The Cheetah and the Lions

On Wednesday morning at 6:30 am, we left for the Mara River, a four hour drive across incredibly rough terrain, many river crossings, with views of numerous Maasai compounds and young boys herding cattle, goats and sheep.  We came to the plains of high grass, the reason the 1.5 million wildebeest and accompanying zebra, topi, and other myriad of animals risk the crossing of the river despite hordes of crocodiles just lying in wait.

After a brief leopard encounter—despite three vehicles roaring and revving around, she remained sleeping in the heavy brush, only the outline of her supine form visible—we made it to the river and staked out our place.  At first, it looked as though a brave ‘beest might attempt the crossing, despite several hippos stirring the waters, but then they retreated and began moving down river to another possible ford.  We moved several times, had our lunch, returned, sat and waited, but the ‘beests—seemingly led by a lone topi, were disinclined to navigate through the dozens of watching safari vehicles, nevermind the crocs.  When the herd began to crumple their legs and lie down on the far shore, Jackson put the Landcruiser into gear and we left.

An hour or so into the return trip, it began to rain, so Jackson and Christopher rolled down the plastic “windows" on the sides and we settled in for a steamy journey across the afternoon Savannah. About an hour later, however, the rain stopped and they rolled up the sides on the right of the Landcruiser, allowing Jackson less impaired vision.  Suddenly he swerved off the road—“Lions,” he announced, and drove across the now-closely cropped grass*. 

*Lion photo courtesy of  www.dreamstime.com

Two large females sat expectantly, looking for all the world like giant housecats on their haunches, their gaze fixed across the way.  We looked; over the dip of the hill sat four more safari vehicles.  Jackson quickly got on the radio and discovered:  A cheetah was about to make a kill*.

Cheetah photos courtesy of http://james-mcwilliams.com/

We hurried over and got there just in time to see her spring from her stalking crouch and chase a young gazelle to ground.  Jackson stopped the truck and she strutted past, head high, holding the still-kicking Thompson’s gazelle in her teeth.  Her long, graceful legs and dignified posture showed her pride in her kill:  “Clever girl,” I praised her softly, as she walked right by us*.  

Jackson turned the vehicle around so we could see where she went, but as he maneuvered into position, she began to emit a deep, purling growl or keening.  One of the lions approached her, after her kill; and to our horror, we saw the other heading towards three small bundles silhouetted against the horizon.  The cheetah had cubs, for whom she’d been hunting; and the lions were determined to get both the kill and the cubs if they could.

The name Gamewatchers isn’t just marketing—in addition to guiding safaris, the Maasai in the Mara are also stewards of Kenya’s great national parks.  It’s their responsibility to monitor and keep track of the various wildlife in their conservancies and preserves.  Ordinarily, they would never interfere with a natural event such as the one unfolding before us, but cheetahs are so endangered—only 5% of cubs ever make it to adulthood—that with a few quick radio communications, they made the decision to try to protect the cheetah and her young.

“The cheetah is nearly finished,” said Jackson, as he expertly twisted and turned the vehicle.  “We must protect.”

The cheetah reversed, running away from the cubs, with the first lion right behind her.  Although they are the fastest land mammals, they also can only run in sprints; she had already blown hers catching the gazelle.  The lion was hot on her tail, nearly literally.  I had my hand in my mouth and tears rose up as it looked like that huge, golden beast—at least twice as broad as the slender, leggy cat—seemed sure to catch her.  One of the other vehicles was after them, trying to come between.

Courtesy www.telegraph.co.uk

Jackson navigated us in the other direction, to ward off the second lion from the cubs.  Bounding away toward the tree line we saw the three, racing with their bodies close to the ground.  As two trucks roared towards it the second lioness gave up and turned away.

By the time we turned back, cheetah mom had lost the lion—and dropped her kill.  She also headed toward the tree line but in the other direction from the cubs.  Would they find each other? 

On the far side of the plain, across the tree-lined gully, we finally spotted the mother cheetah.  She had taken the long way around and was now circling back toward the direction the cubs had come.  I had no binoculars (and stupidly I left my glasses in the US) so all I could see was a blur—but then, finally, they found her, reunited with her three, across the plain from us.  Michael lent me his binoculars— through them I saw Mom, relieved but still watchful, the three-month cubs cavorting at her feet and around her tail.

