I had never been on such an empty flight in my whole life.  I got on the plane from Chicago to London, and I couldn’t believe it. I had one entire side of the airplane to myself.  On the other side, there was a Swedish family, and one American who was going to visit his girlfriend in Sweden. I think there were a few people in business class (why didn’t they upgrade me?).  But I had at least 30 rows to myself on this United flight. Needless to say, I slept fine, comfortably stretched out.  The first flight from SFO to Chicago was about half full.  Everyone wore masks. Then for the 5-hour wait at London Heathrow, I was surprised to hear mostly Swedish at the airport. It seemed that mostly Swedes are traveling. There were no restaurants open, just the newspaper shop and one pharmacy. This was traveling at its best; no lines for security.  But also, no one took my temperature, and there were no questions about whether I had been exposed to the virus. Eventually I got to the gate for the SAS flight to Stockholm.  That’s were all the people were. This flight was completely full with every seat was taken. I suffered on that flight in a middle seat, and with jet lag I fell asleep with my head leaning on the seat in front of me.  Again, everyone wore masks. If I were to get the virus, it would be on this flight. But I had been tested the day before I left, and I was careful throughout the trip.

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Sweden seems like a different planet. The stores are open, restaurants are open. Nobody wears masks. Traffic is busy and people take the subways. The shopping malls are crowded.  It is like going back to the times before the coronavirus, and it is refreshing. It is nice to not have people avoid me while I am walking on the sidewalk. It is so confusing, because there is a lot of misinformation out there about COVID-19, and it is hard to know whom to believe. As someone who studies the ecology of disease, I know that this virus can be dangerous, but I also know that most people don’t have it. This virus brings up a lot of strong feelings.  It has gotten tied up with politics and with economics. There is a lot of fear, and there is tragedy. I know friends here who have had the coronavirus: some who got sick, and others who didn’t. Sweden has taken a different route, but it is a route that basically would become inevitable for most countries. The reality is that shutting down society indefinitely is nearly impossible. Here people are cautious, and many people stay home, but it is not a requirement.  Sweden is a country known to take care of its citizens, and Swedes are now so surprised that they have gotten such a bad reputation. They can’t even travel to Norway or Denmark. My mind is not entirely clear on how this is unfolding, but at this particular time, I am proud to be a Swede.

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There are no summer performances, and movie theaters are closed. No concerts, but museums are open, and free. Buses are free, because we enter through the back, so there is no place to pay. Few people are on the buses anyway. This summer has been super warm, and the beaches in Stockholm are full with people swimming in the enticing clean water. Gyms are open, and I got my haircut as soon as I arrived. When I wear a mask in the supermarket, people avoid me, because they think I probably have the virus. The days are long and it never gets dark. But bars are mostly empty, and there were no big Midsommar parties.

The Apple store was the only place that required masks, which they provide.  It is an American experience, and they take your temperature before entering. But then the store is in a mall in Täby (suburb of Stockholm), and clearly you have to enter the Apple store from the mall, where no masks are required.  It seems illogical, as do so many things these days. Anders Tegnell is the state epidemiologist, and he is rational and informed, and in Sweden, more or less, people trust the government. So, Stockholm is not “normal”, but it is certainly more normal than anywhere else.

I have explored new areas in Stockholm. Right near our home is Stora Skuggan, which is a huge park that feels like being out in the countryside. I like to run there. Brunnsviken is the nearest place to swim, and the water has been so warm. I visit friends, and we have picnics in the sun, and swim. I had a rash on my arm, so I dropped into the doctor’s office, and she prescribed me a cream that I could pick up at any pharmacy in the whole country. Everything is coordinated in the system. There are very few unhoused people here. I am attaching a photo taken a few weeks ago of where I used to live in the Mission in San Francisco, as compared to where I live in Stockholm. And San Francisco is one of the richest cities in the world; something is dreadfully wrong. Sweden now has a population of about 30% immigrants. It is diverse, and it seems to work.

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A little art diversion: Milles Gården was exhibiting works of Toulouse-Lautrec and his contemporaries. Then in Djurgården, they’ve displayed the sculptures of Alice Aycock, looking like giant white metallic innerworkings of clocks. I eat lots of fresh Swedish strawberries and salads, and got takeaway from one of the better Thai restaurants. The truth is that stress levels are much lower in Sweden than the USA these days and I am hoping that the recent crises bring about big changes in America. It really is time. 

The winter holidays are always a time to reflect and regenerate. This is my time to slow down and put things on hold for a while. I don’t know why I don’t read many books any more. I guess the telephone in my pocket has become a convenient, although less enriching substitute.  And even though I am constantly available to people through my “device”, I am not sure if the connections are any more substantive. I did not send out handmade holiday cards this year. I just did not make it a priority, but I don’t exactly know why. Again, I think the information overload that we are presented with every day may contribute to the lack of focus.  In any case, this blog is my poor substitute for personal cards. I wish everyone who reads this a wonderful happy holiday season and a joyous start of the 20’s.  May they be as roaring as the decade with the same name 100 years ago. 

I am in colorfully lighted Vilnius for a couple days. The Christmas tree in the Cathedral Square was voted “most beautiful” in Europe this year and it is lit up with a blue chess theme. I could see the sparkling tree from the airplane while flying here from Stockholm. Tonight, the fireworks will explode in the sky and bring in the new decade. In Vilnius, the lights seem flashier and more colorful than those of Stockholm. These two cities are sophisticated in different ways. Stockholm has the masculine fortitudinous architecture, with Lucia candles in the windows, and white lights adorning the sidewalks. Vilnius has the baroque facades in the Old Town, and the multicolor flashing Christmas trees, and more of a sense of change. I love both of these cities.

I got some cheap hockey ice skates this year. In Stockholm near our home, the Östermalms Idrottsplats has a huge ice rink, which is maintained beautifully and is cost-free for anyone to use. My nieces and I enjoyed improving our skating techniques, although when I tried skating backwards, I fell and hurt my knee. Now it is mostly better.  The best was the day after Christmas when the rink was sparkling smooth void of any people.

Moderna Museet, the Sunday after Christmas, was like a crowded subway station, but with a party-like atmosphere. This seemed the place to be, where friends bump into each other and unexpectedly reconnect. It is dark, but not terribly cold. At 8 degrees Celsius, Stockholm this winter is more or less the same temperature as San Francisco at night.  A big Christmas tree at home and lots of food and chocolate cookies make it the holidays.

I am a very fortunate person to have true homes in these vastly different cultures. The languages mix in my head, and I reorganize my wallets and telephones, but otherwise the transitions are quite seamless.  I don’t know what the next decade will bring: certainly more bright and dark times, but probably mostly a constant luminosity. Gott Nytt År! Laimingų Naujųjų Metų! Happy New Year! 

Brasília captured my heart. The architecture is imaginative. The boulevards are spacious. The nature is green and dynamic. But most impressive, all the people that I met are friendly, generous, and so extremely gracious. I was hosted by the Faculty of Agronomy and Veterinary Sciences at the University of Brasília for one week of lectures and meetings with the faculty and students. When I got there, I knew no one.  Now, I have many new friends.

My hosts showed me all the interesting tourist attractions. But for some reason, it seems that not many tourists visit Brasília.  I slept at the Hotel Nacional, where Queen Elizabeth stayed in 1968, and I had a view of the main esplanade from my 9^th floor window. The futuristic white cathedral and modern art museum were designed by the visionary architect Oscar Niemeyer. The whole city was envisioned by the beloved president Juscelino Kubitschek. I know that there are problems with the city; the traffic is heavy and it is confusing to drive. It seems that we go in circles a lot going from one boulevard to another in the same direction. They need better public transportation. And when it rains, which can happen a lot, the streets flood due to the lack of good drainage systems. But overall, there is a sense of space. There are wide open grassy fields, and the ever-present Lake Paranoá. There are tremendous vegan restaurants (more below), beautiful huge parks, and the nature of the Cerrado nearby. I had not read anything about Brasília. Now I feel I could write a book. 

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The airport is in the south part of this airplane shape city. Three cheerful and enthusiastic students picked me up. With all of the delight from my hosts, I felt eager to give as much of myself as possible.  Over the days, I delivered lectures about my research, plus malaria, Ebola, Bird flu, the origins of HIV, wildlife diseases and West Nile Virus.  My overarching theme for these veterinary students was how anthropogenic changes, such as deforestation and climate change, expose both humans and wildlife to new threatening pathogens. I lectured in the morning, and then in the afternoons, I was fed delicious food and then shuttled to all the important local attractions.

