In the end, Madagascar was a great post. I got off the paranoia-inducing anti-malarial and found fulfilling work. I completed my manuscript of the Left Hand of God and put it on the shelf. Determined to do better than I had with that attempt, I started on yet another book.  That one was about Dominican organ harvesters.  They took a job that required a victim with a specific wound needed to test a new robotic arm.  I called the book ‘Cut Loose’.

The off-island job with USAID got me around Africa, and particularly to Namibia down in the south. In the time I was there I managed to get to a little game park twice, and twice had amazing experiences. The first time, I was in the swimming pool after a long day of baiting cheetahs.  The bait was game meat strapped to the hood of an open vehicle.  The cheetahs would chase the jeep and jump onto the hood.  When I got back to the hotel pool, two more cheetahs got into the enclosed pool area and began to meander around. I had heard that cheetahs were not known to attack adult humans.  So I was enjoying their proximity until a couple came into the pool area with two small children. The cheetahs immediately sensed a meal and began to stalk the family.  They stalked by slowly circling, waiting for an opportunity to grab a kid.

The couple started to freak out and asked aloud what they should do. I said, “If I were you I’d get into the pool until someone gets those animals out of here.” It wasn’t so much that I didn’t think cheetahs could swim – I had no idea about that.  But I was fairly certain that these two particular cheetahs couldn’t because both of them were missing their hind legs.  They had their bellies strapped to makeshift carts that rolled on rubber wheels. I was pretty sure that even the cheetahs had figured out that their trollies wouldn’t float.

The second thing that happened to me there also involved an animal attack.  Only that time there was an actual victim, and it was me.  Where cheetahs are not known for attacking humans, leopards certainly are. They are, in fact, the most ferocious of the all the big cats. So there I was minding my own business, walking through a line of buildings at this farm.  I heard this tremendous bone rattling roar and felt a pair of jaws clamp into my lower leg. I screamed in pain and writhed on the ground trying to pry the leopard off. Never mind that the cub was probably no more than six weeks old…it was still seriously hard to budge.

I enjoyed telling this story and watching the awe or disbelief grow in my audience’s eyes.  Then seeing it turn to disdain as I delivered the line, “It was a little baby cat.” That is I was enjoying it until I mentioned it at a dinner party we were having once I’d returned to Madagascar. I told the story to those assembled, including a guest who was the embassy nurse. “Did you get a rabies shots?” She asked. No, I said, it had never crossed my mind. “Well then I’ll see you in my office tomorrow and we can begin the treatment course.” That sort of took the fun out of telling that particular tale – at least for a little while.

In March of ’99, I was working in Uganda shortly after a rebel band attacked a group of British and American tourists there. Eight people were killed.  Many more were deeply traumatized.

The only direct impact on me was that the US Embassy told me I could not leave Kampala in its aftermath.  That meant I was facing the prospect of a boring urban weekend if I couldn’t find something else to do.  Looking for loopholes, I pushed the Regional Security Officer for options. He reiterated that all areas beyond the city were off-limits.  Then he added that there was an exemption for Jinja, to the East. “Jinja’s safe,” he said.

Jinja is the ‘Source of the Nile’, the White Nile, which starts on Lake Victoria.  It traverses north through the continent, cutting across Egypt before joining the Mediterranean Sea.

I found an outfit in Jinja offering a raft trip.  I signed up and they picked me up in an old yellow school bus.  The bus was crammed with wild-eyed young people in high-end outdoor gear.  Pairs high-fived one another as they discovered ‘extreme’ adventures that they shared.

I had a queasy feeling this raft trip might be ‘extreme sport’ itself.  So I sought out the lead guide and asked if it was too late to back out. “Don’t let this crew scare you,” he assured me, “we have two trips today. One is for these extreme guys and the other one’s the ‘bird boat’. You’re on the bird boat. They’ll point it out to you when you get off the bus.”

We arrived at the point of entry and they shuffled us off to meet our guides.  Mine tossed me my safety gear and showed me how to put it on.  Then he pulled on my life vest tabs until it was uncomfortably tight.  He started on his safety briefing and I noticed he had a thick iron spike driven through his tongue. “Ok, remember,” he said, “when you get tossed – and you will get tossed – you will come back up. That’s what the vests are for and they always work. We’ve never lost anyone on this river and we’ve been doing this for years. But it will seem like you’re not coming back up.  So here’s what you need to know: The water will get darker and darker as it sucks you down. When it gets pitch black you’ll start back up. Keep your eyes closed but notice how the water gets lighter and lighter and catch a breath as soon as you pop out. Because you’ll likely be going straight back down.  Got it?”

