Chickens (not technically) in the News! #8

My good friend Johanna lives in Kabul, Afghanistan and sent me these pictures of a cockfight on the streets of Babur. According to her, the roosters don't get hurt, but instead win when the other chicken puts its head down. While I can't speak for all cockfighting in Afghanistan, I am positive that Johanna would not have sent me photos of a bloody all out cockfighting conspiracy in underground Babur. Mostly, you should enjoy the fabulous colors of the chickens. And for those of you interested in learning more about the exciting times and never-mentioned-in-the-media-true-to- life-and-often-very-normal-but-beatiful goings on of Kabul, I suggest you have a look at Johanna's blog. She is a wonderful photographer and amazing storyteller. I think you'll enjoy it.

Check THIS out!

My new favorite blog is called "Unearthed Adventures" by my two friends Kristin and Debbie. Their love for dirty, inanimate, and discarded objects rivals my obsession with my backyard and chickens (which is saying a whole lot more than you think - last night I played ultimate frisbee with a chicken hat on my head for 3.5 hours. Yes, that's right I telling you here and now, I had my head up a chicken's ass. More on this soon.) Anyways, check out their stories of reviving art that never knew it could be art, getting by on thrift shop purchases no one wanted, and racy tales of curbside porn...

Sonoran Desert Museum

This was to be a much longer post, but then my computer got grumpy and slow, like me in the morning, so this is what I got for now. This is from Mari and my visit to the Desert Museum just on the other side of the Tucson Mountains on Sunday morning. The desert was in full bloom and we had ice cream as we dreamt about all the wildflowers we would plant in the fall. That is, until church got out, people woke up, and all the hordes of fanny pack wearing, khaki-clad, tourists showed up, so we left.

Looking for someone to support?

Me and my chickens heart Cynthia McKinney... (the interviewer, not so much).

How did you use your extra day?

Well it's the day that mostly does not exist. At least 75% of the time. I hope you used it well and didn't squander it like all the rest of your days with so much laziness and sloth. I know I didn't. In fact I just got back from stuffing myself at my favorite local Mexican restaurant, El Minuto, with more abandon than usual simply because it was an extra, special day. And now I have updated Chicken Diction. (Whew.) All very important things. Don't you think that we should all be paid overtime for working an extra day this year? Time and a half is definitely our due, I say. Tonight I think I will cut my hair. Wow. What would I have ever done without an extra day like this. This is your day to make a difference. Don't frack it up. That's right, I'm addicted to Battlestar Galactica, and I'm not afraid to say it. And I'll use my extra day however I please.

Happy Leap Year Day from an old The Who poster!

Ode to Quoits.

For those lost souls out there who don't know what quoits (pronounced quaits) are, here is a quick tutorial of this wondrous sport. It's similar to horseshoes but a shorter distance (21 feet to be exact), shorter pegs, and instead of the open horseshoe shape it is a brass doughnut shape thus making "ringers" that much more difficult and therefore emotional. For more detail than you would ever want and some slightly awkward pictures of mostly overweight, middle-aged, white men, see the website for the United States Quoiting Association (really). You can even purchase your own set there. Here is evidence of the hours of enjoyment one can have playing quoits: we had to set out outdoor lighting to keep playing after dark! My set did not in fact come from the USQA website, but but from our dear friend Phil in Virginia, who is currently up for sainthood in our household due to his enormous generosity and strength of character for parting ways with this most beauteous set of quoits. Our dear friend Andrew also deserves a round of well wishes and prayers due to his self-sacrificing nature and allowing me to take this particular set when offered by Phil since as he said, "they make them right across the street from my house in Lancaster, Pennsylvania." That's right folks, this is me getting back to my Mennonite heritage and my only form of proselytizing - encouraging others to play this ever versital game of skill and technique, while most likely drinking beer.

Local food you should eat.

For all of you in Tucson and looking for a little incentive to visit a local farmer's market, here is a fabulous little clip that aired on Channel 12 about the Santa Cruz River Farmer's Market about five blocks north of my house and the University Farmer's Market. They are just some of the many gems here in the downtown area of Tucson. Hopefully you can find the chance to make it to one or the other of these places. Oh yeah, Mari and I happen to be on a few of the clips at the Santa Cruz Farmer's Market...

