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Most
of the time when you mention to people that you are a writer, they ask
if you write novels or if you are a journalist. Those are the exciting
and romantic permutations of being a writer. The reality is that most
writers' fare is far more mundane, but yet still valuable to someone
somewhere.
In
my short time in writing circles I've found writers seek both an
audience and a desire to say something meaningful. They want to capture
moments that touch people, whether it be autobiographical, fictional, or
an appreciation for the artfulness of their prose.
The
genesis of my CardRunners blog was an effort to show others that you
could create a following no matter who you were, simply by being
consistent and honest with your audience. As I was researching some of
the history of my blog, I noticed that I am soon approaching some
milestones. In May I will reach my fifth anniversary of the blog. Sometime this summer I will reach 1,000 blog posts
and with my current blog view ticker passing 500k views, which was
reset a couple years ago, it should push the lifetime views to over one million.
Unfortunately,
the CardRunners blogging software doesn't allow you to search blogs by
subject or title, so I had to go through Google to try to locate some of
my earlier blogs and in so doing I stumbled on this comment about my
blog.
'08 New Years Resolutions - JonnyCosMo, Dec 31 2007
Improving My Blog
- When I went to Vegas in December I told Zimba how many hits I get on
my blog, and he told me he got more. Obv this put me on sick tilt.
Totally unacceptable that a manager from Cardrunners somehow gets more
hits on his blog than me. He doesn't even play that much poker! How can
his life be more interesting to read than mine! Oh the injustice! So
this upcoming year I'm going to dedicate a little more time in keeping
my blog somewhat more updated, in an effort to get more hits than
Zimba's blog. Btw, for those of you who read Zimba's blog, stop it!
It
was quite amusing and apropros for this entry to encounter poker pro
Jon McGowan's Liquidpoker blog after all these years. I do recall that December conversation we had at the Wynn poker room and
yes, Jon, I'm still at it grinding away, trying to capture a few select
thoughts and moments that others might value.
The
memory I want to share this week is rewritten from one of my first
blogs where I related one of the most explosive twenty-four hour periods
from my life. I've always felt it was one of the most cinematic moments
of my lifetime.
The
year was was 1991. I was nearing the end of a nine month, fifteen
country tour of Africa. Unbeknownst to me, as I entered the tropical
seaside capital of Lome, Togo by long distance taxi, foment was about to
spill over against a long standing dictator and his government minions.
The day before I arrived, the army and police had shot and killed some
university student leaders who were protesting some unjust cause. As I
emerged from the taxi drop off in the main market, I noticed that the
locals were distracted and on edge. When I inquired about local
transportation, I was informed that all the city's taxi drivers were on
strike; partially in sympathy for the killed student leaders and their
own protests against unfair government pricing of their services.
Utilizing
my functional French, I discovered that there was a residential
neighborhood with hotels within walking distance. As I strolled up the
wide avenues, it soon became evident that this was to be no ordinary
visit. The usually bustling streets were practically empty. At all the
major intersections I noticed roughly built tire obstructions to
discourage traffic. I witnessed one of the larger piles set on fire with
kerosene sending large plumes of noxious black smoke into the air.
After arriving in the recommended district, I selected the first
available hotel.
The
hotel was standard tropical Africa fare; functional but spare. My stark
room on the third floor contained just a bed, bedside table and modest
dresser within the glossy painted cement walls and floors. After a basic
meal, I spent most of the evening on the rooftop escaping the heat with
other business guests who were all observing the events along the
avenue. Skirmishes between the army and student and taxi driver
protesters were taking place on the wide avenues. Few cars violated the
blockades, but some unaware commuters were trying to head home for the
day. As dusk approached, the mood deteriorated drastically when
protesters started stoning the passing cars to discourage any traffic at
all. It didn't take long for the travelling African businessmen and I
to determine that leaving the country as soon as possible was the right
move.
