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Saturday, December 15, 2007

A Holiday Wish By Steve Martin
(An original monologue by Steve Martin on a Christmas special of Saturday Night Live in 1991)

If I had one wish that I could wish this holiday season, it would be for all the children to join hands and sing together in the spirit of harmony and peace.

If I had two wishes I could make this holiday season, the first would be for all the children of the world to join hands and sing in the spirit of harmony and peace. And the second would be for 30 million dollars a month to be given to me, tax-free in a Swiss bank account.

You know, if I had three wishes I could make this holiday season the first, of course, would be for all the children of the world to get together and sing, the second would be for the 30 million dollars every month to me, and the third would be for encompassing power over every living being in the entire universe.

And if I had four wishes that I could make this holiday season, the first would be the crap about the kids definitely, the second would be for the 30 million, the third would be for all the power, and the fourth would be to set aside one month each year to have an extended 31-day orgasm, to be brought out slowly by Rosanna Arquette and that model Paulina-somebody, I can't think of her name. Of course my lovely wife can come too and she's behind me one hundred percent here, I guarantee it.

Wait a minute, maybe the sex thing should be the first wish, so if I made that the first wish, because it could all go boom tomorrow, then what do you got, y'know? No, no, the kids, the kids singing would be great, that would be nice. But wait a minute, who am I kidding? They're not going to be able to get all those kids together. I mean, the logistics of the thing is impossible, more trouble than it's worth! So -- we reorganize! Here we go.

First, the sex thing. We go with that. Second, the money. No, we got with the power second, then the money. And then the kids. Oh wait, oh jeez, I forgot about revenge against my enemies! Okay, I need revenge against all my enemies, they should die like pigs in hell! That would be my fourth wish. And, of course, my fifth wish would be for all the children of the world to join hands and sing together in the spirit of harmony and peace. Thank you everybody and Merry Christmas.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Holiday Feasts

As we approach the holidays, most of the people I know are concerned about eating too much and gaining weight. I thought I’d post some non-traditional holiday dishes that might help with that spare tire. All of these are edible, in fact, I’ve tried all these dishes and some are quite good.


Crispy Fried Scorpians on Fried Rice Noodles. They taste a little like unsalted potato chips. I tend to remove the stinger before eating.



At this meal, I was wearing a sweater. As I reached across the table, I brushed against the plate of scorpians and these fellows latched on with their stingers. I had to eat each one followed by a glass of beer.


Turtle dish. I’m not sure how this is cooked, but the Chinese eat the shell. It is said it has an aphrodishac effect. I don’t think it works.


I had this meal in the city of Yanji on the North Korean border. It is a cold noodle soup with everything but the kitchen sink thrown in. It had an interesting flavor and texture.



This meal was also eaten in Yanji and is one of my favorites. This was my 49th birthday and the long noodle is a traditional birthday celebration and signifies a long life. The rest of the meal was a wild mushroom fondue and was delicious. Mixed in was a plate of dogmeat (not the best thing I’ve eaten.


Turtle soup with eggwhite ducks floating on it. By the way, the turtle was complete with shell, just like it was lurking in the bottom of a pond.



Beijing Duck (previously known as Peking Duck). Simply fabulous. This is the oldest duck restaurant in Beijing is is packed every night.


Another delicious meal if you can get by the cherry eyes of the pig.



No meal is complete without a cold beer.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

I’m kind of feeling blue. You see, after long last, my wife and I decided it was time to do the unthinkable. We visited a lawyer and prepared our last will and testaments. There was a lot more to it than that, however. There was a Durable Power of Attorney, a Medical Durable Power of Attorney and a Living Will.

Okay, so no big deal, right? Well, does anybody remember the sitcom, Home Improvements? I had a real connection with Tim the Toolman Taylor. He was kind of a caricature of sorts with me. I could relate to a lot of what was on the show. I was that guy that wanted bigger, faster, more power. In fact, I remember looking at the air conditioner at my first home and wondering how I could make it more efficient. So I spent like $100 on copper tubing, a solenoid valve, and some agricultural spray nozzles.

WARNING! TECNO TALK: I tied the solenoid valve into the furnace’s fan wiring tapped the copper tubing into the house’s water supply, ran the tubing out to the air conditioner unit and hooked it up so the spray nozzles would coat the unit in a fine mist when it kicked on. The water would help the cooling fins and increase the efficiency.

Well, of course, I shorted out the motor on the first attempt, luckily I didn’t ruin it, I just scorched some wires and tripped the breaker. My second attempt failed, because I didn’t realize the fan kicks on HIGH SPEED when cooling, but medium speed for heating. But after a third attempt, it worked like a champ. Two weeks later, my air conditioner was coated in white calcium from the hard water, which I didn’t even think about and I yanked apart my hodgepodge of wires and tubing and they still sit on a self in the workshop of my current home.

