Pecking Order on the Zabid dig, 1996.

Pecking Order at the Zabid dig, 1996.

After a few weeks of excavating in my trench just outside the Citadel’s wall in Zabid our ‘dig season’ was well underway. Acclimatizing was tough because the temperatures bordered on unbearable. Daytime temperatures could easily be over 40 degrees Celsius and this was further aggravated by the dusty afternoon wind that accompanied them. Nor did it help matters that the mudhir proclaimed another edict that we would be allowed only one shower per day. Considering that we had no fans or air conditioning, and that I completely soaked my clothes in sweat at least three times a day, this did not sit well with me nor especially with Kathy, who took umbrage at another of the mudhir’s typical unilateral decisions.

Naturally, there was your typical weird group dynamics amongst our ‘western crew’ where everyone tends to get on each other’s nerves with their various peccadilloes.

The mudhir was proving to be a tyrant supreme at all times much to the discomfiture of Kathy, me and others. Our group dynamics were challenging at the best of times and in way, we felt like we were prisoners of this old Ottoman citadel which had indeed at one time been a prison.

Luckily for me, the mudhir was leaving me to my own devices and I only saw him once a week or so. Visitors to my trench just outside the citadel's east wall were few and far between. In working with my local workers, one day I recognized a definite group dynamic amongst them. What intrigued me was the pecking order they had established.

Some of the tension between my twenty workers might be attributed to work experience and either racial or tribal affiliations. Even though everyone was local, individually they were as different as chalk and cheese. Nevertheless, my workers were an amazing lot—a real mish-mash of ethnicity.

'Eddie Murphy with his wheelbarrow

However, the darker-skinned workers, who were of African origins, were relegated to doing the most menial of jobs, such as hauling mounds of dirt that had been created by the pick men, or running the wheelbarrows, or carrying the rubber dirt buckets.

One of my wheelbarrow guys was a dead ringer for the African-American movie star, Eddie Murphy, so that was the name we called him.

Eddie Murphy at our trench

He did not seem to mind and he probably had no idea of who the movie star was but maybe enjoyed what little status it brought him. At any rate, I was surprised by the number of black workers we employed, about one quarter of my work force.

Given the proximity of the African continent which borders the Red Sea, it’s only reasonable to assume that African seafarers, from time immemorial, had plied their trade up and down the Tihama Coast, and had no doubt contributed to the gene pool through assimilation. Also, it was during the time when the Axumite Empire controlled most of the south-west Arabian Peninsula (c. 325-702 AD) that the conquering Abyssinians (Ethiopians) had undoubtedly mixed with the indigenous Arab blood.

The Ziyadid dynasty (818 to 989 AD) controlled the coastal plain of the Tihama, and had established trade links, including the slave trade, across the Red Sea with Abyssinia. Some of these slaves, originally from the Jazali tribe in Abyssinia, rose up and killed the last Ziyadid ruler and by 1021 AD had established a new dynasty—the Najahid dynasty, which lasted until 1158 AD. During the later thirteenth century, Zabid was a center for slave-trading.

The social hierarchy of Zabid was just as complex. The ruling elites at the top of the pyramid were referred to as al kabir or ‘eminent nobles’. They came from bayt kabir, noble house. The ‘top’ families, who were rich and influential and called the sadah and kibar, were the next class. They were followed by 'freed slave' families. At the lower end of this hierarchy were the abid or ‘ex-slaves’ called mazayanah. At the very bottom were the darker skinned akhdam or ‘min al-Habasha’, who referred to themselves as ‘Ancient Abyssinians’ and they worked as servants or, as on our dig, did menial and hard-labour jobs. No doubt, the man we called ‘Eddie Murphy’ and our other ‘black’ workers were direct descendants from these earlier African slaves.

Another of these abid men who ran a wheelbarrow was called ‘Jonglei’ by the other pick men who, no doubt, thought they held a higher position over him. I had heard this term ‘Jonglei’ on a dig last year in Jordan where workers referred to one guy by this name. Moreover, I was familiar with the term ‘Jonglei’ because it was used to describe the massive swamp in southern Sudan that I had traversed on an overland trip in 1982. The ‘Jonglei Canal’ was a huge program undertaken by Chevron to cut a route through the swamp and speed up the flow of the Nile and provide an easier passage.

Through an interpreter, this ‘Jonglei’ chap told me he got this nickname from his great-great grandfather who had originally came over to Yemen from Sudan, perhaps even as a slave for the Ottomans. I preferred to call him ‘Sudani’. He was a sturdy looking chap and I would not want to mess with him. Luckily for the other workers, he had a good sense of humour about their playful joking.

My interpreter--Turki at his home.

