, reducing the use of chemicals and slowing global warming. But I could also run out of animals to see because they become extinct before I get to them.

Late afternoon and a happy ending...

Late afternoon and everyone starts thinking about dinner and a drink.

After a day of grazing, the buffalo, the impala and the els pick late afternoon for a last drink before dark.

Wild dogs don’t fair well against mightier predators so they want dinner in the late afternoon before competition comes on the scene.

The Pied Kingfisher needs to be able to see to hunt. Hovering above the water looking for his prey, he dive bombs his target and then, according to the bird books, will either hit it against a branch to kill it or sometimes, will drop it repeatedly on a rock.

Looking for wild dogs this afternoon, we find a kingfisher that hit the mother load of fish..... She looks so proud holding dinner in her beak…

We watch as she gets the fish positioned properly to swallow it.

At this point, it doesn’t seem possible. Kingfisher versions of “The one that got away…” dance through my mind.

Then, she throws her head back and brings the fish down on her perch with incredible force.

After several whacks against the branch, she tries again, to get the fish in her beak.

Still no go.

Whack, whack, whack…. She tries again. Aha! Not just to kill her prey does the kingfisher beat her catch, she wants to pulverize it so it will go down easier!

This is hard work and she looks a little ruffled.

She seemed to be saying, “What was I thinking?”

Finally!

Well, maybe not. The fish seemed to be stuck –

Not going in, but not able to come out for further tenderizing. I wonder how many kingfishers are found feet up at the base of a tree with beak half stuffed with a fish just too big to swallow. Gluttony!

She stretched her neck…

Almost too slowly to see, she made progress.

And ever so slowly,

the fish disappeared…

Kingfisher smile...

Most amazing is that she immediately flies off to another branch to watch the river flowing below presumably looking for dessert.

Gnu Gnights

2007-09-17T20:10:00.001-04:00

Our stay in the northern Serengeti by the Mara River is planned to witness the wildebeest migration. Over one million of these gentle, but funny looking animals must cross the Mara in a perpetual migratory pattern to follow the fertile grasslands. Approaching Sayari camp from the air, however, the thousands of dark spots dotting the landscape look insignificant and dwarfed by the vast Serengeti plains.

From the airstrip to camp, a line of wildebeests gallop across the dirt roadway we travel, halting our progress. These gangly beasts, and all animals, have the right of way in the park.

So, not to worry, right? But the galloping line keeps coming, mostly single file, sometimes by twos or threes. We sit and wait. When the line began, it didn’t occur to me to try to count how many go by, like cars on a freight train. I wish I had.

Spotting a small break in the herd, we leave the place where our paths intersect and make our way to camp. In my mind, I may have thought, “ah, so these are the wildebeests that we have come to photograph...“ How incomplete was my picture of the herds gathering near the banks of the Mara River.

Night Visitors
After dinner that night, my first at Sayari, I had the obligatory camp safety lecture which, unlike the airline spiel at the commencement of a flight, I always listen to. I received the usual caution to expect nighttime visitors. Likely ungulates grazing near camp but, where there are grazers, there are predators.

Night visitors for me, in the past, have run the gamut from hippos to centipedes. Elephant and leopard have graced the surrounds of my tent. A lion has roared RIGHT OUTSIDE and a genet and mice have visited me inside.

Hippos generally make the most noise, grunting and chortling as they munch their way through camp. Elephants can rank right up there as they pull down small trees to sate their appetites. The most thrilling night walker is the lion as the close up sound of his roar reverberates through your whole being; your heart stops and you wonder if it is okay to breath.

Bright yellow earplugs insure that I sleep through nighttime visitations; I rely on the kindness of my roommate to wake me for really exciting stuff. This night, clattering inside the tent and a strange lowing coming from outside brings me to consciousness. Tent poles shake on impact as something hits the side of the tent replicating the clatter that first wakened me. Lowing seems to come from all around. I creep from bed and stand by the thin curtain that covers the screened tent wall – all that is between me and whatever is out there. I hesitate before I pull back the curtain, uncertain of what I will see and more, of what might see me.

The tent shakes again and I draw back the curtain just a bit. Soft light from the almost full moon glistens off the shiny coats of the hundreds of wildebeests that surround our tent. Heads down and oblivious to the camp’s presence, they simply go where there is grass. They can’t eat the tent, so, except for the absent minded bumps while on their way to the next clump of grass, they leave us alone.

I watch as they mingle in the huge plain in front of our tent . Intermixed in the crowd, I see a zebra or two. The low mooing reminds me of a huge herd of cattle and the clattering effect of the occasional bumps to our tent replicates the sounds of cow bells. Finally, I lay back down falling asleep to their bass song. Will this group cross tomorrow? My alarm sounds at 5am and the silence tells me they have moved on in the night.

We are out early the next morning, stopping at times to photograph the sunrise, an impressive trail of safari ants, a Thompson’s gazelle. Totally involved in the gazelle, a familiar sound makes me look to the back, then to the sides.

I am surrounded by wildebeests and they cover the vista as far as I see. I begin to get a sense of the magnitude of what is to come.

