While not quite the same as getting your kicks on Route 66, my high school comrade David Neale has been attempting to walk the Tokaido, an ancient road from Tokyo to Kyoto in Japan. Check out his travel log here at 2 Guyjin. Chock full of great photos.
Just caught this story on CBS this morning and it struck a nerve:
More than 30 historical figures and monuments around Chicago have been outfitted with mobile technology. It allows them to have their voice and even give their opinions, CBS News’ Dean Reynolds reports.
Basically the city of Chicago installed plaques next to the statues with QR Codes displayed. People scan the QR Code and it plays audio recorded by celebrities associated with Chicago.
Statue Stories Chicago runs for the next year and it is garnering all sorts of positive press. Hopefully this program encourages people to explore the wonderful city of Chicago and learn about the history of the city of broad shoulders. This sounds like a great idea, but I can’t help but think it seems a bit familiar somehow…
So the wife has been selling our activity book, Explore, Learn and Color Guam for several months now. The book combines a virtual tour of Guam with activities and coloring pages for over thirty historical sites and places of interest on our beautiful island. A unique feature of our book is the use of QR codes to direct readers to our website to hear audio descriptions of the sites in English and Chamorro.
One of the big events for the book was her participation in GUMA, a unique small business incubator offered by the Galaide Group and the Small Business Development Center at UOG. GUMA’s mission is to develop local artists and entrepreneurs to create sustainable businesses and unique merchandise showcasing Guam’s culture. At the conclusion of the program we had the opportunity to compete for a Federally Funded grant to build our business. And thanks to Taliea’s long hours we actually won a grant.
With the grant money we were able to have the book translated into Japanese, record audio in Japanese and fund an initial print run in Japanese just in time for the Obon Festival this month. We are very excited about this news as Japan sends over a million visitors to Guam every year. The activity book is a great way for tourists to explore our island and learn about Guam’s rich history and culture.
Going on a short trip this week. So much to do before I go – pull out the luggage, iron clothes, make sure the gadgets are charged before the flight. The thing I really hate about traveling when you live on Guam is the distance. It’s going to be 22 hours before I reach my destination – and I have to get up at get to the airport at an ungodly hour for the 6:30 am departure time.
And the return – oh my goodness. The my journey starts at 6:00 am – on a tiny little commuter jet that I cannot even stand up in. I hate those little planes – they are the worst. I dread flying in them because over ten years ago I was trapped on one for the better part of a day. The plane could not land in Houston due to fog and we circled for hours until finally diverting to some rinky dink airport in Louisiana, where the flight crew abandoned the passengers on the plane for two hours. They literally got off the plane, shut the door and pulled away the stairs to keep us imprisoned in that damn sardine can. Still gives me the willies thinking about that trip.
by Arthur C. Clarke
It is three thousand light years to the Vatican. Once, I believed that space could have no power over faith, just as I believed that the heavens declared the glory of God’s handiwork. Now I have seen that handiwork, and my faith is sorely troubled. I stare at the crucifix that hangs on the cabin wall above the Mark VI Computer, and for the first time in my life I wonder if it is no more than an empty symbol.
I have told no one yet, but the truth cannot be concealed. The facts are there for all to read, recorded on the countless miles of magnetic tape and the thousands of photographs we are carrying back to Earth. Other scientists can interpret them as easily as I can, and I am not one who would condone that tampering with the truth which often gave my order a bad name in the olden days.
The crew are already sufficiently depressed: I wonder how they will take this ultimate irony. Few of them have any religious faith, yet they will not relish using this final weapon in their campaign against me–that private, good-natured, but fundamentally serious, war which lasted all the way from Earth. It amused them to have a Jesuit as chief astrophysicist: Dr. Chandler, for instance, could never get over it. (Why are medical men such notorious atheists?). Sometimes he would meet me on the observation deck, where the lights are always low so that the stars shine with undiminished glory. He would come up to me in the gloom and stand staring out of the great oval port, while the heavens crawled slowly around us as the ship turned end over end with the residual spin we had never bothered to correct.
“Well, Father,” he would say at last, “it goes on forever and forever, and perhaps Something made it. But how you can believe that Something has a special interest in us and our miserable little world–that just beats me.” Then the argument would start, while the stars and nebulae would swing around us in silent, endless arcs beyond the flawlessly clear plastic of the observation port.
It was, I think, the apparent incongruity of my position that caused most amusement to the crew. In vain I would point to my three papers in the Astrophysical Journal, my five in the Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society. I would remind them that my order has long been famous for its scientific works. We may be few now, but ever since the eighteenth century we have made contributions to astronomy and geophysics out of all proportion to our numbers. Will my report on the Phoenix Nebula end our thousand years of history? It will end, I fear, much more than that.
