September 2019, in Ohio    I know the truth.  I am the most non-famous, world-famous artist any of you have ever heard about.  And, that amount of fame never goes to my head.  I know that most people, even the teachers who use my clip art in their classrooms, never remember my name.  But, I once had an incredible brush with fame.  It was my first and best claim to fame, but - alas - even it was anonymous.

I love to wander the globe, but I prefer to get off the main tourist paths.  Resorts, actually any kind of hotels with stars, are not my kind of vacation destination.  I prefer meeting a local population with a desire to paint a mural and then eat some home-cooking to celebrate.  That's my kind of travel whether it's in Africa, Europe, the Americas or even Ohio. 

Taking a trip on a luxury cruise is simply not my style.  Inconceivable!  Traveling with a few thousand strangers just doesn't do it for me.  Under normal circumstances, I opt out of tours as well.   But, even I have to admit, travel is a whole lot easier if you wander the globe with people who know the lay of the land, know what they're talking about, and have a hotel lined up.  So I must confess, on two occasions, I added my name to tour groups in order to visit some rather unique corners of the planet.  I wanted to see Eastern Europe (behind the Iron Curtain) and the Galapagos Islands.  It was pretty good timing as well.  There is no longer an Iron Curtain and everyone and their brother now easily tour the Galapagos Islands.  I've even gone back there to paint my murals on three islands.

Summer of 1986    You have to take a cruise to see the Galapagos Islands.  And, I admit it, another reason that I don't like the idea of cruises is because I really hate feeling sea sick.  Some people have no problem with waves, either gentle or crashing.  I'm not one of them.  Me and my inner ear do not like the swell of the sea.  Please, do not mess with our balance and equilibrium.  Because, if you have any experience with sea sickness, you've learned a few vocabulary words.  Sometimes, learning vocabulary words is supposed to be a good thing.  It isn't if the words have anything to do with sea sickness.  First, you learn all about nausea.  It's that mildly uncomfortable disturbance in your throat and stomach (mostly stomach) that leads to the next vocabulary word that you do not want to experience first-hand, emesis.   Never heard of that word?  Actually, I had to look it up.  It's the act of throwing up.  In addition to that word, research provided a whole lot of other synonyms that everyone knows: barf, gag, heave, hurl, puke, retch, spew, spit up, upchuck, vomit and - my personal favorite - blow chunks.  When I lived in Africa, it was perfectly normal to talk about diarrhea.  Everyone had it and there was so much to discuss.  It's kind of the same with sea sickness.   Once you've spent time retching everything you've eaten, or even dreamed of eating, and then "enjoyed" dry-heaving what is no longer there to heave, there are things to discuss.  I've had it all.  Yes, I know sea-sickness way too well. 

But, I had to face my fears in order to explore the Galapagos Islands.  I imagine on huge tourist cruise boats that possibly passengers might not suffer so much from sea sickness.  Maybe those big boats aren't tossed around as much?  I don't know.  I was on a very tiny cruise.  We traveled in two small boats, each holding about five or six passengers.  There were huge advantages traveling like this.  Our boats were able to stop at remote locations that could never accommodate the hordes of tourists on the larger liners.  We had a more personal experience.  One time I remember snorkeling one-on-one with my guide, a marine biologist.  That would never happen on one of the larger cruise ships.  But, I promise you, there were disadvantages on those smaller boats.  We explored by day and traveled by night.  And at night, those raging waves literally threw me from my bunk on multiple occasions. 

Rest assured, my fondest memories of the Galapagos Islands have nothing to do with equilibrium (or lack thereof), choppy seas or blown chunks.  It is a truly an awe-inspiring location where nature is experienced at its best.  I snorkeled in gigantic lava tubes with sharks below me.  (And, yes, I screamed underwater when a sea lion swam by my peripheral view.  I thought it was a shark.)  I walked right up near giant tortoises, frigates, albatross and blue-footed boobies.  Flamingos danced in unison across a lagoon.  Marine iguanas spit salt water from their nostrils as they sunned on volcanic rocks.  I rested from snorkeling on a large rock that I shared with two penguins as they preened themselves.  And, perhaps, my favorite moment was sharing a beach on Santa Fe Island with dozens of sea lions, massively huge sea lions.

That should be enough.  Honestly, who needs any more from such a magnificent experience as my time in the Galapagos Islands?  But, it seems to be the gift . . . or trip, that keeps on giving.

January 1988, in Monrovia, Liberia    The main events here probably took place in February, but you'll soon see why the month of January is so important to me back in 1988.  It was my first month in the Peace Corps and I just arrived in Africa for my training.  As I was getting used to life without running water or electricity, as well as learning to "enjoy" warm Coca-Cola under a blistering tropical sun, some things from back home were missed (or at least then, now and forever greatly more appreciated).  That list included ice, air-conditioning, warm showers and written communication.  The internet would have been on "the list" as well but that was still a good tens years into the future. 

There were two occasions over my Peace Corps experience that generated a lot of letters coming my way.  One was when I told family and friends about malaria.  I've had it five times while in Africa.  I only wrote home about it once.  That was enough for my poor mother.  I learned quickly that she didn't need to know everything about my Liberian experience.

The other cause for mail happened in January, 1988.

While I sailed around the Galapagos Islands on my "more than just a little remote" cruise, there was another boat that we frequently crossed paths with.  There were three people from the National Geographic Magazine who also preferred corners of the islands where the cruise lines never passed.  Yes, of course, I had serious traveler and photographer envy.  What kind of traveler wouldn't want to work for that magazine?   What photographer wouldn't want at least one of their photos forever remembered in its pages?  Maybe I don't travel in the same kind of circles as you.  But, on several occasions, I've heard people say, "Wouldn't you just love to have one of your photos in National Geographic?"  And, when that happens, I know how to silence a crowd.

You see, my photo was in National Geographic magazine.

It wasn't a photograph that I took.  I'm in the photograph.  Perhaps that's even better?  And, this didn't happen in just any old issue of the magazine.  It was in the 100th Anniversary issue of National Geographic, January, 1988.   As the passengers of my little groups approached some sea lions on Santa Fe Island, once again we met up with the trio from the magazine.  We had no idea that we were being photographed.  But, yep, there we are on pages 146 and 147 in a two-page spread.  The sea lions were front and center in the picture, but I was the first person in the pack.  Yep, that's me with huge glasses, a beard that disappeared while in the Peace Corps, as well as blue and white shorts.   It's a fashion statement that can't be missed.  But, nobody wants to be missed when they are in National Geographic Magazine.

October 1990, in Madrid, Spain     Most Peace Corps Volunteers return to America after their two years of service and rarely have another similar kind of experience.  That wasn't me.  I wandered overseas for around twenty years.  And, the next stop after the Peace Corps was Casablanca, Morocco, where I taught at an international school.  I had another amazing two-year experience. 

Teachers at international schools have some wonderful perks with their jobs.  One of my favorites was attending teacher conferences.  Over the years, it's how I visited Hong Kong, Beijing, Shanghai, Warsaw, Copenhagen, Rome, Rotterdam, Amsterdam and Gaborone.  Like I said, the job had perks.  While I was teaching in Morocco, I attended a conference in Madrid, Spain.  

Okay, I actually attended conference meetings and I gave more than my share of presentations.  However, those were not generally my highlights.  Sometimes, you have to also be a tourist.  While in Madrid, it's a must to visit the Prado, the national art museum.  And, there are so many wide boulevards, elegant buildings and well-stocked shops.  There was a whole lot more available shopping in Spain than there was in Morocco.  So, I joined my co-workers and hit the streets as much as possible.

On one particular occasion, a fellow teacher needed to find the little boy's baño.  Since nature wasn't calling me, I wandered into a bookshop.  My favorite magazines tend to involve travel and photography.  And, if the photos are good, it doesn't matter if the publications are in Spanish.  In this particular shop, I spied a magazine called Rutas del Mundo.  Even with my limited Spanish skills, I knew that meant Routes of the World.  That was enough to attract my attention.  As I thumbed through the issue, I saw an article on the Galapagos Islands.  It had photos of the iguanas, flamingos, tortoises and frigates that brought me right back to those enchanted islands.  There was no need to browse any through any other magazines.  I was completely hooked.

As I turned the pages, I saw the same beach on Santa Fe Island where I once saw all of those sea lions.  Then, I took a closer look at the boat that approached the shore.  It looked just like the one I had been on.  And, when I took an even closer look, there I was sitting smack dab in the middle of that boat, right there on page 54.  If I ever saw something like that in a movie or read about it in a book, I'd never believe those odds were possible.  I mean, seriously, what were the odds of me being in Madrid when the magazine was for sale?  And then, add to the odds that I actually needed to stroll into the bookstore?  And, the tale also required somebody else going to a baño.  You and Ripley may not believe it, but I still have a copy of that magazine in my office.  It's my best souvenir from Spain.

My first children's book, Once Upon West Africa, was published about a week or so ago.  It's a collection of fifty Liberian folk tales.  So, it's official.  I'm a published author and illustrator.  I've even signed a few copies of my book.

I'm not one to sit around on my laurels and count the number of books that have been sold. (So far, only two hands are needed, and not all fingers required.)  Instead, I've decided it is time to illustrate the stories for my next collection of tales, Once Upon Southern Africa.  I've been sitting on that collection of tales almost twenty years.  It's time I get those illustrations drawn, wouldn't you agree?

Africa holds a special place in my heart.  I lived there for six years and some of my best (and/or most horrifying) travel tales took place there.  I remembered them as I wrote the dedication to this book of tales from countries around the tip of Africa. 

I thought it was a good time to share one of my best stories.

One of the reasons I accepted my teaching job in Zambia was because of the 1980s movie, "The God's Must Be Crazy".  It's really not all that great of a movie.  It's humorous and entertaining in its own unique way, but probably not a good reason to move to that part of the world.  I did it anyway.

I really didn't know it at the time, but the movie was filmed in South Africa.  I thought it had to be filmed in Namibia since there is a part of the country called Bushmanland.  Isn't that where everyone would go if they wanted to find the Bushmen (San people)?  It's what I did.  When my first vacation rolled around, Namibia was my destination.  I mean, after all, isn't that where everyone would go?

There was a slight problem when I walked into a travel agency and said I wanted to go to Bushmanland.  They'd never sent anyone to that part of Namibia before.  There was no guarantee that I'd see what I was looking for.  You see, the Bushmen no longer live as they once did or dress in what they once wore.  Ignorance was bliss as far as I was concerned.  I was still going to see what I could discover among the San people.

I rented a four-wheel-drive vehicle with Chris, my Namibian driver and guide.  It didn't take Chris long to know what could please me.  I was in search of unique portraits to photograph and Namibian folk tales.  He did his best to help me, and I was so pleased.

Namibia has a lot of wide open spaces with a large dose of barren looking landscape.  We were in the absolute middle of nowhere, about 100 kilometers from Tsumkwe, in the Kalahari Basin (which surrounds the desert), when Chris spotted a Herrero woman hitchhiking.  It was a little unusual to see anyone this far out in the middle of nowhere.  My guide said, "Get your camera out.  She’ll let you take her picture in exchange for a ride."  I told you, he knew how to take care of me.  Herrero women wore these voluminous dresses that Victorian missionary women used to wear in the early 1900s.  But, their style had a unique African twist to it.  Their hats looked very similar to cattle horns.  Since cattle were a sign of wealth, it kind of gives you an idea where women ranked in Herrero culture.

Of course, Chris was right about this woman.  I got my photo and it was a stroke of luck to pick up this hitchhiker.  She said she would take us to meet some San whom she knew held to their traditions.  Plans were all set – in Herero – but Chris promised a great day.  We really hadn’t planned to go to Tsumkwe, but under the circumstances, flexibility sounded like a great idea. 
 
I had been so impressed with all the towns we passed through as we crossed Namibia.  They were so modern and clean.  And then, we entered Tsumkwe.  It looked big on the map but it was barely an intersection.  There was a shop or two, a disco, a gas station, a clinic, police headquarters and (shockingly) a lodge.  We went to the lodge and - even more amazingly - they were filled up.  They wouldn’t even let us pitch a tent!
 
More Herero conversation.
 
The hitchhiker said we could stay at her place.  It was a cluster of about a dozen thatched huts with women all wearing those wonderful, traditional Herero dresses.  It couldn’t have been a more perfect location!  However, neither Chris nor the hitchhiker really thought I would want to stay there.  He dropped the woman off and started to leave.  I quickly let him know - in no uncertain terms - that this was exactly where I wanted to spend the night.  He would never find a better spot.
 
The Herero women laughed when they learned I really wanted to stay with them, and we were shown a place where we could set up our camp.  Our evening was spent in traditional African fashion, under the stars and around the fire.  It was truly one of the most magical nights I ever had in Africa.  After a meal shared with our new neighbors, and a great deal of discussion in Herero, the women shared a few Namibian folk tales.

Eventually, I was asked to share a story, and I chose "Spider and the Honey Tree"'  It's my best African story to share aloud.  When I talk about delicious mangoes, they are deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelicious.  And the bananas aren't sweet.  They are the sahweeeeeeeeeeetest bananas.  I would never recognize any word in Herrero.  It has a lot of mysterious clicking sounds.  But, Chris matched me with every expression and everyone loved the story.
 