Photo via National Geographic animals.nationalgeographic.com

Cheetahs are one of the most endangered animals because of their need for large, open spaces, on which humans have encroached relentlessly.  Once ranging across Africa and western Asia, they are now only present in eastern Africa and a small part of Iran, at only about 10% of their numbers 100 years ago.  They live alone after breeding and the female is solely responsible for her cubs.  She must protect her kill—and cubs—from other, larger predators, as we saw. 

Also, when the cubs get to be about six months old, Jackson told us, they become a problem, because they follow Mom and try to hunt, but don’t know how to hide or stalk, so end up chasing off the prey.  Often the whole family goes hungry.

According to Defenders of Wildlife, however, conservationists in Namibia have been working with ranchers and local people to stabilize the population.  We were very lucky to see our cheetah mom with her cubs and witness such a drama.

Courtesy wikipedia

OH, and guess what?  After the cheetah dropped it, the gazelle got up and ran away—both the cheetahs and the lions went without supper.  That’s the luckiest gazelle in Kenya*!

http://www.defenders.org/cheetah/threats

*Apologies for photos not my own; stupid camera battery died in the middle of the wildebeest herd.

The Naughty Buffalo

Naughty Cape buffalo near our camp.

The first day at Ol Kinyei camp, we arrived around 12:30, with lunch at 1 pm, not as good as Kenyan Air but still good:  lovely cucumber salad, beef patties—with fellow safari-ites Alice, Maria and Michael – then a rest, then our evening drive.

Topi

Impala

As with the drive from the airstrip, we saw a gazillion wildebeest, zebras, Thompson’s gazelle, Grant’s gazelle, impala, and a scattering of warthogs, eland, topi, and waterbucks.  First out of the camp there were two giraffe on the right—then four more on the left—then, as we got closer, and they got more curious, a whole crowd of them, up to 25 total, from half-grown adolescents to large bulls with their bushy top horns.  Jackson explained that, although the antelope and other ungulates can lose their horns with no damage to their health, a giraffe’s horn is part of its skull; if it gets cut off, the giraffe will die.

Thompson's gazelles

 They towered over us in our Toyota Landcruiser, heads swaying, their inquisitive eyes seeming to meet ours.  Though we’re obviously no threat, when the Landcruiser got too close to an individual, he or she would duck head and canter gracefully a few metres, just keeping the distance between us.  More curious than angry or afraid, they watched until Jackson said, “good?” and drove us away.

The wildebeest with their long, dramatic masks, always look so indignant; front legs spread, they challenged us for coming into their territory.  Warthogs are pugnacious, but run away, their skinny tails standing straight up like antennae on compact cars.  Zebras seem sarcastic, giraffes rather benevolent, and the few Cape buffalo ready for a fight.

Indignant wildebeest.

Benevolent giraffe.

Not my photo-- didn't catch one running.

Bull elephant in "musth".

One elephant, in “musth”, halted his tusked attack on a black acacia and turned to us, eyes blazing, as Jackson got us the hell out of there before he could charge.  But a later herd—or memory, as they can also be called—of bulls paid us absolutely no attention as they devastated a stand of trees to consume.  Their utter destruction of the landscape prompts me to change the phrase, “like a tornado came through” to “like a herd of elephants was here”.
Back at the camp as I waited for dinner, I went to walk the vehicle track that extends about 50 metres out front.  Sylvester—his long, elegant frame clad in deep reds and maroons—stopped me.  “There is naughty buffalo,” he told me.  “He hides in bush to surprise.  Do not go outside …” and he indicated the inner circle where the guides would be able to keep an eye out.

I acquiesced easily, worn out from the long day and eager to chow down on the delicious selection of fresh vegetables, grilled pork chop and scalloped potatoes, with a lovely chocolate mousse to follow.

I sat for a brief time around the fire, where the Maasai staff spoke softly to each other in their native language; we all retired early, knowing we had to be up at 6 am the next day. After ablutions in my own rustic but quite adequate bathroom (porcelain flush toilet) at the back of my tent, I quickly fell asleep between the folds of my rented sleeping bag with the thick, soft woolen blanket, provided, on top.

I was jerked awake in the middle of the night, perhaps 3 am, by a crashing-crunching-snorting that sounded right outside my tent.  I lay there for a moment, paralysed:  Would this be the end of my safari, as an elephant crashed through and trampled me?  Was Alice, in her tent next door, still alive?  Should I call out or would that just piss it off, whatever it was?  I had joked to friends about getting eaten by a lion or trampled by an elephant, but now, my first night on safari, was such a thing really about to happen?