The next group going up the pecking order were the men who used the large picks and shovels. My favourite worker named ‘Turki’ belonged to this group. ‘Turki’ looked quite different from the others perhaps because of his Turkish ancestry. He had lighter skin, soft grey eyes, a humourous disposition and one important advantage he enjoyed over the others—his excellent command of English.

Of course, I made him my interpreter, and when I asked him where he had learnt English, he answered with pride that his father had taught him. His lineage was probably connected to the short period when the Ottoman’s ruled this territory 1530-1536 AD when the minaret was built.

The men who used small geological picks and trowels were at the top of the pecking order. They were uniformly of Arab stock not African. They were the ones who had worked their way up the ladder for the mudhir on earlier digs and now they got to order the other workers around. They also tried to create as much dirt and heavy lifting work as possible just so they could sit and smoke a cigarette while ordering others around during their lull in work. Now and then an ambitious young buck from a lower group tested the waters by trying his hand at troweling, but this usually ended in mayhem with a strong rebuke from the trowel man. At any rate, there was constant chatter in our trench between different workers and a lot of joking around.

At the top of this pecking order were my two Yemeni junior archaeologists.

My ‘Yemeni boys’, as I called them, were from the two dominant North Yemeni tribes: the Bakil and the Hashid. One of my duties as ‘Site Supervisor’ was to teach my ‘Yemeni boys’ who had university degrees the finer aspects of archaeology—how to survey a site, set up control points so that we could correctly measure how far we had dug and also for giving the provenience of found artifacts and other material culture. To a certain degree, my ‘Yemeni boys’ took satisfaction in being able to order these Tihama workers around, no doubt proving to them at least that the North Yemenis were superior to these coastal bumpkins. I suppose one could say that I was at the top of the pecking order but the mudhir had tasked me with this job. Regardless of their social standing, I always treated everyone with respect, otherwise they might not work for me.

Near the end of the dig season, there was some excitement on the dig one morning. At any one time, I might have three trowel men picking away at something in three different locations. Since one of my duties was to carefully label and bag any artifacts found plus record their provenience, through surveying I had not been paying attention.

The older worker and 'Eddie Murphy'.

Suddenly there was some shouting going on when my back was turned and I wasn’t sure what was going on. Apparently, when one of the older and frailer bucket men had turned his back to load his wheelbarrow and Abdul, who had been working next to him, threw a small clod of dirt at him which exploded upon impact. When the workman turned around to see who had committed the act, Abdul would pretend that he was working. This went on a few times and it was funny up to a point as everyone was laughing but the workman was clearly getting fed up with being the butt of all the joking.

My workers and the 'Yemeni boys' supervising.

The others finally told the older man who the culprit was, there wasn’t much he could do

 because if he threw something back at Abdul this would have led to some kind of further

 abuse or maybe his firing. Things settled down and while Abdul was busy doing some 

troweling, I decided to exact some kind of revenge for the bucket man. 

While Abdul’s back was turned towards me, I winged a big clod at it, then I too pretended to

 feign working as he looked around for the culprit. The whole place roared. As Abdul was

 bellowing, I threw another clod at him. The entire crew erupted again but Abdul, realizing

 that it was I who was the culprit, even joined along so that was the end of that childish 

prank. Since I was the mudhir of the trench—he who must be obeyed—Abdul could do

 nothing. Things cooled down after this and there was no more dirt throwing by anyone,

 thank god! 

The only place to be in a pecking order is at the top.

Journey to the Swahili Coast, 2013

Journey to the Swahili Coast, 2013

We squished ourselves into the mini-van, all 8 of us that is, we were weighed down by suitcases, gym bags and carry-on bags that wouldn’t otherwise fit into the boot. It was nighttime, 9:45 pm to be exact and neither Jeremy nor Jessy were anywhere near sleeping mode. This was, after all, our first big, extended family trip to Kenya’s Swahili Coast—everyone was up for it. Our stuffed van beetled through our dimly lit Kileleshwa suburb then drove past the President’s State House and eventually into the seedier part of Nairobbery—River Road. A dodgy area at the best of times but this is where we would catch our Coast bus to Mombasa on the Swahili Coast. The bus stand was chock-a-block with pedestrians, touts, dolly wallahs, blind beggars, taxis, bus conductors, prostitutes and other poor souls who crawled along on all fours desperately looking for a handout.

It was a madhouse. Everybody had the same idea—Get the hell out of cold, hectic Nairobbery. We all unloaded from our taxi to a broken pavement where we plopped young Jeremy and Jessy on our packs and quickly covered them in a fleece and blanket to ward of the bitter night air associated with being at 5,000 feet above sea level. I loaned the maid my fleece vest as she was not used to being outside in the cold and besides she was wearing a flimsy coat. We thought we would only be waiting for ten minutes before boarding our bus but it was nowhere to be seen. All the coast buses were backed up in a queue.

