The Lady In Bay 1

 

Something weird has been happening in Scotland this week.

The sun has been shining and the situation is’ taps aff’. Tops off I.e. warm enough to remove your shirt.

It didn’t stop raining at all during August and next week, it’s back to normal with warnings of 100 kph winds and torrential rain with risk of flooding, thunder, lightning, pestilence. Fleetwood Mac reforming and lots of other things that shouldn’t happen these days.

                                       

I have a deadline for the first of October, and both work and book worlds have been very busy so we took advantage of the fact that the business is not mine anymore and we can get away at any time. We took five days up at Tyndrum where there is nothing to distract me apart from walking the Limpy dog and being amused by the red squirrels.

                                      

And, added bonus, it’s quite hard to get on the internet here.  

On day two, it was a record hot day for Crianlarich for September.  The campsite is long, with a single row of 8 bays on either side. It was an old railway siding so the lay out makes sense. At the front door is a trekkers hostel. On one side there are trekkers huts and lodges. On the other just serviced bays for motorhomes and caravans.

Bay one is opposite the toilets. Everything that happens, happens in the vicinity of bay one.

The owner knows us by now and they like dogs, so Mathilda always gets bay 3 which has a lot of grass with a nice height of hedge so that the small red one is not over bothered by other canines or campers frying their dinners over an open flame. She does like to pull her cheeks in and look starved so that she gets tit bits and treats, she is a wee scavenger. Mathilda, Cockroaches and teddy bears are three things that could survive a nuclear winter.

We tend to be the only people who stay here. Most people stop overnight on their way to the Western Isles turn left, or the Great Glen and Skye, turn right. 

                                            

This week there has been another van who has stayed for the week- the lady in bay one.

She is not young. She’s recovering from having a knee operation. She’s off her work but the doctor said she could go away in her wee campervan as long as she didn’t overdo it.  She’s parked opposite the toilets and next to the grass used by the small tents of the walkers.

She lies late in the morning and goes for a short walk, then places her deckchair facing the sun – and moves it every hour or so. She dressed in in long shorts and a loose t shirt, and she sits on her chair with a wee table beside her, she has a glass of wine and a pile of books. The level of wine in the glass starts very high and drops, as does the book pile.

                                     

Everybody who goes past talks to her.  Mostly asking for the codes for the toilets, where the cold-water tap is.  She says she stays here often, and the recent knee operation had forced her to stay rather than move on. And she’s loving it. She has learned the joy of staying in one place and soaking in the view.  Rather than getting up earlier and having the bay vacated by 11am to move to the next site by 3, here she sits and lets life come to her. She reads, drinks wine and watches, and these last few days, she’s following the sunshine as it moves around her van.

 Tonight, she dressed in her pjs with a large fluffy hoodie on when the sun closed down for the day at about 6 pm. She was outside eating, with her hood up, and I asked her what was for her tea tonight- she said mashed tattie and haggis. And it always tastes better in the fresh air,

On Monday she was reading an autobiography a gardener she likes, - she loves her garden, but it has been a wash out this year. Yesterday it was a thick bodice ripper, today it was a gangland thriller with the typical front cover of a young lady in a red coat and redder lip stick.

                               

Some Dutch bikers were talking to her for half an hour earlier. Now she’s talking to the owner of a Rhodesian ridgeback. One American lady yesterday was waving a map around at her to discuss where was the best place to walk next.  There were lots of pointing north.

The site owner gets updates on who dropped what where and who was responsible for the laughter at 10.05 last night- no noise after 10 pm, and certainly no laughing – we are still very presbyterian.

                                       

It’s getting dark now and she’s still sitting out, in her chair, with a blanket wrapped round her, she has as night light and a citronella candle on her wee table to keep the midgies* away.

I think I am going to use her as a role model with the small adjustment of a limpy dog at my feet. 

                                      

*The true spelling of Midge, it’s pronounced Midg gy. As in Squidgy.

Now you know.

                                          

 

 

One Heck of an Icebreaker

 Wendall -- every other Thursday

The Nuyina seen from across the Hobart Harbor.

This week I wanted to write a bit about our tour of the newest Australian icebreaker, the RSV Nuyina, which docks in Hobart, Tasmania when it’s not making its way to the Australian stations in Antarctica. We were lucky enough to have a fabulous guide in the ship’s bosun, Joe McMenemy. My husband James has written about Joe before in the Belfast Telegraph, and I’m grateful he’s allowed me to quote a few bits of the article below.