The following day, Chris took me to this little man in Tsumkwe whom we’d seen earlier.  He was friendly, warm and willing to pose for me.   I thought he looked very similar to the man in the movie "The Gods Must Be Crazy".  But, then again, most of the San people had a similar look to me.  But, as Chris translated, I realized he really was Glao Goma, otherwise known as N!xau, the actual star of the movie that inspired the whole trip.

And, he was delightful!

Glao talked of how he was selected and his travels.  Originally there was a San from Botswana chosen for the part.  But, after two days of filming, he disappeared back to the bush.  So, a search was made in Tsumkwe.  I read that when he was discovered, Glao had only seen three white people in his whole life.  Well, life changed for him.  First, he was flown to South Africa (where he couldn’t escape) for filming, and the rest was history.  The producers built Glao a house, a humble little home but certainly one of the nicest in Tsumkwe, and took him on a world premiere tour which included Hong Kong, Beijing and Japan. 
 
He was such a positive, charming man.  When he brought out a few trinkets for sale, I knew I had to buy something from him.  I selected a necklace made from ostrich eggshells.

Sadly, my timing was pretty amazing for this trip.  Glao died three years after my experience.  In 2003, I received an email from someone who had seen my write-up about the experience.  I was informed that Glao went out into the bush to collect firewood and never returned home.  Reportedly, he is survived by three wives and twelve children.

On our way northeast, my guide took me to see two hundred thousand seals, real lions on safari, pre-historic cave paintings and a cheetah farm.  But, at one point in our journey, Chris seriously tried to talk me out of going all the way north into Bushmanland.  It was such a long journey and he really didn't think we'd have any kind of success.  I'm so pleased to say this time that I was right, even if he did think I was crazy.

It's time to pound on your homemade drum, climb a tree to harvest some palm wine or, at the very least, dance around your computer.  Yep, it's time to celebrate.  It's completely official and the paperwork is done.  Patrick Gono has come to America.

He was invited by the Dayton Society of Artists as well as their Sister City Association for an artist residency in Ohio, of all places!  Dayton is about an hour and a half from my home.  (If you need further clarification, that is a public transportation ride from Monrovia to Kakata.)  As far as I'm concerned, it's right around the corner and in my neighborhood.

The big question all along was if he could get a visa.  Dayton (unbelievably, foolishly) picked another artist before Patrick.  That person was denied a visa.  So, it became Patrick's turn.  He was scheduled for an interview on July 26 and he needed to depart that week.  Nobody wanted to purchase an airline ticket for someone without a visa.

Somehow, somebody pulled strings.

Patrick got an early interview.  When he sat down with the woman from the embassy, he had the best visa interview in the history of visa interviews.  The woman said, "I've seen your art and I am blown away.  You don't just draw with realism.  You capture their souls in your drawings.  You deserve this art residency."  Of course, there were the usual kind of questions that you have to have when applying for a visa, but it was one incredibly positive interview.  And, Patrick received a visa for one year!!!  Like I said, the easiest visa in history.  Yep, join me - at the very least - in dancing around your computer.

It's been three years since I first met Patrick painting a community mural in Zwedru, Liberia.  Thank goodness for email and Facebook.  We stay in close touch.  And, throughout the three years, I've mentored him, supported him and sent art supplies that he just could not get in Liberia.  Patrick is an amazingly talented young man with a true gift from God, but he wouldn't have arrived in Dayton if he hadn't met me.  It's a humbling responsibility.

And, last night, Patrick had his first art exhibition in the United States.  I was so proud to be at his side.  He gave a brief statement before the crowd of art-lovers, and it was delightful to see how far he's come in three years.  When I first met him, it was several days before I could get him to look me in the eyes.  I never learned if it was due to African respect or shyness.  But, it was an entirely different young man standing before the audience.  He delivered his speech perfectly.  I could not have written a better expression of heart-felt gratitude.  That's just the kind of person Patrick is. 

Patrick had six pieces of art displayed in a small room of the gallery.  It was a part of a larger exhibition with other artists also displaying in other rooms.   But, it was a very personal moment for the guests as they viewed Patrick's work.  The room was too small not to see and talk to Patrick while his work was admired. 

When Patrick told one woman that a painting was created from one of my photographs, she asked, "Who are you and what is your connection here?"  I spent the next twenty minutes telling her about my visit to Tugbaken in the painting, my murals in Liberia where I met Patrick, and why the warmth in the eyes of Koko (in one of Patrick's portraits) was directed at me.    Then, together we marveled over Patrick's amazing talent and how graciously he mingled with the people in the room.