A driver who had parked his car rather unwisely behind one of the buses caused a commotion when other buses could not pull in. Shouting broke out then a group of men physically moved the car out of the way. The Somali driver soon returned and started shouting at the bus guy who had mobilized the car movers. Things became quite heated, almost to the point of fighting with the Somali driver pulling a knife on the bus tout. Cooler heads prevailed and he drove his car off. Our bus finally fired up its engine and a legless beggar positioned himself right behind the exhaust. Jessy asked why he did that and I told her he just wanted to stay warm.

We finally got on our warm executive bus, with Jessy and Jeremy promptly falling asleep. The bus lumbered out of Nairobbery, bouncing over potholes and barely stopping for the numerous speed bumps that seem to plague Kenyan roads. Our driver was a bit jerky and often woke Gracie and I from our slumbers as we sat at the front of the bus. Luckily, the kids and Gracie’s siblings crashed out but the lurching bus didn’t seem to faze them. At one point, the driver suddenly pulled over and there was a sudden crush at the front doors.

‘Piss stop,’ yelled Gracie’s brother Josie who bolted by me into the dark stillness.

Back on the road and we drifted in and out of mist with the bus’ highbeams barely made a dent in the fog. We would be eventually leaving the high plateau and descending into the dry wastes of Akambaland. I would have rather taken the daytime bus but Gracie said that might be too much for the kids. We briefly stopped for another piss break at Mtito Andei, then the bus hooted at us to get back on board.

We arrived on the coastal plain just as a pale sun tried breaking through the early morning mist that billowed towards us. Mud and wattle huts lined the road along with small kiosks offering long clear plastic bags of green and ripe tomatoes, mangoes, potatoes and red onions. Whenever we approached speed bumps, young boys ran alongside hoisting up trays of packaged roasted cashews and groundnuts for us to buy. We were finally getting near Mombasa. Parts of this section reminded me of the Thousand Hills that I had come to associate with Rwanda. It’s quite verdant! In between the mist and hills, I caught glimpses of a sparkling mirror in the distance—the Indian Ocean. The kids had woken up by now and were excited to see the sea for the first time. Jeremy thought it was a river or lake.

Mombasa was a jumble of tumble-down apartment buildings, banged up cars, slow diesel-spewing trucks, a chaos of hand-painted signs and makeshift shelters. All manner of folk were walking to town. Naturally we got caught up in an early morning traffic jam which is so indicative of this busy port-of-call—Mombasa. In town, we soon alighted and waited for our transport to Malindi—about 100 kilometers north on the coast. It was decidedly humid and everyone had shorn their warmer upcountry outer gear. Jessy and Jeremy were too engaged with all manner of humanity swirling around them to notice that they were hungry. It was 6:30 am.

Due of the size of our group, Gracie managed to grab two tuk tuks that would transport over to where the Malindi matatus departed from. The invasion of tuk tuks is something new in Kenya—no doubt an import from India. They are flimsy contraptions made of cheap metal over top of a motorbike. There is one seat for the driver and behind him there is a bench seat where three passengers can squeeze into.  The luggage fits into a small area behind the bench. I regaled Harry and Josie of my story of carrying a sitar in case, tabla drums in case, a huge travel pack and another pack with Indian clothes in New Delhi in 1982. I hadn’t ridden in a tuk tuk since my return trip to India in 1999. The tuk tuk ride is by no means comfortable—it is only good for a short ride.

Because of their size, the tuk tuks can only take 3 passengers with luggage, and we bumped our way over more potholes and speed bumps to our next staging area. Josie, Harry and I followed the others, keeping our eyes on our luggage in case any wayward hands seized upon an opportunity. We only waited ten minutes as Gracie commandeered another matatu that would take us to Malindi. A small family of three sat in the front seats and our group of eight filled the remainder. It was a converted safari van but we had lots of room. Jeremy and Jessy were still mesmerized by their new surroundings, as were Gracie’s siblings as none of them had been to the Swahili Coast before. This was familiar territory for Gracie as her fish business takes her up and down this coast. As for me, I hadn't been here since 2002 when Gracie and I stayed on the coast. Jeremy and Jessica were thrilled to see estuaries, travel over bridges, witness rivers, see boats and the hectic life on the busy coast. I was amazed to see that the bars were indeed open at Mtwapa with many bar girls hoisting cold Tuskers before 8 am no less. We hadn’t even had breakfast yet and they were already guzzling cold beer--for crying out softly.