 

With our generous host, Joe, who even gave us caps to take home!

 

Antarctic exploration has sparked the imagination of seafarers, scientists, and adventurers for almost 250 years. James Cook first crossed the Antarctic Circle in the HMS Resolution in 1775, and there were sightings and attempts by various whalers and explorers in the 19th century. 

 

Imagined image from James Cook's southern voyage.

 

The Southern Cross Expedition, which lasted from 1898 to 1900, wintered at the top of the landmass, and the 20th century brought famous expeditions by first Robert Falcon Scott and then Ernest Shackleton, who reached what they call "Farthest South” in 1909. Shackleton’s 1922 voyage marked the end of the “Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration.” 

 

Early explorations.

Ernest Shackleton and the Endurance.

 

Hundreds of trips followed, with various countries vying for sovereignty in the region. Currently (according to Wikipedia. . .) “Antarctica is governed by a group of nations in a one-of-a-kind international partnership called The Antarctic Treaty, which was first signed by representatives from seven countries on December 1, 1959.”  

 

In terms of where the US fits in, according to the U.S. Department of State: “Seven countries (Argentina, Australia, Chile, France, New Zealand, Norway, and the United Kingdom) maintain territorial claims in Antarctica, but the United States and most other countries do not recognize those claims. While the United States maintains a basis to claim territory in Antarctica, it has not made a claim.”

 

Map of the four Australian stations and their distance from the mainland.

 

Many countries beyond the original seven maintain stations in the region, including Australia, which officially has four: Mawson, Davis, Casey, and Macquarie Island. You can find out about the different stations and see photos of each of them here:  https://www.antarctica.gov.au/antarctic-operations/stations/#group

 

James in front of the previous icebreaker, the Aurora Australis.

These stations have always been serviced by a series of Australian icebreakers. The Nuyina, which replaced the Aurora Australis (1989 to 2021), is the largest, and most sophisticated vessel to date. 

 

Looking down from midship.

 

As James writes in the Telegraph, it was “constructed at a cost of $528 million (£271m), and is fitted out with laboratories for biological, meteorological, and oceanographic research, and was named by Australian schoolchildren from the Tasmanian Aboriginal word for Southern Lights.”

 

And from the dock.

 

To be honest, the size, scope, and capabilities of this 526 foot long ship completely stunned us during our tour of the ten(!) decks.

The ship is covered in satellite and navigational equipment.

 

As noted above, the ship has a myriad of duties beyond breaking through the ice to take fuel, food, scientists, and other supplies to its stations. Some researchers and scientists just go along for the ride, using onboard labs for their experiments. 

 

The "Moon Pool" -- for letting water into the ship for testing.

 

The ship is designed to test and sound the waters as they go south, keeps track of the ice pack, is a launchpad for helicopters (it can hold three), and has a full clinic and surgery area, a mess hall, and a cinema for the crew. It also is fully equipped to perform its own repairs. 

It is also sometimes called upon for rescue operations. 

 

In 2023, Joe was part of a medi-rescue from the Casey station which involved heading “South” in winter, a brutally cold and dangerous time when they’re usually safe in dock. If you’d like to read about the rescue, you can find it here:  https://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/sunday-life/news/tasmanian-angels-belfast-man-helps-rescue-researcher-from-icy-antarctica/a380485721.html

 

The helipad, for launching transport - and rescues.

 The boat is full of every manner of ropes. I found them absolutely gorgeous. 

 

 

Looking up towards the top of the ship. Note the huge crane in front.

Loved this view.

Crew suits are hung on "suitwarmers."

Another view from one of the lower decks.

Great view out of the "operational headquarters."

James in the captain's chair.

They even have a section that swings out, for whale watching!

It was an extraordinary day and if you’d like to follow the ship’s journeys when she’s at sea, there’s a live webcam here:

https://www.antarctica.gov.au/antarctic-operations/webcams/rsv-nuyina/

--Wendall

Facing Peril: The Risk of Entrapment, Violence, and Extortion for Ghana’s LGBTQ Community

 Wed--Kwei

As I prepare for tonight's signing of The Whitewashed Tombs at Vroman's, Pasadena, the real-life stories that inspired the novel weigh on my mind. The Whitewashed Tombs deals with the murder of an LGBTQ activist in Ghana, a tale rooted in the harsh realities many still face today.