I do not know who gave the nebula its name, which seems to me a very bad one. If it contains a prophecy, it is one that cannot be verified for several billion years. Even the word nebula is misleading: this is a far smaller object than those stupendous clouds of mist–the stuff of unborn stars–that are scattered throughout the length of the Milky Way. On the cosmic scale, indeed, the Phoenix Nebula is a tiny thing–a tenuous shell of gas surrounding a single star.
Or what is left of a star . . .
The Rubens engraving of Loyola seems to mock me as it hangs there above the spectrophotometer tracings. What would you, Father, have made of this knowledge that has come into my keeping, so far from the little world that was all the universe you knew? Would your faith have risen to the challenge, as mine has failed to do?
You gaze into the distance, Father, but I have traveled a distance beyond any that you could have imagined when you founded our order a thousand years ago. No other survey ship has been so far from Earth: we are at the very frontiers of the explored universe. We set out to reach the Phoenix Nebula, we succeeded, and we are homeward bound with our burden of knowledge. I wish I could lift that burden from my shoulders, but I call to you in vain across the centuries and the light years that lie between us.
On the book you are holding the words are plain to read. AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM, the message runs, but it is a message I can no longer believe. Would you still believe it, if you could see what we have found?
We knew, of course, what the Phoenix Nebula was. Every year, in our galaxy alone, more than a hundred stars explode, blazing for a few hours or days with thousands of times their normal brilliance before they sink back into death and obscurity. Such are the ordinary novae–the commonplace disasters of the universe. I have recorded the spectrograms and light curves of dozens since I started working at the Lunar Observatory.
But three or four times in every thousand years occurs something beside which even a nova pales into total insignificance.
When a star becomes a supernova, it may for a little while outshine all the massed suns of the galaxy. The Chinese astronomers watched this happen in A.D. 1054, not knowing what it was they saw. Five centuries later, in 1572, a supernova blazed in Cassiopeia so brilliantly that it was visible in the daylight sky. There have been three more in the thousand years that have passed since then.
Our mission was to visit the remnants of such a catastrophe, to reconstruct the events that led up to it, and, if possible, to learn its cause. We came slowly in through the concentric shells of gas that had been blasted out six thousand years before, yet were expanding still. They were immensely hot, radiating even now with a fierce violet light, but were far too tenuous to do us any damage. When the star had exploded, its outer layers had been driven upward with such speed that they had escaped completely from its gravitational field. Now they formed a hollow shell large enough to engulf a thousand solar systems, and at its center burned the tiny, fantastic object which the star had now become–a White Dwarf, smaller than the Earth, yet weighing a million times as much.
The glowing gas shells were all around us, banishing the normal night of interstellar space. We were flying into the center of a cosmic bomb that had detonated millennia ago and whose incandescent fragments were still hurtling apart. The immense scale of the explosion, and the fact that the debris already covered a volume of space many billions of miles across, robbed the scene of any visible movement. It would take decades before the unaided eye could detect any motion in these tortured wisps and eddies of gas, yet the sense of turbulent expansion was overwhelming.
We had checked our primary drive hours before, and were drifting slowly toward the fierce little star ahead. Once it had been a sun like our own, but it had squandered in a few hours the energy that should have kept it shining for a million years. Now it was a shrunken miser, hoarding its resources as if trying to make amends for its prodigal youth.
No one seriously expected to find planets. If there had been any before the explosion, they would have been boiled into puffs of vapor, and their substance lost in the greater wreckage of the star itself. But we made the automatic search, as we always do when approaching an unknown sun, and presently we found a single small world circling the star at an immense distance. It must have been the Pluto of this vanished solar system, orbiting on the frontiers of the night. Too far from the central sun ever to have known life, its remoteness had saved it from the fate of all its lost companions.
The passing fires had seared its rocks and burned away the mantle of frozen gas that must have covered it in the days before the disaster. We landed, and we found the Vault.
Its builders had made sure that we would. The monolithic marker that stood above the entrance was now a fused stump, but even the first long-range photographs told us that here was the work of intelligence. A little later we detected the continent-wide pattern of radioactivity that had been buried in the rock. Even if the pylon above the Vault had been destroyed, this would have remained, an immovable and all but eternal beacon calling to the stars. Our ship fell toward this gigantic bull’s-eye like an arrow into its target.
The pylon must have been a mile high when it was built, but now it looked like a candle that had melted down into a puddle of wax. It took us a week to drill through the fused rock, since we did not have the proper tools for a task like this. We were astronomers, not archaeologists, but we could improvise. Our original purpose was forgotten: this lonely monument, reared with such labor at the greatest possible distance from the doomed sun, could have only one meaning. A civilization that knew it was about to die had made its last bid for immortality.