Okay, so that really has nothing to do with what this Blog is about, except that I can relate to Tim Taylor. Oh, I remember his wife being an exaggerated version of mine. “Turn it down, it hurts my ears!”

Anyway, I remember the episode where Tim does a Will, (not me, his last will). He was despondent because his father died shortly after preparing his will and by do a will, he felt he was admitting his mortality. He was acknowledging that he was going to die. I’m feeling the same way right now. Another similarity; my father died shortly after preparing his will.

So, next blog, I’ll cover the Living Will. Now there’s a document that will open your eyes when you read it.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007


Research.

Damn, I love research. Especially the type you have to do for a Suspense Novel.

Here are a few of my recent research projects:Jumbotron Explosion.

In my second novel, I have a scene where I plan to drop the giant hanging scoreboard during the National Anthem at a hockey game. Being an engineer, I wanted to get the details right. I tried researching the particular arena on-line, but I couldn't get the fine details about the video control room or how the scoreboard was attached to the ceiling. So, I took the next step. I incorporated a research trip into the opening day practice for the St. Louis Blues and Scottrade Center.

It turns out that the new scoreboard is made by the same company as the one in the arena I plan to blow up in my novel. So, at the risk of being arrested for planning a terrorism attack, I approached a young man that was working on a charity event for the Blues, called "You Make the Call." Guests could pay $10 to act as a play-by-play announcer for a clip of a classic Blues telecast. The young man worked in the video booth and was familiar with the system for the Blues and the St. Louis Rams, which was perfect.

After I introduced myself and described what I was doing, he gave me all the information I needed (and more). He even suggested a way to splice into the video feed to display a message on the board moments before the explosion. I then went out into the seating area and took pictures of the catwalks and pulley system used to suspend the big scoreboard. I could see the video booth from the seating area and got some good pictures of it. I noticed details about the catwalk and how it ran right by the American and Canadian flags hanging from the ceiling.

In my original draft, I had it close, but not quite accurate and I left out little details that would bring the scene alive. I ran home and started editing.

Handguns

My protagonist, Laura Daniels is an FBI agent. At the suggestion of a female law enforcement officer, I chose a Sig Saur P229 Semi-automatic 40 caliber handgun for her. In my writing, I include details to try to bring out realism. I read all about the gun. I knew its features. But I didn't know how it felt, how it shot, how accurate it was. I only fired a handgun once and that was a long, long time ago.

I took a trip to Top Gun firing range in Imperial, Missouri to find out what I was missing. The experience was awesome. I talked to the owner and told him why I was there and what I wanted to know. He set me up on a lane, with a 40 caliber Beretta that was similar in firing characteristics to the Sig P229. It was a Double Action/Single Action with a de-cocking mechanism and no safety lever; same as the Sig. At 25 feet, I was surprised by the accuracy. I got a chance to feel the heft of the gun and the recoil. I smelled the gunpowder, felt the concussion, and experienced the rush of aiming a lethal weapon at a target.

I also used a Glock and a Smith and Wesson. They all had different features and different feels. After a hundred rounds of ammo, my arms were tired and I spent an hour chatting with two of the workers there. They were both retired law enforcement officers and had a wealth of information. The owner pulled a new Sig P229 off the shelf and showed me the details about its features and let me handle it. I was pumped to go back and tweak my novel.

In school, I hated research. Now I love it.

Monday, April 16, 2007

I'm proud to announce that my novel, A Reason For Dying, has been accepted for publication by Hilliard and Harris Publishing Company. I'm anticpating a release date in early 2008.

Here is a bit of a teaser.

Just how safe do think natural gas really is? You know, the gas you use to heat your home and cook your food with. My name is Will Bereswill. I’m an environmental engineer with over 20 years in the natural gas industry. My research suggests that a number of the deadliest disease outbreaks, SARS, Ebola & Hanta Virus can be linked to natural gas wells and exploration.

I’ve written a 98,000 word thriller, I call, A Reason For Dying, which is, in a word, the movie Outbreak meets the TV series 24. It explores what happens when a paranoid U.S. government mistakes a deadly viral outbreak from a natural gas well for an act of terrorism.

The terrorists in my novel are certainly not innocents, but they are innocent of what they’re being hunted for. That is, until they find themselves dying of the very virus they’re being accused of spreading, and devise a diabolical plot to sacrifice their own bodies as incubators to spawn a massive bioterrorism attack against the U.S.

Outcast FBI Agent Laura Daniels is reeling after a devastating demotion. But, even as she struggles to redefine herself, she is thrust into a race against the clock to, not only, find the infected terrorists but discover the source of the outbreak and stop it from being pumped into a pipeline that will carry it to the west coast of the United States.


There are over one hundred-eighty species of chameleons in the animal kingdom. They survive by camouflage; approaching by stealth to destroy their prey, then melt into their surroundings before becoming prey themselves. There are chameleons in the world of humans as well. Using the same tactics for different reasons.