Yesterday, I conducted a video WhatsApp interview with Hamza, a young man living in Accra, Ghana, who survived a brutal assault because of his perceived identity. The episode was posted to Facebook. His story of resilience amidst fear and violence resonates deeply with the novel's themes, where truth is often buried under layers of hypocrisy and hate. As we reflect on these realities in fiction and life, Hamza’s story is a powerful reminder of the ongoing struggle for justice and dignity.

Hamza  (Image altered by AI for his protection)

                                                                            

                                                                          

Interview

KQ: Can you tell me a bit about your living situation?

H: I live with my grandmother in Nima, Accra. It’s not the safest place, but it’s home.

KQ: I understand you were assaulted in Nima. Can you explain what happened?

H: I was lured to a spot by someone I thought I could trust. Once there, a group attacked me. It was a vigilante pile-on. They beat me badly, and I suffered multiple injuries.

KQ: How has that experience changed the way you live?

H: I don’t go out after 7 p.m. anymore. I only go to places where I know I’ll be safe and where I might have some protection if something happens.

KQ: Do you think people recognize or target you because of your appearance?

H: Yes, maybe. Some people say I have effeminate airs. I guess that makes me a target.

KQ: Are you in a relationship right now?

H: No, I’m not in a relationship.

KQ: You mentioned being lured and blackmailed. Can you explain that?

H: Yeah, once, after I was lured to a hotel room and was having intimacy with a man, they filmed it and threatened to post it to Facebook and expose where I live unless I paid them money.

KQ: Despite all this, you seem pretty resilient. How do you stay strong?

H: I don’t have much of a choice. This is the reality of life here, especially with people’s attitudes.

KQ: Do you see any hope for attitudes changing, especially with the anti-gay bill being discussed?

H: There’s almost no chance people will change, especially with how religion plays into it. That bill is just making things worse.

KQ: How has the anti-gay bill specifically affected you?

H: Well, people jeer at me and say, “When the bill passes, you’ll see what we’ll do to you.” It’s a threat I hear often.

KQ: Did you report the attack to the police?

H: Yes, but they took the report, nothing would happen. I’ve reported it to Human Rights Watch, but their actions don’t have much power within our law and justice system. I don’t expect much to come of it.

KQ: What about in rural areas? Do you think the anti-gay bill has much impact there?

H: Not really. The effects are mainly in the larger towns and cities. In rural areas, people are more focused on surviving day-to-day. But in the cities, it’s a different story.

KQ: Do you think LGBTQ+ tourists are in danger of this kind of violence?

H: I don’t know of any tourists who have suffered such attacks.*

*There are accounts of tourists being entrapped and extorted for money or their mobile phones.

---

---

 

---

 

Samburu: The Life of a Girl

Annamaria on Monday

I am writing today with my friend and sister warrior for girls's rights: Sarah Lesiamito.  Regular readers of this blog know that Sarah is the founder of the Sidai Resource Centre in Samburu in Northnern Kenya.  She is in New York with me now, and in our conversations I am learning more and more about the lives of the girls in whom I have taken a great interest for the past seven years. Here is what I now know.

When a girl is born in Samburu, her father – who may have as many as five wives – will see her, not as a person with many potential choices in life, but as a little animal to be prized because when she is around nine years old, he can trade her for cows, adding to his own personal wealth.

Unlike as in most places, that girl will most likely never be sent to school. Her culture has something else in mind. Here are the major steps in a girl's life:

BEADING

Men in the Sambu culture, when they are in their late teens, early 20s, join the warrior class. They do not marry until they are in their late 20s or early 30s. During those years, when their male libidos are very active, they might be trying to seduce an older man's wives.  To avoid this, the Samburu culture has invented a sexual outlet for those warriors. It is called beading.

In beading, a girl, who often is between six and eight years old, without any say in the matter, is assigned - by mother and her brothers - to a warrior who will then have the right to use her.  (This is very hard to talk about.  So much so, that I think you may feel that I should not be talking about.  Those who perpetrate it want us to keep it secret.  It is in fact a hidden part of the culture.) The fact of the matter is, whether we talk about it or not, that these girls are suffering. And what happens to them next is even worse.

FGM

If you think what I just said was horrifying, this part is almost impossible to state, but here is what happens to nine year olds,  I'm going to get through it quickly. Some of the readers of these words will already know that FGM stands for female genital mutilation. There are plenty of places where you can find out more details about it, but you probably don't want more details than I've already given you, and I don't really want to state them anyway. You get the point.  And the girl is nine.