That
night I didn't sleep particularly well. The room had the classic
slatted glass panel windows that don't completely close, so mosquitoes
are a constant worry. With no mosquito netting, my only defense was the
large powerful ceiling fan. On that particularly hot and muggy night, I
had to set fan to maximum output to have any hope to deter the
mosquitoes from settling on my body. Although laying there felt like
being in a wind tunnel, it did help to drown out the sound of army
helicopters circling the area trying to impose the new night time curfew
designed to quell the unrest.
In
the morning, I was informed it was a 3-4 mile hike across the city to
reach the border post to Ghana. The streets were mostly deserted, except
by protesters and the army. Keeping to the edges and shadows, I tried
to make my way in the recommended general direction, only detouring when
encountering trouble spots. One particularly difficult scene that
delayed me had about 50 students stoning a neighborhood police station
mercilessly. They eventually stormed the building, dragged out the
frightened local policemen for a public beating before setting the
building on fire.
After
successfully navigating through the major streets and side roads of the
capital, I neared the edge of the city and the beach front border
crossing area that would bring me to safety. Unfortunately the situation
there was in a state of stalemate. Helicopters would circle
occasionally above in an attempt to dissuade the enraged students from
barraging the border post with sticks and stones. Occasionally the army
would bring in a truckload of soldiers to engage the marauding students
to little effect. As time passed, I noticed other fearful foreigners
trying to make their way to the border to escape the chaos. We were all
huddling and hiding in the shadows and nooks of the big walled compounds
that protected all the homes in the surrounding area. After a couple
hours of skirmishes between the army and protesters, another truck of
soldiers arrived to reinforce the government forces. An army helicopter
swooped in low, sending all parties for temporary cover.
In
the brief calm brought on by the helicopter's recent departure, I
decided to take action. Looking back on that day, I don't know what
possessed me. I suppose I sensed we would be stranded for many more
hours if nothing decisive was done. I've never been a big risk taker but
I had assessed that foreigners weren't being targeted in this dispute.
So I put on my large blue backpack, emerged from the shadows of the
street and boldly marched out onto the oceanside road that led to the
border post. Everyone started looking at me. I tried to walk with a firm
sense of purpose, no matter how scared I was inside.
The
student protester group was the first that I had to get through, and a
number of them surrounded me wondering what nerve I had to be there and
insert myself in this conflict. Thinking fast I used some basic French
to say "Je suis Americain" (I am American) and "Allez les eleves" (long
live the students). This tacit support brought a quick cheer. The
tension disappeared for a few moments and I seized the opportunity to
navigate through the students before it dissipated.
I
marched forcefully but carefully through the debris strewn region
between the two warring factions. As I approached the soldiers who had
come to reinforce the border post, they gave me perplexed and puzzled
looks. They had heard the cheers as I passed through the students, but I
was now approaching them. They stood almost frozen wondering my
intentions with distrust. I said not a word to them until I approached
what appeared to be one of their leaders saying simply "Je veux allez au
Ghana" (I want to go to Ghana). He paused, thought a second and raised
his arm pointing to the border post room. Suddenly the border officials
who had been crouching below desks in the ravaged border post buildings
emerged to process my passport so I could depart. The atmosphere was
surreal, as all the windows had been stoned out and there was debris
everywhere. They struggled to find any pens or stamps to process my
passport. I didn't look back and hesitated only an instant before
crossing into Ghana where their officials looked on at me in disbelief.
Whether
you consider my actions those of a hero or fool, they had broken the
tension of that fateful morning. The other huddled foreigners soon
followed my lead and emerged from the shadows to make their way to the
border post. After those few moments of relative sanity, the skirmishes
would continue. More helicopters and soldiers arrived pushing the
students into the sea to avoid repercussions. But in the coming days and
weeks, the violence would continue to escalate eventually leading to an
attempted coup. I spent less than 24 hours in Togo, but it left
indelible memories. I am thankful I avoided
harm, but I'm also appreciative to have witnessed a young nation
struggling to establish representation of the people and fighting
injustice at a time when I was searching for my own identity as a
young man.
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