Choice Mob

Today, December 7th, is the first ever choicemob, and you’re invited. What’s a choicemob? It is a coalition of proactive consumers joining together to support companies that uphold our common values: Fairness, Compassion, and Respect for the Earth. Today we’re flexing our consumer, gift-buying muscle in support of Better World Books.

The choicemob community believes that business is changing our world, so we need to change business. By ‘mobbing’ socially proactive companies with sales and attention, we can make them the envy of their competitors and draw more companies into the practice of social values.

The more we shift our buying to companies that uphold our common values, and the more noise we make about it, the more the business world will embrace Fairness, Compassion, and Respect for the Earth.

Join the choicemob. Show the world that our values mean business.

Time Will Tell (Rwanda II)

By morning my head is cleared. The fever lifted. And though exhaustion remains, so does a mountain of expectation. I get right to work. Another day in Rwanda. Hopes of crossing the border. No promises.

Negotiations are clumsy when you do not know what language you are speaking. To me, kinyarwanda does not exist, at least for a few more hours. For the time being, I am thankful that interpretive dance transcends culture and creed. It is the universal language. I motion and twirl and roll my R’s. A price is set for my moto ride. We move. In Rwanda moto drivers are required to provide helmets for their passengers. Mine is glittery and purple.

An hour at the internet cafe proves fruitless. I send five short emails, purposely misspelling words on the French keyboard. Time up. A new moto awaits. His helmet has no glitter. It smells like a latrine.

We stop 5 times for directions. I aggressively signal and dance new instructions on each occasion. The driver is not impressed. We have no chemistry. Epic fail.

Finally, arriving at breakfast, there is news from the border. Our documentation has not arrived at the DGM office. We are denied another day. Though all of us are dissatisfied with the result, it provides us an opportunity to catch up on backlogged work.

Four of us post up in the hotel loft around a single power strip while Jon rushes to the market for a crash course in haggling. Ideas fly, flutter, soar and die. And brilliance rises from the ashes. Videos are coming to focus and our first writings are underway.

The commotion of creativity begets execution, but I can’t focus. My mind jumps. Not enough sleep last night. Digging through my bag, I unearth an iPod and wonder, is this a crime? to be away from the ball-and-chain of a cell phone and laptop, and to willingly strap on headphones to disconnect. Wait, isn’t this trip all about engaging? Eh, I will worry about that later.

I search through playlists, but don’t find anything exotic enough, passionate enough, real enough to match the landscape. Ahh..here it is.

I zone out, sink into stream of consciousness. the words flow.

But a taxi is honking viciously at the gate. I am startled. flustered, fluttering, fluttering..and my focus is gone. Pounding fists rattle the paint-scratched iron frame, and Jon steps into courtyard. He has the look of a man we will listen to.

“hurry guys. we need to go. now. everything in town is closed. and the army is marching across the border. we need to go.”

The honking cab has pulls in behind Jon. The honker is better dressed than I. He wears a collared shirt with stripes, and looks distinguished and starched. We scramble and stumble to mobilize. Sloppy, we are. Five of us slide into the back seat of the cab, an early 90s Camry. Red is ready to shoot. The camera he wields is massive. As if Thor became a journalist and began wearing vests with functional pockets. Functional and magical. From one such pocket Red unveiled our press passes. And now they now hang from lanyards around our necks as we fly down the dirt road to the shores of Lake Kivu. We descend upon a crowd of thousands that is gathering. I hope nobody notices my lanyard.

Near the border we disburse. Guards mingle with the masses. And a jeep of hardened soldiers recline coldly, smoking and staring. They are Congolese (FARDC). I try to blend in, but there is one problem. Everyone else is black. Maybe I will tan.

Suddenly the crowd before us erupts in song and dance. Hundreds of men with automatic weapons and RPGs march past. Some smiling, some silent, some burdened with an unsettled grimmace. I watch their faces, I watch their shoes. Meticulously kept and hardly reminiscent of the war zone, except that hundreds of them carry rockets with their bare hands. Or strapped in pouches that hang from chests.

I am still staring at shoes when I feel a tap from behind. A soldier wishes to pass. He carries a gun, 18 inches in length, that shoots tennis ball-sized death. It’s like playing Nerf, for keeps. The gun rests on his hip and I am directly in the line of fire. I move.

Now the lake is quaking behind us. To avoid trample I become one with the onrushing mob. Carefully though. It is this brand of mass mentality that easily becomes destructive. Boats of marines rumble across the soggy international border. This country is in love. I squint up the shoreline, half expecting somebody to begin ‘the wave’; instead, Red pops out from behind a bush. Vest in tact.