Chapter One
Washington D.C.
November 28, 2001


Laura Daniels sat behind the wheel of the ’67 Mustang, but to say she was driving would be an exaggeration. The car rumbled through the dark maze of streets that made up Washington D.C. as if on auto-pilot, while Laura’s mind pondered another crappy day. It had been nothing but a string of crappy days since arriving in D.C. a couple of months ago. The Mustang jerked to a halt between the white lines it called home; the big engine shuddering to a stop, letting out a tired sigh as it gulped a last gasp of air through its grimy carburetor.
Laura gathered her things and trounced up the stairs to her Forest Heights apartment. As she turned the key in the deadbolt, the concerns about her day vanished. There was no click and the familiar resistance was missing. Her mind shot back eighteen hours to when she left for work.
Did she forget to lock the door? A forty-caliber Sig Sauer P-229 handgun appeared from beneath her lightweight jacket as she crouched to set the computer case on the hallway floor.

With the door pulled toward her to take the pressure off the latch, she turned the handle. A shake of her head evicted strands of short, blond hair from her face so she could peer through the thin opening; a near-full moon and streetlamps providing just enough light. The place looked trashed. Kitchen cabinet doors hung open displaying empty shelves. Dishes, pots and pans cluttered the counter. The trashcan in the corner of the room lay on its side spilling papers, open mail, and Chinese food cartons on the porcelain tile.

She pushed the door open and edged into the studio apartment. With gun extended, all five-foot four of her was taut and ready for anything. A circle of blue-white light swept the bedroom, both arms working in unison; gun hand supported by flashlight hand. Cosmetics were strewn about on the top of a small vanity near the bed with several bottles lying on the worn carpet. The closet door stood open and clothes were everywhere, except on hangers. File folders and papers covered the bed while the bedspread, quilt and sheet lay wadded in a heap on the floor.

“Well damn, everything’s right where I left it.”

She let out a long sigh as her shoulders relaxed and her gun dropped to her side. A quick flip of the switch on the wall illuminated Laura’s life as Assistant Special Agent in Charge assigned to the Bioterrorism Division of the FBI. At just thirty-two, Laura Daniels was a youthful veteran, rising rapidly in the Bureau using her street-smart savvy, relentless work ethic and sheer grit.
The depletion of manpower now assigned to 9/11, thrust Laura into the spotlight as the lead agent on the anthrax letter investigation. Her first big case and she was nowhere; no leads, no solid evidence, no nothing. Just seven letters written in a childlike manner, several grams of refined anthrax and five dead bodies—hopeless, just like her apartment. Like her life.

After retrieving her computer case from the dark hallway, she went to the small round dinette table and pushed aside this morning’s mostly empty cereal bowl with a few Honey Nut Cheerios still floating like tiny life preservers in a shallow pond of skim milk. She carefully placed her pistol on the table and began her ritual of removing her shield, holster, cell phone and whatever else happened to be in her pockets where she could remember to reload everything in the morning before running out of the door.

She picked up the cereal bowl, dumped the souring milk and soggy O’s in the corner of the sink, and stacked the bowl on the five other dirty ones. Looking in the empty cabinet, she concluded that she needed one more place setting to make it through the week.

“Susie Homemaker” was not her thing. She had been kicked out of her college dorm and when she tried to get her deposit back, the Residence Advisor said they were using the money to fumigate the place. In college, her excuse was schoolwork, now it was just work.

“Oh my Lord, I need a break...and a maid,” she muttered, rubbing her throbbing temples. With last night’s Lean Cuisine tray in the trash, she booted her computer and tied into the secured FBI network. Her mind wanted to shut down, but the investigation prevented sleep from refreshing her. With the case files open, the words on the screen ran together. Every lead a dead-end. Everyone makes mistakes, and these bastards were no different. Why the hell couldn’t she catch a break and find one; just one.

Holding the “ctrl” and “alt” keys, she pressed the delete key and secured the laptop in the standby mode. She extracted her personal cell phone from her small purse and scrolled down the pathetically short list of names. She hesitated for a moment; began to flip the phone shut; then pushed the talk button.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end was deep and strong.

“Dad? It’s Laura.”

“Hey Squirt, what are you doing calling so late? It must be one in the morning there.”

“Yeah, it’s late but I couldn’t sleep.”

“How’s Shelby doing?”

“Not good, Dad. I don’t think she’s got long to live.”

“Damn. How many miles?”

“I don’t know. A hundred-seventy something. It’s costing me a small fortune. I don’t think it’s going to see two-hundred thousand miles.”

“Don’t let her get away from you. Remember, I want her back.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“So how’s my big shot agent doing these days? Anything you can talk about? Or would you have to kill me?”