After perhaps 10 minutes of lying there, clutching the bedclothes to my chin, I decided to get up and look.  It was actually a quite rhythmic sound—slap-slap, crunch-crunch—and I finally figured out that it was some large beast tearing up foliage and chewing it.  The crashing was its huge body moving through the brush.  Softly, I unzipped the tent.  Silently, I crept to the boma fence—such a flimsy thing, made of reed or young bamboo—and peered through a gap.

With the cloud cover, it was nearly pitch black.  After a moment, though, the absolute black softened to a thick grey, with shapes.  My eyes adjusted and I made out an enormous black bulk about five metres away, its head deep in the brush.  Again, I thought it must be an elephant—but then realised it wasn’t tall enough, unless it was a young elephant, and if so, where was Mom?  At that chilling thought, the hairs rose on the back of my neck—but then the bulky mass stepped back and I saw the unmistakable judge-wig horns of the Cape buffalo.

Cape Buffalo are in fact one of the “Big Five”—eg, one of the five most dangerous animals in Africa.  Despite seeing fearless Steve Irwin lie down and roll on the ground right up to a herd in one of his documentaries, the hair on my neck not only remained risen, it froze.  As did I.

The grass-matting boma fence looked, and felt, about as protective as tissue paper.  I was barefooted on a rocky path, with a centimeter of rigid grass between me and one of the continent’s biggest killers. 

The buffalo, oblivious to either me or my dilemma, continued to eat, shuffle and snort.  I wondered if I should go wake up Alice to show her.  Then I thought, hell no, I’m getting the hell out of here.  My leg, cramped from my rigidity, half crumpled and I stumbled backwards with a little cracking-shuffling sound. 

The buffalo’s head came up immediately and it went utterly silent.  Its eyes looked right at the boma where I stood and seemed to see me.  Any sort of courage I may have had deserted me, and I made a dash for the tent.  As I got inside and frantically groped for the zipper (I don’t know how I thought that was going to save me, zipping up the tent), I heard an equally panicked rush outside the boma, and the sound of hooves galloping away.

Apparently, I scared the buffalo too.  I guess the unknown is always scary, no matter how big you are or how bad your reputation.  

A Saturday in Cape Town city centre

Just across from the Castle Pub and Harley Club.

Downtown market

My new pals, the Cape Town Harley Davidson Club

I have this feeling this is a famous theatre ...

Gorgeous kids singing and dancing in the downtown mall.

Cape Town Castle of Good Hope, built in the late 1600s

With the Table Mountains in the back ground.

Castle, city, and mountains.

For more on the Castle of Good Hope:  http://www.castleofgoodhope.co.za/

We're not looking like Wellington, New Zealand, anymore.

Introduction to Cape Town

My first day in Cape Town got off to a misty grey start –which isn’t always a bad thing; Mists of Avalon and all that— so I pulled up my big-girl panties and made the best of it.

First good thing was Claire from Budget Africa Travel emailed and said she was so excited to meet me, so between her, my delightful AirBNB host, Paul, and google (which was actually the least helpful of the 3), I figured out how to take the train – yes, that same train that a certain self-appointed Cape Town guru told me was too dangerous—well, he’s not here now is he!?!—into the centre, where I could catch a bus to Hout Bay.

I’d already been through the local train station, Rosebank.  The area seemed a mix of working and middle class with some dodgy bits last night—the thing that bothered me the most was that every single drive is gated and most of the fences/walls have high voltage wires over them:  Doesn’t bode well for a safe neighbourhood.

Nothing really alleviated those worries this morning, as the station looked half abandoned and in the midst of construction.  I asked a traveler on the platform where to buy the ticket, and she pointed to a door in the middle of the construction.  Inside, I had trouble communicating my need to get into the centre to the man behind the window; never did work out the name of the station but I got a ticket.

Back on the platform, two women approached me.

“How is your day?” the one with close-cropped black hair asked me.  She was black; her companion Asian.  They introduced themselves.  I (sadly and to my chagrin) have forgotten their names.

“It is going well so far,” I prevaricated just a bit.  “But can you tell me which station is the centre, where I will get off and take the MyCity bus?”

“Oh yes,” her companion spoke up, “the train stops there.  Everyone will get off.”

“And there will be a kiosk for the MyCity bus,” the first one said.