Two groups that make up part of the one million migrating wildebeest are converging on the river at the same time. But they don’t just come to the river and cross. The Mara river runs swiftly and is strewn with rocks on which fat crocodiles await the weaker swimmers. Steep banks mean a long drop into the rapid currents. It is with great reluctance that they begin the crossing and, I am told, it sometimes takes several days of milling about, scouring the surrounding plains to be sure there is no source of food on this side of the river before the first wildebeest will cross which, in turn, spurs the rest of the herd to action.

A half million zebras and tommies (Thompson’s gazelles) accompany the wildebeests finding safety in the masses making this trek. Weakened by the dwindling food supply and the pressure to keep up with the herd, there are always a contingent of tired wildebeest that are prime targets for predators. What cheetah mother with hungry cubs to feed wouldn’t opt for a weak gnu rather than risk the perils of a serious chase with a gazelle?

We watch them mill about, moving this way or that, sometimes with purpose, sometimes aimlessly. The closer they get to the river, the more insistent, the more impatient their calls. Something spooks them and a large group stampedes away from the river.
I wonder how long we will have to wait for a crossing.

Gnu Nights II – The Sequel

My award for most annoying night visitor goes to the mouse whose sharp little toenails skitter against the canvas of our tent during the first night at Oliver’s Camp in Tarangire. He runs laps inside the perimeter of the tent all night until a badly thrown boot convinces him to find a way out. His teeth marks leave evidence of the object of his desire and a deal with the little devil is struck with the sacrifice of our daily ration of lemongrass soap. Each night, the offering is left in the open air bathroom part of the tent and I sleep peacefully for the remainder of my stay. Cartoon visions of mouse with extended belly and soap bubbles belching forth from his mouth continually plague my roommate for the remainder of the trip.

The second night in Sayari, very tired, I fall into bed and asleep without my earplugs. Gentle lowing wakes me and I creep to the tent opening to see wildebeest and zebra grazing on what I have come to think of as my front lawn. Many more than last night.

Too tired to watch, I am back in bed and begin to drift off . Suddenly, the lowing is drowned out by the sound of stampeding hooves. The tent shakes violently as the herd crashes into the tent with force that knocks water bottles, toothbrushes and tin cups to the floor. But, before I register fear in my narcoleptic stupor, it is over. The spooked herd has moved on. My heart's pounding slows,and as I fall back to sleep, I wonder what spooked them – a flush in the night?

The Crossing
There are two types of safaris – the drive, drive, drive type where you drive and hope you and animal action will intersect randomly. And the sit and wait type where you find a likely spot – a watering hole, a likely river crossing spot, a plain where cheetah are known to hunt, and you wait for the action to happen. Given the option, always choose the latter! We miss a couple of crossings by being on the drive, drive, drive cycle and finally, on our second to the last day, with the hope of seeing a crossing fading, we demand that we wait it out.

Two herds have come together from opposite directions both previously seeming to have a purpose, a plan. Now, milling together by the steep river banks, the lowing becomes more insistent, more frantic. The mooing softens. A small group breaks away and moves downstream, a few lay down, conserving energy. There is no way to tell where, when or if, they will cross today but we settle down to wait.

Vultures begin to gather. If there is a crossing, some wildebeests won’t survive.

Each movement in the jeep causes a rustle that breaks the silence we try to keep. Nothing to say – we have been together for 10 days shooting everything but the crossing we have come so far to see. We’re tired – the days have been long with pre-dawn wake up calls and sleep broken by our nightly visitors. But the wait is good; it is our chance. Finally, the radio crackles – from down the river, a call from another guide, waiting as we are. It has begun.

The jeep careens to a place on the steep bank downriver from the spot the wildebeest have chosen to cross.

We spill from the jeep. My camera cord is stuck on the seat and it takes a moment to free. The lowing is loud, frantic. The dust from the herd clouds the air. I can see the herd but I can’t see my guides. Along the top of the bank, I see another guide from camp – I move toward him and the herd. The lowing is louder and I see the first of the struggling animals reaching the other side. I follow the swimming line back to this bank and watch with utter amazement as one after another thousands of wildebeests jump into the swiftly running Mara River.

Some launch themselves forward over the backs of other crossers,

some seek to descend the steep bank before entering the water.

A large portion of the herd come toward us as they put off the inevitable and look for a better place to begin the crossing. There is none.

I am struck by the strength of instinct, of migratory drive, of the drive for survival. As I watch one particularly spectacular leap into the river, I wonder when an action is no longer an act of instinct but an act of courage.

Some swim out, then turn back.

Once in the river, they swim with purpose losing some ground to the current but making it to the landing place. At times, a sense of fear pervades my consciousness yet, I am not in danger.

All except one in this crossing seems to make it to the rocks on the other side. A calf, born in February of this year, is too weak to fight the current. I see, but I can't watch. I try to block out the sounds of the mother calling to her struggling offspring from the bank.

Rocks offer no purchase in the torturous climb out of the river and up the opposite bank.

Once over the rocks, they swarm like ants up the far bank.

Legs wobble and shake with this final effort.