“I’d have to kill you.” The corners of her mouth curled up slightly as her father’s reassuring voice brought a small wave of comfort with it. A warmth that quickly faded. “Dad...I’m...I’m ready to quit this thing. I think...I’m in over my head.” Her eyes began to burn from the salt of gathering tears.

“Bullshit, Laura!”

The abrupt comment scared the tears back into her eyes. “Dad—”

“Squirt. We had this discussion when you signed up. You knew it wasn’t going to be easy. You need to suck it up and buckle down. I don’t know what you’re working on, but I’m betting people’s lives are at stake, or our freedom.”

“Dad, listen—”

“No. You listen, Squirt.” The voice on the other end became louder and more forceful. “I didn’t raise no quitter. You’ve never quit at anything. I may not have been the best father for you while you were young, but I’m damn well not going to let you throw your career down the drain because you feel sorry for yourself. I’m not going to let you wallow in self-pity and then hate yourself for blowing your life.”

Laura choked back the tears the same way she always did when her father directed his booming voice at her. She could see the deep lines in his forehead scowling at her through the receiver.

“You’re right Dad. I guess I just need some sleep.”

“Laura?”

“Yes, Dad?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

“Your mother would be proud...your mother is proud.”

A loud buzz caught her attention. The secure cell phone on the table vibrated, dancing across the cheap wood veneer.

“I have to go Dad; I have a call I have to take. Thanks for the pep talk.” She flipped one phone shut and picked up the other. “Daniels,” she spoke into the receiver.

“Laura, it’s Mike.”

“Mike, what’s up?” Thoughts of sleep vanished. Mike Johnson, Special Agent in Charge of the Bioterrorism Division, didn’t call to chat about the weather—especially at this time of night.

“A new lead—Trenton, New Jersey. Emergency response received a nine-one-one call earlier this evening. It sounds like a young girl. She says she was forced to write letters and address envelopes. Some of the things she said couldn’t have been known without inside knowledge. She gave an address to an apartment where they took her.”

“Oh my God.” A surge of adrenaline snapped her mind into overdrive.

“I’m downloading the call to your case file. Get to the terminal at Regan National. I have agents from the Newark Field Office heading that way.”

“Mike, we can’t let the locals interfere.” She banged at the keyboard of her laptop to upload the file.

“Trenton PD has been directed to hang back a half mile.”

“Good. I’m on my way.”



Tires screeched as the faded blue 1967 Mustang GT roared to a halt at the FBI terminal at Reagan National Airport. The throaty exhaust revved, clanked, and ran-on before finally going silent. At the same time, the driver’s door groaned in protest as Laura flung it open. With her computer case and overnight bag over her shoulder, she ran for the sleek Falcon 50EX waiting on the apron. The high-pitched whine of the engines and odor of jet fuel assaulted her senses as she approached the extended staircase. Within minutes, the small jet hurtled into the dark sky toward Trenton Mercer Airport.

Laura flipped open the Compaq laptop and pulled up the audio record of the nine-one-one call. Fitting a set of headphones from her computer case over her ears, she centered the cursor over the play button and clicked.

Static filled the headphones, and then an adult female voice. “Nine-one-one emergency response. What is the nature of your emergency?” Laura adjusted the volume to seal out the drone of the jet engines.

Ten seconds of static and then a voice sounding like a young girl. “They took me from school and made me write things.”

“What was that? What is your name, please?” the operator asked.

“I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Honey, are you in trouble now? Are you all right?”

“Yes...I mean they didn’t do things to me.”

“That’s good, my name is Kerri, Kerri Lambert, what’s your name?”

“No...they said they would hurt my momma if I told.”

“Where are you now?”

“At a phone, near a gas station.”

“Where is the gas station? Do you know a street name? Can you see a name on the gas station?”

The clicking in the background must have come from the computer keyboard as the operator sent a dispatch to nearby police officers.

“They took me from school and made me write things on the antrax letters. Bad things, I think.”

“Honey, who took you? What school do you go to?”

“They took me to a room. I saw the numbers. They didn’t know I could see, but I did. One...five...five...A...Lincoln Street.” Background noise interfered with the legibility of the recording. Judging by her voice and the way she pronounced the numbers, African-American? Maybe eight to ten years old?

“One-five-five-A Lincoln Street?” The operator’s voice seemed to remain calm, but Laura could detect the edge of stress creeping in.

“They made me write bad things, like...‘death to America’... ‘death to Israel’...‘Allah is great’. They made me put addresses on envel...ten...of the..., I count... I think some went to important people, uh...sentator.” The recording cut in and out as background noise drowned out her weak voice.

“Are you there? Honey you need to speak up, I can’t hear you very well. Stay where you are, the police will be there shortly.”

There was a burst of static and the recording ended.

Laura listened to the recording over and over, taking notes, trying to focus on the voices, then the background noise, then trying to determine the stress level in the girl’s voice.