The road north is still enchanting and the greenness of it is intoxicating. We passed an ancient forest on our left that is held sacred to the Mijikenda tribes of the coast. Truth be told, it is the last remnant of Equatorial Forest that once spread over as far as the west coast of Equatorial Africa. We passed vast sisal plantations, which looked very much like the pineapple plantations of Hawaii. A pack of baboons crept out of the undergrowth and this excited Jeremy. We passed Kilifi and the turnoff to Watamu, then passed a butterfly farm. Further along, a few new buildings heralded our entry into Malindi.

The front seat passengers off loaded and we thought that the driver would take us directly to our resort—Tamani Jua, which was just a short distance out of the main downtown. Malindi had become more Italian than when I was first here in 1982. The matatu driver drove us around but in the end dropped us in the middle of nowhere. We flagged down a couple of tuk tuks, loaded our gear and ourselves and bumped our way past a busy downtown lined with numerous curio shops, kiosks, supermarkets that catering to Italian clientele.

The infamous “Stardust” nightclub was still standing and we passed another called “24” plus the famous “Pata Pata” nightclub which is reputedly the largest disco in East Africa. We finally got to the front door of our resort, got ushered in by friendly staff and were offered a cool drink to slake our thirst. It had been nearly 12 hours since we left Nairobbery last night. We were famished and everyone attacked the buffet breakfast table. We loaded up on coffee, tea, sausages, toast, fresh baked croissants, juice, fresh fruits including finger bananas, papaya, mango, passion fruit and watermelon. There was a cook who personally made us Spanish omelettes. We were the last ones to enjoy breaking the fast, so to say.

The return trip was something else. Just a day or so after we arrived on the coast, there had been a horrific accident involving buses on the Nairobbery to Mombasa route. As a result, the government decreed that there would no longer be bus travel at night. If your bus did not reach its destination by nightfall then you would be stuck having to sleep in the bus until daybreak. That was fine but many holidaymakers had already booked return trips on the night buses so what to do. Would we get stuck in Malindi or Mombasa without a bus?

Luckily for us, one of Gracie’s friends in Malindi knew someone in the MASH bus company and we were just able to snag seven of the last seats available. I would have rode on the top of the bus if need be. Gracie and I had to mobilize our gang into packing the night before our return bus ride as we would have to rise at 5 am to get our taxi ride at 5:45am so that we could make roll-call for the MASH bus at 6am. We got up and were ready to roll at 6am but our taxi was too small for all our gear and personage. Luckily a tuk tuk came by and Gracie hailed him down and we stuffed our luggage and Gracie into it and off she went. The discos were still rocking with guys and gals coming out still holding on to their Tusker beers. We arrived at the bus stop on time but still had to wait for some stragglers who showed up late and off we went at 6:30am. We had no time to get breakfast and I hoped the kids and Gracie’s siblings would hold up.

Gracie and I were worried because none of us had had any breakfast. It didn’t bother me but Gracie and I were worried for the Jeremy and Jessy as they never miss a meal especially breakfast. I had the foresight to sneak some packets of biscuits from our resort and had bought four small boxes of UHT milk. Just as we were leaving some kids carrying trays of roasted groundnuts and sesame seed snaps. Gracie bought enough that might stem our hunger till we were able to get a meal—when and wherever that might be. Off we drove towards Mombasa and all points west.

We never did stop for breakfast in Mombasa and just kept going. We soon left the muggy coast and started gaining elevation towards the Voi Hills. Because the government had changed the bus schedule, we were unsure where the bus might stop given that we needed to get to Nairobbery before dark. Normally the bus would stop at Voi but as we got closer to the hills, I realized that we had already passed its turnoff. Surely the bus would stop at the halfway point of Mtito Andei for a much needed piss and food stop. We hurried by that turnoff too and Gracie and I were wondering if we would ever get food for the kids.

Past Mtito Andei, we suddenly pulled into a place where all the other MASH buses had parked. We quickly disembarked, some heading for the loo whilst most of us went to the large cafeteria teeming with the bus masses. We found some chairs and sat down as Gracie went to pay for our food. I waited near her in case I needed to grab food off her. There was a great push to pay and order and receive the food as it was everyman for themselves. Gracie waited and then I saw her going back to the pay counter.

‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.

‘They ran out of food,’ she said.

I was dumbfounded. They knew that the bus schedule had changed and that everyone was riding during the day now. How the hell could they run out of food? Gracie told me to buy some sodas, so I went to buy 8 bottles but they had run out of some flavours so I was stuck buying tepid plastic bottles of Coke and Orange Fanta. I went to buy some plastic wrapped cake at another counter but they too had run out. Gracie was then told there was food again and back she went to the cashier and where they handed out the food. All our party had downed their soda by then so I bought some more but this time I also got some apple juice for the kids. Our bus conductor gave me a dirty eye but I told him we hadn’t eaten anything since leaving Malindi nearly 4 hours ago and the kids were hungry.