It will take us generations to examine all the treasures that were placed in the Vault. They had plenty of time to prepare, for their sun must have given its first warnings many years before the final detonation. Everything that they wished to preserve, all the fruit of their genius, they brought here to this distant world in the days before the end, hoping that some other race would find it and that they would not be utterly forgotten. Would we have done as well, or would we have been too lost in our own misery to give thought to a future we could never see or share?
If only they had had a little more time! They could travel freely enough between the planets of their own sun, but they had not yet learned to cross the interstellar gulfs, and the nearest solar system was a hundred light-years away. Yet even had they possessed the secret of the Transfinite Drive, no more than a few millions could have been saved. Perhaps it was better thus.
Even if they had not been so disturbingly human as their sculpture shows, we could not have helped admiring them and grieving for their fate. They left thousands of visual records and the machines for projecting them, together with elaborate pictorial instructions from which it will not be difficult to learn their written language. We have examined many of these records, and brought to life for the first time in six thousand years the warmth and beauty of a civilization that in many ways must have been superior to our own. Perhaps they only showed us the best, and one can hardly blame them. But their words were very lovely, and their cities were built with a grace that matches anything of man’s. We have watched them at work and play, and listened to their musical speech sounding across the centuries. One scene is still before my eyes–a group of children on a beach of strange blue sand, playing in the waves as children play on Earth. Curious whiplike trees line the shore, and some very large animal is wading in the shadows yet attracting no attention at all.
And sinking into the sea, still warm and friendly and life-giving, is the sun that will soon turn traitor and obliterate all this innocent happiness.
Perhaps if we had not been so far from home and so vulnerable to loneliness, we should not have been so deeply moved. Many of us had seen the ruins of ancient civilizations on other worlds, but they had never affected us so profoundly. This tragedy was unique. It is one thing for a race to fail and die, as nations and cultures have done on Earth. But to be destroyed so completely in the full flower of its achievement, leaving no survivors–how could that be reconciled with the mercy of God?
My colleagues have asked me that, and I have given what answers I can. Perhaps you could have done better, Father Loyola, but I have found nothing in the Exercitia Spiritualia that helps me here. They were not an evil people: I do not know what gods they worshiped, if indeed they worshiped any. But I have looked back at them across the centuries, and have watched while the loveliness they used their last strength to preserve was brought forth again into the light of their shrunken sun. They could have taught us much: why were they destroyed?
I know the answers that my colleagues will give when they get back to Earth. They will say that the universe has no purpose and no plan, that since a hundred suns explode every year in our galaxy, at this very moment some race is dying in the depths of space. Whether that race has done good or evil during its lifetime will make no difference in the end: there is no divine justice, for there is no God.
Yet, of course, what we have seen proves nothing of the sort. Anyone who argues thus is being swayed by emotion, not logic. God has no need to justify His actions to man. He who built the universe can destroy it when He chooses. It is arrogance–it is perilously near blasphemy–for us to say what He may or may not do.
This I could have accepted, hard though it is to look upon whole worlds and peoples thrown into the furnace. But there comes a point when even the deepest faith must falter, and now, as I look at the calculations lying before me, I know I have reached that point at last.
We could not tell, before we reached the nebula, how long ago the explosion took place. Now, from the astronomical evidence and the record in the rocks of that one surviving planet, I have been able to date it very exactly. I know in what year the light of this colossal conflagration reached our Earth. I know how brilliantly the supernova whose corpse now dwindles behind our speeding ship once shone in terrestrial skies. I know how it must have blazed low in the east before sunrise, like a beacon in that oriental dawn.
There can be no reasonable doubt: the ancient mystery is solved at last. Yet, oh God, there were so many stars you could have used. What was the need to give these people to the fire, that the symbol of their passing might shine above Bethlehem?
I’ve ridden Amtrak for decades now, and I can honestly say the service has degraded a great deal in the 20+ years I’ve ridden the train. I took the train across the continent in 2000, and it was an arduous experience; 13 hours behind schedule, missed connections, stopping in the middle of nowhere for hours at a time, and the several cancelled trains convinced me that Amtrak is not a viable travel option for anyone interested in actually getting somewhere on time. It was beautiful though, the lonesome plains, the Rocky Mountains, riding along the Mississippi River at dawn. From Chicago to Portland, and then down the coast to Los Angelese, it was an eye popping trip. Luckily I didn’t really have to be anywhere on time. In fact, the route I’ve ridden the most, the Ann Rutledge between St. Louis and Chicago, is notorious for running late.