The exhaustion is visible as they pull themselves up the bank.

This three stage drama plays continuously for 40 minutes. Suddenly, the portion of the herd remaining on this side of the river stops and moves away from the bank. No more will cross for now; the herd will be split. The animals that crossed look back from the far bank expectantly, but after a few moments, move on to the yet ungrazed plains on the north side of the river.

We move on,too. I, as yet, am without the right words. Perhaps, without the right questions. I do know I am moved far beyond my expectations.

African Skies

2007-09-10T12:21:00.002-04:00

Africa comes rushing to meet me each time I visit!

Our flight from Amsterdam arrives at 8PM so Ngare Sero Lodge is our first overnight stop in Arusha before moving out into the bush in the morning. The lodge dates back to the early 1900s and is on a spring fed lake that attracts over 200 different bird species and supports troops of Sykes and Colobus monkeys. Of course, I want to explore! There is a grove of bananas in bloom and lush tropical gardens I want to photograph. The lodge itself is worthy of my camera’s eye. But, we’re on the road at 8:30am and I hope for time to photograph what I have missed at the end of the trip.

On the road out of Arusha, there are roadside kitchen gardens and intricate and artfully formed outbuildings of sticks and mud to captivate me. Camels and stout, healthy looking donkeys carry wood and water. Wealth measuring herds of cattle are tended by tall, thin men swathed in the bright colors of the Masai and Bantu. Large 4 foot sections of logs dangle in the air from the canopies of tall trees with a single loop of thick rope. ?? Beehives! But, we’ll never make it to our camp in Tarangire if we stop for photos so – another reason to return to Africa!

Once in Tarangire National Park , we drive, our focus on the area between the vehicle and the horizon looking for movement, an anomaly, or a spot of color – either dark, indicating elephant, cape buffalo or wildebeest, or golden, slightly darker than the tall grasses dried from the winter drought, indicating one of the many species of antelope or lion. But my gaze keeps straying to the sky and its incredible blue color dotted with brilliant white clouds.

As the days pass, the animals are amazing, engaging, exciting but the skies stretching over Tanzania continually draw my attention and fascinate me. There is a deceptive sameness to the landscape at first glance but the skies are ever changing. One morning, I watched the moon set in clouds that grace the Sistine Chapel – Michelangelo’s hand, surely.

The canvas is washed clean every night and then, with the morning light, the masters begin their play across the skys of Tanzania.

Some mornings, Turner’s dramatic strokes brush the sunrise sky before Sisley paints billowing white puffs against a canvas so blue as to make it seem unreal.

An afternoon storm is the hand of Denis.

Van Gogh's vibrant colors streak the sunset.

Out of the dark will come another clean canvas and I wonder who will paint next.

But the real reasons for coming to Africa are the animals – right?

Next: Crossing the River

Africa 2007

2007-08-16T11:05:00.000-04:00

On the road again….

To Amsterdam on the 19th and the flower markets, the canals, Anne Frank’s house and the Van Gogh Museum. And time to acclimate to the time zone before traveling on to Tanzania on the 23rd of August.

We fly into Kilimanjaro Airport but I am skipping the mountain this year. The view from the plane will have to do!

We get into Tanzania at 8PM so our first night is at Ngare Sero Mountain Lodge in Arusha, TZ, www.ngare-sero-lodge.com. A very quaint looking little spot although we won’t get much of a chance to look around as early on the 24th we head for Oliver’s Camp in Tarangire National Park, TZ, www.asilialodges.com/index.php?id=4.
Follow the links or cut and paste the url into your browser... They really are good websites and fun to check out.

Tarangire is smaller and much more remote than the Serengeti but has a great concentration of animals and the park permits walking safaris.

We then fly to the northern Serengeti on the 28th to spend the rest of our time at Sayari Camp on the Mara River, www.asilialodges.com/index.php?id=1. The camp is mobile so that as the wildebeest migration occurs, the camp can be situated in the best place.
Then back through Amsterdam on September 4th in route to home which I’ll reach on the 5th.

I almost commented on how long the trip is but I have been reading about some of the early expeditions to Africa when the only way to go was by ship, camel and foot. Granted, there was no one in the seat in front of those early travelers reclining the seat into their laps but I’ll still count my blessings!

Obviously, more when I return!

Returning to Africa

2007-07-27T09:51:00.000-04:00

It is late afternoon by the time we arrive at the airport and there are miles still to go before we reach camp. Yet, I stop for the first namaqua dove scratching in the dirt of the roadway. I stop for the first herd of cape buffalo enshrouded in a cloud of the dry earth that marks the season. I stop for the first blood red sunset filtering through the acacia trees, dust motes dancing and swirling in the riotous light. The light fades and the colors dim to the pastels of Africa. Each is a first -- but only for this trip.

Every time I return to Africa, I vow to take it more slowly, to remember every moment, to write down every sensation, every smell, to photograph every wonder. Hold that my eyes are mesmerized by the rich golds and browns of the landscape and the intricate patterns unbroken by macadam and concrete.

How to capture forever the sounds of the night, the dawn waking of the bush, the hum of the warm afternoons, the lyrical, patient voices of the people? My answer -- to begin slowly, deliberately, to ensnare it all in my memory.

But with every return, fresh experiences crowd my visit. I see new plants, places and animals. New antics and behaviors. An unfamiliar scent mingles with my memories – the new smell? Acacias are in bloom this year, I’ve never smelled their bright yellow blossoms.

Slashes of red mark the green and catch my eye as we speed past another plant I overlooked on my last visit. Vultures circle overhead in the distance. We reach a dry riverbed with steep banks and I take the measure of our driver as he begins the descent at what seems at least a 90 degree angle. Safely to the other side it is only minutes until he slows at movement in the bush. Lions mate. We haven’t even reached camp yet.

Before I sleep, zebra, buffalo and elephant will stare at my passage; a pair of honey badgers will lumber through the underbrush oblivious to the lights of the land rover.

With only the look in their eyes, giraffe will register my presence.

We’ll find the giant eagle owl that we hear calling; a little creature called an elephant shrew will dive from the beams of our headlights.

I will meet the staff at the camp and marvel at their fortune at working in this paradise. Over dinner, tales of the day’s adventures shared by fellow travelers will captivate me and I'll wish my arrival had been a day earlier. The warmth of the fire in the boma will envelope me and I'll grow sleepy to the sounds of the hippos in the river. Surely I’ll remember it all and have time to write it down tomorrow night.

I resolve, this year, to write more, to take it in more slowly, to absorb it all. Yet the fact that I know I will break this resolution is what brings me back year after year.

This year's adventure is Tanzania especially cherished as we had almost given up on finding a workable itinerary off the beaten path and to the places we wanted to visit. Yet, as I am excited to visit someplace new, I will miss not returning to the places I have grown to love -- Botswana, Zambia, South Africa and Namibia.

It seems I just can't spend enough time in Africa.

No Words... Just the Everglades

2007-07-15T21:46:00.000-04:00

Sex in the ....

2007-07-13T18:22:00.000-04:00

Glades....

Late in the day in the Everglades, as it begins to get cooler (relatively speaking), I walk a little more carefully and listen with a more attentive ear to the bass offerings of the pig frogs.
Pig frogs can sometimes sound a little like alligators but it is more the reverse situation that concerns me. As the heat of the afternoon sun begins to wane, gators are apt to be a bit more active.
Camera in hand, I had been looking for birds stopping for a last bit of fishing in the wetlands before heading deeper into the glades to roost for the night. It wasn’t a rattle I was expecting to hear as I walked along this fairly well traveled path in the Loxahatchee Wildlife Refuge
Loud and close, I looked quickly to determine where he was coiled. But an orange blur just to the right of the path seemed to be the source of the rattle. Never having seen a Florida rattler in the wild, I wasn’t an expert but I was pretty sure they weren’t orange.
Lo! Lover’s Lane for grasshoppers….and the wildest scene as these little critters mate. Just a blur and sounding exactly like a rattle snake, they rock side to side with the male shaking his wings furiously.

That is until they realized I was watching.
Then they looked positively guilty as if this were a clandestine tryst.

They watched me expectantly... …and then, decided to move off to a more secluded spot. They were not, however, about to break up their interlude.

Male in tow, the female began heading off into the grass... ...stopping every so often to enjoy the moment and give a little shake.

Ain't love grand?

Published!!

2007-07-12T14:13:00.000-04:00

I know its small and
they altered it from
my blog (which may
have made it better!)
but still....
its my first!

This was in the first issue - May 2007 - of Travel Zambia.
Their website is www.travelzambiamag.com however, I haven't been successful in accessing the site to view this online so here is a scan of the page.

I calculate that it takes less than a minute to read --
Does that mean I have another 14 minutes of fame coming?

First Recital

2007-06-16T18:14:00.001-04:00

Family Vacation!

2007-06-16T18:07:00.000-04:00

At Kueka Lake and around...

Jake and "Farmer John"

Then and Now

2007-06-16T16:16:00.000-04:00

Returning to my place of birth shouldn't be a sentimental journey for me. My parents moved from Skaneateles, New York, before I had my own memories of the lakeside town, the small roadside cabins they rented out to hardy vacationers in the late 40's or our wonderful neighbors.

Oh, I have vivid memories -- I remember not being able to get the car up the icy hill from town during the harsh winters, I remember hearing the cows on the neighboring farm, Mr. Fisher's strawberry patch, summer picnics, visitors that returned year after year, visits from my cousins, crisp white sheets drying in the sunshine. The memories aren't really mine; they are the sum of stories I heard time after time as I grew up. It is a suprise to me that these purloined rememberances bring a tear to my eye as I think about my visit to the old "homestead" last week.

My cousin Carolyn volunteered to drive me from Lake Kueka to Skaneateles and to help me find the old place. Armed only with a few old photos, vaguely remembered directions from my mother and old, obviously imperfect impressions, we began our quest.