The place was staring to empty and Gracie came back to me empty-handed again—‘Can you believe it? They ran out food again.’ By now I had had enough and had half a mind to just go up and grab someone’s food. We were the last ones trying to get food. Gracie went up to our driver and talked with him. She knew the guy as she travels this road frequently and she managed to talk the guy into getting some food for us, especially for Jeremy and Jessy who were starving by now.

The driver instructed the cooking staff to get us some chapatis and beef stew and get it fast. We were the last ones to get food, the last ones to eat our food and the last ones to get on the bus. Our bus was the last one to leave. I didn’t eat a damn thing and apart from some peanuts, sesame snaps, and biscuits in Malindi, I only had a tepid coke and several bottles of water for this long part of the trip. We eventually arrived at 6:30 pm into a quiet Nairobbery and took our final van ride back to Kileleshwa.

The Myth about Wilderness

The Myth about Wilderness?

A Treatise on the Notion of Wilderness: a Canadian perspective.

By Emerson Grossmith (1988)

“Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit, and as vital to our lives as water and good bread. A civilization which destroys what little remains of the wild, the spare, the original, is cutting itself off from its origins and betraying the principle of civilization itself”.

So says Edward Abbey in his 1970 book—Desert Solitaire.

Wilderness, what is it and does it still exists? This is a question that I have been dwelling upon lately, especially since I am back to working for the summer as a ‘bridge builder’ for Parks Canada in the backcountry of the Rocky Mountains.[1]  There has been a preponderance of literature on this subject and many of these authors share some of the same views that I do. This idea of wilderness was brought to my attention by my good Jordanian friend Mu’qaddam As’ad who asked me in innocence—“What is a wilderness?” Mu’qaddam and I are teachers in UAE where we shared an office. I am constantly being asked where I live in Canada and what is it like. The Levantines have trouble envisioning what a ‘green country’ with fresh flowing waters is like. I paused before answering his question, as English is not his mother tongue and I feared I would have quite a bit of explaining to do regarding the subtleties of ‘wilderness’. In my mind, I immediately thought of the Canadian Rockies where I have spent most of the past 20 years exploring. It is true that, in the beginning I did hike mostly groomed trails, but it was after that I found freedom in off-trail hiking, esp. above treeline. To go boldly where no one has gone before—well, but it did feel a tad more adventurous than your weekend hiker. Bushwhacking is one of the rewards for committing oneself to off-trail hiking and quite often this includes shortcuts. But, it would be foolish to assume that I had or my friends had hiked where no one else had gone.

Since coming to Banff in 1978, I have worked on ‘trail crew’ building new trails, maintaining old ones or constructing bridges for backpackers. In most respects, it is hardly a wilderness, but once you are off the main highways you are on your own, or at least that is what most people would like to believe—one individual against the elements. But, over the years, we have become complacent and we do not wish to live so close to the edge. For many of us, who want excitement, we can go to the Banff Mountain Film Festival or read about it in Outside Magazine. We can get our dose of excitement from being at these venues, actually living vicariously through someone else’s dangers. To paraphrase Kris Kristofferson—wilderness has just become another word for something left to lose.

During the last great gold rush to the frontier in the Yukon, Robert Service summed it up best—

“I’ve clinched and closed with the naked north,

  I’ve learned to defy and defend.

  Shoulder to shoulder we have fought it out,

  Yet, the wild must win in the end.”

The wild is not winning anymore. It is being ploughed under, cemented over, and turned into parking malls for shopping centres, plundered for minerals, oil extraction and clear cut for its lumber. There isn’t any place on the planet that hasn’t been mapped by a satellite. There is no ‘terra incognita’. The planet is getting smaller and population is becoming larger and larger. This myth about wilderness is just becoming wistful thinking.

What is wilderness? According to Webster’s Dictionary:

1. an uncultivated, uninhabited region; waste; wild 2. any barren, empty, or open area, as of ocean 3. a large confused mass or tangle 4. a wild condition or quality

‘Wilderness’ has been mentioned in the Bible and many think that this was the Sinai. Also, there is mention of a ‘Wilderness of Sin’ which might well be in Arabia. I suppose at some point, medieval Europeans considered the New World as a wilderness. Many modern Europeans still regard Canada and parts of America with that romantic notion of the “last great frontier”. Europeans have never had a wilderness of their own so how could one expect them to have the slightest idea of what a wilderness could be. To them, any land that is uninhabited or lacking culture might well be described as a ‘wilderness’. This view still prevails today and I quote from a recent article in The Globe and Mail from a London correspondent:

“We are, after all, a country that has tamed the wilderness… many of us are descendants of rugged adventurers who left the civilized Old World for the great unknown”.