You enter the cathedral by descending down a long white ramp. Inside, the stained-glass windows silhouette flying angels. The acoustics of the architecture are interesting: when you whisper along the side of the rounded circular wall, another person can hear your voice many meters away.  The kids love to play with that sound phenomenon. Next, we moved to the nearby white, egg-shaped Museu Nacional da Republica  that was exhibiting photos from Berlin, plus modern native Brazilian totems. The architecture was more impressive than the art; again, with the rounded walls, and no apparent corners.  That day, the weather was hot, and this museum is one of the only buildings not surrounded by grass or water, but rather in a big open empty concrete square.  The city doesn’t reveal its problems. The homeless and poor are kept outside of Brasília proper, in the “satellite” cities.  The government of this place wants to present the beauty of the future, and not the true unpleasant realities of modern Brazilian life. The city is expensive, with high rents, so students and workers must commute from far way.  This is a pattern I see so often, in many of the world’s big cities; San Francisco, Delhi, Stockholm…

The botanical garden of Brasília is both manicured and wild. I discovered that I like a lemon grass-like tea- Capim Cidreira- that is harvested from the Cerrado. Mangos are plentiful as are delicious Baru nuts, and siriguela fruits. The Parque de Cidade is one of the largest urban parks in the world, and I wish I had had more time to exercise and jog alongside all the other runners. The exercisers in the park appear genuine, and not wearing fancy status outfits to highlight perfect bodies.  People of all colors and shapes were running at a pace that I could keep; I feel like I could easily fit in here. All I need is to speak some Portuguese.

A couple more highlights of the week.  1: A performance of Armandinho Mecado at the Clube do Choro.  I had never heard of him, but this is a famous Brazilian virtuoso guitarist. His technique was unbelievable, and he played some traditional Brazilian samba, plus also some creative improvisations, like one on Ravel’s Bolero. By the end of the evening, people were dancing like wild dolls in the aisles as he walked among them with his little white electric guitar. The backup players, two acoustic guitarists, one ukulele and the percussionist, were laughing in awe while accompanying his wild improvisations.

2: The next morning, with not quite enough sleep, we took a day long trip to Pirenópolis. The veterinary students, and residents don’t get much time to hang out together outside of work, so they all said that my visit facilitated more fun time. We all went in a big van to see and swim in the waterfalls. Incredible. Then when we got to the town, a huge Amazonian-like rainstorm deluge pushed us into a restaurant for a late lunch. I got to walk around a little bit, getting somewhat drenched. The old church that burned in 2002 is now renovated. The small streets are full of souvenir shops for the relaxed tourists who come through after their swims in nature. This was my last day, and a few hours later I would be on a plane back to the USA.  What I have learned is that science and sharing ideas can spark new friendships. Also that graciousness and generosity spawn a desire for reciprocity. This trip was unforgettable. 

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Vegan Brasília

In my suitcase, I had packed some packaged vegan Indian Tasty Bites meals, just in case there would be no vegan options in Brasília.  I never used them.  There are seemingly more vegan restaurants in Brasília than in most other cities I know.  Here are some of the places that I recommend. 

Villa Vegana: This should be a destination vegan restaurant.  I happened to be here on Thanksgiving day, and it was memorable. I persuaded my friends to come back again the next day.  It is an all you can eat buffet set in a quiet corner of Brasília. The owners grow their own vegetables, so everything is super fresh. I can’t say what dishes were my favorite, but the feijoada (stewed Brazilian beans) was excellent, as was the lasagna and salads and there were small elegant starters. Dessert was a coconut tapioca.  This was all for about $12. Yum. 

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Casa Graviola: Even though this place does serve meat options, the emphasis is on the freshness and creativity of presentation.  I ate here twice: once the root vegetable gnocchi with pesto, and another time the veggie burger.  Service is excellent, and it is a light and spacious quiet restaurant with a garden in the back. 

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Canelle Veggie and Co: This outdoor patio cafe is a nice place for snacks and desserts.  All vegan, and the cheesecake is light and fluffy.  We also had some traditional veganized snacks.  The service was a little slow, but it seems that you don’t have to rush in Brasília anyway.

Oya Cozinha Vegana: The menu features the foods of the goddesses. I loved this place too, with foods inspired from Bahia. I had a lentil parmigiana, and it was creative and delicious. You can choose one main dish with different sides.  This place seems just out of California, but with a Brazilian twist. 

Every restaurant appears to have vegan options. I could live in Brasília.

Thousands of scientists and policy makers get together every year for the annual meeting of the American Society for Tropical Medicine and Hygiene. The meeting focuses on human health in the tropical regions of the world. Malaria is the celebrity here, and the largest number of sessions in the largest rooms present the latest research and successes for this still killer disease. The Gaylord National Resort and Conference Center is humungous, and somewhat like Disneyland. There are expensive restaurants and big Christmas trees. It isn’t in the city, but removed to a difficult to access part of Maryland; no subways or buses.  Only Ubers. I study bird malaria, so there is not much going on here in my specific field. I attend this meeting to learn about the latest developments that confirm my claim that we can learn a lot about human malaria by studying the disease in birds. There is a lot we can learn about the transmission of diseases by studying them in natural systems. It is hard to study how deforestation and global climate change affect the disease dynamics of malaria in humans, because many of them have drugs and bed nets and doctors. I noticed that there was very little about the disease ecology of malaria, or the other diseases at this meeting. Tropical medicine is now moving more and more into genomics and big data. There has been huge progress in understanding the pathogens, and many areas of the world have been successful in lessening the burden of disease, but still the underlying ecology is somehow lacking.

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I love seeing scientists from all over the planet, and in this meeting, the African scientists are well represented. What bothers me is that this conference costs millions of dollars. The rooms at the conference hotel are about $300/night. I believe in the importance of networking, but it is simply too expensive. Most of this could be done over the internet, and the meeting could be held someplace much cheaper. Why Washington DC, and not someplace in Africa or South America?  I know it is the ASTMH, so the United States are the hosts, but we all live globally these days.  At least it could be a couple days shorter and in a cheaper US city. I stayed in Alexandria, across the bridge, to save some dollars. I visited the National Geographic Society headquarters, and also had a brief visit at the National Portrait Gallery. I gave my presentation on the last day of the conference; Sunday morning at 8:15 am, so not a huge audience, but still I generated some interest in our work. The National Museum of African American History and Culture was new to me, and I got to visit with my cousin, who happens to be African American. We didn’t have a lot of time to read everything, but the museum is beautifully done. The bottom floor exhibits the history of the slave trade and their tragic experiences. The exhibits are well done, but for me, I would have liked to see information about the African traditions that most assuredly persisted for a while, but were quickly lost. It must have been difficult for the curators to impress the museum-goers of the horrific conditions, but still make it tolerable. The museum is important and timely, and I also learned to enjoy the music of Chuck Brown and the Go-Go tradition in Washington DC. A visit to Washington always widens my perspectives.

The trip out of the jungle was less painful than the hike in. To get into the field site, first it is nearly 7 hours of driving to the village of Somalomo from Yaoundé.  Then the 27 km (17 mile) hike from Somalomo into the Dja forest reserve, to the field station at Bouamir.  This is pristine primary rainforest, where the trees are ancient, and the animals free. For the hike in, I wore my rubber boots: this was a mistake. These boots, that I have worked in so often before, are not meant for walking. They are heavy and probably by the fifth kilometer, I already had blisters on my heels.  It takes more than 7 hours of constant hiking to cover the distance. At one point, it starts raining and we get soaked. The trail is more or less clear, and relatively flat, so it is not strenuous, but I am glad that I started training with daily 5 km runs.  Thomas B. Smith, whom I worked with as a postdoc, established this place for field research, and I had heard about it since 1999.  The eco-guard carries a gun while he is accompanying us, just in case we run into any dangerous elephants, or worse, poachers.  Since my field site in the South West region of Cameroon is too dangerous because of the crisis, I have decided to seek other places to work. Here, I have joined with another team doing ornithological research.

We arrive exhausted, and I am instantly impressed with the accommodations. There are platforms for the tents, and netted enclosures for the kitchen, dining area, and work room. This is all within the deepest jungle, where I see the hornbills flying overhead; their wings making a whooshing sound. Monkeys jump among the verdant trees, which are colored alive with butterflies and strange spiders. I love to get into my tent early, just after dark, so that I can sleep and then wake up in the middle of the night to listen to the forest sounds. I hear buzzing insects, and frogs. The tree hyraxes scream their sorrowful calls. Lightning flashes and thunder roars far in the distance.

The field site is near a “rochè”, a large rocky hill covered with grasses. This is where the forest buffalo love to graze, and we count 10 or 12, including some babies. Unfortunately, no gorillas nor elephants are present, but we see plenty of fresh elephant tracks. Ants attack me walking back, climbing up my legs with their vicious bites. Only a bucket shower with water from the stream dissuades them. We catch some of my favorite birds with the mist nets: Cyanomitra olivacea, Stiphrornis erythrothorax, Alethe castanea, Spermophaga haematina, Bleda notata, Andropadus latirostris…  They are like familiar forest friends. I have been doing this type of work for 20 years now, studying how ecological change affects their malaria parasites.

The time goes fast and soon it is time for me to leave.  I am nervous about the hike out, because my legs still ache and my blisters appear to be painfully infected.  I decide to wear just my sandals, with two pairs of socks, and hope it doesn’t rain. Two Baka (Pygmy) porters carry my gear.  These guys are tough. They came in the night before carrying an extremely heavy gas tank.  They simply wear flip flops. They don’t carry water.  We set off, me with a good breakfast, and them without any food. I can’t possibly complain.  We walk steadily, and I love listening to their language. I learn to say “tamo djoko”, thank you very much, every time they clear the branches away with their machetes.  They pull the thorns out of my forehead when I run into a branch. They stop whenever they see wildlife; monkeys, duikers, or big birds, but the animals are gone by the time I pull out my binoculars. They pick up some forest mangos for a snack, and drink water at a stream. They have a very different sense of time: I asked how much further, and they said 10 minutes, so I drank my remaining water. After 70 minutes(!), we finally make it back to Somalomo. For their help, I give them 10000 CFA each (about $15), and I can see their smiles. They really have nothing, except their rich culture and the deep knowledge of the forest. I tell them, in my terrible French, how I will be flying in an airplane soon. How I will be in big cities. How I will miss the birds here. They laugh when I show them the photo I took of them. One carries my comfortable backpack within his Baka backpack made of forest vines.  I don’t know what I learn from these experiences, except that these places are precious, and that the wealth of experiences I have flying around the world may not actually match what these men have within the Cameroonian rainforest. 

Human life somehow seems to be less valuable here in Douala, Cameroon.  The scenario: It is after midnight. My two friends and I have just gone out to dinner on the “Street of Joy” in Douala. This is the neighborhood with open clubs, bars and brothels. People are out partying on a Saturday night, and we went to a favorite restaurant. The owner comes from the same village as my professor-friend, and they all speak in their North West language. They get chicken. I have brought my own vegan Indian food- Tasty Bites- in an aluminum pouch from Stockholm, which they warm up, and serve to me with mustard and spicy sauce for the crispy plantains.  We sit inside, with the sliding glass door only partially opened; metal bars on the windows. Outside, it is a festival atmosphere of drinking, and relaxing. Every night is like this in this part of town, with Afro-beat music, and fish frying on the streets; bright green and pink rooms, and plastic table cloths. Women with colorful hairdos, and men, macho and strong.  We head back to the hotel, in the university vehicle. Heavy rain, of course.

We are making a left, U-turn, and suddenly I feel a startling crash into the rear of our car. My neck gets a jolt, and I hate that, because of my series of neck operations, but worse is seeing a motorcyclist spun out on the side of the road. The man is very injured and being  pulled off the road. He was driving too fast, and rammed right into us. Then quickly, some angry guys come to our car and start yelling in Cameroonian French. They pull the poor man’s trashed motorcycle to the side of the road, with his motorcycle umbrella in tatters. (Most people have wide umbrellas to cover their motorcycles in Douala). The injured man has vomited, and is moving his arms, but I can’t see much: it is very dark and rainy. He’s looks nearly dead.  There are no police, no ambulance, no insurance claims, no exchange of phone numbers. The group of men around the injured man are shouting and my friends are also on the side of the road.  I remain in the car: I will not be any help in this situation. In the end, my friends found the injured man a taxi, and gave 10000 CFA (which is about $20, but a lot of money to people here) to one of the bystanders who promised to take the suffering man to the hospital.  I walk back to the hotel, and only later do I find out that the injured man’s motorcycle still worked, and he had someone drive him away on it.  The guy who was supposed to take him to the hospital took the cash and disappeared. The motorcycle victim nearly died, and his life may be forever changed after this night; a normal night in Douala.

10-Day lockdown in Ambazonia. 

The kidnappings are getting worse.  I don’t dare to go to Buea this time. Last year, I was here and I stayed in Buea, but was under lockdown in the Mountain Hotel for a few days, after I heard shots fired near the university. This time, I decided to stay in Douala, which is safe. I just don’t want to be kidnapped.  The fathers of two of my friends were kidnapped.  The other day two university professors from Bamenda were abducted. A biology professor from Buea was kidnapped and held for ransom. Another professor was shot and killed. One of my students visited his village and found that the Amba boys (which they are called) had burned everything down, and tied up a man to a tree for stealing a water jug.  It’s vicious. it’s lawless. Where I used to do field work, is now desolate, and abandoned. Tomorrow, a 10-day lockdown will begin. Every Monday is a “ghost town” day, but this time, because of something that happened at a prison, it has been increased to 10 days. This means that everyone today is buying food, and preparing for their home prison sentences. The lucky ones have generators, so they can watch TV when the electricity is intermittently shut off. It seems that televisions are always on in Cameroon. Most people don’t have refrigerators or enough money to buy 10 days of food.  The hardships on the people of the South West and North West regions are incalculable. Thousands have fled to Nigeria. Thousands more have left for Douala or Yaoundé. One of my students is living in a small home in Douala with 10 kids and 5 adults. The villages are empty, and there are not many safe spots left in the cities of Buea or Bamenda. Every day, people get threatening messages on WhatsApp. I am sharing one here, from a rebel leader threatening anyone attending the university.  80-90 university students were kidnapped and a typical ransom is 1 million CFA. People say I would be worth much more as a foreigner, maybe 10 million. Classes are often cancelled, and it is a wonder that the university is functioning at all. The professors are in a rough position. If they leave, they will be thought of as Amazonian sympathizers, and persecuted by the Cameroonian government forces.  And if they stay, they are thought of as government workers, and persecuted by the freedom fighters.  The economy has stagnated, and people suffer. The only possible bright side is that exploitation of the environment has halted, and there may be less poaching and deforestation as a result of the crisis.  They call it “the crisis”. I call it a guerilla civil war. 

I came here to head a workshop in scientific writing, and avian malaria research, for the incredible students who have been working with me for 3 years now. From this project, at least 5 PhD students and 5 Master students will obtain their degrees.  They are now the world’s experts on forest mosquitoes, and avian malaria in the region. We have worked together for weeks at a time in difficult conditions in the rainforest. We have endured the collapse of the project due to the conflict, and now we are writing articles and more grant proposals.  I come to Cameroon to be with these incredibly generous, enthusiastic, gracious friends.  I fear for them. I know that at some point, based on statistical reality, one of them will be abducted. The war will get worse.

Since the new bridge has opened, traffic in Douala is now much better. But still, going to the market, we got stuck at one intersection for 35 minutes, with a sea of motorbikes surrounding the car, crowding into any centimeter of open space. The Anopheles mosquitoes love biting me at night in my very comfortable hotel room. I am a malarone addict, popping extra pills from time to time. Soon, for the second part of my trip, I will be in the deep pristine rainforest, surrounded by my favorite birds. 

When the semester ends at San Francisco State University, and summer starts, I tend to get into a lot of airplanes. This is clearly not good for the planet. So far, I have been to Sweden, Germany, Lithuania, and Poland.  Soon I will be in Greece, Cameroon and Kenya. Here are some of the highlights so far:

Following Bach’s footsteps in Thuringia

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Leipzig is the city of music, and Bach had his home here while he was organist at the St. Thomas Church.  After arriving in this sunny Leipzig, my friends and I found a large bus tour entirely to ourselves. For 90 minutes we saw the main attractions of this reinvigorated city. The former East German influence is still here, and it is unlike Munich or Cologne in that there are far fewer tourists, and less English. My German has become Swedified, and when people speak to me in Hochdeutsch, I respond in Swedish, which leads to some confusing conversations.  Next, we explored Weimar, and the new Bauhaus museum, plus the home of Liszt and various palatial homes.  Beautiful gardens, and long walks. There is history everywhere, from Goethe and Schiller, to the Weimar Republic and Walter Gropius.  There are also cute cafes, and plazas among the solid buildings. Next on the agenda was Erfurt and Eisenach, with more cathedrals, another Bach Museum, and the fantastic Wartburg Castle, where Martin Luther lay in hiding during the reformation.  This part of Germany was entirely new to me. When I lived in Salzburg years ago, this was the DDR, and since then, most of my travels have been to the bigger cities of the West.  I wouldn’t say that the food was particularly interesting, or the remaining eastern bloc buildings, but somehow the culture remains intact and there is a revival of well-deserved pride for this multi-century Germanity. 

Norrland-Hälsingland och Sundsvall

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A quick 3.5-hour X2000 train ride from Stockholm, in comfortable chairs, like a living room, and I am in Sundsvall. In the summer, the days never end, and the air is clean and blue. The forests are fresh and fun, except for the mosquitoes, which found my 52-year-old-hair-thinning scalp. Itchy. The houses are mostly standard Swedish red. We have a discussion about this. Why don’t Swedes choose to express their individuality, and paint rainbow houses, or create modern glass structures like they would in the USA or so many other places?  We think it is simply that here, people don’t want to stand out, and actually, it looks nicer when the houses are all similar. It gives order and a consistency of beauty associated with conformity. I love the red barns of Hälsingland, and the lakes and historical farm houses that are a UNESCO World Heritage site.  Rolling hills and simple churches populate the horizon in this modern Sweden that faced so much hardship not that long ago.  Farmers were poor, and the religion was strong. Now, life is comfortable, lagom, and the history is more of an unassuming adventure for the few tourists that make it up here. I am surprised how comfortable I am here, and I think about how buying land here on a lake would make a great investment, especially since it seems to be getting warmer. 