Catching Water: Sneak preview.

Today is the first day of two water catchment tank workshops in my backyard. Mostly we will mix cement and set a 7 foot tall, 4 foot diameter metal culvert on its end in the cement. With some pipes mixed in for fun. For a diagram of what we are going to do, look at this older post, and for more information about improving our water resources, local watershed management, all here in Tucson, Watershed Management Group knows a thing or two. Here are the parts, pieces, and place.

Culvert, soon to be cistern.

What 1 ton of cement mix looks like next to 3 inch ABS pipes.

Location, location, location. In this case, right under the newly installed gutters seems to make sense.

Barrio Brew Co. - and chickens of course.

Me and some friends had probably more than enough fun at a new brewery, Barrio Brew Co. this evening and I happened to have a camera along. So here are some photos you may or may not enjoy, that entail our own personal inspiration and imitations of my chickens. You'll probably know which are which, but in case you are easily confused I have added some subtitles to explain the inspiration and imitations...

To the left.

To the right.

Me and Dave - partial.

We were number 78. They're sticklers about numbers.

Uppy after I told her to think of some neuroscience word I currently can't remember. She enjoyed it though.

At some point I told Dave to be serious, but he didn't do that well, so I told him to pretend one of his rats had died. I don't think this is the picture though.

Debbie's failed attempt at seriousness.

Riley thinking he is in GQ magazine. Really.

This is my "fuck the man" pose. This is why revolutions fail - too much cynicism, not enough gruffness.

Uppy doing "chicken".

Dave, definitely doing "chicken".

Look at me. I'm a chicken.

Wait. Debbie is a chicken too.

All Souls' Procession

Every year in Tucson, the All Souls' Procession walks the streets of downtown in a funky, eclectic array of creativity and quirky-ness that really is the epitome of this town. It was last night and a group of about 20 of us walked together to remember the people in Arizona prison's long-term solitary confinement units (as a part of the StopMax Arizona Campaign that I coordinate). The procession culminates with music, floats, and performance art all in order to burn a giant urn with hopes and memories from the year from the people of Tucson. This year they were hoping for 12,000 people. I don't know how many were there, but it was big and fun. Unfortunately I don't have any picks of the amazing floats, masks, or puppets that were everywhere. But here is some of the group that we walked with, and below, is the urn about to go up in flames.

Catching Water: Preview.

In about one week, with the help and guidance of Watershed Management Group, we will be installing a ~540 gallon water cistern at the northeast corner of the house. The purpose is the capture the run-off from the east side of the house during the monsoon seasons (and any other time it might happen to rain, but let's face it, it barely rains ever). Then with the stored water I will be able to water plants, trees, veggies, and keep the chickens thirst satiated. Pseudo-famous water catching local gurus like Brad Lancaster will say that this water is free, but he is wrong. I know. I just spent all day running all over town making numerous purchases for this catchment tank, including the 7 foot long, 4 foot diameter culvert that will be used on its end as a cistern, and it is anything but free. Though that is not to say it is not worth it. I have ogled other peoples' catchment tanks in the neighborhood with salavating lips, and googly-eyes ever since I closed on this house. For some people it is speedy cars, and others fall for sex appeal in passers-by - but for me, it is hot bikes and large catchment tanks that cause me to strain my neck while looking them up and down. I know, but it's hard out there for an urban farmer...

Well to give you all an idea of what we will be installing come next weekend, here is a diagram I shamelessly stole from a local business website that also installs these cisterns. This is pretty much what we will be doing over the course of two Sunday afternoons in November, minus the hard work, sweat equity, and moments of confusion and cursing. Have no fear, I will be sure to post real pictures of the installation process once it takes place. Meanwhile, have sweet sweet dreams of your own water catching fantasies...

Beware Tucson bicyclists!!

As of early this morning, there is a gang of motorcycle cops pulling over bicycle riders mostly along University Boulevard between Sixth Ave and Park Ave. SO BEWARE!! There have been heaps of bogus tickets given out by overly ambitious, blowhard cops who have decided to target bike riders. Spread the word and be more mindful of stopping and signaling and everything else. If you or someone else gets pulled over, there is a good bike lawyer, Erik Ryberg. He has an informational blog www.tucsonbikelawyer.com and his number is 520.622.3333. Personally, from my completely non-lawyerly position I would tell everyone to plead not-guilty and challenge all these tickets.