I didn’t know what to say, so instead of saying nothing, I said, “I’m supposed to be in the bird boat.” He grinned a knowing, evil grin and shook his head.  His spiked tongue darted between his lips and he growled, “My name is Satan…and there ain’t no bird boat.” Then, noticing my wedding ring, he added “Better let me put that in my zipper pocket.  Leave it there and this fucking water will suck it off.”

Until that day I’d never heard of Class 5 rapids. I now know that there is an International Scale of River Difficulty that goes all the way to Class 6.  Class 1 is defined as ‘Easy’ and Class 6 ‘impassable’.  When someone eventually survives a Class 6, it becomes a Class 5. Technically survivable.  Class 5 is an extension of Class 4.  Class 4 is described like this:

Advanced: Intense, powerful but predictable rapids requiring precise boat handling in turbulent water. …Rapids may require “must make” moves above dangerous hazards. Scouting may be necessary… Risk of injury to swimmers is moderate to high, and water conditions may make self-rescue difficult.

Class 5 (Expert) extends the above by adding: “Extremely long, obstructed, or very violent rapids.  They may continue for long distances between pools, demanding a high level of fitness. Swims are dangerous, and rescue is often difficult even for experts. Extensive experience and practiced rescue skills are essential.”

My bird boat excursion on the Source of the Nile consisted of eight Class 5 rapids. Without going into all the gory details, suffice it to say that I survived the trip. In a letter home I mentioned Satan had stood the raft up on its end in the middle of something called a ‘double hydo’.   A double hydo consists of two towering geysers of water forming a deep hole in-between.  I eventually lost my grip on the vertical raft.  I got sucked into the black hole Satan had earlier described. When I finally broke the surface, I was immediately pounded by the second of the hydro pair. I wasn’t sure I would survive.

Many years later I went to National Geographic’s Ultra Sport film festival with some friends. The festival ended with the three top contenders for Ultra Sport film of the year.  The winning film opened with a head shot framed in front of a pounding Class 5 rapid. A man turns to face the camera and opens his mouth revealing an iron spike pounded through his tongue. “My name is Satan,” he growls, “and you’re about to take the wildest ride of your life.”

My life flashed before me again as he spoke.  I heard the voice of the Regional Security Officer in my head.  “Jinja’s safe.”  Safe, like an appointment in Samarra.

If you are unfamiliar with the reference, click here to read Somerset Maugham’s wonderful 200 word story ‘Appointment in Samarra’: [Read more…] about 13.2 Meeting Satan in Uganda

The last thing that happened before we left Madagascar was Y2K. At the turn of the millennium our time in Madagascar was drawing to a close. We were planning a holiday trip with our friends the Reddy’s.  John Reddy is actually responsible for the title of this blog.  We were at a resort having a drink together on an earlier trip when I started telling him my Uganda rafting tale. He lifted his hand in the three finger Boy Scout salute. “What’s with the three fingers?” I asked, cutting my tale short. “I love your stories, Michael, and I’d listen to any of them twice,” he said, always the gentleman. “But we need some way for me to signal when I’ve already heard them three times.” Thus began my Thrice Told Tales.

But back to the millennium. It came loaded with fears of a societal collapse denoted by the shorthand ‘Y2K’. There was a growing consensus that crossing the millennium would cause widespread computer clock failures.  Y2Kers believed that ‘1900’ was hard-coded into critical computer programs. This suggested that 1999 was coded only as ‘99’, because the code assumed the ‘1900’.  If that were the case, then ’99 plus 1’ would revert critical systems back to 1900 rather than jumping ahead to 2000.

The doomsday scenarios included airplanes falling from the sky and banking systems crumbling. In December, 1999, the Nairobi and Tanzania Embassy bombings were still recent memories.  Now the scythe-clutching, hood-shrouded specter of Y2K was just ahead.  Out of ‘an abundance of caution’, the Embassy required that we all ‘shelter in place’ over the New Year.  So we were to remain in the capital, Antananarivo, as the clock struck 2000.   And that put an end to our travel plans.