My farm in Višakio Rūda, Lithuania

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About 200 people live in this little village in the middle of Lithuania. My farm is here. We grow buckwheat. It is beautiful.  My caretaker friend, who lives at the farm has made it livable, although for now he has no water. This has been a very dry year, and he showers at the IKEA factory where he works 12-hour shifts, with no holidays.  The well has gone dry.  He uses his metal detector in the forests, one of the largest forests in Lithuania. This is where the partisans fought for years against the Soviets, hoping that someday the Americans would come back and free Lithuania.  They never did, and only in 1990-91 did Lithuania regain independence.  He found coins dating back to the Napoleonic times, plus German Nazi helmets and a rusted revolver. A little museum with these items, and a picture of Lenin is now in one of the small sheds.  Dogs and cats and a little pond with water lilies make the farm perfect. Run down and dilapidated, but quaint and charming.  This could be my escape from the constant distractions that we all face in the modern cities.  Poland is not far from my farm; only about an hour by car. And now there are no borders in this Schengen EU. The wonderful high bridges at Stanczyki round out the day, with a little architectural wonder, among the only Polish tourists.  Am I the only Litho-Indian-Swedish-San Franciscan that has ever been here? Who knows? It is an out-of-the-way wonder of the world.

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The cars on the street seem to honk at all times of the day and night. Outside of the hotel window, I watch the street corner and see people, often wearing name brand clothes and bags, getting into a bus, or catching a white and yellow taxi. The grey buildings, some with curtains, others without, are too far for me to see people inside. The wide avenues are not conducive to walking, but I venture out, and walk by the fruit store, that says China Post, assuming that they would sell postcard stamps, but they only sell fruit. Asian pears and green apples are individually wrapped in styrofoam casings. I can’t understand the language and no one understands me. I feel conspicuous and foreign.

This year the Malaria of Wildlife conference was held in Beijing, China. This was the opportunity for mostly avian malaria researchers from over 20 countries to get together and discuss their work, and also meet friends. It is now like a family. The field is moving along rapidly, with many developments that make use of advances in molecular biology, and experimental work. I was honored to be an invited plenary speaker, and enjoy this time among colleagues in the capital of China.

I visited Beijing 30 years ago in 1988. My father was invited to a conference, and we tagged along. At that time, I remember very few cars, but millions of bicycles.  Now, in 2018, it is reversed. The number of automobiles is simply astounding. I arrived at the airport at 5 pm local time, and was stuck in slow moving traffic all the way to the Jingshi Hotel at the Beijing Normal University. The fall weather is chilly but sunny, and the air pollution was not at all bad. Beijing is a true mega-city, unbelievable in size. While here, I saw the major tourist attractions: Forbidden City, Hutongs, Drum Tower, Summer Palace and of course the Great Wall. As part of the conference we also saw the Beijing Zoo, and we did some bird watching at a lake outside of the city.

The giant photo of Chairman Mao is still prominent at Tiananmen Square.  My friends and I were hungry so we stopped into a steamed bun place and thought it was so quaint and original. But actually, it was a chain restaurant, as common as McDonalds or KFC. We followed the crowds, but couldn’t figure out how to cross the street. It is not a pedestrian friendly area: cars seem to have all the rights and priorities.  Finally, we found a tunnel under the road, and got into the line for security check, not knowing whether it would take us to the Forbidden City. But we were fortunate, and finally ended up in the relative quiet of the gardens outside of the moat surrounding the ancient playgrounds of the emperors. Crowds of mostly Chinese tourists push through the many halls and pavilions. We stopped to see the museum of elaborate golden time pieces, that the emperors had commissioned from the great British clockmakers. In the end, I was left with a somewhat hollow feeling, impressed by the grandness of the place, but more disconcerted by the crowds, and the empty feeling of being in a place that was once living, but is now a deserted ghost town tourist attraction.

I believe that the majority of Beijing was built in just 30 years. In 1988, we stayed at the Friendship Hotel, and there were few other choices. Now there are a multitude of hotels, Hiltons, Sheratons…I see really no difference between China and the USA. Of course, I know that the people of China lack rights. They have no access to Google, Facebook, or WhatsApp. They use WeChat instead. But in America what rights do we actually use that the Chinese lack? Voting is disregarded by a majority of Americans. Most people don’t use their rights of free speech anyway. In Beijing, the roads are good (although too crowded), the subways are reliable and the airport was simple. I didn’t see any homeless people, or beggars. I can easily see why China is surpassing the USA in terms of economic growth. Things are not stuck, and it is apparent that people are working hard, and I didn’t sense entitlement. But on the other hand, this is rampant capitalism, where possessions are flashed and stores are thriving. The crisp red 100- yuan bills go quickly in this capital of consumerism.

I ate some excellent food at the organic vegan restaurant, Beijing Wu Tai Yun. I went there 4 times in my 8-day visit. Fresh tofu, noodles and organic vegetables are thrown into a hot pot of mushroom soup, and then fished out and eaten with a variety of sauces, made of sesame, soy, chilis or mushrooms. It is all fun and delicious. The ubiquitous banquets are less vegan friendly, but remarkable in presentation and diversity. At one dinner, I had black soybean tofu, with sesame sauce, and at the 798 Art City, we found a vegan restaurant where I had some ersatz mean in a mushu like dish.

When I visited the Great Wall in 1988, there were just a few vendors, and I remember I bought a little blue bag with a depiction of the wall that I still have today. Now it is a major commercial center, with a hotel, and a multitude of tourist shops, restaurants and stalls. The Great Wall is the same, but the surroundings now cater to consumerism. What would Chairman Mao thing? What would the emperors think? Why is Trump so antagonistic to the Chinese, when this is where he would fit in best?

I leave China not knowing when I will be back. In another 30 years what will this fast-growing society be like? How can a nation change that much in such a short time? I think it is inevitable that China will attract immigrants from all over the world. I saw just a few Europeans, Indians or Africans in the streets. I see the entropy of the people of the planet, making every city homogeneous. I will try to visit again in 2048!

 

No one remembers Stockholm being this hot, for such a long time. It meant that swimming in the waters of Stockholm became normal and almost passé when it usually is a special treat, saved for those rare warm days. There was some complaining about the high temperatures, and surprise and sorrow about the California-like wildfires, but everyone I knew, including myself just expressed gratitude for this climate change.

Stockholm is full of new restaurants, with some good new Asian, Italian and vegan places. The taxes for eating at restaurants were reduced some years ago, and it apparently had a big impact. People are out all the time, and the sidewalk cafés and bars are booming, supported by the warm evenings, and the Stockholmers staying around instead of flying to Greece or Spain. The charter package trips are suffering, and I would be tempted to buy a summer house here, if the summers were guaranteed to remain like this. The city did empty out in July, when Swedes migrate to their cottages along the lakes and islands of the archipelago. It is hard to think of a more beautiful place than the Skärgården, the Swedish archipelago, during this time. The days are long and warm, and there is space for everyone.

The main reason for me being here is to help go through my father’s papers. In our world of email and electronic banking, there is still a lot of paperwork. It surprises me that someone who has died still has to pay taxes. It seems that when we are no longer here, the governments should just give us a break. And the rule of the USA to pay taxes on all world assets adds to the complexity, and makes one consider giving up the citizenship that so many on this planet are trying to obtain.

Some of the high points of the recent weeks were a quick stopover in Amsterdam on the way back from Africa. Walking along the canals, and watching the bicyclists reveals a somehow more continental city than Stockholm, with more tourists too. Then in Stockholm, we took a boat ride to Kymmendö, where August Strindberg wrote some of his most famous works in a little hut facing the water. At the Waldemarsudde museum, the work of the Swedish painter Sigrid Hjerten inspired my senses of color. Then the European Pride festival this year was in Stockholm, with a huge parade, that seemed particularly political this election year. A visit to my friend’s summer house, with swimming, jumping off a cliff into the slightly salty water, and playing Swedish charades epitomized that endless summer feeling of 2018.

Now back in San Francisco, I thank all my friends for the kind birthday wishes. I am preparing for the beginning of the new academic year, but I will be back in Stockholm soon, for my father’s memorial on September 2^nd.

Maun is the dusty gateway to the Okavango Delta. It’s a little city with a one-desk airport and lodges and camping sites for all budgets. I arrived and met my sister with her family and friends, and we camped under the winter stars. In the morning, with their two 4-wheel drive vehicles, we drove to the Moremi Game Reserve. This is elephant land, Botswana has the most elephants in Africa, and it seems that the total mass of the pachyderms far exceeds the weight of the human population. Add the hippos, zebras and giraffes, and you have a thriving untouched ecosystem. It is a relief to know that this place still exists.

Along the road, we first saw a giraffe, and then zebras. When we reached a watering hole, we saw a lone leopard; a rare sighting. Four hyenas then arrived and harassed him, forcing him to leap into a tree. The hyenas stayed there the entire day, lounging in the water. A herd or elephants looked like ships sailing in the tall grass. Crocodiles sunned themselves, and hippos exposed only their ears and eyes; and an occasional yawn.

