Writing

The Truth about Zombies

| thetembo
Reading Time: 7 minutes

No one knew when the first zombies appeared. Their records began after the Great Collapse, following the burning of cities and the silence of satellites. What we did know was that something had gone awry in the minds of those who remained outside. Some contagion of violence, rage, or decay.

But all that occurred before I was born. I never saw the zombies except in news clips. They always attacked at night. Every morning, the Safety Broadcast displayed horrifying clips of people taken at night on the courtyard screen in the public square, followed by admonishments to follow the path of The Ninefold Harmonies to avoid their fate.

This morning’s clip showed a man who was bitten by a zombie and then shot by the marksman at the order of the Council of Safety. The man was asymptomatic when the marksman shot him down. An angry crowd gathered at the weekly Safety Assembly to protest the man’s death.

“Zombies are contagious, and we must neutralize any vestige of the disease before it spreads to even one more of our citizens. Zombies do not think. They do not feel. They are death to us and our way of life.” said Counselor Dana.

“Compassion is our weakness. Once infected, that person is no longer the person you knew. They are the enemy. Do not be fooled. They will come for you, and you will die. Stay resolute. The Council of Safety and The Ninefold Harmonies are your only salvation. We do not apologize for defending our own.”

The crowd grumbled during her speech, and someone shouted, “These are our people. We can do better.” The Counselor showed clips of the grieving family. The younger daughter was sobbing, and the mother was consoling her. The older daughter shouted at the camera, “They took our father. I want them all to die.”

The protest subsided. The collective, including me, recited the pledge of the Ninth Harmony: “My mind is clear. My heart is one. My purpose is shared. I am the voice of the Council. I am the hand of survival.” The crowd dispersed and went home.

I secretly agreed with the angry voice. I wanted to help the stricken people, not give up on them. I believed compassion would be our strength, but the sixth harmony of the Containment Protocol forbade it: “Citizens shall not approach or acknowledge those Beyond the Wall. Doing so constitutes a breach of safety and self-contamination.”

I was 17 and training to be a medic. My father was a victim of a zombie attack. I hoped he was still alive out there, beyond the wall. I wanted to find him and cure him. Sometimes, I wanted to kill all the zombies for taking him, just like the enraged daughter of the stricken man who died in the night.

I believed in the Council. We were safe here in the Meristem Compound. Walled. Armed. Ordered. We had food, solar power, and the daily Safety Broadcast at 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. to remind us of what was out there.

Still, I studied and trained. I memorized the symptoms of infection: erratic speech, defiance, and fever. I recited the creed. I hoped for stronger protections and the long-awaited and promised cure being developed by the Council of Safety.

###

Before a zombie attacked my father, he gave me a book, The Giver, by Lois Lowry. He handed it to me and said, “Daughter, this is for your eyes only. Understand? Do not tell anyone about this.”

I was shocked. I pushed the book back to him and quoted the fifth harmony of Sanctioned Knowledge, “Learning is permitted only through Council-vetted sources. Legacy media, printed artifacts, or untagged content are classified as potential contagion.”

He declined the book and said, “Mara, keep it in a spot that only you know about. Don’t tell anyone, not even your mother. Books won’t turn you into a zombie, but not reading them will. You don’t understand right now, but I hope you will someday.”

As the story goes, he confronted Counselor Dana during the next assembly. He stood before the congregation and raised his voice, “Zombies aren’t what you say they are. They’re people. People you exiled or killed.” Gasps. Murmurs. Dana didn’t flinch.

Shortly after that, he was taken from our house in the middle of the night by the zombies. I was told he did not survive. Somehow, I slept through the entire ordeal.

The Council found unsanctioned books in our house and accused him of subversive behavior. They vilified him for his blatant disregard for The Ninefold Harmonies, labeled him a terrorist, and charged him with intentionally engaging with the zombies.  

I was horrified that they would find the book my father had given me. I would have thrown it away, but I didn’t want to risk getting caught with it in my possession. So I left it in its hiding place.

I noted the titles of his books they incinerated: Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Animal Farm by George Orwell, Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones, and The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin. I desperately wanted to understand what was so important in those books that he was willing to defy the Council of Safety and Nine Harmonies. I recited the Sanctioned Knowledge Harmony a dozen times to suppress those treasonous thoughts.

My parent’s supposed friends spoke out against him. My mother was devastated with shame. Her head hung low, and her eyes looked hollow. She hasn’t had guests over in years. She used to bounce around at gatherings and embarrass me with her unabashed pride, trying to use my minor accomplishments to one-up her friends. They accused my mother of violating the seventh Harmony of Community Witnessing, “All citizens are required to observe and report deviations in others. Silence is complicity. Complicity is infection.”

Now, on those rare occasions when she has to go outside, she dresses like the Invisible Man, hoping not to be recognized. I’ve reminded her of the first Harmony of Uniform Appearance, “Clothing shall conform to assigned colors and styles denoting role and rank. Personal adornments, hairstyles, or modifications are forbidden.” Hiding in her clothes made her stand out even more.

It wasn’t as bad for me. My friends were mostly sympathetic and unaware of the stigma that my mother faced. The sins of the father are not visited upon the daughter, but the same is not true for the wife.

My mother was bitten by that zombie in her own way, but it gave me purpose. I studied hard in school to become a medic.

I still had the book but haven’t read it.

###

I read the book.

It was like seeing a new color. The world remained the same, yet everything had a fresh appearance. The boy in the story was me. I lived in a highly controlled society where emotions, choices, and memories were suppressed. I longed to “receive” memories of what the world once was before it was ruled by The Council of Safety and The Ninefold Harmonies. I wanted to know what it was like to be free.

But I was seventeen. My only act of defiance was skipping a morning meeting.

My mentor, Renna, had trained medics for over a decade. She had served on the Council once before stepping down “for health reasons.” She reprimanded me for missing the morning meeting. She made me recite the second Harmony of The Synchronized Schedule a dozen times: “Daily activities shall be aligned with broadcast Council Time. Unauthorized deviation disrupts communal rhythm and is grounds for recalibration.” It was a slap on the wrist. She could have expelled me from the school.

I was glad I showed up for the next morning’s meeting. Someone hijacked the courtyard screen, displaying subversive citizens fed to captive zombies held in fully enclosed pens. The voiceover accused the Council of having defeated the zombie apocalypse long ago. Then the screen went black.

The speaker blared the fourth Harmony of Emotion Management: “Excessive emotional displays of grief, rage, or love introduce instability. Citizens must report irregular feelings for recalibration or adjustment.” The crowd’s murmurs drowned out the squawking voice of the speaker.

For the first time in years, Mother removed her sunglasses. She said nothing, but I could see the spark in her eye was the fury of betrayal.

Screams and shouting replaced the chaos of the crowd. Panic ensued, and people ran in all directions. I witnessed children being trampled in the frenzy. I saw zombies pursuing them. They didn’t act like the zombies in the film clip. One approached a fallen child and hovered over it, stopping to sniff the air. It helped the child to its feet.

A shot rang out, and its head exploded. More shots rang out, and more bodies collapsed under a splattering of blood and flesh. My training as a medic kicked in. I treated a dozen or more trampled people, bandaging their wounds with cloth and using belts as makeshift tourniquets. I didn’t see a single person with a bite mark. More medics arrived to treat the injured.

The evening broadcast debunked the morning’s video as a deepfake. The perpetrator was identified as Jonah Enright. The announcer erupted in apocalyptic rage at Jonah Enright, apologized for violating the second Harmony, and then forgave himself, claiming his anger was justified under the circumstances.

Someone yelled, “We want the truth.”

Couselor Dana spoke, “Remember the third Harmony of Filtered Language, ‘Speech must reflect dignity, optimism, and purpose. Questioning Council wisdom, using unverified terms, or engaging in speculative discourse is prohibited.’ Subversives allowed zombies into the Meristem Compound. The Council of Safety responded quickly and efficiently before the zombies could infect the population. Those responsible for this heinous act will be found and punished.”

More announcers praised the Council of Safety for its swift response and discussed the specifics of the investigation.

In a week, the hijacking of the film clip never happened.

###

I was there. My memory of it was as vivid as any I had. Nothing added up: the video, zombies appearing in the middle of the day at a convenient moment from out of nowhere, the less-than-aggressive behavior of the zombies, and the suspiciously quick response from the Council of Safety.

I understood—control, not truth. Truth is freedom, and freedom is dangerous—more dangerous than bullets, more dangerous than zombies, whether undead or wakeful and diseased either way.

I lived a lie. My outward demeanor did not reflect my thoughts, leaving me in constant angst. I struggled to concentrate on my studies.

Renna noticed right away and asked, “What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t explain, so I said, “I want to live the truth.”

She surprised me by saying, “Mara, you are about to become a zombie.”

I recoiled, “I’m too young to die.”

“You are dead already to the Council of Security. They know about the book. They will come for you one night, abduct you, and feed you to the zombies. You will make a fine morning telecast, and then be forgotten.”

I began to cry.

Renna said, “There are safe places to live outside the Wall.

I wiped a tear from my eye. “What are you saying?”

“Mara, I can take you to a safe place, but there’s a price to pay.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“The price isn’t money. You have to confront the Consul of Safety in a public setting. Once you do that, they will make you a zombie, both literally and figuratively—an object of hatred with no mind and no soul, existing only to kill good people indiscriminately. There is no turning back.”

“I don’t want to leave my mom.”

“We will make arrangements with her. She is ready.”

“What about my studies?”

“You will live with your father. Isn’t that why you studied so hard?”

To stop living like a zombie, I had to become one while the real zombies posed as our salvation.

“I will do it.”

Featured Image by ImageFX.

Adventure, Photography

The Language of the Desert

| thetembo
Reading Time: 3 minutes

In Desert Solitaire, Edward Abbey writes, “And how could they hope to find this treasure which has no name and has never been seen? … Hard to say – and yet, when they found it, they could not fail to recognize it.” He suggests that the desert defies words but is “knowable when you see it,” invoking Justice Potter Stewart’s assertion (about porn). 

How do you speak desert? Its language is not spoken but sensed. You don’t study vocabulary—you attune.

Its alphabet consists of sun-bleached bones, twisted branches of juniper trees, and the striations of rock that mark time in colors.

You learn to read the shade as shelter, the cactus bloom as resilience, and the cracked earth as memory. You begin to listen to its stillness, feel its power on your skin, and sense its indifference with each breath. Every slot canyon is a whispered invitation to enter. Every lizard is a punctuation mark in motion.


Its nouns are Joshua Tree, Cushion Foxtail Cactus, Spiny Senna, Yellow-backed Spiny Lizard, Black-headed Grosbeak, Townsend’s Solitaire, Western Tanager, Chuckwalla, stark red Barrel Cactus, blooming Ocotillo, woefully un-cuddly Teddybear Cholla, purple-flowered Desert Willow, Desert Bluebells, and stunning Apricot Mallow.


Its verbs are the silences between the blowing wind, the curves of a canyon wall, the sparseness of the Joshua Tree forest, the steepness and rockiness of a canyon trail, and the ladder reaching toward a skylight opening in the ceiling of a slot.

Its conversation is not voiced but imagined in the claustrophobia of a slot canyon, the needles of a prickly cholla patch, and the vastness of an infinite basin. It shouts at you from within while clinging prostrate to the side of an almost trail, overlooking the abyss of a hundred-foot sheer cliff, and recoiling at the silence of a rock-hugging rattlesnake while gazing into the darkness of a twenty-foot drop. It sometimes speaks whimsically in an Ocotillo arch and among the rock formations: the Robot, the Skull, the Whale, the Claw, Kong, and the Big Crunch.

As Abbey writes, “The Desert waits outside, desolate and still and strange, unfamiliar and often grotesque in its forms and colors, inhabited by rare, furtive creatures of incredible hardiness and cunning, sparingly colonized by weird mutants from the plant kingdom, most of them as spiny thorny, stunted and twisted as they are tenacious.”

However you choose to arrive—whether in your Sunday dress and open-toed shoes, with your pet cactus to meet its wild cousins, or adorned with all the cosmetic enticements of human attraction—if you approach it with curiosity and respect, and take the time to learn even a little, you’ll find that the Desert doesn’t just open up; it communicates with you through an ancient, unspoken intimacy.

Writing

Ninja Infestation

| thetembo
Reading Time: 2 minutes

Every few days, something small vanished from Alan’s house. First, it was a toothbrush. Then a sock. A spoon. A single chopstick. Not pairs and never sets—just one of each item, missing. At first, he blamed himself. He lived alone and was forgetful. Maybe he’d discarded them without realizing it. 

But then came the shadows. They flickered in his peripheral vision, darting across the hallway and clinging to the corners of his ceiling when the lights were low. Every time he looked closer, he saw nothing—just dust motes and drywall. Perhaps he had ghosts.

“I think I’m losing it,” Alan muttered one night, staring into his empty silverware drawer.

His therapist diagnosed it as stress. His neighbor suggested raccoons. His mom recommended prayer.

In desperation, Alan called an exterminator.

“Something keeps taking my things,” he said on the phone. “And how do I say this? It’s embarrassing to mention, but I keep seeing something in the shadows. Or someone. Maybe I’m hallucinating?”

The voice on the other end of the phone listened intently. “You ever hear of ninja infestations?” he asked.

Alan blinked. “Is that…a metaphor?”

“No, sir. Ninjas. Real ones. It’s rare, but they get into old buildings. Usually, they move in after a divorce or during a midlife crisis. They like emotional vulnerability. And clutter.”

Alan looked around his cluttered, emotionally vulnerable house and asked, “How soon can you get here?”

###

The exterminator, a sun-wrinkled man in a beige jumpsuit with a name tag that read “Doug,” drove up the next morning in his truck. Doug reached into his toolbox and pulled out what appeared to be a mousetrap merged with a bonsai tree.

Doug said, “These will do the trick.”

Doug strategically placed the traps behind the toilet, inside the pantry, and above the coat rack. Afterward, he tipped his cap and left, promising to return in 48 hours.

Alan spent the next two days sleeping with the lights turned on.

When Doug returned, he wore the smile of someone who knew his craft well.

“Well,” Doug said as he stepped into the pantry, “looks like I was right.”

A tiny man in black was inside the trap, folded neatly like origami.

Alan gasped.

Doug moved efficiently through the house, retrieving all of his traps. “Caught thirteen,” Doug said. “Three in the vents. Two behind the sofa. One in the blender.”

Alan watched in stunned silence as Doug deposited the last of the wriggling, silent ninjas into a large, unmarked crate.

“What…what are you going to do with them?” Alan asked.

“Oh, turn ’em over to ICE,” Doug said casually, snapping the crate shut. “They got a special unit for undocumented stealth operatives. There is a big backlog right now. Lots of demand. Lots of private contractors need invisible labor.”

Alan stared. “That sounds…morally ambiguous.”

Doug shrugged. “Hey, I just trap ’em. Bureaucracy handles the rest.”

Alan nodded slowly and said, “Uh huh.”

Doug tipped his cap to say goodbye. “Call if you hear whispering.”

He drove away with the crate rattling in the back.

Alan stood on the porch and watched as the truck vanished from sight.

###


The house was quiet and tranquil. Nothing stirred in the corners. For the first time in weeks, Alan felt a sense of solitude. He discovered his missing sock folded neatly on his pillow and smiled.

Writing

Sinister Frequencies

| thetembo
Reading Time: 7 minutes

I sat in a soundproof chamber lined with gray acoustic foam. I coughed but couldn’t hear it. The overhead light flickered, creating an eerie atmosphere.

The audiologist’s droning voice filtered through the headset, “Press the button when you think you hear a tone.”

I heard soft chirps at the same frequency, growing fainter with each button press until I presumably couldn’t hear them anymore.

She instructed, “Try to relax. It will give us a more accurate test. Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

I was still groggy and must have fallen asleep because I didn’t remember leaving the booth. I opted for the SolTone 9x: the top-of-the-line, Bluetooth, AI-powered, forty-eight-hour battery, effectively invisible, state-of-the-art model. After the audiologist calibrated them for my hearing profile, I put in my new ears. Forgotten sounds danced in my brain with new clarity: the clack of the keys on the keyboard, a conversation in the hallway, and the sounds of traffic outside the office. I smiled, paid my bill, and left.

Two months later.

I was looking forward to my friend Owen’s visit. He always came over around five on Thursdays for drinks and to catch up. I inserted my ears and was met with the disappointing sound of them powering down due to a lack of charge. Those damn devices had been giving me trouble, not always sitting properly on the charger. What good were they if they didn’t work when I needed them?

Owen texted me that he was running late. Angry that the charger had failed, I put the hearing aids on it and ensured they were properly seated. I hoped to have some power in the units before he arrived. I noticed another voicemail but chose to ignore it.

Fifteen minutes later, I checked on the hearing aids to see if they had charged. The charger had fallen on the floor, the case open and empty. There was no sign of the devices. They were neither on the table, under the bed, nor in my ears. The doorbell rang. I decided to enjoy happy hour without my ears and search for them after Owen left.

After Owen departed, I scoured the bedroom, kitchen, and the bathroom.

Nothing.

I meticulously emptied the trash, piece by piece. The only thing that struck me as odd was the missing voicemail. I couldn’t recall deleting it, which added to my growing confusion. I tore the house apart for two days, my frustration mounting with each passing moment. I checked the security footage from the doorbell cam during the time frame from when I knew I had them to when I knew I had lost them.

Nothing.

The more I searched, the more perplexed I became. How could something just vanish like that?

I conducted the search again.

Nothing.

My ears were gone.

#

Owen visited one morning a few days later, sipping coffee from a thermos with his own SolTone 9Xs tucked neatly in his ears.

I stared at them. They were the same beige as mine.

“We both see the same audiologist and have the same model. You’re sure you didn’t take mine by accident?”

Owen appeared puzzled, then laughed. “These are mine. Got them a month ago. Same model, yeah—but I had to replace the first pair.”

“What happened to the first?”

Owen scratched his head. “Lost them. Honestly? I think I threw them out. I don’t even remember doing it. I only had the things for about two months, too. It was an expensive mistake.”

I winced and said, “I don’t remember losing them either. And it was about two months after I bought them. That’s a weird coincidence.”

Owen sighed. “Yeah, well, we aren’t exactly spring chickens anymore. You know how it is.”

“I suppose. Growing old isn’t for the poor.”

“Are you going to buy the replacements?”

“Not until I figure out what happened to the originals.”

As the days passed, a growing suspicion began to form in my mind. Owen had been with me the night I lost them. Could he have taken them? Swapped them out? He had said they were the same model…

But Owen was my friend. Gaslighting me was something he would do, but I knew him. He would have come clean in fifteen minutes to have a big laugh at my expense.

Still.

#

That evening, I reviewed the security footage from the doorbell cam again, expanding the viewing window both before and after. I did not leave the house that day. No one entered before Owen arrived. Owen came and then left. I watched it once more in slow motion as if that would make a difference.

Nothing.

The video proved that I hadn’t gone anywhere. Yet, the hearing aids had vanished. By midnight, I had rewritten and discarded three theories: home intruder, faulty memory, and Owen. None of them held.

And now, another thought whispered in my mind: What if I did it?

Every crime has a motive, right? So why would I steal my ears from myself? I held the empty charger and muttered, “I loved having my hearing back.”

Still.

#

I booked an appointment with Dr. Peyme, my neurologist. She believed the most likely explanation was a loss of focus, but she indulged my fears. She ordered an MRI and cognitive testing and suggested a week of daily logs.

When the doctor’s tests came back clear, I was relieved that there was nothing physically wrong with me. I was healthy; there was no sign of early dementia, trauma, or dissociative episodes. It was a weight off my shoulders.

Dr. Peyme said, “You’re healthy, Clive. Not even the faintest sign of early dementia, trauma, or dissociative episodes.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but it doesn’t address the five-thousand-dollar question: Where are they?”

The doctor hesitated. “Maybe it was just misplacement.”

“I know what happened.”

“The mind plays tricks.”

I walked out of the clinic with a growing weight in my chest—neither fear nor sadness, but uncertainty. If there wasn’t an explanation, then I have a screw loose. This uncertainty was crushing, leaving me feeling lost and disoriented.

#

The following week, I was ready to surrender, realizing I would have to live with uncertainty. Without my ears, simple tasks became daunting, conversations were a struggle, and I felt isolated. I almost bought a new pair of hearing aids—almost. But something kept gnawing at me, and I couldn’t let it go.

Owen stopped by on Thursday for our usual happy hour.

I said, “They’re running a discount on the SolTone 9Xs over at the clinic. I’m tempted to get another pair. But it still bugs me what happened,” hoping that he would discourage me from giving up the search.

“Yeah,” Owen said. “Losing them like that. I know the feeling. But what will you do, say huh and what, and miss half the words in every conversation? Not hearing was hurting my performance at work. I probably wouldn’t have my job right now without them. Is it interfering with your work?”

Owen’s phone vibrated, and he said, “Hang on. I have a voicemail.”

He picked up the phone to listen. Owen blinked and put the phone on the counter without locking it. Then, like a puppet yanked by an invisible thread, he reached toward his ears. His face had gone expressionless, lips parted slightly. His eyes looked past me toward something empty and far away. He put the hearing aids in their case and walked toward the kitchen sink. He turned on the trash compactor.

“Owen!” I leapt up and ripped the case from his hands. He didn’t resist but looked blankly out the window over the sink. I smacked his cheek with an open hand.

Owen flinched, and his eyes refocused. As if nothing happened, he said, “Not hearing was really hurting my performance at work. I probably wouldn’t have my job right now without them. Is it interfering with your work?”

My heart skipped a beat.

“What?”

“What, what?” he echoed.

He picked his phone up from the counter. “Hold on. I just need to—”

“Need to what?”

“Delete this voicemail. It says scam likely.”

I took the phone from his hand again. This time, he resisted.

He protested, “What the hell are you doing? Give me back my phone.”

I glanced at the number and recognized it. That was it. That was the clue. A thought buried like a landmine in my head. 

#

“Give me my phone,” Owen said testily.

“Why did you take out your hearing aids?”

“What are you talking about? I’m still wearing them.”

Owen placed his fingers to his ears and said, “See. There…”

He appeared perplexed. “Huh? That’s weird. I don’t remember taking them out.”

“You put them in your charger just now. Don’t you remember?”

He opened the case in his hand. “No. I put them in to hear just before I came in. I was wearing them while we were talking. I swear.”

“The voicemail you were about to delete. It must be a trigger.”

“A trigger for what?” Owen was about to play the voicemail again.

“No, No! If I’m right, that voicemail will send us both into a hypnotic state.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then?”

“Let me listen to the voicemail. I don’t have any hearing aids to throw out.” 

“Sure.” He handed me the phone.

I said, “If I start acting weird, slap me in the face.”

Owen shook his head. “I’m not going to slap you in the face. That’s crazy.”

The next thing I said was, “Nothing happened. I thought for sure. I guess I am the one that is crazy.”

Owen was staring at me white-faced, holding his phone, and I felt the sting of needles and pins on my jaw.

#

I prepared carefully. I charged a pair of old dummy hearing aids—the same shape and color. I booked a follow-up fitting with the audiologist, Dr. Bunco. I had to check the business card because I didn’t remember her name. I hid two mini-cameras: one in my glasses, the other clipped inside my coat.

When I arrived, Dr. Bunco greeted me warmly.

“Still no sign of your hearing aids?” the doctor asked, genuinely or not, I can’t say.

“No,” I said calmly. “It’s the strangest thing. I don’t know how I lost them. It’s as if I were hypnotized or something.”

Dr. Bunco’s mouth twitched.

She laughed awkwardly. “I—well, that’s—”

I said, firmer, “And the same thing happened to my friend, a patient at your clinic. Both of us lost them exactly two months after we bought them. Isn’t that strange?”

Dr. Bunco stood, turned, and walked over to a drawer. She opened it. Inside was a bin of hearing aid demos. But instead of handling them, she picked up the small waste bin beneath the desk.

I held my breath.

Dr. Bunco dropped a pair of demos inside. Then another. She stood there, staring into the bin.

I whispered, “Got you.”

Dr. Bunco turned. Her face was blank.

I pressed the emergency button on my coat. A prerecorded message went straight to a friend at the police station.

“Clive,” she said evenly. “You should be going now.”

“No,” Clive said. “I think I’ll stay.”

And then the doctor lunged.

#

The struggle was brief. I managed to dodge, knocking over the bin. Hearing aids scattered across the floor like dropped candy. A half dozen pairs—dozens of lives dulled into silence.

The police burst in three minutes later.

Dr. Bunco didn’t resist. She said nothing.

During the investigation, detectives uncovered encrypted files on Dr. Bunco’s work computer: patient hypnosis scripts, implant logs, and behavioral test data. She’d embedded audio cues into the hearing aid fittings themselves, planting triggers in the minds of her patients. A specific phrase delivered by voicemail would induce a mild dissociative fugue—a trance long enough to dispose of the devices. Once lost, patients returned, bought replacements, and the scam repeated.

Over forty patients had been affected. All had lost their hearing aids two months after purchasing them. Two months was the smoking gun. It was statistically impossible, even for old people. She was charged with fraud, unauthorized medical experimentation, and multiple counts of psychological abuse.

Owen stopped wearing his hearing aids for a while.

We both switched to a new clinic.

I bought new ones but would never again allow myself to be tested in a booth without another person present.

Writing

Hickory, Dickory, Dock

| thetembo
Reading Time: 3 minutes

Hickory, dickory, dock
The mouse ran up the clock.
The mouse had won,
The clock ran down,
Hickory, dickory, dock.

The clock on the mantle of the sitting room ticked with the calm consistency of a well-ordered day. I sat in front of it, watching from a wooden chair, soaking in its rhythm, regularity, and predictability. I admired the machinations of perfect cause and effect.

I lived alone, or so I thought. The silence of the house was my constant companion. Some nights, I heard a faint scratching coming from the walls. I assumed it was the house settling, the protests of the water pipes, or the wind. Occasionally, a cracker or a piece of cheese would go missing, but I never paid it any mind. Such things are as easy to explain away as a pair of mislaid reading glasses.

Then I got hearing aids.

I sat mesmerized, staring at the clock’s music. The sounds were crisper and sharper than before, and lost frequencies returned. I heard the microwave chime when it finished and the shuffling of my feet on the floor. I listened to the water running from the faucet, every drawer’s scrape, and every floorboard’s groan as if I had never heard them before. A kettle’s whistle stabbed at my ears, and the toilet flushed with renewed vigor.

In the evening, I heard a new sound. Was it the pitter-patter of feet scurrying across the floorboards in the attic? A squeak? I blinked, trying to process it. The ceiling had a voice, a voice I didn’t recognize. I was not alone, and I didn’t want any uninvited company.

The clock ticked louder now, a relentless reminder of the mystery above. Not a soothing sound of order but a metronome calling me to action. I pulled out the ladder and climbed into the attic with a flashlight. I searched every corner and pulled back the loose insulation, determined to find a single shred of rodent evidence: a small black dropping or a nest of stained and shredded newspaper. But the attic remained an enigma, refusing to yield its secrets. I found nothing. All the seals to the outside were still intact. I explained the noises away like a forgotten key.

The clock didn’t forget. It ticked on and on, mocking me that the house was not my own. I gritted my teeth without opening my mouth and pulled at the hair on my scalp. Enough was enough. I couldn’t bear the annoyance any longer. I took out the hearing aids and placed them on the mantel. 

I sat in the chair facing the silent clock, relieved. I closed my eyes for a brief moment to enjoy the peace. When I opened them, the hearing aids were gone—vanished. I searched the mantel, every inch of the floor, the wall, the ceiling, and every improbable and impossible place I could think of. “Where did they go?” I asked the clock. “They didn’t just walk away.”

The clock said nothing. The silence didn’t comfort me. It accused.

I lay in bed, my eyes wide open. Then I heard it again. Scurrying. The wisp of a noise stopped. More scurrying. A squeak. The mouse was there. In the morning, I searched the attic, the walls, and the floorboards, but I did not find a single dropping or crumb.

“Impossible,” I muttered under my breath. “No way it could have stolen them. It’s a mouse.” But what other explanation was there? 

Not knowing was worse than knowing. I stopped shaving, stopped opening the curtains, and sat in the dim glow of a flickering light bulb, day after day. My thoughts spiraled like dirty water down a drain. I had to find that damn mouse and retrieve my hearing aids. I had to find my sanity.