Then they handed me a Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet.

Fair enough.

The train itself was not impressive—muddy grey interior, torn grey naugahyde (or whatever great synthetic beast they skin for seating here)—but I sat and looked around me.  There were only 3 or 4 other people in the car.

On the walls were an assortment of white-with-black-writing stickers, advertising various services.  I was a little bit horrified. (Sorry about the focus-- I guess I was shaking a bit.  Some advertised abortions and "womb cleaning" up to 8 months.  I can't even imagine what those women go through):

 


But the journey was uneventful.  At the railway information desk, I asked where the MyCity bus kiosk was, and, after wandering a bit, I found it.  Bought a pass (the least economical one, I think—still a bit confused) but I didn’t want to make a nuisance of myself and hold up the substantial line. I went where the ticket agent told me but couldn’t figure out the right platform.  After asking around a bit, I got to it and, having just missed the correct bus, had to wait a half hour.

It didn’t seem so long.  Then I got on Bus 108 to Hout Bay (interesting that the name is so similar to Houghton Bay in Wellington, NZ—more on that later) and settled in.  It’s a clean, well-appointed bus and I felt perfectly comfortable.

At one stop, a young woman in a school uniform—I could tell by the insignia on her jacket—was studying for a test.  Over her shoulder I read her notes about the history of Apartheid, then, to my surprise, a whole two pages of the history of the US Civil Rights movement, including the Greensboro sit in.  I smiled, glad my home state is known all the way on the other side of the world.
After some nerve-wracking inner city traffic close calls—it’s a city just like many others I’ve been to, modern and mostly utilitarian, not particularly beautiful—the bus turned onto a coast road that looked incredibly familiar:  Much like the coastal road around Wellington, including high mountains just behind the city itself, and shrouded in a mist that hides the highest peaks.  It seems to me that West Coasts all have that similar rocky landscape, with boulders right down to the edge of the sea.

And the water is that same gorgeous aqua-blue as the waters around NZ.  I began to relax.

After an hour of travel, during which I was rather anxious about getting off at the right stop, the student beside me stopped the bus (you have to signal) at the stop right before mine, so I confidently pressed the button and got off.  Here is what I saw:

SO reminiscent of Wellington, NZ (there's a Wellington here too, of course).

I met Claire as she was coming with pizza and she took me up into her simple but attractively appointed office.  We ate lunch and she gave me lots of advice about where to go, what’s safe, and what to do when I come back to Cape Town.  Just as we were finishing up, she mentioned “horsey” places.  Well, I’ve been carrying my riding pants, chaps and boots with me across several continents and planned to do some riding here, so now I know where to go.

Afterwards, I walked down to the waterfront where, quite unlike Wellington beaches, the sand is fine and powdery.  Having spent the summer in Prague and not even gotten down to my beloved NC beaches, this incredibly welcome to my eyes and feet.  Along the walkway about 300 metres, I found the wharves.

If there’s any structure in the world that makes me feel at home, it’s wharves with fishing boats.  I could’ve gone and sat on a balcony and watched, but instead I walked down the pier—or jetty they would call it in Oz and NZ—where a young black man entreated two huge sea lions over to the edge.  One of them hauled his considerable frame up onto the concrete and the man began feeding him bits of fish.  The man had a tiny dog of the Chihuahua variety, which didn’t seem at all pleased at the closeness of the marine mammal, easily 100 times its size.

A dog, a sea lion, and their man.

“Here, you can pet him,” the man entreated me.  “Can you make a donation please?”  I fished into my wallet for some of the coins I’d gotten back—on hindsight, I think the amount I gave him probably was insulting, but I haven’t figured out the currency yet—gave them to him, and reached out to scratch the wet, sleek animal behind his ears.  The sea lion paid me absolutely no attention, his eyes on the bits of frozen fish the man broke off from a frozen lump; behind them, in the harbour, two more sea lions circled gracefully.

Large fishing boats in various states of repair lined the jetty—I walked down to the end.  Men working on the boats called out greetings, waved and smiled.  A few other people—all white—walked up and down; a young boy and his father (or grandfather) rode bikes down the jetty.

Harbour at the Wharf, Hout Bay.

I absorbed the clean, salty air (wish the waters themselves were as clean—lots of rubbish in the harbour but then that’s usually the case  :-/ ) and thought, like one of the Pevensies at the beginning of Prince Caspian, I’m in for a lovely time.

Back at Dario’s Café I found wifi, a gorgeous latte, and a piece of cheesecake big enough for three.  Also ordered supper to bring home and went out to meet the bus.

Cheesecake at Dario's (sadly, not Daario of the Tyroshi blue beard).

Only a couple of stops in, a rounded black woman with her hair tied in a scarf (not a hajib) sat next to me on the bus.  She smiled at me, so I asked, pointing to a row of children down splashing in the surf, “Are they swimming?” She nodded.  “Isn’t it cold?”

She shrugged.  “They don’t feel the cold.”

I shivered—the air was chill rather than actually cold, much like in Wellington, but I know that water.

“I feel it,” I confided to her.

She giggled.  “Yes, I do too.”

Shortly a whole group of students in their neat uniforms—some of them carrying musical instruments, some of them sporting equipment, got on the bus.  It was fairly crowded so they were right up next to us.  Although they were animated, they were well-behaved and quite adorable.  Once more my love of other-people’s-children rose up and smiled benevolently at them.  Relaxed now, I observed the beautiful coastline and rolling sea, again so similar to the beaches around Wellington, and the clearly expensive housing built right into the cliffs and rocks on either side of the road.  Car parks on the ocean always seemed such a waste to me, but at least these are on top of the houses.  Again, all are heavily gated and walled, and almost all of the people I saw coming in and out were white.

Almost all of the people in working clothes and riding the bus were black and coloured (Asian and other ethnicities).

I felt completely comfortable surrounded by dark-skinned people.  Nearly everyone I passed on the street, beach, and bus greeted me with smiles and a generosity of spirit that I have felt among African Americans back home.

The train back to Rosebank was crowded and I couldn’t find a seat.  A tall skinny man who smelt of alcohol shouted words unintelligible to me.  Many, like me, ignored him.  A few looked at him with pity, a few with disgust, especially after a stream of liquid flowed down his pants leg onto the floor of the train.  The man on my other side looked at me, and made room for me to move away from the puddle.

I was one of only 3 white people in the car.  Yet in some ways I felt more comfortable and accepted than I do in Prague.

I think I like Cape Town a lot.

Outside of my AirBNB flat, with misty mountain in background; note the rooftop garden.

Addendum:  Chill and overcast today, and I have lots of planning to do, so hanging close to flat-- but did go out to get groceries and went the other way, past the University of Cape Town.

Actually a quite nice and attractive part of town, with a little cluster of shops that reminded me, again, of Wellington.

Saw a tiny white girl give a tiny black girl (strangers) a piece of candy and then the two hugged like best friends.  Everyone in Woolies was teary-eyed, including me.

Then on the way home saw two giant what I'm sure must be baobab trees, and again my eyes filled with tears spontaneously.  SO enormous and full of character-- didn't have camera but will be sure to get photos.

Another world is ... here? In the Tchaiovna ;-)

So I try and try to describe Prague—the feeling I get here, the Bohemian-ness of it—I got perhaps closest when trying to describe/define hedonism.

But the other night when the Improv was there: We sat in the back and smoked a joint with our new friend Daragh, and the bartender Jeff (later described as “stoic” by one of the Improv trigger stories) had a hit off of it.

It’s not Starbucks for sure. Sometimes it takes awhile to get your drink. Sometimes it takes 20 minutes to get your sandwich. But you can be sure that Andy and Helen will do their best, that the ingredients are fresh, that the frozen strawberry or raspberry “Mafi-Osi” will fulfill your vitamin C requirement, that the beer is cool and fresh.

Sometimes Narnia is the exact right place for me, and sometimes there are people there with a vibe in which I don’t want to engage. Only once has it been too crowded (the whole place, not just Narnia) and I left soon after arriving.

The gentle tolerance there and desire to do good—to provide a place for the community, to create a community around art and music and pleasure and sustainability and locally sourced materials – gives me hope, as this is something I’ve been looking for since my first trip outside the US, when I saw that other worlds were possible.

                                                     

It seems to me a manifestation of Arundhati Roy’s

Another world is not only possible, 

she is on her way. On a quiet day, 

I can hear her breathing.

For my students who found it too smoky, too chaotic, I’m want to say, life is dirty and chaotic and to engage with it fully, sometimes you get dirty too. I think their complaint about “smoky” is more about the smell of trava, with which they were obviously uncomfortable, and yet at the same time too repressed and hypocritical to mention.