A loud thump and rush of wind noise announced their final approach to Trenton Airport. The intercom cackled, “Fasten your seatbelt.” Several minutes later, the jet taxied to a private terminal where a white Ford Taurus waited with two men inside.



Laura trotted down the steps and approached the men, both wearing midnight blue Agency jackets.

The taller man stepped forward. “Agent Daniels?”

“Yes.” She extended her hand. “And you are?”

“I’m Agent Taylor and this is Agent Aras.” He pumped her hand once with a vice-like grip.
Taylor’s closely trimmed brown hair revealed a receding hairline. His pocked complexion accentuated narrow, squinting eyes, with thin lips that seemed incapable of a smile. Aras displayed a large set of white teeth that shone from the middle of his dark face. His only hair surrounded thick lips in a tightly trimmed goatee.

“Good to meet you. How far is the apartment?”

“About fifteen minutes from here,” Aras said. “I have surveillance and assault gear in the trunk. Our mobile forensics lab is about an hour out.”

“Great. Can you tell me about this apartment?” Laura asked.

“It’s part of an old row of buildings recently purchased by a real estate company,” Aras answered. “They plan on rehabbing it, but it’s been vacant for about a year.”

The car raced along the empty streets of Trenton toward the suburb of Franklin Park. The setting quickly turned from industrial to lower middle-class to semi-ghetto. Taylor brought the Taurus to a stop on Lincoln Highway just past Henderson Street.

“The apartments are right over there,” Taylor said. “That row of old brick buildings. 155A is on the back corner, bottom floor.”

Aras handed Laura a pair of night vision binoculars. The dark street turned ghostly green and black as she squinted to focus her vision. Several steps led to a small porch, slightly wider than the door. The amplified view revealed a crooked, weathered sign with the address; 155-A Lincoln Street.

“Crap! The windows are boarded up. Do you have infrared?” she asked.

“In the trunk—and directional mics,” Aras said.

A few minutes later, Laura pulled on a lightweight, dark blue FBI Gore-tex coat and watched a small screen while Aras aimed an infrared thermal imaging gun at the building. Taylor donned a pair of headphones and aimed an ultra-sensitive directional microphone.

“I’m reading several hotspots in the building. One is definitely a person. The others are static and appear to be smaller, and hotter than body temperature,” Laura whispered, her warm breath vaporizing in the cold night air. Fuzzy warm reds and yellows and blocky cool greens and blues danced around the small screen.

“I’m not picking up any voices, but there is definitely movement,” Taylor added.

Laura reached in her coat, pulled out her gun and started toward the old building.

“Daniels, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Taylor whispered loudly.

“I’m going in. I’m not letting these bastards slip away.”

“Agent Daniels.” Taylor grabbed Laura by the arm, his stubby thick fingers digging into her coat. “You can’t do that. It’s against protocol. If there is anthrax in there, you’ll be endangering yourself and others. We’ll keep the place under observation and wait for environmental suits and backup.”

Laura spun, yanking free of Taylor’s grasp, her eyes glaring. “Taylor, who the hell do you think you’re talking to? I’m in charge here. We’re going in. Need I remind you what these terrorists have done in the past several months?”

Aras retrieved two M-4 Carbines from the trunk and held one out to Taylor.

“Aras, are you crazy? What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m helping Agent Daniels and following orders. My brother was killed at the Pentagon. I don’t give a flying fuck about protocol right now.”

Taylor reluctantly took the automatic assault weapon and watched Aras retrieve a backpack and three sets of body armor from the trunk. His eyes swept over Laura’s thin figure. “Agent Daniels, I assume you’re a small?”

She nodded, smiling briefly, took the black vest, removed her coat and pulled it over her head. After cinching it up using the Velcro strips on the sides, she headed to the old brick building in a crouched trot.

Concealed behind a battered, rust-gutted pick-up truck across the street from 155-A, she scanned the front entrance, peering around the side of the building. The cloud-covered pre-dawn sky cast no light or shadows. Steam wafted from the nearby sewer lid carrying a stench that curdled her stomach. The night vision goggles revealed no cameras or security.

“Taylor, take the back. Remember, we want them alive. Aras, blow the lock with the C-4 and I’ll toss in the flash-bang. You take the right side of the room.”

After creeping up the brick steps to the door, Laura tried the doorknob and, finding it locked, nodded at Aras to place a small amount of plastic explosive around the strike plate. While Aras attached the detonator, Laura pulled the pin on the flash-bang canister and both agents crouched on either side of the front entrance. Aras lifted three fingers, and counted down. A small muffled pop, and the door swung open.

Laura tossed in the small grenade-like device and both agents closed their eyes and shoved their fingers in their ears. Following the explosion, they entered, weapons ready, eyes sweeping the room looking for movement. Aras yelled with a deep voice, “FBI, drop your weapon and come out!”