This is a Eurocentric view that Canada is a big wasteland and not civilized. Perhaps, these Europhobes confuse wide-open spaces and big sky country with their idea of wilderness. There are those, south of the 49^th parallel who still regard Canada as something of a “frontier”. In his 1998 book, An Empire Wilderness, Robert Kaplan refers to the area just east of the city of Vancouver as “a magical frontier, breathtaking even when seen from the air”.  I think many people confuse forested areas and mountains with the eternal misnomer- frontier or wilderness, as the title of his book implies. What a myopic view of Canada, but it does not seem out of line with the world’s general view of western Canada, if not, Canada in general. Basically, it is a fundamental error if not downright insulting!

At any rate, I had to give Mu’qaddam a definitive description of what I thought was a ‘wilderness’. He assumed that Canada was all a wilderness and to a certain degree he was right—there is a large expanse of uninhabited land. But, I also pointed out that much of the Middle East is a ‘wilderness’: great tracts of land and sand where no one lives or could live. You could live in the northern tundra as there is wood for shelter, wild game, fish and berries to eat, fresh water to drink and solitude. However, in the Middle Eastern desert, water is a premium and difficult to find. As a Near Eastern archaeologist, there are not too many places in the Middle East where one can walk without finding visible remains of “lost cultures or civilizations”. As such, it is difficult for my friend Mu’qaddam to appreciate what Canada looks like without conjuring up visions of a wilderness. For him, if there is no visible evidence of past civilizations then the land must indeed be a wilderness, no less a cultural wilderness.

Being back in North America and particularly in Canada, I realize that this notion of ‘wilderness’ is being assailed from all sides: mining, logging, commercialization, ecotourism and Parks Canada. Moreover, the idea of ‘wilderness’ is rapidly becoming an obsolete word in English. What brought this to a head was a recent trip to the ‘wilderness’ at Helmet Creek cabin. My crew and I were sent in to work on a bridge in the backcountry of Kootenay National Park. We were flown in by helicopter to carry out this mission. We were linked to the outside world by radio and instructed to leave the radio on from 7:00am--7:30am and again in the evening from 5:00pm–5:30pm. It was as if we had big brother looking over our shoulder all the time. So much for the ‘wilderness experience’. To compound matters further, Lake Louise/Yoho/Kootenay Unit (LLYKU) policy stated that we had to call in to the Warden Dispatch out of Banff. This seemed a little much as we worked for LLYKU and not Banff Park. We had to do this everyday we were in a cabin or camp at 8am and again at 8pm—a bit much! My supervisor told me that if we didn’t report in everyday that Warden Dispatch would assume that we were in trouble and that they would dispatch a helicopter to our cabin for a rescue. I felt like a teenager who had gone away on a trip and had to check in with parent’s everynight. How patronizing Banff Park has become. How obsessive they have become over a territory that they have no authority over. My supervisor explained that the reason we had to check in could be traced to an incident that involved a solitary backcountry warden. Apparently, the warden was alone in the backcountry where his horse accidentally kicked him in the head. Perhaps he died but the outcome is that everyone who goes into the backcountry for an extended time must now do these daily reporting. This kind of protocol might well be appropriate for a solitary warden in the backcountry but it is entirely unnecessary for a three man crew to adhere to. The prospect of three trail workers being involved in an accident in a backcountry cabin is highly remote. This is just another example of Banff Park’s control of the Four Mountain Parks system. Moreover, what does it say about our qualifications to handle difficult situations in the backcountry. Have we become so inept in our wilderness skills that we need to report in on a daily basis? This is just another shrinking of the wilderness on a personal level. Helicopters, GIS, cell phones and highways have all helped to shrink the physical and mental boundaries of what once constituted a wilderness. Everybody wants to give the impression that they are going on a wilderness trip but when things go wrong, they want all the modern conveniences to get them out of a jam.

This Orwellian 1984 spectre of radio contact obscures the idea of a wilderness tradition. The idea of going into the backcountry is to get away from modern conveniences and enjoy the natural beauty of the land. In the future, I can envision video cameras in the backcountry cabins and trails that will monitor your every mood. Almost like a scene from the latest film- Truman’s World. It’s an apocalyptic vision if ever there was one. I thought it was bad enough that there are mountain climbers with cellular phones for quick rescue—what an adventure. Also, the advent of GPS gadgets is really making a mockery of the whole backcountry experience and the ability to read topographical maps. Where’s the adventure in knowing exactly where you are? Don’t hike off the main trail or you might find an adventure. Who needs an adventure when you can read about somebody else’s harrowing escape from misfortune or misadventure? Moreover, you can never get lost anymore; as help is just a coordinate and a phone call away. Why not just stay at home and play this on a computer game. Experience the dangers of ‘the wilderness’ without leaving the comfort of your ergonometric mouse. You can peruse the ‘virtual wilderness’, get lost, thwart a bear attack, cross a dangerous current, climb an unclimbable peak, weather a freak snow storm, bivouac at 9,000ft and identify wild ungulates as you sup your cup of designer coffee.