 

The next day was perhaps even more spectacular, with an all-day boat trip along the river. This is far from a zoo or Disneyland: this is all spectacular reality, as if we are starring in a nature documentary. My favorite birds were the Openbill Stork, Southern Ground Hornbills and a mating pair of rare Wattled Cranes. A bubble appeared nearby and a hippo jumped out of the river like a dolphin, and attempted to attack us, but we were safe in the swiftly moving boat. It was a clear defense of his territory. The highlight here was four young male lions sitting under a tree next to their kill; a water buffalo. They were satiated and sleepy. On the way back, we drifted quietly next to two elephants in the river, just a few meters from the boat. The Botswana government is ruthless against poachers, with an unspoken death sentence for the possession of ivory. But even here there are stories of corruption and hidden warehouses full of tusks.

We slept in bed rolls under big sky in the desolate Makgadikgadi Pan. Ostriches were nearby, as well as some meerkats. Complete darkness exposed a bright red Mars, Mercury, and the Southern Cross, along with distant galaxies and the International Space Station gliding like a slow shooting star. Too cold to sleep well, but too beautiful to sleep. It’s a hassle to be a vegan in Africa, so I always bring along spaghetti and sauce, and ask the kitchen to make it for me, or make it myself. Everything was organized: I just showed up and enjoyed the friendliness, spaciousness and wilderness.

I have been to a lot of places in Africa, and my work focuses on destruction and disease. I fear that the great rainforests don’t have much chance. But just a few days in Botswana revealed the resilience of nature. The elephants will survive here, as will the lions and leopards. On the other hand, we did not encounter any rhinoceroses. Europeans and Americans bring big money to the economy, and it is clear that the animals here are worth far more alive than dead. Botswana is also the land of diamonds and mining and it is unclear how the exploitation of the land will that affect the economy, population and nature. It is obvious however that the low human population density allows for a greater biodiversity and more space for the elephants and leopards. Unforgettable.

 

It is Monday here in Buea. It is a “Ghost Town” day, but this one is particularly bad. I am safe at the Mountain Hotel this July 9th, 2018, viewing the grand Mt. Cameroon from my room. But people in the center of Buea are being terrorized. There are gunshots in the air, and the clash between the separatists and the police has turned deadly. Some, no one knows how many for sure, have been killed. My friend happened to be at the hospital, and saw the casualties. But all the rest of the students and the whole community of Buea have locked themselves in their homes. We wonder if things will return to normal tomorrow. Most likely, yes, but there is always the threat of more violence. A message has gone out to all administrators at the universities, that they must stay away, or face punitive measures, after the 7^th of July.

What is going on here?  Last year, I was in this region, and there were only the underpinnings of threats. We traveled very happily to the village of Manyemen to do our field work, and study the birds and the forest. However, in January of 2018, the students traveled to the same site, and were immediately threatened by separatists and urged to leave. They did, and if they had stayed just some minutes longer, they would have witnessed a shootout. The buildings at the palm plantation, our field site, were burnt down a couple days ago. The villagers who helped us in the forest are now missing. Now all the villages in the region have been abandoned, and thousands of refugees are streaming into Nigeria, or else making their way to Douala or Yaoundé where things are safe. Kids have not gone to school for nearly two years now. And now the violence has reached Buea, which will be the future capital of the independent Ambazonia.

More stories from my friends here: One student was on a bus where they arrested everyone on the bus, except him and his sick mother. Another student heard that the militia went into his village, just north of Buea, in the middle of the night, and everyone fled except one older man who was crippled.  They killed him.  I have one colleague who was kidnapped and taken to the forest and blindfolded: he had to pay a high ransom. I usually stay at a different hotel, but that place is not safe now, with the shootings going on nearby. The situation in Buea escalated after the visit of the French ambassador, when the separatists blocked the roads and tried to disrupt the event. Then the mayor of Buea provoked the situation by saying that residents should ignore the Monday “Ghost Town” and work as normal. That is when things got worse.

Here at the Mountain Hotel there are only a few other guests. Some of them are officials of the government who fear that they will be targets for kidnapping if they venture outside. I could not take photos of all the armed guards. There are a couple Norwegians, and one representative of the UN. For some reason, the Embassy of Cameroon in Stockholm readily gave me and the Norwegians visas to enter Cameroon, but these days, people from other countries are having a more difficult time gaining entry.

This all stems back to the times of colonization. The South West and North West Regions of Cameroon were governed by the British, and the population speaks English. The rest of Cameroon was held by the French, and the majority of Cameroonians speak French. Here is an article in the NY Times that provides history of the “struggle” that the English speakers call this civil war.  I was definitely nervous while driving to Buea from Douala, and passing through the checkpoints, but luckily, we were never stopped. I could be kidnapped, and held for ransom to gain international notoriety. The separatists want more press and publicity. There are also accounts of stray bullets killing innocent civilians. We stopped to pick up some avocados (which are called pears here), and had no problems reaching Buea.

The students of my project can now never go back to our field site. We are salvaging the project, focusing on writing manuscripts, and discussing new areas of research. They impress me with their dedication to the work despite the difficult uncertain times. It seems that prices have gone up, and gasoline is certainly more expensive here than the USA.  Electricity goes out almost every day, and for three months last year, there was no internet. Salaries are low, and corruption is high. Paul Biya is still the president: he was inaugurated in 1982. Watching the world cup, it was obvious who was from Yaoundé: they were routing for the French, and the people from Buea favored the Belgians.

My concern is for the remaining wildlife of the forests. The people have their problems, but it is affecting the environment. Sure, now they have stopped cutting down the forest to create more palm plantations, but on the other hand, the separatists and many thousands of villagers are now living in the bush; eating bushmeat. I just heard a story of a Colonel in the army who was caught driving a whole truckload of elephant tusks. The ecoguards who arrested him now fear for their lives and retaliation by the army thugs. There is just not much room left, and the many years of inequalities suffered by the people are finally seeding rebellion. Will Ambazonia be the world’s newest nation? I think not for a while, and not before more people die. But Cameroon is suffering and it is time for a change. I see my students here suffering, but still committed to their work. They are intelligent, resourceful, intelligent and motivated. Their struggle really highlights the privileges that we take for granted every day.

The cheap airlines, like Norwegian and Ryan Air, changed the European lifestyle. Lithuanians used to travel to the Baltic Sea, and Swedes went to the Archipelago. Now, even when the summer is warm, and the local water is enticing, planeloads of Europeans fly to the south, opposing the millions of birds flying north.  I flew to Crete, mainly because I had friends to join there, and because of the ease of travel. The weather – perfect, the food – scrumptious, the accommodations and price – so comfortable, the beach – crystalline water with soft waves for body surfing.  A short trip of smiles.

Plakias is on the south side of Crete, and my friends told me repeatedly that that Northern Crete is for tourists, and the south, for locals and adventurists.  This was my first time to Greece ever, so I had no expectations.  I got a nice studio apartment for 35 Euros/night, just meters from the beach. Rather than relaxing in Plakias, we headed to Skinaria beach, which is more isolated.  Few people know of this beach, and the locals are trying to keep it secret.  There are no signs and it is not described in the tour books. To get there, one must have a car, and at times wait for the sheep and goats to cross the windy road.  The goats here are the ones that herd the sheep, replacing the traditional sheepdogs, because they are apparently equally talented at the job.  They all have metal bells that ring while they climb the hills among the olive trees.  We could see goats along the cliffs standing sentinel, overlooking us as we swam in the wavy bay.

Greek beaches have little cots to lie on that cost a few Euros/day; with interspersed umbrellas shading them. They also have small tavernas that serve food from the local gardens.  I ate zucchini flowers stuffed with spiced rice, and artichokes marinated in olive oil. The olive oil flows all over the place.  Each family has their own olive trees and their own perfection of the extra virgins. I bought a lot of olive oil, at a fraction of the California prices.  I let my body create my vitamin D.

The next day was an excursion to Rethimno and a couple delightful villages, Spili and Argyroupolis. The old town of Rethimno showcases its hundreds of cafes in narrow streets lined with bougainvilleas and other blooming flowers.  I don’t know how they can make such delicious vegan chocolate sorbet, and why we don’t get that in the USA or the north. Cats meow and languor among the tourists who inevitably give them tidbits. We buy avocado oil face creams, and light candles in the small Greek orthodox village churches. The views of the valleys and gorges can’t be accurately described by my camera.

In the morning, we hear thunder, a reminder of Zeus, and experience a short unusual burst of rain. But it clears up, and we get another beach day, plus a visit to the Preveli Monastery, where British submarines rescued stranded Allied troupes in WWII.

Where to eat dinner becomes our major problem.  We hike up above Plakias and eat at one taverna, with white bean stew and fantastic salads.  Only to find another taverna with a better view and better white bean stew the next day.  If I were turning 50 again, I would probably organize my birthday here: to invite all my friends and family to experience the friendly Cretans.

The semester has ended and as usual, I will spend a large part of the summer in Europe. WOW airlines dropped me off in Iceland with a stopover to Stockholm.  It was lovely to get off the airplane, hop on a bus, and 30 minutes later be at the Blue Lagoon, to soak in the slippery, salty water.  I think I have been to nicer hot springs elsewhere, and the blue lagoon felt more like a tourist trap than a spiritual getaway, but it was still worth it. The volcanic weather was grey and rainy, but the special blue color and just right temperatures let me relax my muscles after the red-eye flight. I was lucky that I knew to make reservations, because walk-ins are not allowed.  I liked the silica mud mask they give you while you are floating in the warmth. I was going to buy some more at the gift shop, but at about 100 US dollars for a 100-ml tube:  my face isn’t worth it.