I find it interesting in that zajimovy way that the most sheltered—student A and student B—seemed to be actually the most open, except for, of course, student Y, who was a delight with that sunny personality and willingness to find beauty, pleasure and charm in everything.

All and all, the Prague summer program was an unqualified success: 

I look forward to doing many, many more.

Oh, and a few photos from Narnia, aka Amaze in Tchaiovna, 

my wonderful local in Prague  ;-)

Hedonism and Revolution in Prague

So, I was planning to revive my blog upon my return to Prague, but life got in the way.  Planning for students, sorting out housing and seeing old friends prevented me from having time to write about all the reasons I love being here and all the ways this city and the people just lead to a complete revitalization of life for me.

Students, Trina, Thomas and Sue say good-bye to Praha-ha-ha.

Now that the students are gone (well, sort of—one coming back) and I’ve sent off Trina with many great photos, keepsakes and memories, I can reflect a little.

Trina at Strahov, looking down over the city (see the bridges?).

One element of Prague’s charm is the hedonism, which (apparently) not everyone finds.

That’s almost certainly a good thing, as I don’t know that it would work if everyone who came here discovered it.  We were discussing the other night, what hedonism means.  Then, serendipitously, I found an article about how the Czechs are the most decadent.

I see “decadent” as a pejorative term for hedonistic, one that has a certain “bad boy” appeal, which Trina ascribed to such activities as smoking cigarettes and drinking too much. 

But I do believe that many if not most Czechs achieve hedonism in moderation—of course there are some alcoholics, of course some addicts, some who smoke too much or don’t care enough for themselves.  But the majority achieve a balance between the hard-working, innovative Czech work ethic that made Czechoslovakia one of the G7 between the two World Wars, and such a prize for Hitler’s Nazis, and the beer-drinking, pot-smoking, art-idea-and-absurdism wielding creatives like Václav Havel, David Černý, my dear friend Pavla Jonssonová (was Slabá, née Fediuková) and anarchist-visionary Petr Bergmann, who has cut his hair and retreated to the country but still had the power to electrify my students and friends with his passionate discussion of pre-, during, and post-Velvet Revolution Prague. 

Return to Peripatetica

As I prepare to go out on the road (or rather, into the air) again, I wanted to revive this blog to share more travel experiences and philosophies.

But first, I have this to say:  Can we stop with the Bono bashing, already?  The man is 55 years old, he and his bandmates are beginning to show their age, and yet they still put on the best show in rock ‘n’ roll (according to reviews of Innocence and Experience).

In fact, for me, a lapsed Episcopalian and aspiring pagan, a U2 show is the Church of Rock ‘n’ Roll, and it’s been a terrible long time since I’ve gotten to participate in the Eucharist.  I’ve yet to meet a single person (in 35 years) who has not been inspired and uplifted by a U2 concert.

He doesn't mean to bug ya. 

This bashing of Bono must stop.  He’s just a guy, a middle-class Irish guy, who happened to hook up with three other guys to make some great music.

And because of their middle class values, they were compassionate, and when they were asked to take part in a charitable event, they did.

Then Bono did what I would be thrilled if any titan of industry did—he made the effort to look deeply at the problem and tried to understand its complexity. He became the conscience of the band, of the fans, of a generation.  He took his concerns from the performance stage to the audience of public opinion to the political arena.  He got his hands dirty.  And he changed some minds.

He’s a decent guy.  He’s been married to the same woman his entire adult life, with four children, whom he has amazingly, heroically kept out of the spotlight. 

He’s well aware of both the temptations of having such a megaphone as well as his own tendency towards pomposity and preaching and publically ridicules himself for it regularly.

I can understand if you don’t like U2’s music—well, not really.  I guess it’s more like I’m aware that there are people who say they don’t like U2.  I’m not part of the really messianic cult, but I’m way up there in the second tier.  

But there are so many actually shitty human beings on this planet who are doing real damage, either individually or as part of a larger instrument, with malice aforethought. 

Bono’s just a guy who got to do what he loves and tries to use his voice and popularity to influence life and death on this planet.  Whether he actually is doing good, or the value of his contribution, can certainly be analysed and questioned; that’s not the issue. But hating on a man who is just trying to do some good in the world—I don’t get it. 

Why concentrate your hate on Bono?  Make fun of him, sure, fine.  But give the guy a break.  He’s just a guy.