And where are the others? I see Jon and Dan ahead, rushing the border. With all the excitement of the moment, nobody reminds Jon not to cross. Guards soon congregate as the parade passes fully into Rwanda, its culmination marked by the musical styling of a military brass band. Jon bides his time. The band bobs up-and-down. There are many trombones. Jon is incognito. A chameleon in boots that click and clack as he walks. He slides through a hole in the border wall. Brilliant.

What a day! We follow the procession to a ceremony in the town park of Gisenyi. It is contained in a bowl of a valley that opens up just as winding roads fall into it from steep cliffs above. Such a beautiful scene. We are enamored. Somehow this all seems so glamorous. My suspicions arise. There were reports of as many as 4000 Rwandan soldiers occupying Congo for the last month, in a joint operation with the Congolese army. Their stated purpose was to root out members of a rebel group, the FDLR, that was formerly involved in the Rwandan genocide, fifteen years ago. Today, just over 1000 troops return to Rwanda. Most of them are immaculate. Marching. Dancing. Heroes.

Where is the dirt, the grime, the battle scars? Where are those soldiers. Locals tell us that all of the Rwandans will return home over a 3 day period. But with vast natural resources and national retribution at stake just across the border, I am not so sure.

Time will tell. But only if we listen.

www.fallingwhistles.com
*photography by Dan Johnson (http://www.danielnjohnson.com/)

To The Night (Rwanda I)

It was a dark fever of a night, the kind with tremendous dreams that wake only to shivering cold sweats and the 5 AM call to prayer. Consciousness unwillingly suspends itself for hours on end beneath one hundred degrees of self-revulsion, of seething blood and flesh and gall, of wickedness. I am buried. There is no memory. There is no time. Only a distant crescendo of some monotonous dirge. It wails as I teeter-totter on the cusp of reality. And some weight, ominous and unseen, is pressing down. I feel it on my chest. In my chest. I push back, but have no arms. And my running legs, they are made of sand and syrup and all things gelatinous and slow. I can’t recall how this all began, but the unwelcome urgency of the moment seems familiar. Subtle rotten nostalgia.

I am resurfacing now. And there is shouting in the room. Monochromatic bursts that steadily prove themselves as independent of the dirge. The recurring dream, the one I thought I had expelled in the third grade, is finally behind me. So recent and vivid, but fading. And I choose not to explore the final moments of it’s grip. It is better not to dwell here. To understand or decode their meaning. To delve is to compromise escape, so only broad themes and heavy breaths remain as I resume consciousness.

I feel my fingers. I feel toes. I am distracted by the shouting. I am tangled helplessly in my mosquito bed net. Yes, there is shouting and that shouting is loud. And I hate shouting. Sean is sleeping and snoring and shouting with spite. He lies immobile. Unwakeable. The tenacious slumber only he can muster. It is a blessing and a curse. I struggle for him to stop, but soon it becomes clear that I am the one who shouts, not he. I blabber and blunder. I am spinning. He does not speak. He lies immobile. Unwakeable. None of this is making any sense. I am not alone. My voice falls, robbing a dissonant harmonic from the mosque next door. Its dutiful melody encroaches on our bedroom. Covering me in my mosquito net tangle. Covering his still figure in the next bunk.

I calm and listen, in wonder, at the humble masses who share this message beyond our walls. Do they understand the call? I certainly do not. The vocalist has decided that mid-throat is an ideal position to hold his microphone. For the sake of mass communication this seems unreasonable. Syllables articulate themselves prematurely and are perfectly indistinguishable to the naked ear. They gargle and yelp in the way that is blandly monotone…I tremble between fever and chill and close eyes, giving myself back to the night.

www.fallingwhistles.com

Well On Our Way

We are landing in Amsterdam at noon. Why the hell am I so tired?

The plane floats. My head is exploding. The plane falls. I haven’t slept in days. Our pilots are agile though. They manuever cleverly like frenchmen in bicycle shorts. Or vespas in Milan. Suave. Unfettered. And our 767 dances through the clouds at their whim. Graceful. All the giant Dutch culmulus pursue and embrace us, leaving tears of condensation painted on my window pane as we slip through their grasp. My fingers trace these falling tears, numb against the chilled glass, while a voice in my headphones compounds a familiar sentiment, “If you love her, let her go.”

They do.