I came across this story a couple days ago, recounting the woes of traveling Amtrak across the country. Sounds like he had a similar experience to me. That said, it was an incredible experience, from the landscape to the people you meet on the train. I remember sitting in the observation car at 2:00 am, learning card tricks from a septugenarian magician on his way to Minot, North Dakota. And standing on the back of the train, looking across northern California dawn from an open doorway with the cigarette smokers.
Check out this video of a Lufthansa A320 trying to make a landing during a windstorm with winds in excess of 56 mph. The jet is buffeted around horribly, and as the airliner touches down a gust wrenches the plane violently, almost sending it hurtling off the runway. Miraculously, the pilot managed to pull up safely and avoid turning the airplane into a flaming fireball.
The plane’s wing actually grazes the runway during this close encounter.
Here is a story on this incident from Der Spiegel.
Wow, really makes me not want to fly anytime soon. That aborted landing is gut wrenching.
From Mr. BaliHai
So archaeologists have found evidence of Polynesian chickens at a site along the Chilean coast, proving that Polynesians made their way to South America in Pre-Columbian times. Sort of a reverse Kon Tiki, and a testament to the skill and power of Pacific navigators.
I’ve known about this Polynesian/Asian chicken thing for a while; I remember reading about it back in my undergrad days at Beloit. The hard evidence was lacking, but all the pointers were there, specifically Magellan’s logs that mention bartering for chickens along the Patagonia coast in 1521. Considering that Columbus touched ground in Trinidad in 1498, so it is highly unlikely that chickens made it across so many thousands of miles of jungle and became a common food source among the Patagonians in less than 23 years.
A sad bit of nautical news this week, as the Cutty Sark was gutted in her berth in Greenwich. The clipper ship was built in 1869 and sped tea from China and wool from Australia to English shops and factories.
Hmm, something is on my mind. And it isn’t work – it’s time to travel folks. And Europe is on my mind.
Not only do they make nice watches and tasty chocolate, the Swiss are also pretty darn good and making fallout shelters. Seriously big fallout shelters. One of those weird things you rarely hear about, but apparently Swiss law requires fallout shelters on new homes. And the municipal governments provide mass fallout shelters as well – visions of underground bunkers, full of Swiss morlocks making watches and explosive chocolates for the Mad Max overworld come to mind.
California officials are eyeing a high speed rail connection between San Francisco and San Diego, using France’s TGV locomotives. Cool idea, but I wouldn’t ride it. I’ve seen how Amtrak operates and I know there would be a catastrophic derailment within a week of that train beginning service.
At least the French now how to operate it. The TGV made a new speed record for railroads today.
Just got off the phone with David in Palau. He’s waiting down in Melekau with a large crowd for the arrival of the Hokule’a and the Alingano Maisu into Palau. The two sailing canoes left Yap on Friday and are expected to arrive any minute now.
Apparently there was something here on Guam for some sailors heading down to relieve the crews in Palau last Friday. I didn’t get word until late that evening though, so I missed out. It’s sad, but I’ll survive. Now I need to go batten down the hatches for this storm’s approach.
Scientists are tracking the dispersal of humans across the scattered islands of the Pacific Ocean by following the genetic markers of feral pigs. While pigs can swim, the distances between the islands are too great, meaning their porcine subjects could only have arrived via human effort. And what they have found is a clear link between pigs in Vietnam and Indonesia with pigs in Oceania. This goes against the traditional view that the Pacific Islands were peopled by humans from Taiwan and the Philippines.
A pair of Hawaiian sailing canoes, the Ho-kule’a and the Alingano Maisu reached the island of Satawal yesterday. The Alingano Maisu is a gift to Mau Piailug, the navigator who taught his skills to the Hawaiians and reintroduced traditional navigation to the Hawaiian Islands.
The Hawaiians left Oahu in mid January, and battled stormy seas, constant rain and contrary winds to reach Satawal. After the presentation of the canoe to Piailug, the Ho-kule’a will continue on through Micronesia, visiting Palau and Yap, before heading to Japan to celebrate that country’s strong ties to Hawai’i. The Ho-kule’a even has a blog to track the voyage.
Interesting little piece in Der Spiegel about Saigon’s last public letter writer employed at the central post office. 60 years on the job and he is the last of his profession, writing love letters, translating messages for the common man.
Boy, this paddling trail across Maine to upstate New York looks like a lot of fun. I paddled through Quetico and the Boundary Waters a few years ago and that was a great time. This looks like something similar. The Northern Forest Canoe Trail looks really cool. Another great American adventure to daydream about, along with hiking the Appalachian Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail.