2000 US Tour

GENEVA, SWITZERLAND – When was the last time someone said you were too old to dream?

For me, motorcycles and dreams, dreaming, have always been intertwined and I was unexpectedly cut low recently when a colleague told me there are few spots he would venture to on a motorcycle in Africa today.

We were drinking beer, celebrating a successful meeting and waxing poetic about bike adventures and the beauty of being at the same time more vulnerable, and more open to transformative experiences on a bike.

I was thinking of my lifelong dream to take a bike from Nuevo Laredo, Texas (nostalgic point of departure South) to Tierra del Fuego, loaded with a tent, some food and a camera.

I asked aloud if he thought it was statistically more dangerous to adventure-travel in the world of today than it was, say, 23 years ago when I was crisscrossing Central America.

Waiting for the train in Hannibal Missouri, birthplace of Mark Twain

His reply of “Good God, yes man!” couldn’t have deflated me more than if he’d have hit me in the gonads.

I was struck suddenly with the fear that not only had that dream vanished in time, but so would so many others, based on the fact that humanity has gone to hell.

Shortly afterwards I begged off for the evening, blaming it on a headache, and walked back towards my motorcycle, wondering if he was right.

And then another thought came to me regarding a work discussion earlier in the day on perceptions of increased xenophobia in Switzerland and beyond.

One colleague pointed out that historically bigotry has done quite well in Europe, and in most parts of the world at one time or another; frequently when work is in short supply.

For two weeks I have been ruminating on this. Are we going to hell then, really? Has the state of humanity declined? Do I need to rethink my 10 year plan for trekking in the Americas? Or is this a functioning of fear-mongering and how we see the world as we get older?

A little perspective is a good thing: I bought my first motorcycle in Nicaragua, where I was living during the tail end of the Contra War and I traveled solo on local buses through at least three nations living through civil wars.

Granted, ignorance and stupidity are sometimes saving graces, literally, in lieu of knowledge and intelligence. But the only near-death experience I have had on a motorcycle (that I know of) involved a drunk driver at 4AM in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

The historical record would seem to show that the world is just as complicated as it has always been, that adventure is inherently risky, and that we only see what we allow ourselves to see.

Planning is back on for the 2021 TransAm(erica).

All the better to get back in the saddle after what seems like an extended hiatus limited to commuting on two-wheels.

Window to another world near Satigny, canton Geneva

Sharing the road with a group on horseback makes me forget momentarily about gas stations, traffic lights and vehicle inspections.

And something about the empty vineyards early morning and late afternoon is calming to a mind overrun with extraneous garbage.

Like a dream more vivid than my waking moments.

End of the road - Chouilly-Thoiry border

Sunday afternoon "ballade "in the vineyards

The first album I learned the songs to from A to Z was Bruce Springsteen’s debut “Live from Asbury Park.” The garage band sound mixed with Springsteen’s junkyard poetry and anchored by Clarence Clemons sax solos formed my idea of what music was meant to be for years. Though Clemons had a full solo career in his own right, he will always be in my mind the earthy foil to Springsteen’s atonal  crooning.

In my mind, Clarence Clemons was the embodiment of soul in an otherwise soul-filled lineup (this role is sometimes attributed to Steven Van Zandt, but to me he is the “cool”). His playing featured prominently on every E Street album into the oughts when Springsteen returned to his acoustic folk work.

Ironically, in this 1979 clip from Springsteen’s performance at the “No Nukes” concert in Madison Square Garden in 1979, it is Clemons who revives a malingering Springsteen who fires up the audience saying “I’m 30 years old, my heart’s startin to go on me.”

Click here to view the embedded video.

Clarence Clemons bringing soul to Passaic New Jersey, 1978

“…with Clarence at my side, my band and I were able to tell a story far deeper than those simply contained in our music,” Springsteen said on the passing of friend and band member Clarence Clemons.

Bertha - a fine piece of Swedish motor engineering on the Greek coast preparing to embark for Italy

Geneva – Ever wonder what happens to solid running cars that fail the feared controle technique, or inspection in Switzerland?

According to one mechanic I talked to, Volvos in particular often get a second life in places like Iran and Afghanistan.

While an automotive afterlife sounds quaint, I was less than happy when stringent Swiss inspection laws recently forced an early retirement for “Bertha,” our much loved 1990 Volvo 740 Turbo wagon.

Finding them a second life makes sense actually, as many cars deemed either not up to Swiss safety or ecological standards are still in strong running condition, and a workhorse like ours, with only 285,000 km, can be expected to give many more years of life.