And so we emerge beneath the avian canopy, beautiful and slow. Soon landscape gains focus. I can see country roads rising from green pastures to meet us. Still, somehow, my temples throb with pain and defiance. Determined to spoil the occasion. It is only as the wheels of our bohemoth aircraft strike pavement that I once again feel new. Full of energy and suspicion. And a slight contempt. My exhaustion disappears. The steward grabs the cabin microphone to sound off, “Good afternoon” - onboard conversations dampen to a murmer - “It is 7 degrees in Amsterdam,” - everyone is now silent; attentive to his flow - “Please DO NOT move about the cabin until the seatbelt sign has been turned off” - Nobody moves. He owns the crowd now. We are poised at the edge of our seats. Waiting. Holding breaths - “This is KLM signing off.”

A chime blasts throughout the cabin and a mob of passengers explodes from their chairs. Determined. “I MUST be the first to the overhead bins,” scream their faces. Elbows fly. It is imperative to be first in the aisle. To the overhead bins. Everybody knows this. Without this there is no survival. The window seat leaves me neck-deep in inaction. Waiting for Sean and Jon to make a move. My eyes sit at waist level. A thoroughly demeaning position. Finally I stand, but in rising I feel my jean pockets sink under a great weight of responsibility. Removing my hand, one dollar and forty-three cents appears in my palm. The change shines when it catches the light. I am a racoon; fascinated. I hide the treasure again in my pocket. I’ll save responsibility for another day.

We move. Sean is filming the exiting passengers. And Jon is a cowboy. His boots click and clack with each step up the jetway. Crowds stream into the terminal, thicker than water. A pair of Germans enter my field of vision. Prancing and Dancing. They weave through the terminal with long joints that oscillate in unnatural directions. Exploring the space. This is a new sport, and I the judge..my critique emulating from two categories. 1) General lankiness, and 2) creativity. Taller blonde-haired German is the victor. Crooked hat with dimples German must bare the shame of defeat.

I scan left. Men in suits abide on the left. They always do. Business men with briefcases and funny wire-rimmed glasses. To the right are euro hipsters. They mix and mingle and mall walk in a way that is ultimately diplomatic, seeking another hot chai.

We stand inconveniently center, bottlenecking communters, and trying to decide what language is spoken in the Netherlands. I am taking everything in. Bicycles are everywhere. I don’t actually see people riding them. Maybe for decoration? they are everywhere. Streams of humanity rush by us to catch connecting flights to Bahrain or Accra or Mars.

A new thought settles on me. How many of these people see through my disguise? My quiet countenance that hides the stereotype of “just another obnoxious American.” What subtle mannerism gives it away?

I scan for other ex-pats as we hop on the train. Nothing. Any one of these people might be from Portland or Pittsburgh or Prague. Indistinguishable. We all look the same. I am staring at a girl across the traincar, decyphering her nationality when a man with a whistle steps into my line of sight.

WHISTLE MAN: Did you buy tickets?
US: No. Where do you buy tickets?
WHISTLE MAN: Exit the train and search.
US: Will you take dollars?
WHISTLE MAN: No. Exit the train and search.
US: How many dollars is in a Euro?
WHISTLE MAN: Surely someone off the train will tell you.
US: Ok.

I lose focus. My mind wanders,

{
daydream: where is that girl from?
man's whistle: that girl there..[pointing]..?
daydream: yes. the one with the green scarf
man's whistle: [looking]
daydream: no. the other one
man's whistle: her? she is dutch
daydream: oh, ok. thanks
}

We step off the train. My daydream subsides. Still, I am confused. Because without proper resources to judge people for the foreign mannerisms they bring from their foreign countries, I am disarmed. My cultural preconceptions are unable to operate effectively. I need better intuition as to who I am dealing with.

Wait..is this prejudice I am uncovering? Is nationalism a prejudice?

George Orwell once classified Nationalism as “the habit of assuming that human beings can be classified like insects and that whole blocks of millions or tens of millions of people can be confidently labeled as ‘good’ or ‘bad’.”

Damn. I do that. Assign value based on affiliation. At times, in explicit terms. And at others, the judgement is buried somewhere deep in the subconscious. I feel that this experience is loosening my chains of expectation. Limitation. I shake them free.

Some remain.

Jon buys tickets from a machine that only speaks French and we find our place on the platform. There is consensus now among us: 7 degrees Celcius is cold. It requires a jacket. I am unprepared. Fifteen minutes until the next train.

We board. The tracks manuever over one canal and around the next. We exit again in the Red Light district. It is early afternoon.

Still, my thoughts dwell on the fact that cultural bias breeds disunity. And I am suspicious that most of these dividing factors are contrived. Like tension between Hutus and Tutsis in Rwanda, courtesy of the colonial Belgium. Or Sunni and Shi`ite Muslims by the British.