I hopped on another bus and headed to Reykjavik. Again, plenty of tourists walked along the main shopping street, buying woolen mittens and “hand knit” blue and red Icelandic sweaters. A restaurant had a sign highlighting their puffin and whale menu.  No wonder Iceland isn’t in the EU.  I somehow thought Reykjavik would be even smaller than it was. There are a lot of cars, and it seems that Polish is the new Icelandic.  But when I heard some young hipster girls speaking their language, it sounded like an ancient version of Swedish, with punctuations and slurs, and here and there a word that I would understand. It seems that Iceland has already won the 2018 World Cup. Soccer memorabilia is everywhere with endless congratulatory flags and football jerseys for sale.   I had dinner at an Indian place with Icelandic friends, and I learned more about how each family can trace their heritage back to the 8^th century.  Iceland’s tourist industry is booming and the recession is definitely over.  An airport hotel reminded me that I was in Northern Europe again, with a puffy comforter, and no darkness.

Ecology and Evolution of Infectious Diseases, 2018

Next, an opportunity to attend the EEID meeting in Glasgow.  The last time I visited Scotland I was 18, for a music festival in Aberdeen. That time I was part of the Palo Alto Chamber Orchestra, and a busload of aspiring high school musicians toured the North of Scotland. Now as a professor, I just go wherever I want. It would be nice to be young again, but I like the freedom I have now, in this same country, more than 30 years later.  The meeting was at the University of Glasgow, at a beautiful church converted to a conference center. The field of Disease Ecology is changing quickly, now with next generation sequencing commonplace, and sophisticated models the norm.  The opening reception was at the botanical gardens, and I had set myself up in an Airbnb across the street.  Just perfect.  I didn’t get to see much of Glasgow, but Paesano restaurant in the West End has vegan pizzas nearly as good as what I found in Naples.  The closing dinner was at the Kelvingrove Museum, and included Scottish dancing and folk music. With perfect weather, a group hike to Loch Lomond topped off a great meeting.

 

Edinburgh was my last stop. Why are there so many tourists everywhere I go?  The world has begun to travel, and the cheap flights to Edinburgh are boosting the local economies. Long lines wiggled around the courtyard to pay the 18-pound entrance fee, and an even longer line to see the crown jewels. But the views and watching the multi-lingual tour guides give their historical perspectives made it a memorable afternoon. It seems that all castles have some standard attention grabbers: the massive walls, the ceremonial halls, the place of worship, and the ubiquitous dungeons.  Here the dark underground prison was done up with hammocks and made to look (but not smell) like the prisoners could have just been out for a day trip.  The shops along the Royal Mile sells more tartan scarves than any place else on earth.  I of course bought one. I ended the day at Henderson’s restaurant with vegan Haggis, which apparently all locals prefer to the original sheep stomach version.  A taste of the new Scotland, where everyone I spoke with (taxi drivers, museum and restaurant staff…) wants independence from Great Britain, and a continued presence in the EU.  Since I don’t understand the accent – but they understand me perfectly – each conversation happened with a lot of friendly, patient repetitiveness.

 

My father, Bal Raj Sehgal, passed away on February 26^th, 2018 at the age of 84.  I am who I am today because of my father. He gave me life; he gave me guidance; he gave me unconditional love; he gave me everything that I have today. He is survived by my mother, Aldona Sehgal, my two sisters, Vija, Sarita, and their children and husbands; his brother in India and numerous other relatives.

Bal Raj Sehgal was a superlative academic. He had published over 360 papers, and participated in conferences worldwide. He was a member of the US National Academy of Engineering, plus the respective academies of Sweden, India and Lithuania. A rare accomplishment.  He had received numerous awards, and traveled all over the world to conferences and for his research. He was a professor at the Kungliga Tekniska Högskolan, and also had done work at MIT, UC Berkeley and Purdue University. He was one of the early members of the Electric Power Research Institute in Palo Alto.  He influenced countless students and his colleagues only give him the highest praise.

A short obituary can be found here.

My parents had come to visit me for a week in San Francisco. My dad got the flu. His lungs were already somewhat compromised from pulmonary fibrosis, and he suddenly got a temperature of 104° F.  We took him to the UCSF hospital; the same institution where I had done my PhD.  After several hours late at night struggling with low oxygen levels, the decision was made for intubation. He never recognized that he was in a precarious situation and simply said “good night”, expecting to be awake after a day or two. He never woke up. My sisters flew in from Hawaii and Cape Town, and my cousin from Minnesota. Some of his students also flew to San Francisco. After 8 days on life support, he died peacefully surrounded by his family while taking his last breaths at 12:13 am on February 26^th.

My father loved San Francisco, so in some ways it was fitting that he died in the place where he first arrived to the USA in 1956 for his studies at Berkeley. We were extremely grateful for the tremendous care at the UCSF hospital, and the Swedish insurance that paid for it. It was all dignified and we know that he will be remembered for his contributions, as a compassionate friend, and a remarkable father.

I just returned from India. I brought his ashes to the Ganges River as is traditional in his family. Below is a description of the time I spent there.

India is changing so fast; it is nearly unbelievable. I have been traveling to Delhi since I was a small child, and now it is simply unrecognizable. The traffic is chaotic, and the number of new high-rises and shopping areas is astounding. There are highways and immense housing complexes. There are malls and a sense of new affluence with brand names and restaurants. It is hard not to be nostalgic for the days when auto rickshaws dodged the cows in the streets, and night watchmen walked around the city blocks with whistles to thwart crime. Now it is flashing lights and the inevitable homogeneity of the world’s megacities.

The Hindu practices surrounding death are elaborate and each one has history and significant meaning. I am not versed in all the nuances, but the overall experience was profound.  It is hard to describe the emotions one feels, and the sounds, colors, fragrances and sensory overload that is associated with the process.  I am including some photos, but this is all a perfunctory snapshot. It is just not possible to adequately describe the feelings I had, bringing my father’s remains to his homeland for this final trek.

As is traditional, a pundit came to my uncle’s home and did a havan. This was a ceremony with fire and offerings. It was hard not to get emotional, but it was the beginning of a release for my father, and for we, the family.

The same afternoon, we held a very moving prayer ceremony at Arya Sumaj Temple in Defense Colony. Dozens of friends and relatives attended. After a beautiful music performance, the pundit placed a symbolic turban on me, and designated me as head of the family; the responsibility of the son.

Given the travels of my family from all corners of the world, we were not able to perform the ceremonies in the traditional timeline. But this didn’t seem to be of importance. The next day we drove to Haridwar, and the Ganges River. Our pundit met us for the ceremonies to cast my father’s ashes into the river. It is not a quiet peaceful place. Hundreds of people are doing the exact same thing, plus there are merchants trying to sell things, while others are bathing in the holy waters. It is not beautiful in terms of nature. But it is beautiful in terms of humanity. The pundit placed some of my father’s ashes in my hands, and then poured some water from the Ganges into the ashes. There were flowers and grains, milk and rice, each step with symbolic significance. There are truly no words to describe this. In the end, I, with my family behind me, poured the ashes onto the ghat steps, and they were washed downstream. Men were bathing just a few feet away. It was a release, just punctuating the impermanence of humanity, and the simplicity of life.

We found that we did not need to travel to Kurukshetra for the remaining ceremonies. We met with another pundit that had created elaborate mandalas under a bridge. This was another colorful series of offerings, followed by us walking around a makeshift bed 3 times.  This was done since my father died in a bed, and not on the ground. We then fed the cows with long stalks of grass.  After this, we bathed in the fast-flowing chilly holy river.

Finally, we entered my father’s passing into the Sehgal family book, that records the deaths and births. The book is housed in ragged cloth, is ~200 years old, and is part of a series of books that goes back some 580 years.  The entire family tree is in these paper books.  For me, it was a direct sense of connection to my ancestors, and my Indian genes.

A week in India is too short and I must go back again soon. My father was a man of the world, with passports from Sweden and the USA, but his home was India.  If you would like to see interviews of my father and his early life, please look at the 1947 Partition Archive, or contact me any time. We miss him deeply.

1. Waratuk

One of the most beautiful sites I have ever been to.  I bathe in the Potaro River near the rapids, and lay on the sandy beach.  I watch the mist over the cliffs opposite me, and see a river otter swim by.  I hear a big bird – the black currasow – behind me, and see the turkey-like creature disappear into the forest.  I sleep in my little tent near the beach, and hear the frogs, insects and other forest sounds in the night. Three nights here is not enough, and I could easily stay much longer. This is a remote location: no people here, no boats, no signs of humanity.  This is isolated rainforest nature. Our Patomona-speaking Amerindian guide knows this region well, and suggested this idyllic spot for our work with the local birds. I swim to the opposite bank and view the tall tree-covered mountains behind the camp, where we are catching the small songbirds with mist nets.  Some woodcreepers and antbirds, plus colorful hummingbirds.  This is a pristine forest, but the serene trees are not huge due to the sandy soil. In the evenings, we make some simple camp food. We hear a caiman slip into the water at night, and a long, skinny, tiny-mouthed snake huddles under our tarp during a big downpour.  The fireflies flash with the intensity of the Christmas lights that were still decorating the airport when I left Stockholm not too long ago. This place is far from cities and internet, phones and cars. It is very hard to leave when nature is so splendid. I have a dry place to sleep, plus good food and company. This is Guyana.