AND everyone should show up tonight, Tuesday, 8pm at Old Main for the community bike ride. The last few weeks there have been over 200 folks from all over Tucson riding together on a different route every Tuesday. ALSO, there will be a Tucson Critical Mass bike ride this Friday eve, at 6pm leaving from El Presidio Park, and then every last Friday of each month.


"A patriot must always be ready to defend his [sic] country from his [sic] government." - Edward Abbey

Patagonia, Arizona.

This weekend, Mari, Megan, and I went down to the Native Seeds farm in Patagonia, Arizona (south of Tucson near the Mexico border). It was the fall harvest "festival" which basically means that we are supposed to feel good about helping to harvest the corn and stomp the beans, and Native Seeds gets to feel good about us giving them free labor. But since Mari used to work there and my brother, Chris still does, we thought it would be nice to go down and spend the morning shucking corn and brushing ear wigs from our shoulders to be rewarded by an unknown quality of potluck lunch. Also, we happen to think that Native Seeds is a pretty vital organization in the face of mono-culture crops and genetically modified seeds with all sorts of craziness and undetermined dangers. On top of all of that, it was a perfect reason to squeeze into my beat-up, sometimes running, and always dirty pickup truck and take an hour long cruise south through the Sonoran Desert to a 60 acre farm with a perfect view of Mt. Wrightson in the Santa Rita mountain range. It was a good opportunity to give my brother a hard time and throw dried up, mice eaten, corn cobs at each other while talking about how we were clearly the best volunteers at the Native Seeds harvest festival.

The "indispensable" gator at the farm.

Seed collection system.

Post fetish #1.

A critical mass of gourds.

Post fetish #2, with Mt. Wrightson in the back left.

"The left column."

I would like to draw your attention to the not-so-famous "left column" in this blog. There are three reasons really. The first is that my brother (among others) has told me that he has never clicked on a single link in the "left column." My own brother! It's hard out there for a blogger. The second reason is that I have recently re-worked some of the categories and added some interesting links. The last, and I am sure most crowd-pleasing-Chicken-Diction- enthusiast-exciting, is that I have finally gotten not only up to date with the egg laying exploits, but I have made a more standardized system for some of the naysayers and critics out there in the Tucson community...So damnit - take a look at the left column and learn yourselves a thing or two. Or just hear some random shit that I happen to chuckle at late at night when I am writing for this blog. Whatever, just look at the left column, it's worth it I promise.

A Guatemalan wooden chicken for your enjoyment.

So it won't go to hell so fast.

(I know, I thought it was called Myanmar too.)

Because it matters what people say on blogs.

But it does matter what happens here.
Check this out too.

Tucson monsoons.

The last week or so we have gotten heaps of rain in Tucson - some days with over one inch in a single downpour - and the river one block from my house gets pretty large and in charge when that happens. Here you can see the giant wave that was just at the end of my street in the wash.

The other thing that happens when it rains this much is all the garbage of the last few months that has ended up in the washes from roads, drainage, and other foul unspeakable places, is flushed down the river - or sometimes as we see here accumulated together as a wondeful reminder what a dirty wasteful society we are (brought you to by Burger King and Furr's Family Dining). Mmmm....

And here is a mediocre 22 second video of what it looked like last evening after a pretty intense downpour. Remember, for those of you not from Tucson, there is usually only a trickle to no water at all in this wash. It is probably at least 12 feet deep in this video. The quality is only so-so as it was taken with just a regular camera, but you get the idea. (This is my first Youtube video ever. I know it is not that great, but do you think that my brother will become famous now? Man he owes me big time...)

Guatemalan odessey.

There are few things more familiar in Guatemala for me than amoebic dysentery. So it wouldn´t be a complete trip this beautiful country if I didn´t have a frequent relationship with the various bathrooms of the country. It is a little like what I imagine going to one´s highschool reunion might be like - all too familiar and you wish is wasn´t. But I am getting ahead of myself, because so much more has happened than you can possibly imagine in the last week and a half that I need to start from the beginning.