Never the less, it hurt, driving Bertha for the last time, to hand her over to a car transporter, who would shortly load her onto a trailer to be trucked out of the country.

She was not blind to this fact and upon starting up, raced her engine to 3500 rpms, a recurring issue lately, and one which got worse as the separation became imminent.

Bertha taking a break in the ferry from Sardinia to Genova

Still, this was a vehicle that took my family on trips from Geneva to Turkey, to Holland, in safety and comfort. And, she was fun to drive, a tractor, but a responsive one none the less.

Did I mention that this car also doubled as a moving van with a cargo space larger than most SUVs? I once loaded a living room sofa into the back of the car.

Yesterday was a perfect afternoon for a sweet farewell, I drove slowly as the afternoon sun warmed my elbow resting on the window sill. I listened to the sweet sound of the motor, caressed by the  feel of the heavy rear wheel drive train pushing me lazily down the road, and basking in the nostalgia of the places we’d been.

Bon Voyage Bertha.

I caught this one myself

Geneva, Switzerland – After having been tailgated, high-beamed and passed in a no pass zone by an overzealous school marm in…yes, a Honda civic, this evening on my motorcycle, I am thinking “Turkeys on Four Wheels,” would be a better title for this blog.

But the fact is, we are celebrating Turkey Day here in Geneva tomorrow, and it’s all about the love… So, what do turkeys and two wheels have in common you say? How about 24 pounds of France’s finest bird making its way across town on the back of my motorcycle.

Yep, after picking the beast up at Aligro, I stuffed it in my backpack and headed home on my bike.

On the way imagining, oh this could be a really messy exchange if some driver takes me out, there will be, a large bird flying through the air and various poultry parts strewn all over the road.

On the other hand, the thought of 11 kilos of bird landing in the lap of a driver who has just sideswiped me is pretty satisfying as well.

As it turns out, I got home fine and the bird didn’t look any worse for the wear, proof that anything can ride a bike; I think the guy I saw last year with his skis strapped on lengthwise takes the cake for Geneva.

Of course the gloves are off if you consider two wheeled transport in the rest of the world.

Enjoy the ride and Happy Thanksgiving!

Steve Lee's memorial service - Photo ©Gotthard

Geneva, Switzerland – It was with great sadness that I read about Swiss rocker and motorcycle enthusiast Steve Lee’s death two weeks ago, and his memorial service this past Sunday in Switzerland.

While I had never heard his band Gotthard, my wife and daughter immediately remembered him as the “guy who woke up the otherwise moribund Miss Swiss contest with a great performance.”

His untimely death on a Nevada highway at the beginning of what was supposed to be a cross-country motorcycle adventure rattled me as a fellow biker.

Even more though, I felt a deep sadness remembering the boyish anticipation I experience each time I embark on a motorcycle trek, and how Lee’s moment of bliss would have been interrupted mid-thought by a fatal blow, ironically from a parked motorcycle plowed into him by a semi truck.

Bike adventures are always pregnant with a certain sense of danger and this no doubt is part of the enchantment.

Harleys in Milwaukee waiting to go on the road

I don’t know how many benedictions I have received from well wishers I have encountered on the road saying: “Be careful out there,” or blessings from fellow bikers advising to “keep the rubber side down.” But any fear is always eclipsed by the joy of experiencing the harmony of motor, body and wind; you become a wheeled animal.

Like any adventure, awareness, precaution and bliss carry you along to your destination.

And then, there are the freak incidents, unforeseen and at times unavoidable, as in Lee’s case, that seem to make a mockery of bliss and make the most intrepid among us shiver.

We can only hope that the hours preceding his death were some of the finest of his life as Lee lived out a life long dream of making a pilgrimage through the US on two wheels.

Rocky the escape artist, looking remorseful a day after the fact

Geneva, Switzerland – My dog, a German Shepherd mix going on 14 years-old, slightly batty, going deaf and increasingly losing her famous sixth sense and uncanny ability to navigate the human world. Or so we thought until this past weekend.

My family and I returned to our apartment after a friend’s wedding, to find the front door wide open, lights on and dog nowhere to be found.

My daughter was the first up the stairs and the first to react – when we got to the door she was crying terribly “Rocky’s gone, she’s gone!”

My daughter was raised by our dog, which she remembers in moments of crisis, in spite of her bellyaching about having to take her out for daily walks.

I felt my insides evaporate and my brain waves go flat – my reaction to loss – and contemplated not coming home to a family member I have known longer than my wife.