The dimly lit room was filled with pharmaceutical boxes and lab equipment. The air, still thick with the odor of cordite from the flash-bang, smelled of solvents. Plastic bags of white powder sat on a table in the corner of the room. As Aras crept toward the dark back room, Laura spotted a slight movement. She saw the muzzle flash of a weapon an instant before the report hit her ears. Aras spun around and hit the floor face down.

Diving behind an old stuffed chair, she trained her concentration on the doorway. A small dark figure appeared with a gun extended. “Got you, asshole,” she muttered squeezing off two quick rounds. The first bullet entered the man’s thigh causing him to fall backward and scream in pain.
The second bullet missed its mark and pierced a can of toluene, then struck the iron radiator behind it. The spark from the radiator ignited the extremely flammable solvent, rupturing the can, spraying a fiery rain over the wounded suspect.

The man screamed in anguish as his long stringy dreadlocks flashed, and solvent saturated clothing erupted in flames. The smell of singed hair and burnt flesh followed a wall of heat that pushed Laura back away. She stared helplessly as the dark man thrashed wildly on the floor—flames blistering and consuming his flesh. The back door banged open and Taylor raced in.

“Taylor!” she screamed. “Get one of the fire extinguishers in the corner. I can’t reach them. We can’t let him die.”

The deafening screams rang in her ears as the man burned in front of her, thrashing against the wooden floor. A loud whoosh and cool rush of carbon dioxide licked at her face as the flickering flames died out.

“Don’t you die you fucking bastard,” she screamed.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

T.I.C.
or
This Is China


For several months, armed with a few polite, badly pronounced Chinese phrases, I had the pleasure of roaming through China with a small team of Laowais to look at breweries for potential joint ventures. Lao wai is the Mandarin word for foreigner. On this particular day, I find myself deep in the Shanxi Province, the fringe of China’s Wild West--a coal mining belt with few redeeming qualities. This was to be a travel day and what started out as a seven-hour trip from LinFen to ZhengZhou City; ended up being a twenty-five hour marathon to see Hukou Falls; the 2nd largest waterfall in China. On the map, it’s a mere inches from the highway.

It’s been four hours since we left the highway and we’re still climbing through the LuLiang Mountains. I ask our interpreter how to say, “Are we there yet?” but somehow the humor is lost in translation. The road we are on has gone from chewed-up asphalt and now alternates between one and a half lanes of gritty rock and dirt, to little more than a dusty earthen path beaten down by thousands of years of travelers afoot. It would be rough by four-wheeler standards, and we are, by no stretch of the imagination, in a rugged four-wheeler.

My three laowai comrades, two interpreters, two beer company representatives and a grumpy driver are stuffed into a Jin Bei Minibus. Think 1960’s vintage VW Microbus and you’ve got a pretty accurate picture in your mind. I’m sure this particular vehicle might have been comfortable in its day, but its day was about twenty years ago. The seat padding was crushed and the shock absorbers were, well, they weren’t absorbing anything. Two years later I still have the bruises on my ass to prove it.

Yet, here we are, three Americans in the bowels of China, trying to catch up to the keys on our laptop computers as they bounce on our laps; writing reports that would somehow have to be transmitted back to the states by the next morning. Al Gore didn’t exactly have China’s countryside in mind when he invented the internet.

By now we’re testing the little Jin Bei’s lawnmower engine, rattling and skipping a beat that must be a fouled sparkplug. The scenery shifts to one of an alien world as the road turns sharply to the sky and the valley behind us falls away. The mountains rise in terraces like a giant’s staircase--each terrace riddled with monster-size mouse holes. Entire mountains had been chiseled down over thousands of years by a society that had no other choice but to pick out a living from the rocks. The people here live in soot and dirt and indescribable poverty.



The driver balances the Jin Bei on a ridge between two mountains weaving back and forth brushing by pedestrians, laying on his horn and mumbling, while I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending not to see the thousand foot drop-offs on either side. The Chinese don’t have the equivalent of DOT or OSHA, so guardrails don’t exist. As the path levels out, the bus driver shouts at the locals shuffling along, burdened by bundles of coal balanced on long sticks across tired shoulders. There are no villages in sight, so I can’t figure out where all these people are going. This is China.


Everything here is veiled in gritty black dust from the mines. The air is thick and hard to breathe and many of the locals wear black-stained cotton masks or wrap dirty cloths over their nose and mouths to filter out the carbon particles. Finally, the road turns to hug the face of the next mountain and we veer close to one of the chiseled terraces riddled with human-size mouse holes. Odd wisps of black smoke curl from each burrow and drift upward to the dark sky.