We would still be looking on the wrong side of the road and at the bottom of the hill if not for Mr. Fred Coll who, upon seeing two disoriented women driving around his beautiful property (more about that later), offered his assistance. He examined the faded photos and thought he recognized the footprint of the house and the old evergreens along the property line. He directed us up the "slippery in winter hill" and across the highway, to a house not immediately recognizable as "home."

Dressed up with a new facade to match the adirondack styled mini-lodges that have replaced the cabins my parents once owned and with a different entry, it took a few minutes to look past the fluff and recognize the bones of the house. What cinched it? The stately evergreens that still tower along the property line and that are unmistakeable as nothing similar is found on any of the nearby properties.

Mr. Coll is the Facilites Manager for the company that owns the old Orchard Cabins which is now called Finger Lakes Lodging (www.fingerlakeslodging.com). It is heartwarming to see that they didn't just raze the whole place but preserved and updated our old home. Mr. Coll helped us make sure we were in the right spot, showed us the changes to the property and gave us a tour of the neighboring house as it seems they have acquired the old Fisher farm and house, too. I can't wait to see what they do with it.

The company also owns Mirbeau Inn and Spa, (www.mirbeau.com) across the street. It is a four star property and stunningly beautiful with gardens that are reminiscent of Giverny. I'm looking for an excuse to return!

Carolyn guided me around my parents' old place and the town. She shared a few dredged up memories that I will now adopt as my own in the way I think we all blend family stories with our own rememberances to create our "history." And Mr. Fred Coll - you are now part of the "Bloom/Martin" family history and legend!

Thank you both for helping me put all the pieces together and make some new memories.

Baja

2007-04-28T22:25:00.000-04:00

Baja has been on my list for a long time…

While surfing the web, I had read a moving travel piece regarding interactions with whales in San Ignacio Lagoon and I was hooked. The idea of getting close to these magnificent creatures was intriguing. But my list is pretty long and I never quite made the trip.

Until I received a DVD in the mail…. From Lindblad Expeditions, I popped it in the video player hoping to catch a glimpse of the Sea Lion, Michelle and Mark Graves, respectively, the ship, exhibition leader and captain on my trip to Alaska last year. And I did see all of them as well as an area that is breathtakingly beautiful even without whales. So off I went, to spend some one-on-one time with my daughter and hoping for whales, birds, beautiful vistas and calm seas.

The trip didn’t disappoint delivering fabulous views from both the ship and remote islands in the Sea of Cortez.

Bow-riding dolphins were a kick -- it seems we tourists provide Six-Flag type entertainment for them as they swim in front of the ship allowing the water being pushed aside by the vessel to take them for a ride.

We had calm seas, for the most part… starting off a bit rough and calming, eventually, about the time we had gained our sea legs.

The hiking was good. Dropped off on a deserted island, you can wander at will or stay close to the guides. There is a cabin tag and life jacket counting system to make sure everyone that goes ashore is back on board before they move on to the next deserted island. And I trusted the system, to a degree -- and the very presence of skulls, even though not human, served to curb my desire to wander off on my own, take the less used path, etc.

The kayaking was better!

It was a bit misty one day and a liitle windy but I wasn't worried -- afterall, the worst I could do was run into the coast of Mexico no matter which way I went.

Kayaking does offer wonderful glimpses into another world...

I am a sucker for birds with exotic sounding names. It doesn’t need to be a rare species, as long as it sounds like it should be. Give me a bird with “tropic” or “malachite” in the name and I am happy. And so I was with the chance to photograph the Red-Billed Tropic bird. Well, it was like swatting at mosquitoes in the dark. I have an untold number of pictures of rock faces and I am not sure, even with a microscope, that I could find the little devils I was trying to photograph. The shadow in this picture helped me find the bird.

And, gotcha.... sort of.

Like so many things in life, nothing compares to the actual experience. You can’t capture the grace and speed and daring of this little bird but the pictures serve to remind me of the warmth of the brilliant sun, the cool sea breeze, the sounds of the gulls and sea lions…

...particularly vocal during territorial sparring.

Of course, there are intermittent moments when the wind was just right and you catch on to the fact that no one comes along at the end of the day and cleans up after the thousands of pelicans, terns, gulls and sea lions that call this refuge home.

More pelicans in one place than I have ever seen....

Elegant terns were in courtship mode making their offers of little fish to prospective mates. "Elegant" is their name, not their style.

The caption on this next one has to read....

"That's him, Mildred... doesn't he have the cutest wing-tips?" Well, what do female terns find sexy about male terns?

This gull can't wait until it's all over.

This is Sanjaya's next career. If you don't know who Sanjaya is, that's okay. I'm sort of embarrassed that I do.

Caves via zodiac – this was cool!

And, thanks to the photographic coaching team of Rikki and Jack Swenson, I was able to get that photo!! They were an added bonus on this trip.

It is sort of embarrassing that some of my best shots were of Great Blue Herons --- there is one that visits the park by my house and I traveled to Baja for this shot – Of course, my local heron doesn’t have a cactus upon which to pose!

The whales were there – teaching us lessons in patience and flexibility. As with any wildlife excursion, flexibility is the key to a great trip – taking advantage of the moment. Lindblad does that well which assuages my fear of group travel.