I stood in front of the mirror and muttered. “You’re losing it. There was no pitter-patter of small feet. There was no squeak. There was no mouse. You imagined the whole damn thing.”

I stared at the mantle where the hearing aids once lay, trying to relive the moment before they vanished, attempting to rewrite the world into something that made sense. But I couldn’t. The moment happened the way it happened, and the hearing aids were as real as I was.

I sat frozen in a chair, facing the clock. It made no sound; its hands remained still. Time passed without measure. I listened to the silence with unblinking eyes, awakened to the profound truth: I didn’t exist.

Writing

Martha

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

Upon the bough, amidst a blackened sky,
Martha perched where countless wings reside.

A living tempest, flock devours the land,
Predators cower, yielding to their band.

Hunters’ scorn, with greedy eyes they see, 
Hundreds of millions, each one ceased to be. 

Now solitary, caged, and frail, she lies,
Martha, the last of her kind, beneath dim skies.

Authors Note: An attempt at the 4-act structure in the style of “Spring, Summer, Asteroid Bird: The Art of Eastern Storytelling” by Henry Lien. Assist by ChatGPT.

Uncategorized

The Parable of Lazarus and the Shipping Magnate

| thetembo
Reading Time: 2 minutes

There was a man named Lazarus, the son of a fisherman, who lived on the shores of a once-pristine island. The waters had once been as clear as glass, the reefs vibrant with color, and the fish abundant and fat. But those days were long gone.

Every morning, Lazarus would recline in his sun-bleached beach chair, its legs buried deep in the warm sand, gazing out at where the horizon should have been. But there was no horizon anymore—only an endless procession of steel behemoths. A twenty-mile parking lot of bunkering freighters, supertankers, cruise ships, tugboats, ferries, and oil tankers, all waiting to feed on the monstrous peninsula of oil storage and berthing ports. The air reeked of diesel and sulfur, while the water, though still shimmering in the sun, carried a sickly sheen.

One day, overcome by the heat, Lazarus stood up and walked to the shoreline. The waves lapped at his feet, warm and familiar, whispering promises of refreshing relief. He dove in.

At first, the water embraced him as it always had. But as he swam farther, that embrace turned sour. A slick of oil clung to his skin. The sting of chemical discharge burned his eyes. Beneath him, the reef was silent—no fish, no movement, only the bleached skeletons of what had once been. Lazarus struggled, coughing, his limbs weak from the poison seeping into his pores. He cried out, but no one listened.

Far above, on the highest deck of the grandest yacht in the bay, the shipping magnate feasted. His table groaned beneath the weight of delicacies flown in from a world away, and his wine glass brimmed with the finest vintage. He laughed and toasted his guests as his fleet filled their bellies with crude oil and sent their filth into the waters below.

And then, Lazarus was gone.

When death came, it bore him away to the cool embrace of the unblemished deep, where the currents flowed pure, where whales still sang, where the ocean’s heart continued to beat strong.

But the shipping magnate, in his time, also met death. And when he opened his eyes in the afterlife, he found himself standing upon the very shore he had defiled. The sand burned his feet, the air choked his throat, and the water—oh, the water—was as black as tar, boiling with the waste of his empire. He saw Lazarus far off, resting in the arms of the ocean’s forgotten gods, and he cried out:

“Lazarus! Have mercy on me! Dip but a finger in clean water and cool my tongue, for I am tormented by this poison!”

But a voice answered him:

“Did you not feast while others choked? Did you not build your fortune upon the ruin of the sea? The waters you abandoned are the waters you must now endure.”

And the magnate wept, but no tears fell—only a drop of oil.

Author’s Notes:
Inspired by a visit to the island of Lazarus off the coast of Singapore and the biblical parable.
Assist by ChatGPT.

Writing

Palm Oil and Orangutans

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

Me (as commentator): In this discussion, ChatGPT and I are working together to create a better world for palm oil and orangutans.

It started with a trip to Costa Rica with my brother. He shared with me the environmental destruction caused by the demand for palm oil. Then, I witnessed it firsthand in Malaysia—vast stretches of oil palm plantations stretching endlessly across the landscape. When I read about similar plantations in Indonesia, the enormity of palm oil’s impact became impossible to ignore. It’s present in everything—from chocolate bars to biofuels. That’s when I turned to ChatGPT for answers.

Me: How does the global supply chain for palm oil operate? What are the net benefits and environmental costs, particularly in Malaysia and Indonesia?

ChatGPT: Palm oil is one of the most widely used vegetable oils worldwide, and it is used in processed foods, cosmetics, and industrial applications. Its supply chain follows a structured path: cultivation in tropical climates, harvesting and processing into crude and refined products, and global distribution to major markets like China, India, the EU, and the U.S. Sustainability efforts, such as RSPO (Roundtable on Sustainable Palm Oil) certification, exist, but their effectiveness varies.

Palm oil has undeniable advantages. It yields far more oil per hectare than alternatives like soybean or rapeseed, making it incredibly efficient. It supports millions of jobs, particularly in Malaysia and Indonesia, and its affordability makes it a staple in global food security. However, the environmental cost is steep.

Clearing rainforests for plantations has threatened species like orangutans and Sumatran tigers. Draining peatlands releases vast amounts of CO₂. Monoculture farming depletes nutrients, and runoff from pesticides pollutes rivers. Land grabs and exploitative labor practices continue to be widespread.

The problem is complex. Palm oil is too efficient and economically embedded to remove, yet its environmental impact calls for accountability. Stricter regulations, improved land management, and consumer demand for sustainable sourcing could help tip the scales.

Me (as commentator): That brings up another question. Is it good for you?

Me: What health effects and issues are associated with palm oil?

ChatGPT: The health impact of palm oil varies based on its form and consumption method. Unrefined (red) palm oil is abundant in carotenoids and vitamin E, providing antioxidant benefits that promote eye health and alleviate oxidative stress. It also features a balanced fat profile that is more stable than polyunsaturated oils but less harmful than trans fats. Its high smoke point makes it perfect for cooking without generating harmful free radicals.

However, refined palm oil, which is commonly found in processed foods, presents a different narrative. Excessive consumption may elevate LDL cholesterol levels and heighten the risk of heart disease. The processing removes beneficial nutrients, and repeated heating can generate toxic compounds associated with inflammation and metabolic disorders. Additionally, there are concerns about contaminants such as 3-MCPD, a potential carcinogen present in certain refined palm oils.

Palm oil can be part of a balanced diet in moderation, particularly in its unrefined form. However, its use in ultra-processed foods contributes to broader public health concerns, making alternative oils like olive or avocado oil preferable for those worried about cardiovascular health.

Me (as commentator): By now, a broader theme was emerging—one that connected economics, politics, and the environment. Once again, I reflected on Why Nations Fail, a book that examines how extractive political and economic institutions eventually collapse under their own weight. Our relationship with nature, especially in industries like palm oil, has become similarly exploitative.

Me: How does the framework of extractive versus inclusive institutions apply to palm oil? Can the industry transition to a sustainable model?

ChatGPT: The traditional palm oil industry mirrors extractive institutions. Power and profits are concentrated in a few hands, while environmental and social costs are externalized. Short-term gains drive deforestation, land seizures displace communities, and monopolistic control leaves small farmers at a disadvantage. These systems appear profitable, but their foundations are unstable. Degraded land loses productivity, regulatory pressure mounts, and climate change disrupts supply chains.

A shift toward inclusivity would align economic incentives with environmental health. Agroforestry and polyculture could replace monoculture, maintaining biodiversity and soil fertility. Smallholder cooperatives would ensure fair profit distribution, preventing land grabs. Stronger land rights and environmental regulations would safeguard both people and ecosystems. Carbon taxes and sustainability incentives could make responsible practices more financially viable.

Emerging technologies could play a crucial role in this transition. Blockchain enhances supply chain transparency, ensuring that palm oil labeled as sustainable is verifiably sourced from ethical producers. AI-driven monitoring can analyze satellite imagery to detect illegal deforestation in real time, enabling quicker enforcement of conservation laws. Consumer awareness tools, such as apps that scan product barcodes to provide sustainability scores, empower shoppers to support ethical brands. These innovations bridge the gap between policy and action, fostering an industry that benefits both people and the planet.

Once satellite data confirms land use compliance, blockchain records transactions from plantation to refinery. Farmers upload geotagged proof of sustainable practices (e.g., reforested areas, legal permits). Each step in the supply chain is logged on an immutable blockchain ledger, preventing fraud. Consumers scan QR codes on products to verify deforestation-free palm oil origins.

Organizations like Global Forest Watch (GFW), NASA, and the European Space Agency (ESA) use satellites to monitor forests. Radar-based satellites can see through clouds, even in rainforests. Buyers can verify if a plantation is inside a deforestation-free zone. 

Such changes would preserve rainforests and wildlife and create long-term economic stability, ensuring that palm oil remains a viable industry without destroying the land it depends on.

Me: What would prevent people from cheating the system?

ChatGPT: Once satellite data confirms land use compliance, blockchain records transactions from plantation to refinery. Farmers upload geotagged evidence of sustainable practices (e.g., reforested areas, legal permits). Each step in the supply chain is recorded on an immutable blockchain ledger, preventing fraud. Consumers can scan QR codes on products to verify the origins of deforestation-free palm oil.

In 2021, a Malaysian palm oil supplier was discovered to be selling “certified sustainable” palm oil that was actually sourced from illegally deforested areas. The fraud was uncovered through blockchain traceability, AI-driven satellite monitoring, and chemical fingerprinting.

The supplier claimed their palm oil was Roundtable on Sustainable Palm Oil (RSPO) certified, and they forged documents to show compliance. The company purchased palm oil from illegal plantations (including deforested peatlands) and mixed it with genuine certified palm oil at the refinery. They manipulated geolocation data to create the illusion that the palm oil originated from legal farms. GPS spoofing was employed to forge transport records.

A European buyer using blockchain-based supply chain tracking noticed inconsistencies in shipment data. The timestamps didn’t match transport records from the supposed “sustainable farms.” AI-powered satellite imagery (from Global Forest Watch and NASA) detected recent deforestation near the supplier’s reported farms. Machine learning flagged the sudden land use change as suspicious. A DNA-based oil fingerprinting test showed that the oil came from different soil and climate conditions than the claimed certified farms. This revealed the illegal plantations’ true origins.

The palm oil company lost its RSPO certification, and its EU contracts were canceled. Malaysian authorities imposed a fine on the company for fraudulent practices. Buyers began requiring blockchain-based traceability for every shipment. The industry started using satellite verification and AI monitoring as standard anti-fraud tools.

Me (as commentator): The conversation left me without easy answers, but it provided a clearer understanding. Palm oil isn’t inherently bad—it’s our methods of production and consumption that determine whether it becomes a force for progress or destruction. The challenges facing the industry are political, ethical, and economic, yet technology offers solutions to create an inclusive palm oil industry. History has shown us that extractive systems don’t endure. The real question is whether practices will change course significantly enough to have an impact before the system collapses under its own weight.

Author’s Note: Credits to ImageFX for the cover image. ChatGPT for the conversation. Grammarly for the corrections.

Writing

A Tale of Two Cities

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

While researching background information for my upcoming book, “Book a Trip,” which is based on my travels to Malaysia and Singapore, I asked ChatGPT to explain the differences between Johor Bahru and Singapore in light of the analysis presented in “Why Nations Fail.” I found ChatGPT’s analysis insightful and decided to share it here.

Author’s Note: ChatGPT’s facts hold up to superficial scrutiny on Wikipedia. I present this discussion not as definitive research but as a starting point if you ponder where and why the two countries diverged.

Me: Is there a political and economic explanation for the disparity between the culturally similar and geographically colocated cities of Singapore and Johor Bahru along the lines of extractive versus inclusive political and economic institutions described in the book Why Nations Fail?

ChatCPT: Yes, the disparity between Singapore and Johor Bahru (and, by extension, Malaysia as a whole) can be analyzed using the framework of Why Nations Fail by Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson. The book argues that the key to long-term economic prosperity lies in inclusive political and economic institutions, which encourage broad participation, protect property rights, and create incentives for innovation and investment. In contrast, extractive institutions concentrate power and wealth in the hands of a few, stifling broad-based economic development.

Singapore: Inclusive Institutions

Despite its early struggles following independence in 1965, Singapore developed inclusive economic institutions through a robust rule of law, strong protection of property rights, and a meritocratic civil service. The city-state attracted foreign investment by fostering a corruption-free business environment, enforcing contracts, and ensuring political stability. While Singapore often faces criticism for its authoritarian-leaning government, its political institutions, although not fully democratic, have been relatively inclusive in ensuring policy continuity, heavily investing in education and infrastructure, and avoiding the patronage-based politics that burden many post-colonial states.

Johor Bahru: Extractive Institutions in a Malaysian Context

In contrast, Malaysia has experienced a history of more extractive institutions, particularly regarding the concentration of political and economic power within specific groups. The New Economic Policy (NEP), introduced in the 1970s to tackle ethnic disparities, established an affirmative action system that, while aimed at uplifting the Malay majority, also entrenched cronyism and rent-seeking behaviors. Political elites controlled key industries, and economic policies often favored businesses with political connections rather than promoting broad-based competition. This approach discouraged investment and entrepreneurship compared to Singapore’s open and competitive economy.

Border Effect and Divergence

Johor Bahru, although it is located next to Singapore and shares cultural similarities, functions under Malaysian institutions. Consequently:

  • Bureaucratic inefficiencies and corruption create hurdles for businesses.
  • Land and infrastructure development are often tied to political patronage.
  • The regulatory environment is less favorable than Singapore, deterring high-value investments.

Johor Bahru has benefited from spillover effects—such as Singaporean companies setting up factories or Malaysians working in Singapore for higher wages—but these gains are limited by Malaysia’s broader institutional constraints. In contrast, Singapore’s institutions have actively shaped an economic ecosystem that fosters long-term growth.

Conclusion

Following the logic of Why Nations Fail, the contrast between Singapore and Johor Bahru illustrates how different institutional choices lead to significantly different outcomes. Singapore’s relatively inclusive institutions (despite political constraints) have promoted innovation, stability, and high-value economic activity. Malaysia, while more developed than many of its regional peers, still experiences extractive tendencies that hinder Johor Bahru’s ability to fully leverage its proximity to Singapore. This dynamic continues to influence the economic divide between the two cities.