First of all here are the necessary players:

Me - your wandering chicken man who like it or not ogles all the various chickens that we see along the way bearing the brunt of most of the jokes from all my fellow travelers; Mari - my permanently silly partner who inevitably keeps me honest even though she may not be;

Tshilo - Mari´s brother who will stop at nothing to give me (and everyone else) a hard time but will go to bat for you like no one else I know; and Brook - Tshilo´s partner, who gracefully puts up with all of us and when you least suspect it will pull one of her own jokes out and leave you jaw-dropped in shock. It is fabulous company.

Brook and I arrived in Guatemala City on a Saturday just in time to find out that some of my friends had clashed with the police over the celebration of military day. We proceeded to hang out in the city until Monday when Mari and Tshilo arrived in the evening and promptly informed us that they needed to see a doctor as the left side of Mari´s face had swollen up do to pressure from diving in Honduras the previous week and Tshilo´s left ear was giving him a lot of pain. Looking back on that moment now, I can see all of the plans we had set up calmly scurry through the open window never to be seen again no matter how we tried to chase them. Over the next few days we visited the Red Cross, two hospitals, two clinics, and numerous pharmacies, in at least three different cities and towns looking for increasingly better and more informed diagnosis. We were evidently short on luck in this department and all roads eventually led back to Tshilo really needing to see an ear specialist (in Spanish this is Orintoringo - try and say THAT five times fast). Naturally we were not in one of two places in the entire country where this was possible, but instead in Nebaj, a mountain pueblo close to where I had lived for a year in 2001-2002. The decision was made that Brook and Tshilo would head to Xela in search of an Orintoringo and Mari and I would go on to Ilom where I had lived for a one night visit. Thus began a series of events that would nearly reach epic proportions...

(Nebaj from our hotel room balcony - this sounds fancier that it was.)

Brook and Tshilo left in the afternoon from Nebaj, leaving Mari and me to relax and enjoy the quaint beauty of Nebaj. Distracted by a market filled with beautiful weavings and other assorted items we passed that day quite quickly. That evening while sitting at dinner our table began to shake ever so slightly until our chairs were also shaking. Looking around our neighbors at next table responded with ¨yup, it´s an tremor.¨ Very strange feeling for sure. We later heard it was a 6.0 earthquake with an epicenter somewhere near Chiapas, Mexico.

The next day we bounced off in a pickup at 9am bound for Ilom. Our plan was to stay for only one night, both knowing it would never be long enough and not wanting to be a burden as we would be staying at people´s houses. It was a Friday and our plan was to leave the next morning from Ilom to rendezvous with our other two fellow travelers in Guatemala City. A simple enough plan. A three hour trip lasted until close to 2pm due to slow going on a road often plagued with landslides, especially during the rainy season such as in full blast now. The most interesting item we found out during our pickup trip arrival was that the rides from Ilom to Nebaj now leave at 3am every morning meaning we would have somewhere around 12-13 hours total time to spend in the town I had lived in form nearly a year. It would be a test of creativity for our abilities to not only pass by all the necessary homes of people I wished to see, but a test of our ability to endure cup after cup of atol, coffee, juice, or whatever other drink would surely be generously but forcefully offered to us with each visit. All in a very short time. I was not sure it was humanly possible.

Going back to a place that was once so familiar - I had lived in Ilom for nearly a year as an international human rights accompanier - is a long disjointed bought of dejá vu. We dismounted from the back of the pickup and not more than 100 meters along the road we were greeted and offered a well needed lunch of black beans, tortillas and chile. There are few things I am sure of in this life, but one that I have no doubt in my mind about is this: the tortillas of Ilom are the best in there ever were. They are nearly the size of my hand, thick and flavorful, made of nothing but generations old corn grown on the slopes around the community. We couldn´t stay long after lunch. They were preparing for some political rally as the elections were ever nearer, and we hadn´t even arrived at where we hoped to stay the night.