So, rather than see whales one evening, we took advantage of being anchored near a whale research vessel from the Oregon State University Marine Mammal Program. We visited them, they visited us….

The program director, Bruce Mate, gave us a talk about their work but the real fun was inviting the crew to dinner aboard the Sea Lion. You see, the research vessel is “dry” and our ship wasn’t… It was great fun hearing about the adventures of whale research which involves darting these goliaths from a little, tiny, rubber, zodiac from fairly close distances in waters that aren’t always as temperate as the Sea of Cortez. The crew members from the Pacific Storm seated at our table, Craig Hayslip and Willi Schlechter, were generous with their stories and a total delight, putting up with our endless questions until it was time for the Sea Lion to lift anchor.

Our sightings of a great blue whale and a group of orcas (not really whales) were fabulous.

The orcas, killer whales, were obviously feeding on something aquatic that was too big to be swallowed whole which meant the table scraps were floating to the surface and every sea gull in the neighborhood was doing their bit with their own version of the crumb scraper. It was a two hour show that seemed over before it started.

As I go back through my pictures of the whales, they are a conglomeration of dorsal fins, flukes, and the delicate arch of the back showing the glint of the sun on wet skin. My favorite pictures however, are of the exhaled breath when these creatures come to the surface and of the rippled waters left after a dive. In their breath, you can catch a glimpse of rainbow. In the rippled waters, I see freedom and mystery.

Like so many places on my list, visiting doesn't get them off the list.... It just makes me want to go back and discover more about the place -- a delightful, never ending cycle.

These pictures (and a few not included here) may be better viewed at www.wildeyedcam.smugmug.com in the "Baja" gallery.

Up a Tree

2007-04-02T22:25:00.001-04:00

In Zambia, that is...
August, 2006

A walking safari had sounded like high adventure when we had planned this trip months prior. The thought of brushing past the fragrant mopani, sitting around a campfire at night in the manner of Isak Dinesen, and hearing the night sounds of the bush unfiltered by the safety of a safari lodge had made me yearn for this experience to begin.

But the night before we were to set off for "fly camping", second thoughts were skittering through my mind. The Aussie couple that would be joining us on the trek looked fit, hardy and as if they’d brook no laggards in their midst. They had been running up sand dunes in the Australian dessert in training whereas I had reluctantly been taking a daily stroll for the two weeks before we left home as preparation.

Safari camps are notoriously upbeat and fun places. Everyone is amazed and thrilled with all that is new to them. Stories of sightings, each better than the next, stoke the excitement. This night,however, I couldn't get caught up it the excitement. I was tired from a long travel day and we needed to leave camp at 6am the next morning to cover the most ground in the coolest part of the day. That meant getting up at 5am. I was anxious and doubted my ability to get a good night’s sleep.

My nervousness lingered through dinner as I listened to tales of walking safaris past. Finally, the snorting songs of the hippos in the river below broke through the din of human voices and the night wonders of the African bush overtook my doubts. The desire to get closer to the land and the animals I have come to love won out – I’d be fine, I told myself. Or, I wouldn’t – and wouldn’t that be a story!

The morning dawned cool and we started from camp at a brisk pace. The terrain was much rougher than I anticipated – the ground here was marred by deep fissures in the mud from the prior season's rains now dried to cement like hardness. Elephants were frequent travelers through the area and their footprints had formed mini-craters to traverse.

If I followed in the ellie footsteps, I would have a relatively flat surface on which to walk. However, I needed long, uneven strides to step from ellie footprint to footprint. It reminded me of running through automobile tires on a fitness obstacle course.

Shorter strides took me between the ellie footsteps however, the fissures, narrow though they appeared from the surface, were treacherous to the ankles unless taken “just right.”

Disregarding the terrain and just barreling forward was like being on a Stairmaster with a bad drive train – you were up and down, sometimes on flat ground, but sometimes arms akimbo to keep your balance.

I alternated between approaches, on purpose, I told myself but actually, every method taxed you differently and I could only keep up each method for so long. Each time the words, “What were you thinking?” crossed my mind, and I thought I couldn’t take another step, some wonder would appear and we would stop in awe.

Our first encounter was with hippos who were quite as surprised as I to be so close.

A steep bank gave us a memorable view and kept us safe from these creatures that garner great respect in the bush.

We stopped for small creatures, too. Just as beautiful and intricate as the big five… this dragonfly and jeweled beetle amused us for a while.

From a jeep, you sometimes miss the little details although this hardly looked small to me at the time...

Many of the animals have become habituated to jeeps. That isn’t to say they don’t respond to the jeep – they do. Some animals are skittish and take off at the sound of the motor. Others, like lions, seem oblivious to these large metal objects barreling through the bush. But whatever the reaction, it is a response to the jeep as an object. The animals don't seem to register the fact that six people -- other animals -- may be contained in the metal box that has chosen to invade their territory.

On foot, you are just another animal. And the animals seemed to show as much wonder and curiosity about us as we did about them.