In conclusion, it would appear that Parks Canada wants total control of the Four Mountain Parks and everything inside it whether it is the whereabouts of a trail crew, hiker or even the wild animals—everything is tagged and monitored. I can’t wait until they issue hikers with a computer chip that will act as a homing device that will allow Parks Canada to monitor our every movement in the backcountry. Also, we have been instructed to get rid of all fire grills in the backcountry and not provide firewood. What is more natural than to have a fire in the backcountry especially when you are cold and damp? Parks Canada doesn’t see it that way. There is always a risk of a forest fire eventhough it is pissing down with rain. However, the Warden’s cabins (which are strategically located next to campgrounds) are outfitted with wood burning stoves in case of cold or rainy weather. I can’t help but feel sorry for those campers who huddle under their tarps during a downpour whilst smoke from our wood stove drifts slowly across the river. If I were in their boots, I would be pissed off. I may even start my own fire—which would, no doubt, bring a heavy fine. When I am out hiking (and depending upon the circumstances), I like to have a small fire for warmth. I do bring a gas stove and have done this since I first started hiking in the Rockies but in certain situations-- a warm fire is most welcome.

A friend in describing Edward Abbey recalls that:

“He believes in wilderness first of all for its own sake and secondly, because it allows human beings to have feelings of danger and freedom which are too often removed from modern life.”

Which brings us back to this notion of wilderness? If Parks Canada does consider these backcountry areas as ‘wilderness’ then why can’t hikers have fires. In the past, hikers were allowed to have controlled fires but now this appears to be outmoded.

I suppose I am an adherent to the philosophy of the Earth First group who is practicing “deep ecology”. “Preservationism—or “deep ecology,” as it is sometimes known—calls for a fundamental revaluation of our attitudes toward the hierarchies of nature, of our place in the global ecosystem.” Moreover, we are not masters of the universe but merely wards or caretakers of the planet earth. I don’t know if we are either or that we could be responsible caretakers of the planet. So far our record is quite dismal. We are managing to deplete our natural resources; fish, fresh water, oil, gas, leach minerals from the earth, not to mention environmental and human pollution.

I also consider myself as the antithesis to most humanoids that are homocentric. They believe that man is wonderful and isn’t it great that people can travel into outer space. Great, we’ve fucked up this planet now let’s go to another one to corrupt. I was very influenced by the writings of Harkin in his book The Spaceship Beagle.  Philip Caputo’s recent article Alone mentions that:

“It seems that the more we despoil the land and divorce ourselves from the rhythms, cycles, and beauty of the material world, the less civilized we become.”

The synopsis of the Harkin’s book basically states that the earth is the Spaceship Beagle, and we are responsible for what goes on inside the spaceship. So, the idea of hiding or shipping uranium waste or garbage to landfill sites in other countries will come back to haunt us, because like a spaceship—there’s nowhere to hide!

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[1] I have just come back to Canada for the summer from the sparse, sandy ‘wilderness’ of the Arabian Peninsula. I have

  been teaching English in the ‘wilderness’ of the United Arab Emirates for the past year.

Now for the rest of the story

So my wife hired a bouncer.

Fair enough, this does not seem outrageous if were running a bar or disco but for a take away food café—come on!

That’s how bad things had degenerated at our new locale, a 24/7 café, well sort of, especially in the evenings.

It did not help matters that our new locale is underneath the boombox of a very popular and supposedly famous nightclub called Black Diamond in one of Nairobi’s busier suburbs called Westlands. We had moved our business there from the downtown area where business was less than good but our new venue was about a third the size as the old. Who needs tables and chairs when you are plastered?

At any rate, compared to our old third floor restaurant, this smaller place was quite busy between the hours of 1-4am, particularly on Thursday-Saturday evenings.

You can imagine the wobbly clientele who inhabit our café: scantily clad ‘ladies of the night’ (some without panties—how could they?), some pissed mzungus (white guys), a few drugged-up Indians and our friendly staff who had to put up with the offtimes belligerent nightfolk. Nevertheless, these patrons are our bread and butter so to say, feasting themselves on a variety of deep-friend delicacies: half-chicken with cheeps, veggie and fiery meat samozas, bhaji, grilled sausages, mandazis (donuts), freshly-made pizzas, and array of sodas, water and a few other goodies.

But I digress.

