Today is the 50th anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr in Memphis, Tennessee. I made an unexpected connection with that event when I was exploring mangrove forests in the Bahamas . . .
Mangroves of Bimini, which Martin Luther King Jr visited days before his death.
Photo by Kennedy Warne
On February 1, 1968, two Memphis rubbish collectors took shelter from pelting rain inside their compactor truck. Moments later, the dilapidated and defective vehicle malfunctioned, crushing Echol Cole and Robert Walker in its machinery.
For the city’s 1300 mostly black sanitation workers, the men’s horrible death was a spark in their long-simmering protest against miserable pay and dangerous working conditions. Ten days later, they went on strike, demanding the right to belong to a union and to earn a living wage.
Through February and March, while trash piled up in the streets of Memphis, the workers marched to City Hall to voice their protest. They faced intimidation and police brutality. Photographs from the time show wary workers walking past a phalanx of young white National Guardsmen holding rifles with fixed bayonets. The workers wear placards around their necks saying “I am a man”—a line from an address by Rev James Lawson, a Memphis pastor and chairman of the strike committee. “For at the heart of racism is the idea that a man is not a man, that a person is not a person,” he had told the workers. “You are human beings. You are men. You deserve dignity.”
Continue reading “Martin in the mangroves”
Errant Earl in the Te Atatu mangroves. / Kennedy Warne
Almost a year after my post about meandering among Motu Manawa’s mangroves with Ms Meduna, I was in the vicinity again, not in a kayak but a dinghy. I was there to search for an escapee named Earl. Earl is a clinker-style dinghy that belongs to my son Jeremy. The name comes from a poem by Louis Jenkins that we had both been enjoying at around the time he bought the dinghy.
In Sitka, because they are fond of them,
People have named the seals. Every seal
is named Earl because they are killed one
after another by the orca, the killer
whale; seal bodies tossed left and right
into the air. “At least he didn’t get
Earl,” someone says. And sure enough,
after a time, that same friendly,
bewhiskered face bobs to the surface.
It’s Earl again. Well, how else are you
to live except by denial, by some
palatable fiction, some little song to
sing while the inevitable, the black and
white blindsiding fact, comes hurtling
toward you out of the deep?
One night in March, Jeremy was aboard his yacht, Peer Gynt, on a mooring off Northcote Point, near the Auckland Harbour Bridge. Just before he went to sleep he checked the dinghy, only to find his knot had come undone and the dinghy was nowhere to be seen.
He called me: “Earl’s gone.”
Continue reading “In the marina of mangroves”
Veronika Meduna photographing mangroves at Motu Manawa. / Kennedy Warne
Tonight’s “Our Changing World” radio programme features a visit by Veronika Meduna and me to Motu Manawa, the “island of mangroves” beside Auckland’s northwestern motorway. Here’s how it came about . . .
I hadn’t seen Veronika Meduna, one of the founders of Radio New Zealand’s long-running “Our Changing World” science and environment programme, for years. She’s based in Wellington, and I’m in Auckland, and our paths don’t cross very often. So when she texted to ask if we could visit some mangroves for a radio spot, I was delighted. Both because she’s a very good radio presenter, and because any day in the mangroves is a good day.
I immediately thought I would take her to Motu Manawa/Pollen Island, my “wilderness next door”—a nature reserve in the heart of a marine reserve right next to SH16, one of the main commuter routes between central Auckland and the northwest.
The day before she arrived I thought I should check that my usual route—under the motorway bridge over the Whau River at Te Atatu—was still open. Major roadworks on that stretch made me suspect it might not be. I squelched through ankle-deep mud as I made my approach. A man in a high-vis vest standing under the bridge spotted me and called, “Where do you think you’re going, young fella?”
“Just going to the island, if that’s OK?”
It wasn’t OK. There was scaffolding around the concrete pier and some workers chipping away with chisels. Evidently that constituted a hazard to walkers. The Well-Connected Alliance—the construction consortium doing the motorway work—had disconnected me.
I returned home to consider my options. Find some other mangroves—there are plenty up the Whau—or . . . approach by sea.
Continue reading “On the island of mangroves”