Forced Marriage

Shortly after they are cut, the girls are sold into marriage.  The man is chosen by the family, or they sell her to the highest bidder.  Often, the man who gets her is three or four times her age, and as I have said above, she may be his third, fourth, or fifth wife. She will then be made to bear as many children as possible, because her sons will be prized as the warriors and elders of the future, and her daughters will be seen as more chattel to enrich her father.  Girls in this culture do not have a say in who that man will be.  Oh, and by the way, if she does not bear children or bears too few, she may be sent away.

It is important to know that in this culture, all the food comes from animals.  And all the animals are owned by men.  Therefore, a woman without a man- a father, a husband or a son - might starve. 

I've known all this pretty much for sometime, but in the past few days, working with Sarah to ready ourselves to speak in the New York Public Library, and at an upcoming reception, I have learned some more details about what happens to girls. 

I always thought that almost all the girls went to school, at least for a little while before they were involved in the horror story above. That turns out not to be the case.  Most of the girls don't go to school at all.  Only that girl who, by chance, lives near a school will ever learn to read and write.  And then, only if her parents will allow it.  And if they have the funds to buy her a uniform and transport her to school every day.

 

Sarah and I are working very hard to rescue girls. Our hope, of course, is that we will stop these practices before they happen to a girl at all. But since, almost always, these are the girl's experiences, Sarah is also taking into Sidai, girls who have already been subjected to these awful experiences.

For instance, she has taken in a girl, let's call her June, who, at age 9, was married off to a 68 year-old-man, who already had 4 wives.  Sarah learned that June was troubled.  After being married for seven years, she has not produced a child.  Her husband has been abusing her.  When Sarah went to meet with Jane, she found out that the girl was severely depressed, to the point where her depression was dangerous. June wanted Sarah to take her to Sidai, and Sarah wanted to give the now 16-year-old June a second chance in life

Sarah followed the law: She went to the police and the Children's Protection Office who authorized Sarah to take June to Sidai.  Sarah also involved June's parents and the local chief to get permission to take June into Sidai. As of now, June is learning to read and write.  Then, she will have the chance to take a vocational course.  She will be able to support herself, and she will be free to marry again if she chooses. 

www.sidairesourcecentre.org

Never Forget How Much the World has Changed for Us All

 

Jeff—Saturday

If you say "Nine Eleven" to an American, inevitably the mind leaps to thoughts of witnessing in real time the World Trade Center Twin Towers crashing to earth in New York City at the hands of foreign terrorists intent on undermining the American Way of Life,  There are other dates that summon up similar once unimaginable horrors, such as "December 7"–albeit not witnessed by the nation in real time those eighty-three years ago in 1941–and "January 6th" though not orchestrated in 2021 by foreign terrorists.  But none is burned as deeply into the psyche of our generation as Al Qaeda's murderous coordinated attacks on New York City and Washington DC on September 11, 2001.

 

Last Wednesday marked the 23rd Anniversary of that day. On its tenth anniversary, a New York City-based newspaper, The National Herald, asked that I be part of its 9/11 10^th year commemorative issue and write about where I was that Tuesday morning.  What I didn't mention in that article was the comaraderie among Americans that sprung up out of that horrendous event.  Divisions haunting the nation since its Vietnam era vanished that morning. Or so it seemed. 

But as we've learned, they had not disappeared, and are back today with a vengeance challenging the very roots of our democracy. I hope and pray it will not require another catastrophe for Americans to regain their common bond and purpose. 

 

I've republished this article before, and when I last did I thought there was no need to run it again. But a loyal MIE blog follower wrote to me after that posting saying, "You must continue to post this every year."

 

I'm not sure I'll do that, but as this year is shaping up to be a humdinger of "Americans at each other's throat," I felt now is a time to run it again. 

 

So here it is, my take on an event I shall never forget and which most definitely shaped my life. 

I like it over here by the United Nations.  Beekman Place is different from other New York City streets; it’s more like a quiet, residential private road in an elegant European city.  My walk to my office is down First Avenue overlooking the East River and alongside the gardens and flags of the UN.  It gives me a few daily moments of serenity and escape from the often out of control state of my life as a lawyer here.