My other long conversation was with a City Commissioner.  I told him a tale of Tugbaken that included five welcoming ceremonies, four chickens, a three-piece country cloth African gowning ceremony, two rural villages and my best friend from my Peace Corps days.  And from there, we moved on to the Patrick story with murals, mentoring and a bond over the past three years.  The only question I couldn't answer was, "Are you a part of this art residency experience for Patrick in Dayton?  Why not?"

I know I am the last person that I personally know to do this.  Who knows?  I may be the last person in the United States.  It feels like, due to all my travels, that I could even be the last person in the whole world.  Kicking and screaming, I finally bought a smartphone.

I'm not a fan.  I see the damage they cause everywhere I go.  Nobody talks to anyone else in public, in the car, or even in the privacy of the dinner table.  And, it may be against the culture today, but I am thoroughly convinced that a smartphone has no place near anyone who is eating.  I'm a firm believer, and I know I'm right, that when you sit down to eat with friends or family for twenty or thirty minutes, they should be the most important people in your life for that brief period.  Listen to what they have to say.  Communicate.  That's who you should speak to at that moment in time.  But, when I go to a restaurant, it appears nobody believes me. 

I'm still right.

When I first heard that texting and driving was a problem, I thought that couldn't possibly be true.  Who could be that stupid?  Well, there are a lot of teenagers - as you might suppose - who fit the adjective, but I see so many adults on their phones as I drive around Columbus.  And, the heart of Buckeye Nation can't be that much different than any other place.

Of course, I have taken my antique flip phone with me as I paint my murals.  It has been mocked, even in one inner city school that I visited.  As I said, everybody else has smartphones.  And, at that particular school, the phones were used by students in their classrooms as they ignored anything and everything they were supposed to learn.  Don't get me started on that conversation.

My antique flip phone didn't work when I traveled overseas with my murals.  My biggest problems with that happened on a very bad day in Fiji.  And, how is it be possible to have a bad day in paradise?  Let me tell you.  The previous day, I was told to be at the airport at 4:30.  Nobody bothered to tell me A.M. or P.M. and I assumed the afternoon.  I was wrong and missed my flight because nobody could contact me.

Plane tickets were changed and I headed to the airport for an afternoon flight.  I was there in plenty of time.  But, I missed the flight.  Without my phone, I couldn't call for help in time of need.  I waited in lines, three of them, for help that never came as the clock ticked away.  I can tell you, with complete certainty, the embassy staff was not impressed with me.  Ever since that disaster I knew what I needed to buy.

I still resisted.

At home I relied on a computer phone service.  I probably shouldn't name it, but there was nothing magic about the service.  It had been giving me problems for months.  Sometimes it worked perfectly, but then you can guess about the other times.  I often didn't receive calls, about as often as I couldn't place them. 

It was maddening.

This past week, I waited two hours for on-line help from their lack-of-service department.  The person I chatted with actually got the dang phone to work for one telephone call.  When I tried the second time, no go.  No dice.  No call.  No luck.  And, certainly, no patience.  So, the following day, I was online with a representative for FOUR, count 'em, FOUR hours.  Of course, the phone worked when we were done.  And, of course, it didn't work the next day.  It hasn't worked since. 

I had to give up.  There was no other choice.  It was time for that dreaded smartphone.

The actual purchasing process was awful.  I should have been nurtured and soothed into the device.  That didn't happen.  I waited over a half hour for a surly sales clerk to return from lunch.  I am always happy after eating.  He wasn't.  He showed no interest in helping me.  He mumbled questions and really didn't like it when I needed him to repeat himself.  And at one point in the transaction, one of his co-workers stopped by.  I didn't need to hear the vulgar conversation that transpired.  I did my research.  There was only one place locally to get the service I wanted.  I was there.  Otherwise, I would have left immediately.

Another one of my reasons for hesitation with the modern world is the lack of privacy.  I've watched enough television shows to know your movements can be traced on a smartphone.  Why else would they require my driver's license and social security number during the transaction?  On top of that, ads pop up when you near certain restaurants and shops.  No, I can't say I'm happy about this.  But, it was a necessary trade-off.

I must have communication.  That's obvious.  I knew it was something I needed, especially for international mural projects.  So, come on, Universe.  I'm now prepared and ready to go.  And, once I figure it out, there is a handy dandy app that translates words - both written and oral - into English.  That'll rock my traveling world like no other convenience I know.  Yep, I can't wait to find that app.  In the meantime, I guess I better learn how to actually place a phone call on my new smartphone. 

I haven't done that yet.