Me: Can you expand on the lack of fully democratic and authoritarian-leaning politics, as this contradicts the Why Nations Fail hypothesis?

ChatGPT: Singapore’s case presents an apparent contradiction to the hypothesis in Why Nations Fail, which argues that inclusive political institutions are necessary for inclusive economic institutions to emerge and sustain long-term prosperity. Singapore has achieved high levels of economic success despite having a political system that is not entirely democratic and exhibits authoritarian-leaning traits. Here’s how this paradox can be understood:

1. Singapore’s Political System: Not Fully Democratic but Stable

Singapore functions as a parliamentary republic with regular elections; however, its political landscape is dominated by the People’s Action Party (PAP), which has held power since independence in 1965. Several factors contribute to its authoritarian-leaning characteristics:

  • Strong State Control: The government exerts tight control over the media, public protests, and political opposition. Defamation lawsuits and regulatory restrictions are employed to suppress dissent.
  • Legal and Institutional Mechanisms: Laws like the Internal Security Act permit detention without trial, and the government wields considerable influence over electoral boundaries and political competition.
  • Limited Political Pluralism: Although opposition parties are present and have made some progress in recent years, the PAP continues to hold a dominant position due to a blend of governance success, institutional control, and legal obstacles to opposition growth.

Despite these authoritarian tendencies, Singapore has not established extractive political institutions in the way Acemoglu and Robinson describe. Rather than concentrating wealth and power in the hands of a narrow elite that hinders economic dynamism (as seen in genuinely extractive regimes), Singapore has built a technocratic, meritocratic, and accountable governance system that emphasizes national economic growth over the personal enrichment of ruling elites.

2. How Has Singapore Avoided Extractive Tendencies?

Singapore’s governance model operates differently than traditional authoritarian regimes by upholding several key characteristics that align with inclusive economic institutions.

  • Rule of Law and Strong Institutions: Unlike extractive regimes, where the political elite rewrites laws for personal gain, Singapore has built a highly efficient, rules-based bureaucracy with low corruption.
  • Meritocracy and Competence: Government positions and economic opportunities are primarily based on merit rather than political loyalty, minimizing the inefficiencies associated with cronyism.
  • Public Goods Investment: The state consistently invests in infrastructure, education, and housing, ensuring widespread benefits instead of concentrating wealth in a small elite.
  • Economic Openness: Singapore has embraced free markets, attracted foreign investment, and promoted competition, steering clear of the monopolistic tendencies often found in extractive economies.

3. Why Does Singapore Work Despite Its Political Constraints?

Acemoglu and Robinson argue that inclusive political institutions create feedback loops that sustain inclusive economic institutions. However, Singapore has maintained long-term economic success despite its dominant-party rule because:

  • Elite Constraints Exist Internally: Although the PAP holds significant power, it is limited by internal norms, elevated public expectations, and global economic pressures. The government is highly responsive to economic challenges and community concerns.
  • Political Stability Has Encouraged Investment: Unlike many authoritarian regimes, where political power shifts violently or unpredictably, Singapore’s stability is a vital asset in attracting businesses and investors.
  • Performance Legitimacy: Rather than depending solely on force, the government secures legitimacy by consistently providing economic growth, effective governance, and a high quality of life.

4. Is This Model Sustainable?

Singapore’s model works as long as the ruling elite remains committed to national prosperity rather than personal enrichment. However, if the PAP’s dominance leads to complacency, growing inequality, or declining political responsiveness, the absence of democratic safeguards could become a liability. Political transitions in non-democratic settings can be risky, and if the current system weakens without institutionalized political competition, Singapore could ultimately face governance challenges.

Conclusion

Singapore’s case challenges the Why Nations Fail framework by demonstrating that economic inclusivity can thrive in a system with limited political inclusivity—but only under specific conditions. The key distinction is that while Singapore’s political institutions are not fully democratic, they are also not entirely extractive. The country has managed to avoid the elite capture, rent-seeking, and cronyism typically associated with extractive regimes, allowing its economy to prosper. However, this success relies on sustained institutional integrity, which is not guaranteed over the long term.

Photography

A Duck is more than its Quack!

| thetembo
Reading Time: 9 minutes

The snowbirds are here, and I don’t mean the people overwintering in Florida. I mean the actual birds that migrate here to spend the winter. In the past two months, I’ve visited Santee Lakes, Lake Miramar, Lake Poway, and San Elijo Lagoon. I’ve checked off half a dozen or so new species on the bird list and have some beautiful pictures to show for it and share.

For the record, I use the iNaturalist app and community to help me accurately identify the species. The Seek app (an iPhone app) can be used in the field if you have an internet connection. You can follow me on iNaturalist as user angelmi or Instagram as user contact.mike.angel@gmail.com. I use iNaturalist.org to contribute to biodiversity science. I use Instagram to promote nature and showcase my amateur photography skills.

Dabblers

The dabblers are the ducks you see with their asses in the air and their heads underwater. A dabbler is a waterfowl that feeds on the surface rather than diving underwater. They like to dine on aquatic vegetation, seeds, and small invertebrates in shallow water. Their legs are placed more centrally on their bodies, making them better suited for walking on land than diving ducks.

I found the Green-winged Teal in the shallows of San Elijo Lagoon on the frontage trail. I didn’t see any comrades, but I probably wouldn’t have recognized them, especially the females, as this was a new species for me. Teals are small crow-sized ducks. The green-winged teal is a small dabbling duck found in ponds and marshes, feeding on seeds and aquatic vegetation.

There are 77,635 worldwide observations of the green-winged teal in the iNaturalist database as of this writing. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

I found this blue-winged teal by the shoreline near Annie’s Canyon in San Elijo Lagoon. He was swimming with a coot and two females, which was also a new species for me. The crescent markings on its face drew my attention as a species I didn’t recognize. The blue-winged teal is slightly larger than the green-winged. It is distinguished by blue patches on its wings but I did not see it fly.

There are 48,483 worldwide observations of the blue-winged teal in the iNaturalist database. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

I found several specimens of the cinnamon teal in all corners of San Elijo Lagoon, which means maybe five or so observations, all in shallow water sifting through the reeds, presumably looking for invertebrates or aquatic plants. The brown-red plumage and the bright red eye distinguish this from other teals.

There are 23,189 worldwide observations of the cinnamon teal in the iNaturalist database as of this writing. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

I found this Northern Pintail sifting through the mud on the shore of San Elijo Lagoon near Annie’s Canyon. Its bright-white S-shaped arc on its neck distinguishes it from the rest, but the duck is pretty common throughout the lagoon.

The Northern Pintails frequent open wetlands and are one of the first ducks to migrate south. Who can blame them for beating the cold and the rest of the snowbirds? There are 45,199 worldwide observations of the Northern Pintails in the iNaturalist database. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

I found this Gadwall at Lake Poway, hanging out with the Coots and Mallards, looking for handouts near the dock. Coots and Mallards are ubiquitous in San Diego County’s waterways year-round, so I rarely take pictures of them anymore, despite their interesting rail feet and the iridescent green colors of the Mallards.