Waterbuck

Puku

Giraffes have seemed to me very skittish around jeeps and would never wander near the camps where I have stayed. I was delighted with their inquisitiveness when we stopped for a short break near where they were grazing.

Did I mention being treed by a hippo?

Hippos leave the cool waters of the river at night to forage for the vast amounts of vegetation they need to sustain themselves. They were usually back in the river by the time we made our way out of camp in the morning so you can imagine our surprise (and that is an understatement) when we saw this fellow roaming about. He was obviously late returning from the party, a bit confused by the bright sun and generally appeared a bit surly.

We were between him and the river. I was beginning to figure out why the web site said, in describing the fitness level necessary for this trip, “Must be able to run at least 30 meters fast.” Well, I had lied and I was wondering if now was the time to tell Deb, our guide, about my shortcoming although somehow, I think she knew. I kept waiting for her to shout, “Run for it!”

I was weighing the alternatives. Should I try to run, knowing it wouldn’t be fast and it might not be 30 meters? Should I try to explain that I hadn’t run since my kids reached the point that they could outrun me and, if so, how did I do that while everyone else was running and in as few words as possible? Or, should I roll up in a ball and throw myself on the mercy of this hippo? I seem to remember the roll up in a ball trick from being coached on what to do if I ran into a bear while hiking and he hadn’t been frightened away by my bear bell.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to make that decision because our evasion plan called for climbing a tree rather than running. You are asking, at this moment, how I can climb a tree if I can’t run 30 meters. Ha! I was asking myself the same question.

Thus began my great affection for African termites and the huge mounds they build, abandon and which become elevated planters for trees that otherwise might be trampled by elephants. The mounds give shelter to small burrowing animals and the trees offer respite from the sun to impala and other antelope. These mounds can reach surprising heights but as we made our way to the tree about to become our salvation, I could see myself scrambling up its termite mound base much more easily than scaling its trunk.

None too soon we were huddled together at the top of the mound hugging the trunk and low hanging limbs of the tree making its home atop this ancient termite structure.

The hippo clearly spotted us but lost some element of danger when he hid behind his own tree!

Elephants

I have been physically closer to elephants than while walking through the Southern Luangwa Park.
In jeeps, elephants tend to ignore you... You can be relatively close and they know you are there. Sometimes they show some displeasure, sometimes they let you know how insignificant they think you are by their demeanor.
When they have wandered into the camps in which I have stayed, to sleep or to feed, they seem to just tolerate humans. You have invaded their territory but they know there is nothing to be done about it but they’ll be damned if they’ll let you get in the way of their favorite stand of mopani trees.
In Zambia, I felt closer – more significant. Here, I was uninvited in their territory and not part of a metal box that rendered me part of the background. Here, I was another animal – a potential threat, an uncertainty.

There are more Zambia stories to come, like, "Why it is important to know the difference between a centipede and a millipede." (Can you guess that it has something to do with its proximity to you?) and "How quickly I forget my fears...."

K-

Black & White in the Garden

2007-03-29T17:45:00.000-04:00

Jade Vine
Color awaits me in the garden.... and I love it. The color startles me; it makes me smile; it makes me breathe deeper to try to capture its essence in yet another way. And so, when I took a workshop in black and white photography and our field trip was to Morikami Gardens in Boca Raton, I was delighted to go but perplexed as to how to view all that color without seeing it -- or rather, seeing beyond it to black and white.

I'm not sure I got it that day. In fact, I am sure I didn't.
I took pictures -- lots. However, it wasn't until I got to see how some of my fellow workshop participants interpreted what we had seen that I began to get visualize the possibilities.

The photographers that took the workshop with me are an amazing and creative group of artists. Each as different as they could possibly be; each with an approach to the art that showed an intense passion for their subjects. And they were generous with their time, their ideas, their knowledge. I learned a lot from them.

Georgia O.

Jean Miele, who led the workshop, had the most to do with turning on the light bulb for me. His work is fabulous -- check it out at www.jeanmiele.com -- but, more importantly, he is one of those rare individuals that really knows how to teach. He doesn't tell you what to do but he gives you an understanding of the subject so you know what to do.

Tropical Puffs

It wasn't, however, until I found myself drawn to the Atlanta Botanical Garden last Thursday that I realized how much I had absorbed of this workshop and how much I wanted to see what I could say with black and white.

In Wait

Forms, patterns, silhouettes, and shadows were competing for my attentions along with color.

Yeah, yeah... it was spring, too. Atlanta does spring well, albeit briefly. I do miss it!

Atlanta Spring

Anonymous

Then yesterday, at Fairchild Tropical Gardens with the whimsey of Dale Chihuly's work interspresed through the gardens -- a field day!

Chilhuly's Window

Chihuly's Tears

I'll return to posting Venice photos soon... I have some great stories and met some wonderful people.

These photos might be viewed more clearly at http://wildeyedcam.smugmug.com. Blogger seems to change their methodology frequently -- sometimes it works better than others but Smugmug is usually great. I changed the blog format to facilliate pictures -- we'll see.

