Charge of the White Rhino

On the Hoof

In the spring of 1983, after a rough period filled with grief, illnesses and mishaps, Fred took action to cheer us up. Read this excerpt from Voluntary Nomads Part Five: Somalia Safaris, Chapter 19, to find out what happened:

Charge of the White Rhino

Fred came home from work one afternoon and handed me a tan government transmittal envelope, printed on both sides with lines and spaces for the date, the recipient's name and office designation. The last line read, "Date: April 5, 1983 – To: Nancy, Dakota, and Tina – Subject: SURPRISE!" I fumbled with the waxed cord that wound between two closure disks on the flap. Inside were four tickets to Nairobi, Kenya.

"I figured we deserved a get-away vacation during Spring Break."

I answered with a smile, a hug, a kiss and a whooping cheer that brought the kids running to see what was going on.

Fred whetted our appetites with an enticing description of the superb breakfast buffet at the Nairobi Hilton. I could almost taste the pink strawberry milkshakes, sweet golden pineapple, and crusty fresh bread (without the ever-present weevils found in local loaves).

Fred brought out the photos from his TDY in Nairobi five years ago and we talked about all the animals we might see. I looked forward to the chance to reunite with Barbara Koch, the embassy nurse who took such great care of Tina when she had quinsy in Cameroon. Fred had already called Barbara at her new post at the embassy in Kenya and she promised us another treat – a guided tour of Nairobi National Park.

For our trip to Nairobi's game park, Barbara borrowed a Land Rover, a large sturdy four-wheel drive vehicle with bench seats front and rear as well as jump seats in the cargo area. Barbara drove, Fred sat next to her, I shared the back seat with our picnic supplies, and our kids perched on the rear jump seats to take advantage of the great view out the open hatch. We chatted steadily, making up for lost time, while keeping a sharp lookout for animals. Barbara stopped first for a mother monkey sitting in the middle of the road nursing her baby. The monkey watched us watching her. She gave us a bored look after a few minutes and sauntered off into the bush. We moved closer to the river to observe a fat hippo basking in a sunlit pool.

On the next slope, we spotted three giraffes nibbling tender young green leaves from the high branches of an acacia tree. Their nimble blue-black tongues and limber lips slipped around and between the sharp acacia thorns and captured bite after bite of leafy nutrition.

(click here to find the audio clip that tells the rest of the story)

Glow, Little Glowworms

During our three-year stay in New Zealand, we traveled as much as work and school schedules allowed. One trip took us to the famed Waitomo Caves to see the resident glowworms.

The action of water on limestone formed the Waitomo Caves and, just like our own Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, they have stalactites and stalagmites hanging from the ceiling and growing from the floor. The glowworms are the larval stage of a species of gnat. The gnats lay their eggs on the cave ceiling and the eggs hatch into larvae that grow to about two inches in length. The larvae develop long, sticky threads that drape down to catch insects to feed their hearty appetites. The glow of the glowworm attracts prey to its sticky lure. Scientists suggest that the glowworm can turn its light on and off at will.

Glow, Little Glowworms

We purchased our tickets at the kiosk and joined the queue at the entrance to the grotto. We stepped into one of a single-file row of flat-bottomed wooden boats, old and worn, bearing flakes of blue paint from long ago. As soon as all the passengers had taken their seats, the boats moved forward, the drifting pace determined by the river's current. Fred whispered that the Beatles visited here and sang one of their songs in the cave to enjoy the unique acoustics.

In silence, we floated into the dark mouth of the cave. The total darkness felt heavy and thick as if it had substance. As long as no one spoke, we could hear small watery sounds, the occasional dull thud as the boats bumped gently, and a suppressed nervous giggle from time to time. The air had a clean mineral smell, with a faint undertone of sulfur. Floating in black, who knew how much time passed? Too much, I thought. Have we hit the glowworms on a bad day? Are they on a hunger strike?