The afternoon blew by and though I would have loved to see everyone I had shared meals with and worked alongside, it was somewhat fortunate due to our very limited time that not everyone was home when we passed by. In the end, no time is enough to elapse the gulf between my ability to come and go as I please and the impossibility for the opposite to happen. As the day wore on and we tried our best to pace ourselves and enjoy the quality of our company it was ever present in my mind that we were going to be getting up around 3am in order to get on a pickup back to Nebaj and then another seven hours to Guatemala City to meet Brook and Tshilo. At some point during that day I assured Mari that the family we were staying with would go to bed shortly after 8pm, as that is how I had remembered it from my time there. It was as we were finishing dinner that we were informed that their son was using the house we were staying in to show movies at night - every night in fact - and that an 8pm bedtime we were looking forward to in anticipation of our crazy early start would be interrupted by about 30 young boys watching a kid ninja movie dubbed into Spanish. Awesome. So there we were, after eating the best handmade tortillas ever to have graced the universe all by firelight, desert for us and the Ixil youngsters was dubbed karate for Q1 each with generator fumes wafting in from just outside the door. The world is certainly a strange place.

Sleep finally came, and quickly, just as I set the alarm for 2:47am and trying not to think too much about it. In fact, we had been told that if anyone heard one of the several pickups that leaves at various times, they would be sure to wake us up. And suddenly it was 2am and we were woken. Somehow, the first thing to arrive in my slow working mind was ¨this is NOT 3am¨ and therefore not fair. All the while, Mari and I were tying our shoes and stuffing the sleeping bag into the backpacks. A quick look to see if we missed anything in the deserted movie theatre/sleeping quarters and out the door we scooted, down the rock steps and into another pickup not more than 12 hours after having arrived. It struck me that somehow leaving in the middle of the night suited better with such a short trip as I didn´t have time to think about feeling bad for leaving already. Selfish, but a tad realistic perhaps.

Feeling sorry for all the souls that were getting woken up as the pickup repeatedly blared its horn, we bounced up the dirt road through Ilom. Next to me was a young guy I had played soccer with in the afternoons and on Sundays. Even in the darkness we quickly recognized each other and began making small talk about soccer and anything else that came to mind, including finding work in the states and if I was coming back for good or just to visit. The cool air chilled our ears and our hands as well as we gripped the metal railing that is attached to almost all of the pickups in the countryside of Guatemala. Our driver clearly knew what he was doing and we were making quite good time. I began to estimate when we would arrive in Nebaj - just in time for fresh coffee at El Descanso accompanied by banana bread - and then eventually Guatemala - time to take our clothes to the laundromat, relax, shower, and later go out dancing. I even began to feel happy about our 2am departure that had left me grumbling a bit inside at first, and mentioned it to Mari. She later told me that she thought me saying something like that was a bad idea, but at the time didn´t mention it.

Within an hour we had covered a bunch of ground and had arrived at the first small village we would go through. In my mind, simply a marker of where we were and how much farther we had to go. We stopped behind another pickup and our driver hopped out and entered the only lit building. A minute later he emerged and said off handedly, ¨we can´t get through, time to sleep.¨ Now, I have heard lots of random excuses and reasons for not arriving on time or sitting around waiting in Guatemala, but this was said in such a simple, plain way that for some reason it didn´t register. When I asked if he was serious, he told me yes and that there had been a big landslide and no one was getting through until the backhoes began working again (there had been a significant amount of work done on the road due to a giant hydroelectric project being undertaken between where we currently were and Ilom.) It was 3am. Clearly no backhoe operator was going to be working until at least 7am, which was when I was supposed to be drinking coffee and eating banana bread. In my head, I rejected the idea and at the same time reached for my backpack to pull out the sleeping bag. It was the reverse of an hour earlier only this time in the back of a pickup with seven other people, and setting an alarm would not mean it was time to go. At no point in our trip was it more evident to me that I had forgotten the necessary patience for travel in Guatemala during my three years in the states.

Somehow we slept. Mostly I slept to not think about the fact that we were stuck. And if I had seen the actual landslide at that time, I would have realized that there was really nothing we could do. Sometime shortly before we began moving but after the sun was lighting the low cloud cover overhead, we found out that there had been another landslide somewhere behind us and cars were not getting through there either. Now we weren´t even going back, at least not for a while. I told Mari I had wanted her to have the full Guatemalan experience and that it had taken a lot for me to arrange all of this, so I hoped she was grateful. She grumbled and looked barely amused.

(This is Mari looking at me skeptically, though at a different time. It happens often.)