2. River boats.

Our boat is very full, with all our gear for one week in the forest. I have my huge 95-liter backpack with my tent, clothes, and light sleeping bag. At this point, I know what I need to be comfortable and happy for extended periods in isolated rainforests. Plus, I have all the supplies for catching and taking blood samples from birds.  We have a lot of food and cooking supplies. Our boatman, an elder Amerindian, who was the leader of Chenapau Village for many years steers us near the banks. The forest is thick and green.  But we also see dredges mining the silt for gold, and abandoned gold mines along the way. Then at Amatuk, after a night of camping plus work with birds, we have to carry everything past the turbulent rushing rapids, including the metal boat. It is simply too heavy for us.  There is no way that three wimpy professors plus the boatman and our guide can carry this metal monster.   We manage to lift it up the first hill, but there is no way that I can go further. We get somewhat desperate, and we seek out anyone who can assist. Finally, we find three goldminers who lift the boat and carry it for nearly a kilometer, along a path through the rainforest. They walk without shoes, almost waltzing the boat with their goldmining muscles. We get past the rapids so we can continue our journey. They each get about $25, quite a lot of money, for them a short effortless walk.  We continue on our journey.

3. Co-pilot Ravinder

Flying from Georgetown to Mahdia, the plane is supposed to leave at 8:30, so we get to the airport at 7. Each person is weighed, and we have to pay for our excess luggage. Finally, at 10, we board the old propeller plane for the 55 minute flight to the small mining town. I sit next to the pilot in the co-pilot’s seat. My legs are too long, so the co-pilot’s steering wheel keeps bumping me, and he scolds me. We fly over vast forests, green and rich. But also over large mines, with the big companies searching for gold and bauxite. The view from the cockpit scares me when I don’t see the runway in Mahdia until we are nearly on the ground.

4. Kaietur Falls

We hiked with our backpacks through the dense jungle to again reach the boat at Waratuk. No trail, but the forest here is not full of thorns – it seems friendly. Our boatman has hunted a large mammal and it lies on the floor near my feet. Then we meet a couple of his relatives in a dugout canoe along the way. We stop and exchange pink cassava drink while floating in the river. The river is a perfect black mirror reflecting the green of the forest. Next, we reach Tukeit, another set of rapids, and disembark with all of our gear, for the hike up to the Kaietur Falls. We didn’t know what we were getting into!  It seems basically like 4 hours of Stairmaster, while wearing a 40-pound backpack. This is not an easy hike. Stones are slippery and wet, and the roots of trees are not gripping my rubber boots. My legs start aching after about 2 hours. This is called the “Oh my god” hike: it’s hard.  Flowers, bright red mushrooms, screaming piha, and the cock of the rock (birds) greet us along the way. After a lot of vertical ascent, we reach a flat area and I can start to hear the rumble of the falls, or is it the howler monkeys? Then I definitely exclaim oh-my-god when I see the Kaietur Falls. Dropping 226 meters (741 feet) into an immense gorge, this is extreme beauty and the word awesome is appropriate. No one is here: this is a wonder of the world with few visitors. I bathe naked in the river just a few meters from the falls, and a rainbow colors the sky before my eyes. I walk to the falls in the night and the crashing of the water right next to me where I stand, alone, powerful. The small guest house is clean and comfortable, and I manage to see the golden frog and more bright-red male cock of the rocks. The swifts fly behind the falls in swarms. An exhilarating hike to one of the most spectacular waterfalls on the planet.

5. Patomona Amerindian Villages

A doll-like 3-year old girl stands closely to some pink flowers and admires them carefully. Meanwhile the people of Mykobie village sit on hammocks and around a table chatting and laughing. They drink the cassava juice and eat some meat stew laden with orange hot peppers. Cassava bread has a cardboardy texture and taste, but becomes soft in the stew. What impresses me is the sense of community. The lack of television and telephones binds people to each other instead of the electronics. The multigenerational family sitting and enjoying their meal and stories seems natural. We as humans evolved this way, in small communities. The villagers know everyone and have tight connections. In modern cities, we have become isolated to the point where we don’t even know our neighbors who live in the same buildings. The Facebooks of the world have taken advantage of this fundamental need, and built wireless communities and used capitalism to sell them for a profit. In my mind, this makes us even more isolated. I warn my Patomona friend to be vigilant. The need for educating girls, so they can obtain economic and reproductive independence seems of paramount importance. I voice my opinions about mobile phones, televisions and computers. They will inevitably invade and scar the community. They must plan ahead so that they can retain their language, and allow their culture to thrive. At another village, in the evening, the little community store becomes a bar, with flashing lights, beer, and a television playing a violent French action film. The kids, between 4-8 are glued to it, while the actors kill each other with assault rifles. One of the villagers was already drunk.  I see the evolution of this village, and I see the struggles they face.

We are three professors from San Francisco State University and the title of our project is “Impacts of Land Use Change on Wildlife Disease Transmission and Landscape Dynamics”. Our goal is to study how gold mining affects the spread of pathogens. We believe that the exploitation of the land allows for rapid changes in mosquito communities that facilitates the spread of malaria, both in birds and in humans. As we fly over Guyana, the forest is still pristine and immense, but there are patches of white; the big mines. The Amerindians do artisanal mining to make some money, and have dredges in the rivers that sift through the silt for the sparkle of gold. The world is changing so quickly, and Guyana, with its immense forests, and natural resources is ripe for exploitation. But here there is still time to make changes and preserve the environment, because the population is still low, and the forests are still rich.  Adventures in Guyana.

The airport in Marrakech is sparkling and flamboyant, with large columns that bring air and space to the passengers who have been cramped in airplanes. It is truly one of the nicest airports I have seen. For some reason, I was expecting crowds and crowded, but instead there is efficiency and space.  I was expecting desert and heat, but instead there are roses and fountains and snow-covered mountains in the distance. There is a lack of Christmas here, but it’s refreshing to be away from the rush of consumerism.

Not to say that there isn’t shopping. This city is the main trading post for Moroccan tourism, so the shops are full of things to take home. There are all shapes and sizes of brass lamps, pottery, woven carpets, and then there are the spices. I have never seen such a diversity of spices, with all kinds of dried leaves and twigs, and then colorful dried flowers mixed in.  I bought a tagine, one of the ubiquitous stove top slow cookers, and the spices to stew my own carrots, potatoes, eggplants and zucchinis at home.

I am part of a very unusual family, where it doesn’t seem all that unusual to unite for Christmas in a distant land. We travel many hours in planes to end up in a somewhat chilly but comfortable riad, for a week of togetherness, plus sightseeing. In the USA some of my acquaintances immediately asked “is it safe there?” when I told about my plans to visit Moroccco. Here I feel much safer than in San Francisco. The traffic seems relaxed, although the scooters sometimes come uncomfortably close when I am walking. I haven’t seen any signs of guns, except on the police who were outside the synagogue. Actually, it was a surprise to me that there even is an active synagogue in this predominantly muslim country.  The religious beliefs here seem relaxed and reformed. It was women who scrubbed my body in the hamam, and a strong woman gave me a relaxing massage.  Perhaps this is just Marrakech which gets a huge number of European tourists, although at this time of year, they are home for Christmas.

The day trip to the foothills of the Atlas Mountains took us to a Berber village, and a women’s collective where they hand produce delicious and smoky, healthy argan oil. We hiked to a waterfall and had lunch on a river bed. As a vegan, there are options; mostly couscous with vegetables. There are carpets to buy, plus more pottery and semi-precious stones.  The views of the mountains are spectacular, and the atmosphere of the hill station is reminiscent of the ones in India. In the summer, it is a place to escape the heat and relax.

 

Cats emphatically leave their mark on this city. I really enjoyed the movie about the cats of Istanbul. The cats of Marrakech are equally prevalent and dominant. No dogs here.  My niece and I set out to photograph as many as we could find. After the Moroccan cooking class, we had a delicious meal on the roof, with cat-urine-scented wine glasses.  No one could understand how the smell pervaded into the cupboards for the fine china.

The language of the people is flowing and sounds like a mixture of French and Arabic. Everyone speaks perfect French, and it is easy to communicate in English too. I bought a djellaba, and it fits me well. After much haggling, I found that I still got it at the high end of the price scale.  Then several hours later, I went back and exchanged it for a bigger one; no problem. I don’t know if wearing a djellaba is cultural appropriation when I am in Morocco. I could pass as a Moroccan, and wearing the traditional outfit keeps me warm.  The nights are cold, especially in the cement riad in the early morning. In the USA, people would think I am dressing like a Star Wars character. I get asked where I am from, and most guess India. I have not seen any Americans, but we did run into some Lithuanian tourists.

