Venice, Italy, October 2015

Una notte a Venezia

Waking up in the dim light of the hotel room, with the sun being blocked by the heavy velvet curtains, the memories of last night come back. Are they memories, or was it a dream? Looking back, it feels unreal, like a Cinderella kind of story.

We found it amusing to dress up in evening gowns and high heels, and like teenagers on prom night, kept having our picture taken in the hotel lobby by the guys at the reception – who clearly found US amusing.

We took a water taxi down the Canale Grande, with a bright round moon reflecting on the water, and the illuminated palazzos passing by left and right. Who can resist the enchanting charms of Venice, this unique blend of culture, romance and decay. At night, a tad of magic gets thrown into the mix. Our destination was (as the taxi boat driver told us) nothing less illustrious than the city’s finest palace.

Well, when a superyacht shipyard hosts a gala dinner, they do it in style. I had to keep reminding myself just how I, representing a conservation organization, had ended up as a special guest in this circle, with the mayor of the city and who knows what other important people. It was one of these moments in life that you look at from the outside, even while you experience it, shaking your head with a slightly bemused, disbelieving smile.

Walking into the bluely lit dining hall, with real candles on the chandeliers, I am certain I forgot my countenance for a moment and just stood with my mouth open. The 9-course dinner, prepared by a Michelin star chef, was themed around “the sea”, and each of the minuscule dishes had a patron. I introduced “my” dish, a fish named “occiata” (eye), by saying that we all, as we use the ocean in whichever way, need to jointly keep an eye on the sea to protect it. There you go for the conservation message, delivered within 30 seconds, to not keep the esteemed guests away from their conversation for too long.

As if the string quartet hadn’t been enough, an opera singer entertained us during the second part of the dinner. 

I quickly gave up trying to figure out which of the wines served in the various crystal glasses in front of me (right next to the hand written name tag) was supposed to be consumed with which dish. I have an instinctive adversity against wasting food (and beverages), so as the waiters kept refilling my glasses, I kept trying to empty them. Which just served to make the evening appear all the more magical.

Even after midnight, the boat to bring us home hadn’t turned into a pumpkin. So reconsidering, I’m pretty sure all this really did happen. Fortunately. I get up, open the curtains, and look out onto the sun-lit piazza. 

 

Tanzania, September 2015

Waiting is part of the Tanzania experience.

Right now, we wait for either the tractor to come, the sun to dry up the soil, or some other solution to our situation to magically appear. It doesn’t rain during the dry season….normally. Well, this morning, it did, and half an hour of showers was enough to turn the “all weather road” through the park into a mess of mud and water. Sure enough, our car got stuck, just as others did.

Two days ago, we waited for Peter, our Tanzanian colleague, to show up, or at least call. The whole day. When Peter finally made it to the entrance gate of the park, darkness had fallen. No one is allowed to enter the park after dark. However, the people at the gate know him, and were willing to let him pass, but not without authorization from higher up. So they made a few phone calls. Meanwhile, Peter waited for a decision – for 1 ½ hours. And we waited for Peter. Who didn’t come that night – the decision had been negative.

Walking around the village during the late afternoon, I observe a harmonious feeding community: goats, baboons and warthogs all peacefully coexisting, finding a meal in the light of the low-standing sun.

Late afternoons are the best time in the village anyway. The heat of the day is over, people have finished the day’s chores, and lie on woven mats in front of their houses, weaving ropes from leaves, chatting with each other, or just looking into the air.

More about my Tanzania experience on the IUCN website and Kesho Trust website (thank you Kesho Trust!).

Pohnpei, Federated States of Micronesia

One plane a day, but it is an international airport

Lunch

Opening a Pandanus fruit

A lot of the food Pohnpeians eat is imported;
and not the most healthy either,
such as "SPAM" canned meat

Nan Madol

Traditional weaving and wood carving handicraft

Leaving on a jet plane

Schwarzer Samt

The largest Ocean on Earth – the Pacific. Below me an endless stretch of black fabric, sprinkled with white flocks of clouds. I have lost all sense for how long…lost…

Der grösste Ozean der Welt – der Pazifik. Unter mir erstreckt sich ein endloses schwarzes Tuch, besprenkelt mit Flocken weisser Wolken. Haie sind in diesem Ozean, und Meeresschildkröten, Mantarochen, Flugzeugwracks, Blauwale, Thunfischschwärme, Korallenriffe. Doch all dies ist verborgen in der Schwärze, jetzt und von hier aus gesehen. Er gibt nichts von seinen Geheimnissen preis.

Ich habe jedes Gefühl dafür verloren, wie lange wir schon über diese Wasserwüste fliegen. Ein Buch von Antoine de Saint-Exupéry kommt mir in den Sinn, “Terre des Hommes”, in dem er einen nächtlichen Irrflug über die Sahara beschreibt. Kein Fixpunkt. Kein Leben, kein Ende, kein Willkommensgruss.

Ich habe auch jedes Gefühl dafür verloren, wie lange ich mich schon auf dieser Reise befinde. Irgendwann in den letzten Tagen bin ich von zu Hause aufgebrochen, in einen frühen Zug nach Zürich gestiegen. Schon dunkel war es, als ich in Abu Dhabi über den Flughafen lief, auf der Suche nach einem Fixpunkt. Nach etwas Anderem als Luxusgeschäften und Gesichtern, die mir fremd sind, unter Burkas und karierten Kopftüchern.

Ein unruhiger Schlaf auf dem Flug nach Manila, über weitere Wüsten, die Arabiens, und die Südasiens. Einen ganzen Tag verbrachte ich in dieser Stadt, ohne ihr im Geringsten näher zu kommen. Ein Tag in einem Gästehauszimmer ohne Fenster, mit brausender Klimaanlage und weiterem Schlaf ohne Erholung.

Guam gehört zu den Vereinigten Staaten von Paranoiamerika. Als mir die Dame von der Airline gefühlte 2 Dutzend Fragen stellt, meinen Pass immer und immer wieder anschaut, und mein Handgepäck komplett durchwühlt, fällt es mir schwer, noch auf den Beinen zu stehen vor Müdigkeit.

Nun, im “Island Hopper”, kann ich nicht schlafen. Eine stille Nachtwache. Warten auf einen Willkommensgruss, einen Fixpunkt. Eine Insel im Schwarz.