We moved on, and about 20 minutes ahead we arrived at the sight where we discovered a slide 75 meters across and three times that from top to bottom. The angle of the slope was more than 45 degrees in the middle. We weren´t even going to be able to walk across and get into one of the many pickups on the far side that were also lined up looking longingly as we were. The most convenient piece of the entire situation was that by luck, fortune, or fate the slide had taken place with a backhoe on either side. As we arrived at the site, the drivers were both tossing aside their cigarettes and firing up the monstrous machines that I have never been more grateful to see.

Miraculously, and with little fanfare, less than two hours later there was a passable road. By this time, the lines on each side had grown (meaning the other slide behind us had also been cleared). For better or worse, we were one of the first cars across and we passed without incident. It felt like a lifetime ago that we had roused ourselves from the wooden bed in Ilom. Very quickly we would find ourselves in the town of Nebaj, sleepy and a bit disoriented. Foregoing coffee in lieu of a quick getaway towards the capital city, we got some banana bread to go, used a well needed restroom and jumped in the first micro-bus towards the city of Quiché, halfway to Guatemala City thinking to myself that we were practically home free...an hour later the bus overheated, gurgling water as it spewed out of the engine and onto the now hot pavement. This time there was no waiting to be done. The bus was not going anywhere for some time, but we surely were. Backpacks in hand, we quickly paid the driver for the distance we had traveled and luckily flagged down another before the other passengers of our steaming bus and away we went. It was the last of our traveling worries that day. At 4:30pm that same day we arrived at my friend Caren´s house in Guatemala City where we were to meet the other half our party of four. Fourteen and a half hours after we had left, and one pickup, two micro-buses, one chicken bus, and a taxi later, we were grumpily unpacking our bags to try and make that early morning dream I had of washing clothes a reality. What would not become a reality would be the dancing and the meeting up with Brook and Tshilo...

Back after three years...

Well I don´t know what to say. Three years is nearly too long to comment. The monsoons have arrived in Guatemala and the days are interrupted by a dousing of moisture that hangs in the air somewhere between refreshment and stickiness. The city bustles like it always has and the shopkeepers are the same and different all at once. With the presidential elections only a few months away there is a tangible electricity in the air over who might win and what real effects that will have. There is never a good choice for president in Guatemala, and meanwhile celebrations of the very military that is responsible for a holocaust against her own people go on in what looks like a police state and is clearly a descent into the horrific past all the while forgetting the terror that gripped the country not so long ago. We have been in the city for two nights now and we are itching for a departure to the mountains and the winding roads of the countryside. I don´t know how easy it will be to download photos while here but I will certainly try. For now, follow the link on the word ¨celebrations¨ and you will get a great idea of what takes place in this slice of the world. (We happen to be staying at James´s the photographer´s house so I can´t but help shamelessly plug his blog, never mind that he has incredible pictures.)

Going to Guatemala with an achin . . . . in my heeaarrt.

In about eight hours I will be on a plane flying south to Guatemala where the monsoons have already begun and the fact that something about any reasonable change to our country's attitude towards immigration has NOT taken place is felt in the tangible way that we passport wielding, English speaking, comfortable folks can't begin to comprehend. Seriously. But I am going to hop on down for a two and a half week jaunt to visit friends and relax a bit - ahhh the power of the dollar.... How conveeenient. To think that such a reality is entirely IMPOSSIBLE for most folks in Guatemala or almost any other country where the predominant human color scheme is other than pasty is a nearly insurmountable obstacle for the minds of us Citizens. In fact most of the time, when one hears that someone from Guatemala, Mexico, or any other country south of here would come to visit or work in the US of A, the assumptive fear that too often follows is that we should worry that they might stay. What if I stay in Guatemala? Anyone (besides my boss) worried about that? The double standard is a bit like an elephant giving us all a collective lap dance and we not only are unwilling to acknowledge the elephant is there, but that we don't even know what a lap dance is. Anyways, my soap box rant aside, what I really wanted to say was that I am going to Guatemala, where the chicken buses run wild and the chickens speak Spanish, so my entries will be a bit more sparse, but I hope to get you up to date on our travels and adventures.

In the mean time, here are some links on Guatemala in case you are interested:

Current Events
Photos
Human Rights work