With our neighbor’s help (Thanks to Alain and Justine!) we hit the pavement in our wedding outfits whistling and calling out “Rocky, Rocky;” a nice scene at midnight on a late Saturday evening in Geneva.

The crowd at the corner bar was helpful too, if a bit unsure of how long it had been since our dog had wandered over to their sidewalk tables in search of company, and a beer?

I began a perimeter search of Rocky’s favorite spots, each one a mini-homage to her quirky “dogality” (dog-ma?).

A great hiking companion, visiting Gruyeres

I had finished my search of the neighborhood and was thinking 1) how wonderful it would be to find my wife and/or daughter waiting for me at home to tell me Rocky had come home and 2) that life often doesn’t play out the way our brains wish it would) – when I saw a police car and quickly approached the officers to enlist their help in finding our dog.

As I got closer I saw: one girl overflowing with emotion and gesticulating to a police officer who stood by looking very perplexed, and two pointy ears at the alert, visible in the rear window of the police car, wearing a seat belt, and happy to be in a car.

I ran up to find my daughter and my dog. The one explaining how the other had opened our apartment door by clawing at the door catch lever to let herself out of for a walk while we were at the wedding.

The officer graciously did not mention the fact Rocky didn’t have her dog tags on (they had actually identified her by the electronic chip in her ear), assuring me that I didn’t need to explain the miraculous escape to him one more time.

We thanked the officer profusely as he got in the patrol car and drove away.

Now when we leave home at night we think we might come home to find a note saying: “I’ve gone to the park to unwind and sniff some trees, see ya in a bit.”

In fact, Conny my sister-in-law, used to say that “The only thing Rocky is lacking is a voice box to talk.”

Talk Rocky! Talk!

J. Devaney NJ Transit ambassador

New Jersey, USA - Shock is what I felt my first morning back in the US after a 2-year hiatus. I woke up early to beat the steamy heat radiating off of the slab that is Manhattan across the river, stepped outside to jump on the public transport, and suddenly realized I was in the United States.

As I walked the 15 minutes down a state highway, it occurred to me that I might be waiting a while for a bus to my favorite breakfast haunt on Bergenline Ave.

Suddenly, I was missing the ease of public transport in Geneva.

Waiting for the 165 from New Milford to Guttenberg I worked myself into an obsession, cussing the deserted road and the car culture that left me stranded 5 or 6 short miles from downtown Manhattan.

I was just about ready to call it quits and start walking, when the nearly empty 165 rolled to a stop, and the doors popped open.

“How close to Guttenberg will this thing get me,” I snarled. And was totally unprepared for the solicitous response; “How about Guttenberg?” the driver offered in a sweet, sleepy Saturday morning invitation.

I climbed in and took my seat with a good deal of skepticism smeared all over my face.

And as I rode a funny thing happened. The bus began to fill up with the faces and voices of America: a Korean couple on the way to the hospital; five Honduran day laborers on their way to a job; an orthodox Jew taking the bus to honor the Sabbath; and a highly tattooed young white man in a “wife-beater” shirt; and to each and every one of them the driver announced a hearty “Morning, where you headed,” or “annyeonghaseyo,” and “hola,” in the case of the Koreans and the Hondurans.

As we rolled along, I looked at the driver in the rear view mirror as the passengers seated nearest him chatted him up. The plaque above his head read J.Devaney.

At one stop, a transit official met the bus and did a routine control, asking Mr. Devaney what time he had left the garage and if he had any incidents en route. “Yeah, they gave me a bum unit and I had to walk back to get another bus,” he said.

It seemed Devaney had a story for everyone, because I realized, he genuinely liked talking to people.

When one woman began to load a box onto the bus, Devaney stopped her short saying, “Let me take that ma’am, that’s my job,” to which she fairly laughed in disbelief.

In fact, the driver shared with two or three of us seated up front, that he wasn’t able to engage more because Transit rules stipulated that conversation with riders be limited for safety reasons. But I saw no danger there given that he was the most courteous driver, let alone bus driver I had ever met.

I closed my eyes, listened to the smattering of languages and conversations going on around me, and remembered what I love about the US; J. Devaney was a testament to the hospitality that is America and is so often buried in the curt and impersonal language of efficiency.

I felt grateful to be riding his bus and was pleasantly surprised when I got out in Guttenberg, asked if I could snap his picture, and was rewarded with a portrait of one of New Jersey’s finest public servants.

Speaker at the 14th International Humanitarian Conference

Bellevue, Switzerland - Sitting in on the 14th International Humanitarian Conference, entitled Facing the Psychological Impact, I was struck once again by the wealth of human resource at our fingertips here in Geneva.