When our boats entered the grotto, my silly thoughts evaporated. Our heads tipped back, our mouths flew open in a unanimous, "Oooooo." The cave ceiling luminesced with a golden, pulsating radiance. A lacy drapery of light festooned in luxurious swags, forming a canopy that fluttered like feather boas in the breeze – Nature's astounding magic. ###

Voluntary Nomads is available in paperback at Amazon and Barnes and Noble and in all Ebook formats at Smashwords as well as in PDF at Outskirts Press



Wellington's Secret Center

I like to think about cities from different angles, not just what they're famous for. Shortly after we moved to Wellington, New Zealand I got to see a part of the city unknown to most residents and visitors. You'll find the story in Part Four: New Zealand Yarns, Chapter 12, and here in today's excerpt.

Beautiful Wellington Harbor

Wellington's Secret Center

New Zealand's supermarkets in 1979, not super by US standards but more like the neighborhood grocery stores of 1950s America, had a narrow selection of brands I had to get to know. The meat market displayed the usual cuts plus some I did not want to know (blood sausage, for example). The greengrocer's shop became my regular hangout.

Tony Ng, the proprietor, and his wife, Christine, became my mentors. New Zealand born, both Tony and Christine came from Chinese heritage. Hearing the distinctive kiwi accent from their distinctly Asian faces surprised and fascinated me. Christine showed me the Chinese technique for roasting a whole chicken (plunge it into boiling water first for a few seconds to tighten the skin) and she taught me how to prepare dim sum.

Tony and Christine's shop, smaller than most produce sections in American supermarkets, displayed a bounty of fruits and vegetables. I learned that they stored more in the back room. Tony liked to keep a stash of favorites for each of his best customers. He had an uncanny ability to remember what his patrons liked and to predict their shopping patterns. He told me to ring (telephone) him if I had any special requests and he would try to find what I wanted at the wholesale market.

"How does that work, Tony? The wholesale market, I mean…"

"Have you seen my lorry – I go to the Wellington market once a week and fill it with fresh vegs. Speak up if you'd like to go with me."

 Tony's wink showed me he was joking, but I was serious. I had a couple of fleeting second thoughts when Tony told me to meet him at the shop at four o'clock in the morning on Thursday, but the early hour didn't make me change my mind.

In the pre-dawn darkness, Tony handed me a thermos of tea Christine had brewed for us. "Pour us a cuppa, there's a good girl."

As we roared along in the old truck, sipping strong, sweet, milky tea, I tuned in to Tony's love for his work. His enthusiasm opened my eyes to the magic of a city caught in the lull between nightlife and workaday, a mysterious combination of suspended animation and pent up energy pressing for release.

Tony parked his truck with several others in a shadowy car park at the rear of an enormous building. He held the warehouse door for me and I passed through into sensory overload. My poor eyes squinted shut against the brilliant overhead lights. My hands covered my ears against the shrill whistles, shouts and bangs. My nostrils tingled from the riot of pungent odors of fish, seafood, tealeaves, and spices. The vendors whistled and banged to attract attention to their wares, and the buyers shouted their bids above the racket. Tony pantomimed that I should roam around while he made his purchases. He hurried off to bid on the best and freshest of the day.

Even though I paid close attention, the bidding process remained a mystery. Like a foreign language, a flurry of gestures and jargon communicated clearly between vendor and buyer and left me bewildered. I wound my way among the stalls and absorbed the symphony of sounds and smells without trying to analyze what was going on.

I regained normal consciousness when Tony tapped my shoulder. "Sorry to tear you away from all this, but the party's over, by Jingoes."

In little more than an hour, Tony had completed his bargaining, made his purchases, and loaded the truck. As we stepped out of the glare into the twilight of early morning, I wondered why the crazy market appealed to me so much. I couldn't put it into words. As the kiwis might say, it was "simply brilliant" to peek inside a hidden part of city life and find its colorful and vibrant secret heart. ###

Find Voluntary Nomads  in paperback at Amazon and Barnes and Noble and in all eBook formats at Smashwords as well as in PDF at Outskirts Press

Next time -- an excerpt from Chapter 13