I need this walk today.  The sky is so blue and clear, except for the few smoke-like clouds on the downtown horizon.  I’m up by the UN General Assembly Building when I call my friend Panos to find out how his date went last night.  He’s frantic and says he can’t talk.  He’s waiting for his mother to call him from Greece.  I ask if everything is OK.  He says she’ll be worried when she hears that his office was struck by a plane.  I must have misunderstood him.  He works in the World Trade Center.  He says his office building is burning and he has to get off the phone.

Those are not clouds on the horizon, it’s smoke.

I tell him to get out of the building.  He says it’s not necessary.  He’s okay.  His date kept him out late and he’s still at home.  He’ll go to work in the afternoon, after the fire is out.  He hangs up.

How could a plane have hit the World Trade Center on a day as clear as this one?  Something must have happened to the pilot.  I hear sirens everywhere and move a little faster toward my office.  By the time I get upstairs everyone is looking out the windows on the south side of our building.  It has an unobstructed view of the Towers.  Now they’re both burning.  I’m told a second plane hit the second Tower.  We all know what that means—even before learning about the Pentagon.  Someone tells me a plane hit Pittsburgh, my hometown.  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.  I call my daughter, she lives in Greenwich Village.  She’s frightened.  We all are.  I tell her to keep calm. My son is in Cincinnati, I’m sure he’s safe but I can’t reach him.

We’re all glued to the big screen TV in my law firm’s main conference room.  The first tower begins to fall and we turn en masse from the television to look out our windows as it crumbles to the ground before our eyes.  It’s surreal, it can’t be happening.  But it happens again.  Not a word is said while we watch the second tower fall.   We are at war.  But with whom?

My mind can’t fix on what all this means.  I focus on a rumor that there’s an imminent biological anthrax attack and race to the pharmacy for enough antibiotic for my daughter.  That’s something I can do.  Again, I think, my son is in Cincinnati.  He’s safe there.

When I moved to NYC in 1969 my first job was blocks away from the Trade Center site.  The Towers were in the midst of construction and I saw them every morning across the Brooklyn Bridge as I’d head to work.  In August 1974 I watched Philippe Petit do his high wire walk between them, and three years later glimpsed at mountain climber George Willig scale one in the wind.  Even after moving my office uptown they were always in view from my window.  They spanned my career as a lawyer in NYC.  I can’t believe they’re gone.

 

The City is in shock.  Lines of thousands of refugees from downtown are trekking up Third Avenue toward home or simply to somewhere other than where they were.  No one is talking.  The smell is everywhere, acrid and bitter.  There seems to be grey dust on the shoes of every cop and will be for days.

I stop at a restaurant halfway between my office and home.  It’s Greek and run by a friend.   It’s the only place I can think of to go.  There is no one at home and I can’t get downtown to my daughter.  She’s fine.  Panos comes in.   I try making a joke about his date from last night.  I say he should marry her, she saved his life.  It’s not that funny.

A half dozen or so young men and women of about the age I was when I started working in NYC are sitting quietly at a table along the front windows.  A cell phone rings—one of the few that must be working—and one of the women answers.  She’s a dark haired girl.  She listens, shuts her phone and starts sobbing.  She says something to the others; they hug each other and cry.

Damnit.

It’s after midnight by the time I head home.  My cell phone rings on the way.  It’s a friend from Capri in Italy.  He’s been trying to reach me all day to see if I’m okay.  I hang up and continue home.  I’m tearing.  Friendship like his is what life’s all about.  Family and friends are what matter.

A week later I drive to my farm, get in my pickup and head to Pittsburgh to visit my brother and sister-in-law.  I decide not to go back to NYC but drive south, toward the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  I’ve never been there before, but it just seems the place to be.  I have to drive by Washington, DC to get there.  It’s only when I see the first sign for DC that I realize I’ve made an unconscious pilgrimage past the three sites of the 9/11 massacre—NYC, Western PA, DC.

 

Duck, NC is chilly in the off-season and the ocean is wild.  I lock myself in a hotel room overlooking the sea and complete my first novel.  I’m driven to make something good come out of all of this bad.  A week later I drive back to NYC.  I’m on the Jersey Turnpike heading north and close to the City, but I can’t tell where it begins.  Its southern landmark is gone.  This world is insane.

A few years later I give up my life in NYC and move to the Aegean island of Mykonos to pursue my dream of writing mysteries exploring the heart and soul of Greece.   There is no reason to wait any longer.  Is there?

NEVER FORGET.

 

Jeff