The conference, which began yesterday, February 26, and runs through today, is co-organized by Webster University Geneva, the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) and other Geneva-based institutions.

Thematic discussion for this year’s conference includes:

• The Foundations, Ethics and Practice of “Humanitarian Psychology”
• The Psychological Vulnerability of Individuals and Communities at risk
• “Helping the Helpers” – Psychosocial Care for Humanitarian Workers

Chechen refugee family in the Republic of Georgia on World Refugee Day 2005 - Photo ®Jared Bloch

As an independent consultant and refugee advocate living in Geneva, the conference represents an opportunity to listen to leaders in the field discuss challenges faced in addressing the psychological impact of humanitarian crises on those directly affected as well as on humanitarian aid workers.

The topic is one close to my heart, having worked for many years with refugee individuals and families, often survivors of multiple trauma, who recounted for me in painful detail their life experience.

Even in the best of settings, psychosocial screening, referral and treatment services for refugees and other victims of humanitarian disasters, are in short supply. This in spite of the overwhelming need documented by psychosocial practitioners; a torture and trauma counselor and colleague involved with a national resettlement program once commented that up to 50% of newly arriving refugees could benefit from psychosocial services due to their traumatic experiences. In acute situations, the need is dire.

Dermot Carty, Deputy Director for the UNICEF Office of Emergency Programmes (Emops), cited a recent World Health Organization field mission to Gaza identifying between 25-50,000 individuals there in need of mental health interventions. And this among a population that has shown itself to be amazingly resilient throughout years of being enveloped by armed conflict. But at what cost?

Refugee, Republic of Georgia - Photo ®Jared Bloch

This last question was raised by several presenters who provided examples of the psychological impact of humanitarian crises and conflict on individuals and groups. These ranged from Post Taumatic Stress Disorder/Stress Syndrome and related chronic health problems, to the perpetuation of fear and subsequently aggression amongst both perpetrators and victims. One presenter noted, in the case of Gaza, that “Psychological healing may be an even larger challenge than reaching a peace agreement.”

Several of the presentations during the first day also dealt with the evolution of International Humanitarian Law in responding to humanitarian challenges. These include the post-Cold War emergence of a doctrine of pro-active or “muscular” peacekeeping activities, and the concept of Responsibility to Protect or R2P. These can be seen roughly as tools for the protection of human rights, developed by the international community following a paradigm shift in conflicts characterized by irregular combatants, ill-defined boundaries of conflict and attacks on peacekeepers and humanitarian workers.

Refugee children on World Refugee Day, Republic of Georgia - Photo ®Jared Bloch

The second day of the conference is focusing largely on self-care of Humanitarian Workers, by individuals and the organizations they work for.

Living mummy in Geneva

Geneva, Switzerland – What is it that Americans love about Halloween beyond the childish thrill of having license to consume endless plastic pumpkin containers of sweets?

In fact, as a child growing up in rural Vermont, the best treats were always the homemade caramel apples and candied popcorn our neighbors 4 miles down the road made every year for the handful of kids who would appear in their yard.

Beyond the sweets, it was a social occassion, a chance for parents to show up unannounced, at friends houses for a bit of local gossip and maybe a sip of hard cider from the recent apple harvest.

Mummy shakin it with Arabian Princess

As an adult, Halloween has become a once a year opportunity to try on other personas, to try on being Gene Simmons for a night (Halloween 1994) or even exaggerated transgender explorations (Monica Lewinsky Halloween 1993).

This year I had the funny experience of being someone I once was (17 year old graduate of a Norwegian gymnas) when my wife pulled out my now ridiculous looking graduation outfit.

Buried beneath the corny devil and witch outfits now available at Migros in Switzerland, is still the thrill of being able to become someone else for a night, checking our familiar personalities at the door and inviting friends and neighbors to journey for a few hours to the land of never never land; in short, to remember what it is to reinvent ourselves.

Shiek G. with Samfunnsfag Student

In fact, this year we attempted, somewhat successfully to transplant this very American (North and South) tradition to Switzerland. I must confess that the ratio of under 12 year old party goers to adult revelers was around 2 to 1, but thanks to a few stalwart American and Swiss friends, we did not let the munchkins steal the show.

The winner of the costume contest? An amazing mummy specimen on loan from the Museum of Natural History (over 12 crowd), complete with vintage era linen wrappings.

The festival will continue to be a staple in our house so plan your calendars accordingly, and rsvp early as we expect an even stronger turnout of the voting age crowd in 2009! (apologies in advance to the munchkins).