We had a had a few bust-ups between patrons, mostly the men fighting over the ladies but occasionally a few of the ‘ladies’ taking matters into their own hands especially over territorial rights. Nothing new in that respect—just as long as they pay up!

Normally, my wife turns off here phone at night to avoid the café phoning her at some ungodly hour but this night she didn’t. You can imagine our surprise when we were awoken from our slumbers by a call at 3am. Apparently some burly brute of a man, with an air of confidence (don’t fuck with me), walked though our door at around 2am. He ordered one of the pizzas and the chef prepared it for him and handed it over on a plate as the guy was going to eat in the café.

“That’s 450 shillings,” said the chef.

The guy got agitated. ‘The sign says 350.”

“Sorry but that’s the old price,” added the chef, innocently.

The café hadn’t been in operation for the past two years and we were in such a hurry to move from our old location that we hadn’t yet changed the prices on the overhead menu. Once our waiters, chef or manager explained this to our customers they understood. However, we were now dealing with a rough, tough, heavily- liquoured security man.

“Are you bastards trying to rob me?” He bellowed.

The chef’s grasp of English was weak and he was unable to convince this guy of the changes in price.

“I’m from INTERPOL so don’t fuck with me,” he said as he let the plate and pizza crash on our marble floor.

Gracie’s uncle was on duty, he was sitting in the corner of the café watching this unfold. He tried to calm the man down but by now the ten other customers who were there had left, some without paying fearing a donnybrook.

“Please sah,” her Uncle continued, “this café is under new management and you know Kenya. The prices are changing all the time...”

But before Uncle could finish, the man threw an empty soda bottle at him. It sailed over Uncle’s head and smashed on the wall behind him.

Then the INTERPOL guy grabbed the slightly built chef and pinned his arms against our freezer yelling more invective at the hapless guy.

“You know I’m trained to kill people.” He yelled at the chef.

The guy was a brute plus he may have been armed.

Upon hearing all this commotion, one of the askari (security guards) showed up and tried his best to intervene but the INTERPOL guy, trained in karate and self-defence, took to beating the askari.

The early morning excitement had also brought a crowd of mostly taxi drivers who were waiting to drive drunken nightclubbers home. The drivers tried to stop the guy outside, ripping off his shirt but he fought them off. Then he threatened to beat them up as well but the drivers picked up whatever they could, with one guy throwing a rock at the INTERPOL guy’s chest. The guy retreated and quickly got into his car and took off a high speed in this busy area.

Things seem to return to normal only to find that 10 minutes later this guy came roaring back baying for blood. He came out of his car, bare-chested, brazen by alcohol, brandishing a nightstick or a length of pipe, threatening to pulverize someone with it. By now the cabbies had had enough and they managed to drive him off again.

I don’t know if this INTERPOL guy was on drugs but from what I heard, he was sure acting strange. I told Gracie to tell her uncle and the chef to go immediately to the police station and make a report and if necessary, file a claim.

The loss of revenue for this night was considerable but we were just thankful that there was not any loss of life. We did not want this type of thing to become regular.

Gracie’s brother and sister were supposed to have been working this night but they changed their shift at the last moment. We were thankful of their decision.

After hearing this report from uncle in the morning, talking amongst ourselves, my wife decided to hire a bouncer, a big bouncer! We’ve had no problem since then and our staff has had peace of mind.

Now for the rest of the story. 

However, just a week ago, the bouncer got a little over-zealous in his duties. This was the time of the year when rowdy university students come back for the start of their academic year and to re-visit their local watering holes. One uni chap unwisely decided to test our bouncers metal, so to say. Things got out of hand with the varsity lad getting the worse of it and to add salt to his wounds--his expensive Blackberry phone was taken during the scuffle with our bouncer. Why a uni kid was out making merry and showing off his phone was beyond me especially in Nairobbery where anything goes at nighttime. The uni kid accused our bouncer of nicking it, so he went to report this to the local constabulary. The bouncer had already buggered off with his latest acquisition, be it ill-gotten. 

At 3am on Saturday morning, my wife got a phone call from her brother, who happened to be working this evening shift for a little extra cash for his own studies, saying that he and the uncle were in the police station, in a cell no less. Because the bouncer had fled, the police naturally wanted to have some kind of collateral and jailed the only other employees available. I told Gracie that the police should be after the bouncer and not jail two innocent guys, but such is life in Kenya--the land of impunity!

Gracie had to go and bail out the brother and uncle, then agreed to settle the phone matter out of court, 2000 UAE dirhams worth to replace the stolen phone. She will pay the cops a weekly amount to include our cafe as part of their nightly/weekend beat and be on notice should anymore shenanigans avail themselves.

The bouncer was last seen trotting down Wiayaki Way, bound for nowhere.

Stay tuned!