I could have easily overlooked the Gadwall as its plumage is indistinct and easily mistaken for the drab female colors of almost any duck species. I long contended that male birds are colorful not only to impress the females but also to distract predators away from nests guarded by the more camouflage-oriented females. Gadwalls are said to outcompete other ducks by stealing vegetation they pull up underwater. I’ve worked with some gadwalls, but that is another story.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 74,987 worldwide observations of the Gadwall. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

The Northern Shovelers are easy to identify because of their unique white-brown-white body color and green head. I spotted this specimen in Lake Poway but have also documented others at San Elijo and a Cook County Forest Preserve Pond near Chicago in the iNaturalist database. I saw one sifting through the water with its oversized bill. According to Wikipedia, the Northern Shovelers use their spoon-shaped bills to filter plankton.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 92,841 worldwide observations of the Northern Shoveler. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

The American Wigeons are an abundant winter visitor to all the waterways of San Diego County. At the duck pond in Kit Carson Park, they are as numerous, domesticated, and as needy as the mallards and coots that lay about waiting for handouts. Its defining characteristic is the green patch around its eye and a cream-colored cap running from the crown of its head to its bill.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 57,452 worldwide observations of the Northern Shoveler. Its conservation status is of least concern.

Divers

The divers swim underwater to forage for food, traveling to deeper waters than the dabblers. Their legs are positioned further back on their bodies, making them excellent swimmers but more awkward on land.

Ring-necked Ducks are a common sight in the San Diego waterways in the winter. I often confuse these diving ducks with the Lesser Scaup. You have to look closely to see the ring around its neck, but the white ring around its bill seems to be its defining characteristic. Ring-bill seems a more fitting name than ring-neck. Those yellow eyes against black feathers give it an intense look. To misquote a popular song, “If ducks could kill, they probably will in ponds without frontiers…”

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 51,257 worldwide observations of the Ring-necked Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

I happened to see this specimen on “Kiss a Ginger Day.” Yes, there is such a thing, and I suspect it was an inside job. This Redhead had none of it, maybe because I called him a specimen. The same thing happened with my ginger girlfriend when I called her a specimen. The Redheads prefer deeper water and often flock with canvasbacks.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 19,913 worldwide observations of the Ring-necked Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

I spotted this Lesser Scaup in Lake Poway. They dive for mollusks and aquatic insects by poking through the mud at the bottom of ponds. It has a similar dark head, yellow eyes, and blueish bill, but no ring around the bill like the Ring-necked duck. It’s been a long time since I recorded a Greater Scaup, so I have little basis for comparison between the Lesser and the Greater, but I did post this once:

Lesser, humble, in demeanor,
Yet resilient, a quiet demeanor
Greater stands with noble grace,
A regal presence in the sea's embrace.

Lesser, grounded, but steadfast,
Navigates its pond with calm contrast.
Greater soars with conficence high,
A master of the open sky.

In every quack, a tale unfolds,
Of differences, their feathers hold.
Greater, lesser, on waters vast,
Together create a subtle contrast.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 34,948 worldwide observations of the Lesser Scaup. Its conservation status is of least concern.

I captured this pair of Canvasbacks off the dam on Lake Miramar. Although I didn’t get very close to them, I realized immediately by the male’s white body and redhead that it was a species I hadn’t seen before. The Canvasback is the largest diving duck.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 15,474 worldwide observations of the Canvasback. Its conservation status is of least concern.

This capture comes from Lake Miramar, but I’ve seen the Bufflehead in all the lakes except the Kit Carson Duck Pond. The defining characteristic is the big white patch behind the eye. When the light catches the neck feathers correctly, they have interesting iridescent colors. The Bufflehead is one of the smallest diving ducks, rivaling the Green-winged Teal for the honors.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 67,681 worldwide observations of the Bufflehead. Its conservation status is of least concern.

The first Ruddy Duck I saw had a blue bill and reddish plumage. I thought this might be the female, but I read the winter color is significantly different, as shown above, so I’m not sure. The scoop-shaped bill is closest to a defining characteristic when they are in drab mode.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 43,039 worldwide observations of the Ruddy Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

The wood duck looks like someone accidentally dropped a full paint palette on it. It is stunningly colorful. I have found wood ducks at Santee Lakes in summer and winter. Although the wood ducks are migratory, many in the Pacific flyway stay year-round. And who could blame them? It’s worth a trip to Santee Lakes to see them. Even if you don’t, Santee Lakes is a birding paradise.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 79,931 worldwide observations of the Wood Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

Geese

What distinguishes geese from ducks, aside from their size? Geese honk and ducks quack!

I saw this Canadian Goose Armada at Santee Lakes, where they seem to be regular visitors. Geese supposedly like to eat grass, another differentiator between ducks and geese, and there is plenty of grass at Santee Lakes. I’ve recorded observations of the geese near Chicago. They are ubiquitous in the ponds, lakes, and rivers of Cook County, Illinois and considered a nuisance because of their sizeable avian excrement. If you have ever wondered where the term “goosing” comes from, try getting too close to one of these big birds.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 299,128 worldwide observations of the Ruddy Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

The white collar around its neck distinguishes the Brant Goose. It’s much smaller than its Canadian counterpart and not much larger than the other ducks on the lagoon. I spotted this one at San Elijo Lagoon, which makes sense, given their predilection for eelgrass.

The Brants breed on the high Arctic Tundra, making them the long-distance winners of the lagoon. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 16,238 worldwide observations of the Brant. Its conservation status is of least concern.

Rails

The tide was high on the cusp of a full moon, and I had to wade barefoot and ankle-deep along the flooded frontage trail. I was rewarded with a Sora wading in the open along the trail’s edge. I attribute my good fortune to the high tide because the water’s edge was significantly closer to the trail, and the flooding limited foot traffic to the few willing to walk a hundred feet of trail in the water.

Check out their feet if you want to see the difference between rails and ducks. Ducks have webbed feet, while rails have long toes designed for wading and walking over the plants at the water’s edge. The rails I’ve spotted in San Diego include the Coot, the Ridgeway Rail, Moorhens, and the Sora. The Sora I spotted in San Elijo Lagoon was the first I’ve ever seen. When iNaturalist identified the species of the specimen for me, it was the first time I’d heard of it. According to Wikipedia, the Sora is common, though seldom seen, preferring to stay deep in the safety of reeds.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 16,238 worldwide observations of the Brant. Its conservation status is of least concern. I also spotted a Ridgway’s Rail in the lagoon last summer, making it one of only 2,257 observations. It’s listed as “Near Threatened” and “Endangered” by the federal government.

Pelicans

The White Pelicans are seasonal visitors overwintering in Southern California. The capture above is from Santee Lakes. There are only two species of Pelican that I am familiar with: the White Pelican and the Brown Pelican. The Brown Pelicans are sea birds and year-round inhabitants. They were once on the endangered list thanks to DDT and pesticide poisoning but have recovered nicely since the toxins were banned.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 60,103 worldwide observations of the Brant. Its conservation status is of least concern.

And The Rest

I haven’t included grebes, cormorants, herons, egrets, terns, and seagulls, all seen in San Diego’s lagoons and lakes, as most are year-round residents. It’s nice to find such biodiversity in these areas, although I suspect I am a victim of a shifting baseline for the worse. With some luck, I can add a few more entries for winter visitors before they head back north.

Authors Note: Any uncredited facts come from ChatGPT, which I did not query for its sources.