Venice Masked

2007-03-06T21:18:00.000-05:00

Someone famous said that travel isn't for the faint-hearted... I think. If they didn't, maybe they should have. But travel brings me heroes. Travel brings me joy. Travel reduces my fears because I gain comfort in the fact that the vast majority of the world is made up of people that relish a good meal, good company and a sunny Sunday afternoon where ever it may be.

I traveled to Venice to witness Carnivale, Italian style, and to learn a little more about photography. Life is full of suprises and this trip was no exception.

The props are as elaborate as the costumes and mirrors abound which is particularly fitting.

The costumes are far more elaborate than I ever imagined sometimes taking the original concept, which was to allow the rich a few more freedoms, beyond the need for simple anonymity. While revelers opted for the comic, the outlandish and the macabre, fantasy and elegance were among my favorite themes.

The colors are rich, shocking and in stunning combinations.

I usually love angled shots and choose them for interest -- but in Venice, it was sometimes the only way to get the whole costume in...

I found the medievel characters particularly "in place" in Venice.

Puss in boots?

Sometimes the costumed revelers just got in the way!
In the crowds attracted to Venice for Carnivale, sometimes it was all you could do to see a step in front of you -- sometimes that was enough to capture a flash of color, of beauty.

This isn't a particularly good photograph but it is one of my favorites -- the mask reminds me of wedding cake icing.

A few of the revelers relied on their costumes and let their faces show through... they were my favorites. While it is true that you can't smile just with your mouth -- your eyes have to be in it, too; I think it is also true that without the mouth, the expression falls short. So, my favorites were the costumed revelers sans mask.

More to come over the next few days... well, maybe weeks.

It may be easier to view these photos at:
http://wildeyedcam.smugmug.com/gallery/2535017/1/134221719

Little Havana -- Backyard Travel

2007-01-30T12:59:00.000-05:00

Despite having worked only blocks from the area, I had never ventured onto Calle Ocho, the main street in a section of Miami that is a center of the Cuban-American community in South Florida. Little Havana, like Boston's North End or San Francisco's Chinatown, is a little like leaving the US for a brief tantalizing taste of another culture, another time.

Cindy Karp led a Palm Beach Photographic workshop group through the area as we tried to improve our photographic skills. Cindy's career as a documentary photgrapher covering Latin America provided another level of insight into the area. She sees not only the obvious but understands the historical perspective and the threat urban development poses today.

Our group of about twenty might have made the better photographic subjects as we donned the funny gear we favor (you know -- the stuff that makes us look like we are safari bound even when we are photographing the Empire State Building) but our targets were the colorful sights of Little Havana and its gracious residents.

Tourists aren't unusual in the area but 20 photographers with humongous cameras swinging from their necks brought smiles to the faces of many of the local residents.

I'm not terribly outgoing so asking a total stranger if I can take their picture can be painful. But not here -- People were warm, welcoming and indulgent of our intrusions even posing for us on occasion.

Cindy, who has lived and traveled in Latin America, made it seem easy when she asked a resident, Nora, to pose for us.

Well, not all of the locals were as thrilled with our attentions...

A bit of camping by workshop participants determined to amuse in return!

A true supporter of the local economy...

The Domino Park

Dominos and chess are turned into spectator sports in this tiny, but lively, urban park. Some of the onlookers seem to concentrate with the seriousness of the players -- plotting their own strategy and wincing or shaking their heads when a player makes a wrong move.

A game of chess doesn't seem to draw as many watchers...

A slower game -- it may leave too much time for reflection.

The colors have to be my favorite part of the place...

On windows, on walls, as signs -- bright, delightful and energizing.

But never far -- a place to give thanks, to say a prayer or for quiet reflection.

It was a fitting place to end the tour.

People....

2007-01-07T09:35:00.000-05:00

Good guides are the most important part of any great trip – and we were fortunate throughout. Larry was our tour guide through China. Intelligent, thoughtful and pretty grounded in reality, he is proud of his country, not blindly as he is aware of what still needs to be done, but proud of what has been accomplished to bring China into this century.

Our guide to the Three Gorges Dam Project...

Explaining the impact of the Three Gorges Dam on the Yantze River....

One of the guides on the Three Gorges River side trip with that delightful assuredness of youth...

On to the Terra Cotta Warriors....

The gorgeous Italian maitre d on the VRC...

A few other shots.
Yes...

And Starbucks!!!

Our group spilling out into the Forbidden City...

At the dam project...

Kim and Gerri... they got the award for the most photogenic Mother and Daughter!

Nora and Carol... both with a wicked sense of humor, they kept us in stitches!

Miriam and YT...

Very often, we were the subject of snapshots by the Chinese tourists...

Since my trip, I look at China much differently, so perhaps something in the news will prompt me to add my thoughts but otherwise, this will be my last post in this journal. That is, unless I return someday... maybe in 2008 for the Olympics.

Beautiful Details...

2007-01-02T18:21:00.000-05:00

There is more than the devil in the details...

Everywhere, even on ordinary items, the Chinese display their art.

On doors...

On rooftops...

On walls and arches...

Every birdcage is ornately carved...

Even the garden paths are crafted in meticulous mosaics...