The USAID Director graciously offered to host a New Year’s Eve at her home as consolation.  At nine pm, December 31st, 1999, a large number of us showed up her gates. There was also a massive showing by the Locally Engaged Staff (LES). Each LES received a short-fused bottle rocket as they passed the main gate. I got a foot long sparkler instead. “I’d prefer one of those,” I said, snatching a bottle rocket from one of the guards. When he offered token resistance, I said, “Gees, what’s the problem? I’m not going to blow the place up.”  He reluctantly agreed.

We sipped champagne under the billowing folds of parachute tents scattered about the yard. As Y2K approached, the lawn filled with dazzling luminous trails of sparklers set alight. The first of the LES’s sent his bottle rocket streaming into the night sky. I grabbed an empty bottle and a full box of matches from a nearby table. As I set my match to the fuse, the person next to me eyes grew wide. “You’re under the tent,” he said, jabbing his finger into the air. I glanced around in alarm and noted a large darken garage area behind me. I aimed the rocket on a horizontal trajectory and let it fly.  The rocket streaked off towards the open garage and exploded inside with a loud bang. An instant later, five black-clad commandos charged out of the garage.  Certain they were taking fire, they waved their submachine guns at the crowd, seeking potential targets.

“It was an accident,” I shouted, waving madly to get their attention. “I did it. It was me. I shot my bottle rocket in there. It was me.  I did it by mistake.” For a moment they continued to scan, ready to shoot. Then the one in charge lowered his weapon and told the others to stand down. “Jesus Christ,” he said, approaching me in disbelief. “That was a hair’s breadth from bloodshed.” I nodded and welcomed in the new century.

I am not comfortable bringing up what I am about to bring up because it is not a topic people generally discuss. And while it shouldn’t embarrass me, it does. I believe in God. It is hard to explain what I even mean by that. The God I believe in doesn’t fit the standard image of our Christian God. There are no fiery clouds, no three-persons-in-one, no virgin births. All it means is I believe in a higher power that lends order and purpose to the universe.

It is not important whether you agree or disagree with me. I only mention it because it has influenced how I’ve spent my time. I used to pray in chapel every day during all four years of high school as part of my lunch break. When I went to college I upgraded from prayer to meditation, often accompanied by weed. I realize now that there was a kind of an emptiness in me. It manifested itself as a feeling of being ill-at-ease. It wasn’t a big deal. It was more of a minor nuisance at, say, the level of a canker sore.

One day, stoned out of my mind, I found this little sheet of paper that had a prayer on it. It came from Jeremiah 29:13. That passage says ‘You will find Me when you seek Me with all your heart’. And that’s what the paper said. “Repeat ‘I believe in God with all my heart’ – three time and really mean it – and God will reveal Himself to you.” So I said it. And I really meant it (and I was really stoned out of my mind). And I repeated it three times. And all of a sudden ba-bam! I heard the sound of the Universe. I shit you not. I heard the movement of the stars. I felt a power that was strong enough to move mountains – and I don’t mean as a euphemism. I mean ‘move mountains’ in a literal sense. It scared the shit out of me.

I soon realized that it was actually the deep bass tones of a truck engine going by outside my window. Or maybe it was a reflection of the quality of the weed. It might have been my mind just fucking with me; a sound only heard inside my head. But whatever it was, I was (un)duly impressed. And have remained convinced that God revealed himself to me for lo these many years. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’ve lived a good and faithful life. I’m just saying I believe in God. I’ll get back to way I am pushing this point in a while. For now I just needed to let that out.

I spoke to my business partners before my return from Madagascar and Dave told me they’d be happy to have me back. Dave did say that Jim had a concern.  Jim was Amy’s right hand before we’d started the firm and now my third partner. Dave let me know that I’d have to make some sort of concession to get him to go along.  Jim defined the pound of flesh he wanted to extract. He agreed that I could have my old position back but I wouldn’t be re-admitted as a member of the Board. As a Vice President, I’d be able to make day-to-day decisions affecting my business.  But I would need to run any significant business decision by the Board. Dave intervened on my behalf.  He added that the arrangement would hold for only the first year.

I returned to a bit of a mixed bag. On the plus side, the firm was bigger and healthier than ever.  The company won virtually every contract Amy targeted. We were up to 300 people and doing over $30 million in annual gross sales.  That is very good for a young professional services firm.

On the minus side, our technology base was weak enough to be teetering.  And our software development practice drove our business.   Many of our deliveries were sub-par and our clients were getting angry.  Maybe worse, no one seemed to be aware that software applications were moving to the Web. Fortunately, I’d used my last year in Madagascar as a self-study opportunity.  I was actually more current than I would have been even if I stayed working in DC. It took a lot of effort but I managed to turn the ship around.