Before today, I’ve said many times, that nothing I see in China surprises me, thus our invented term, This Is China or TIC for short. Today is a first...well a first since the last time something really threw me for a loop in China. As the bus bounces by the mouse holes, I begin to make out the shapes of families huddled around small piles of burning coals for warmth in the back of each. I looked around to see my fellow laowais are as saucer-eyed as I am and it finally hits me. There are thousands of people walking about and not a single brick and mortar structure in sight. The mouse holes that began as coal mine shafts and air raid shelters had been converted to living quarters. There are cavemen still living in China.

The fortunate scrounge pieces of corrugated metal or scrapes of wood to tilt up at the openings shielding them from the wind and rain and prying eyes. The wealthy families near the road have all the luxuries in life, a custom fit wooden doorway, a stove pipe to carry out the noxious black soot, and electricity stolen directly from the main power line secured high on utility poles.

Suddenly my cell phone buzzes; startling me from my gaze. This is China. Hundreds of miles from civilization and the cell phone service is flawless. I flip open the receiver and hear my wife’s static-ridden voice. Before I can describe what I’m seeing, she goes into a diatribe on her hard day and how the garage door opener broke and how she had to dig in her purse to find her key to go inside the house and how she broke a fingernail opening the garage door manually. At this point, all I hear is yada, yada, yada and I feel like shouting into the phone, “Sorry, I’m going into a tunnel.” Instead, being the insensitive jerk, that she later called me, I tell her that there are thousands of people living in caves here and they would die to have a door, let alone one that opens at the push of a button. I actually hear myself say, “Get over it and call a repairman.” Thank God I lose the signal shortly after that remark and we continue to bounce along the mountain trail.

It’s now been eight hours. Those few inches on the map have taken us six to negotiate. As the Jin Bei grinds to a stop, we crawl out to solid footing and take in the scenery. Odd, that we’ve come all this way to see the second largest waterfall in all of China and, stretched out alongside of us, is a mile-wide dried-up river bed with nothing that resembles a waterfall in sight, and we can see up and down the valley for miles. We all think it, “Where’s the waterfall?” Finally someone dares to ask. “Waterfall is still a few more kilometers. We will have a break here at the Jin Pu Hotel.” There is a unified sigh of relief, both for the opportunity relieve ourselves and that we hadn’t spent eight hours of hell for nothing.

After a short potty break; thank God for western style toilets; it was back in the bus. Chinese toilets are topic for another time. We bounce down the road for about a mile and pull to a stop next to a cute, petite young woman with an orange coat, wielding a megaphone. But the scenery hadn’t changed and the same thought comes rushing back. “Where the hell is the waterfall?”

The tour guide raises her megaphone and with a loud screech, starts a well-rehearsed speech. Her first interpreted words are, “Sorry, no water.” “What the hell?” A loud, confused discussion in Mandarin erupts and the corrected version is repeated, “Sorry LOW water.”


A unified sigh of relief sounds--still, we look around. The ticking of the bus engine as it cools signals that we have arrived, and no sign of a waterfall. But there, across the dried up riverbed is a raised concrete walkway to... well... to nowhere. The walkway ends about a hundred yards from where we stand, but sure enough, our tour guide, talking excitedly into her megaphone, starts down the path to nowhere. I turn around to see that most of our Chinese hosts decided to hang back to let us discover things on our own. I have this nagging feeling that this is all a huge, cruel joke. So here we are, our Chinese tour guide, shouting into her megaphone to a lone interpreter, who then has to shout to translate to the three intrepid lao wais walking on a raised concrete pathway to nowhere, inches above a mile-wide, dried-up riverbed to see what seems to be a phantom waterfall.
We reach the end of the concrete to be met by a dirty, yellow-tinged, jagged icepack, the result of a frigid Mongolian winter. Undeterred by the seemingly insurmountable obstacle, we throw caution to the wind, along with every ounce of common-sense we possess and pick our way along the silt-crusted ice without any clue as to how thick it is or whether we’ll disappear into the icy water below. Twenty yards further, our little guide stops abruptly, hands out as if trying to regain her balance and shouts. “Louk ie, louk ie!” It takes us a moment to realize she is actually speaking English. She points out across the expanse of ice to a faint mist rising from the ground. At the same time, I notice an almost imperceptible vibration in the ice and a low pitched, steady rumble sounds in my ears. Our pace quickens and the low rumble increases to a deafening roar. Still, except for the mist rising, there is no visual sign of the 2nd largest waterfall in China.



We climb up and over a particularly gnarly pile of ice and there it is. Hukou Falls. Not anything like I expect, but magnificent, none the less. Again, it’s difficult to find the words to paint a picture in your mind, but it’s as if we stepped back millions of years and were witnessing the Colorado River just beginning to carve out the Grand Canyon across the high plains of northern Arizona. Millions of gallons per minute of yellow-streaked, abrasive water from the Yellow River plummet hundreds of feet to the bottom of an inner-canyon no more than seventy-feet across. The awesome power of the river found a weak spot; a crack in Mother Earth; to exploit and worked at it with tireless fury. I stand on a shelf of ice twenty-feet thick, on the edge of the raging abyss, mesmerized by the sight.