It is easy to loose sight of the fact that at the core we are all the same. A person is a person is a person.

Rounding the corner in mid-thought, a pretty girl makes eyes at me from inside a glass booth with red curtains. I drop my gaze to the cobblestone path, and turn my thoughts away..but from what?!? is it shame for another human being?

“Don’t turn away..breathe deep the stench of death.” Such were the cries of William Wilburforce as he arrived to English Dinner parties aboard pungent slave freighters, illuminating a tragic and subversive reality to the people most familiar only with the fruits of the system.

So I lift my eyes and stare back into hers. There is pain. Captivity. Some untold story standing before me in lingerie. She turns away and our connection is lost. And I keep walking.

Yes, a person is a person is a person. But we need to qualify that. No man is an island.

Our lives are inevitably tangled, intertwined. Is my blessing somehow her curse? is yours? I search passing faces for an answer and continue to navigate the the crooked cobblestone. Our layover is nearly complete

On the Street in DC

An email sent after the inauguration:

the last two days were bizarre.

my day began as a continuation of last evening. on the street. kicked out of the
bar at 2. kicked out of the other bar at 3:45. the final notes of closing time by
counting crows playing echoing into the streets

honestly think i would have gotten hypothermia if it wasn't for a gay couple with
a UNICEF blanket. we played the name game..turns out we have mutual best
friends i shared the blanket and for about 18 hours with a girl i met. never caught
her name also shared with two israeli kids from NY and an urban chick who was
going into shock from the cold.  we huddled together in the national mall and
talked about our hopes for the future and the importance of our time together.
unified. many cultures. one heart. at (quite literally)the dawn of a new era.

the crowd of a hundred that gathered around us was family. we looked out for
one another. cheered together. at times wept uncontrollably. hurt and prayed as one.
i loved them

sometime in the bitter cold of night. maybe 430. maybe 6. the crowd was suffering.
they wanted a story to take their minds away from self. I passed 3 FW chapters,
person to person. we shared a Falling Whistles speakeasy conversation. amidst
the shivering, and cursing, and shaking=hearts were moving to serve. and after
12 hours of heart-to-heart, shoulder-to-shoulder, and holding our pee, we parted
ways. to puerto rico and new york, california and virginia, israel and everywhere
in between. and as we journeyed out of the mall we bumped into colin powell. he
said hello and shared wisdom that a real a man loves his family.

and today my family was proud. they were loud and large. neverending.

faces filling spaces from capital hill to the washington monument.  the girl and i
scanned in and out. ducking and jiving. working the crowd with manuevers that dale jr.
would write home about.  we stepped to a corner. it was here that two nights ago
barack obama passed within 20 paces as i wandered home.

i reflected on that brief moment of proximity to power. i watched it pass by. just
stood there as it rolled down the next city block in a black limousine.

and suddenly we were parting. me and the girl. she into her life. me into
mine. "we turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, to look back at each
other for the last time." and then walked away on city streets

she into her life. me into everyone and everything, again

my vision was cloudy and the blanket was gone. the warm hat too.  i crept into a
sub shop around the corner, grabbed a footlong and retrieved "A Severe Mercy"
from my coat pocket. three pages later i was asleep on top of my food. the manager
woke me.

i finished the last bites of meatball marinara and stumbled in the direction that looked
most like north. this conclusion seemed reasonable because the further i walked, the
colder it got. also, i listened as people on street corners began to speak with harsher
vowel sounds. they walked more briskly and with less compassion.

20 blocks later i wandered into an apartment complex and found a couch. a
respite for the weary. and good people

For me, 2009 is about love and risk. Important to know.

 And now it is important to sleep.

I love you. Goodnight

Twitter

I'll be twittering for the spring. Wanna see..?

www.twitter.com/FallingWhistles

Photo Recap 08'

First I wrote a novel, then realized pictures were easier. more fun. Some highlights of 08...

-david

First, we sang Some Songs

Then I started a Magazine

and toured the Midwest

Until I discovered Mountains and Climbed them.

Moved out of the house along with 52 of my closest 

Caught up with the Gladden crew in SC

Moved to Belize for research, soccer, and prayer

grew a sweeet stache.

Got bored and flipped some big tires down a road.

Came home for Susan and Zac's wedding.

Found my way to the river

Packed the Honda for LA..moved into a disgusting office space in Santa Monica, not far from the pier.

....to help a friend share a dramatic story from behind enemy lines in DR Congo.

"She's a good ride." -guy on motorcycle, when asked about his dog

and finally met the HS crew for an amazing wine festival in Napa and Sonoma