I had also finished my third manuscript before leaving Madagascar.  I spent part of each weekend editing it during the first year of my return. It was a techno-thriller about a robotics firm that needed to test a robotic arm.  The arm worked by reading microchips implanted in the brain.   The kicker was that, because the technology was so specialized, it needed a specific type of wound.  The prototype trial needed someone with a left arm amputation below the elbow.  With venture funding running out, the robotics company was getting frantic.  They went to their last resort and contacted a criminal organization.  They paid an organ harvesting crew to ‘create’ a victim with the necessary wound.  The book was set in the Dominican Republic.  It allowed me to put a bunch of sailing, sharks and Haitian voodoo culture in the mix.

One day I received a book contract in the mail. It was from a place called ‘Books In Motion’.  They signed on to make it into an audiobook, and it left me with my printed book rights still intact. What a deal!

But like my other publishing misadventures, this one was also doomed to fail.  Two years down the road, I still had no audiobook in sight.  Then I got a letter from them saying, ‘Our business plans have changed.  So has our Editor.  We no longer plan to move forward with Cut Loose’. Oh well.  I once again consoled myself with, ‘I didn’t like it very much myself’.

And while I am backtracking here, there is some back story relevant before moving forward. When I was a volunteer in Togo, I went to a parade in the capital.  All the provincial Governors, called Chef Cirs, rode in an open motorcade. I noticed that each of these men wore unique but very similar head gear.  The ornate masks consisted of two carved wooden faces worn atop the Governors’ own heads. Each was original, some adorn with feathers, others with animal bones.  When I mentioned the distinctive commonality, someone said they were all made by the same artisan.   The guy was a said to have powerful magic and serious carving prowess.  He mentioned the village he came from.  It was a town I’d heard of on the border with Benin.

I realized that I would be passing within an hour of that village as I returned home.  I decided to make a detour to see if I could find this guy. Sure enough, entering his village, he was quickly pointed out. He had a few carvings scatter about his shop and he agreed to sell me one.  It was a primitive rough-hewn figure of a man pounding on a drum.  We talked for a bit over a pot of local beer and I got around to asking about his masks.  I steered the conversation to the head gear I’d seen the Chef Cirs wearing and asked if he might make me one.  He hesitated, then changed the subject.  I felt awkward enough that I decided not to bring it up again.  I said goodbye and was heading for my motorcycle when he said, “I’ll have your mask ready in four months.” Then he asked if I could pay half his asking price up front.

Four months later I went back to the village very unsure of what I’d find. I pulled up in front of his shop and once again we shared a pot of beer.  After a time he asked me to wait a moment while he went to get something. He returned with a two tiered mask in the style I’d seen each of the Chef Cirs wear – but this one was unique as well. The lower of the two mask faces was painted a startling shade of pink.  He’d bordered the head in long hair and painted the chin with a beard. The huge eyes and parted lips lent the mask a menacing, diabolical, air. Above that face he’d carved a woman, naked to the waist.  She clutched a huge python in each of her raised hands.  Long black hair taken from a living source sprouted from her head and her bottom half was the body of a fish. I recognized her as the mermaid goddess Mami Wata, worshipped by a local cargo cult.

The term ‘cargo cults’ comes from the South Pacific where anthropologists first documented some islanders adopting a ‘reconstruction’ of European behavior they’d seen.  In one example, islanders cleared land in the form of airplane runways.  They even lined them with fire pots to guide the airplanes in, as they had seen the Europeans do. They expected that completing this ritual would cause the treasure-filled planes to appear, just as it had for the Europeans.  The Togolese Mami Wata cult has a similar origin, except the planes were sailing ships.  Mami Wata arrived on sailors’ tattooed arms and the carvings on ships’ prows.

“The mask represents the true you,” the carver said. “When you wear it, you have three heads.  On the bottom is your own living head. At the top is your protecting spirit.  Between them we trap your evil spirit.  Your protector is Mami Wata and one day she will make you very rich.” I thanked him for the unattractive headgear and headed back to my own village.

I understood the power of the headdress as soon as I got home.  Not a single villager would come into my mud rooms as long as that mask was visible. They’d shake their heads and point at it and tell me it was too powerful to be near. In fact, in the decade and a half I had that thing, no African ever agreed to be in the same room with it.  Even after I got back to the U.S. I will return to the mask in a moment, but I want to get back to the company for now.