I want Americans to travel more. I want them to experience Morocco and the delightful warmth of the people: the incessant bargaining while shopping, and the flowery tea poured from metal tea pots. If I were the president, rather than being isolationist, I would force every American student into a cultural exchange program. Rather than spending money on “defense” our offense would be exchanging young people with all the countries of the world.

Wishing everyone wonderfully Happy Holidays.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It rained all day and all night, and the forest flooded. When we arrived, it was easy to wade across the river, but now the fast currents made it impassable. The waterfall was now raging brown with the sediments and muds, and I would no longer dare to swim there. But we are absolutely ready to leave. We had packed up all the tents and gear, and hiked to the river to make our crossing and return to civilization. What to do? A helicopter to rescue us? Not likely.  Or sleep in the forest until the river goes down? But that could take days, or weeks, and we had no more food. We talk about the options, and luckily our cook knows this forest well. He lives nearby in the village of Manyemen and grew up here. He hikes around looking for possible spots to make the crossing. He returns, and we lug our stuff to a spot where two trees have crashed down across the river. But the water is still too rapid there and the logs are slippery. Most of our team of 13 people can’t swim.  We decide to look further, getting all the more desperate. Finally our sentinel returns with news that he has found a spot where a single huge tree has fallen across the river. It is overgrown and he has to cut back the sprouting twigs and branches and make this slippery “bridge” crossable. It is not only the people, but also all the equipment, including tents, and scientific supplies for 13 people for 3 weeks. After some time, we dare the crossing, crawling like armadillos with our backpacks over this massive log. We shout with joy once we make it to the other side.

But where did we end up? In a flooded swamp. Our hearts sink again. So now we have to create more bridges to cross the murky water. While we are waiting, the ants mercilessly attack us, and rain pours on us in our absolute wetness. But the guys on the team are experts with machetes, and we cross over more logs and wade in waist-deep water; our rubber boots full of brown muddy slush. We finally make it to land, and hike out to the road where our trucks are already waiting for us.  Exhaustion and exuberance.  This dedicated group of students is truly remarkable. They have collected blood samples from hundreds of rainforest birds, and identified thousands of mosquitoes for the project. When I first came here 3 years ago and initiated this work, I would never have imagined that 5 Cameroonian PhD students and numerous Masters students would dedicate the most precious parts of their lives to the project and become experts in the field.

We had some good times too. Swimming and bathing in the river near the waterfall (before the storms) was the highlight of each day. Listening to the insects and watching the numerous colorful butterflies. Hearing the birds, and finding many of the exact individuals that we tested last year, like old friends coming back for a visit. The rains and deafening thunder entertained me while I was safe and relatively dry in my tent.  But overall living in the rainforest isn’t easy. This time I got amoebas. Awful experience.  And while brushing my teeth the first night, a small, but rather venomous green snake slyly watched me. It is the science that drives us. The destruction of the forest in this part of Cameroon is unparalleled. We were all shaken when we saw the clear-cutting before our eyes. Just a few kilometers from where we were trapped by the river, the forest is entirely gone. It’s happening quickly. The road to this region has been paved now, so they can take out the trees faster than ever. We are studying how this affects the disease transmission in this large-scale experiment. What happens to the mosquitoes, and the birds, and their diseases?  Will another disease emerge from the rainforest, like Ebola, or HIV?  The people in the village of Manyemen are certainly eating a lot of bushmeat. You know something is wrong with the economy when a chicken costs nearly $10, and a monkey just a few dollars more at $13. The students will study these questions, and become the next generation of Cameroonian scientists in the process.

Now from the laboratory in Buea, we are going through all the samples and drafting some scientific papers for publication. The Southwest Region of Cameroon, which the separatist movement is calling Ambazonia, is under major upheaval these days. Recently the internet was shut off for political reasons for 93 days. The central government retaliated with harsh measures against the people demanding more rights and autonomy for the region. That meant no email, no Facebook, no web, nothing, for more than 3 months! It meant driving to Douala to check email. It brought the English-speaking parts of Cameroon to a standstill. They still go on strike every Monday. Even now, there is no reliable internet at the university. This morning I said to myself, well at least there is electricity.  But now that is out too. It is nearly impossible to work these days without a reliable internet connection. All the databases and literature are online. But the students and professors carry on, and just shrug it off, because it is so normal to lack the basics here. I have learned that when the electricity works, it is time to charge the laptop. The inequalities in this world are too apparent these days. The injustices are not sustainable and will have to change. Science brings us to unexpected places and deeper realizations.

It’s curious how I only noticed that Minsk lacks billboards and ubiquitous advertising when I got back to Vilnius. The avenues are wide, and the Soviet architecture dominates the entire city. Minsk was completely destroyed during WWII, so in the decades following the Great Patriotic War, the city was carefully rebuilt to inspire the communist movement. I flew from Vilnius to Minsk in 30 minutes, but in that time warp, I probably went back 20 years.

There are few tourists in Minsk. I heard that Vilnius gets more visitors in one month than Minsk gets in a year (and clearly Vilnius is not a major tourist destination).  Belarus has a bad reputation, due to the dictator Lukashenko’s being in office since 1994.  There is a definite military vibe, and a lot of homage to the days of the USSR.  The city was preparing for the July 3^rd celebration of the liberation of Minsk in 1944. Military jets flew over my head, and the parade route was adorned with flags. Nearly one-third of the Belorussian population died during that war, so it is the major celebration of Independence. They even still have a holiday for the October Revolution of 1917. But it is noticeable that the country doesn’t have a national holiday for its 1991 independence from the USSR.

The Belarusian Great Patriotic War Museum is the place to see tanks and airplanes and life sized replicas of the partisans in their forest hovels. The horrors of the war are omnipresent, but in a way, this museum glorifies the conflict. The most chilling section is of the German death camps. Here there is some space devoted to the holocaust, but the emphasis is on how many Belorussian civilians and soldiers perished. After leaving the museum, I would have liked to have had the feeling that war is an atrocity that should never be repeated. Instead I left knowing that the Soviets were the victors, and it was honorable. I got the same feeling at the WWII museum in New Orleans, USA. In my mind a war museum should be horrific, and not a place for children to fantasize about guns and tanks.

At the ballet, Orr and Ora, watching the audience was actually more interesting than the ballet.  The performance had world class dancers, but the story was rather cliché and the music repetitive. But the dresses and outfits of the women in the audience were from a different era. Women showed off their long flowing gowns of bright flowery colors. Their hair dyed and friseured in ways not seen in Western Europe or the USA.  High spiky heals. See, there is no H & M in Minsk, no Zara, no Marks and Spencer. That is why these stores in Vilnius are full of the wealthy Belorussians who cross the border for their shopping sprees.  Besides McDonald’s and Coca Cola, I didn’t see much in terms of Western branding.  Here I saw avant-garde Belorussian.

In terms of art, I saw the exhibition of Belorussian artists at the Arts Palace. Marc Chagall is the most important Belorussian artist, but again, he is forgotten here. There are very few of his paintings in the country, because the Soviets didn’t like his style, and he was Jewish. This exhibit is an attempt to revive him to national prominence. I also liked the paintings by Bakst and Zarfin. I visited the Belorussian National Arts Museum, on Lenin street.  Here there was also a small exhibit of Chagall’s prints. It is a grand old style museum that houses with a collection spanning centuries.

Would I go to Minsk again?  Probably not for a while. Most of my Lithuanian friends were surprised that I had any interest in Minsk. I didn’t get to see the botanical gardens, but I did take the subway, taxis, trams and buses. I saw how clean the city is, and how it is actually nice to not be bombarded by advertising all the time. People were super friendly, although English is not widely spoken. I like knowing that in every culture, people are brainwashed, and there is underlying propaganda that subconsciously affects us. But in the end, we are all more or less the same. Minsk is fun and fascinating; like a strange dinosaur moving in a different direction.

Getting to Minsk

At this point, July 2017, if you fly to Minsk, you can enter Belarus for 5 days without a visa (EU or American citizens). This is only if you fly to Minsk.  If you take a train or car, a visa is required.  The flight from Vilnius to Minsk is only 30 minutes, but ended up being late in both directions. When you arrive at the Minsk airport, you must buy the travel insurance.  The counter is right before the passport control. It is cheap, about 1 euro/day.  I would recommend to rush off the plane to get the travel insurance first and then stand in the passport control line.  It takes a while to get through. They thoroughly examine each person’s passport with a magnifying glass.  Then you go through baggage claim and the green channel with nothing to declare.  We had a hotel transfer waiting (arranged beforehand with Hotel Belarus).  Taxi to the city costs 50 Belarusian rubles, which is about 25 euros.  It takes about 45 minutes to get to the center of Minsk from the airport.  If you are going to buy any chocolates buy them inside the duty free area, because they are half price after passport control.

Vegan Minsk

I wasn’t in Minsk long enough to really explore all the options.  At Hotel Belarus, the breakfast buffet had plenty of vegan salads and fruits.  Vega Burger is near the Victory Square about a minute from the mighty obelisk.  It was quite good, with salads, and a variety of vegan burgers.  I had a tofu and tomato salad, and a nice lentil burger. They do the burgers, in a panini style. The atmosphere has a yoga center vibe with Indian music. It’s a nice place with qualities of a typical vegetarian restaurant.