Hukou Pubu translates to Kettle Spout Falls. The yellow, silt-laden water funnels into the canyon in dramatic fashion, throwing up a mist that transforms into a light show of shifting rainbows above. The sound is deafening and the feel is powerful as the rumble resonates through our bodies. Thank God the ice is gritty, as we are drawn in by the magnificence and find ourselves standing on the edge of the ice shelf. One slip and there would be more room in the Jin Bei on the ride back.

The next surprise clomps up from behind, in the form of a very elder man looking like pictures I’ve seen of Genghis Khan with a long thin mustache, blending with his flowing, grey beard. But this man is skinny as a rail under his shabby course clothing and carries a handmade long-stemmed pipe clenched in a toothless grin. A ragged mule stands behind him wearing a colorful blanket, harness and saddle. We are witness to the famous donkey of Hukou. We knew the donkey was famous because it’s right there, embroidered in plain English on his blanket. For a mere 5 RMB; that’s about sixty-five cents; you can mount the donkey for a quick ride on the jagged chunks of ice and take a picture with your own camera. We found that this was one of eight donkey men that live in Zhongshi Village. They make the journey to the falls daily and earn a decent living. Several have even purchased motorcycles. This is China.
Not many westerners make it to this remote region and we draw quite a crowd as children flock around us to say “Hello” and ask for money. After ten minutes of smiling, handing out Chinese coins and saying “hello” over and over again, our beer company delegation comes to our rescue and we say goodbye to the incredible site. We pick our way back across the ice field and prepare for another 6 hour butt-numbing ride back to the highway. The bus stops again at the Jin Pu Hotel and our hosts inform us that they have arranged a special surprise. The Mayor of Hukou Village heard of our visit and insisted on having dinner with us.

The dining room in the Jin Pu Hotel is clean but Spartan. A round table dominates the room and centered on the table’s large lazy Susan is a beautiful centerpiece of birds and flowers freshly carved from local vegetables. Special occasions in China call for unusual food; fried scorpions, and spicy fried cicadas for appetizers, soft-shelled turtle (just like it came from the water) served over a bed of rice noodles along with various servings of vegetables and meats for a main dish and egg white ducks floating on fisheye soup for a finale. Determined not to be an Ugly American, I find I prefer my scorpions without the stingers, but they remind me of crispy potato chips. Cicadas, on the other hand, start with a tangy grit but finish a bit dry. That’s not necessarily a good thing when eating bugs and the wings tend to get caught between my teeth. Copious quantities of beer slammed down in Gan Bei toasts were followed by locally made apple wine. Two hours later as the sun dipped below the mountains, we bid Zai Jian to the Mayor and pile back in the Jin Bei for the treacherous ride back, this time under the veil of darkness.


The return trip to the highway takes about ten hours. With the exception of amber glows radiating from the caves alongside the mountain road, the scenery is covered in a shroud of black. Only the pail yellow of the Jin Bei’s dim headlights shed any light for much of the trip. If not for the incessant rocking of the bus, we would have no idea where we are. Each bang of a head against the glass panes of the bus reminds us that we are not anywhere near our destination. As we roll back up on the main highway, we pull to a stop behind a waiting car. The moment he clears the door, the driver lights up the cigarette he must have been craving for ten hours. Another spirited discussion springs up and our beer company representatives jump from their seats and join in. Voices raise as our interpreter explains that the man waiting in the car is a relief driver. But after seeing that the bus contains VIPs from the west, he doesn’t want any part of the responsibility.

The argument ends and the man in the car drives off--leaving our tired driver to continue on. Of course his mood is sour and he’s making no attempt to hide his emotions. The door slams shut, the lawnmower engine springs to life and, with gears grinding, we forge on. Our hosts speaking calmly as to relieve the tension, assures us that this is the very best driver in China and he will be fine. Only about six more hours to Zhengzhou City. This is China.

The final straw comes six hours later as we exit the main highway with the lights of ZhengZhou City glowing around us. The Jin Bei comes to a stop, about a dozen vehicles short of a toll booth. So close, yet so far. We sit in the line for an hour, as it seems the city gates are closed. At five-thirty in the morning, the line starts moving and it’s our turn at the gate. Another spirited Mandarin discussion, but the gate in front of us remains closed. The toll guard leaves his booth and boards the bus. He most certainly wants to know what on earth this bus driver is doing smuggling three lao wais into the city at this hour of the morning. A payment is made and the gate opens.

It’s been twenty-five hours since we left our hotel in Lin Fen as we pull our suitcases into the hotel for a quick shower, before boarding the bus to our next destination. It’s been a long day. A day we’ll talk about for years to come. Just another day in China. Yes--this really is China.