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A man's vision for a utopian society is disillusioned when travelling forward into time reveals a dark and dangerous society. Reboots and Remakes Check out this ever-growing list of movies and TV shows that were so nice they had to be made twice -- and more.
In 1992, a cargo ship container tumbled into the North Pacific, dumping 28,000 rubber ducks and other bath toys that were headed from China to the U.S. Some of the ducks, says Hohn, made their way to the coast of Gore Point, Alaska, a remote isthmus at the southern tip of Kachemak Bay State Park. Donovan Hohn's work has also appeared in Harpers, The New York Times Magazine and Outside Magazine. Interview Highlights On the importance of beachcombers "There are people who do beachcombing for different reasons, but there's a community a€” a bit like avid bird-watchers a€” for whom it is more than just a pleasurable recreational thing to do when you go to the seashore. Serb warlord Arkan is shown attending a central Belgrade protest against NATO airstrikes in 1999.
In an upscale hotel lobby in 2000, decades of petty crime, violence and state-sponsored murders finally caught up with Zeljko Raznatovic. Prologue His name was Zeljko Raznatovic, but when I first came to know him, most of the world called him Arkan.
The Fast Life and Violent Death of the Balkans' Most Dangerous Man by Christopher S. Currents took them, and news reports said some may have eventually reached Maine and other shores on the Atlantic. Hohn obtained his own rubber duck after visiting the isthmus with the Gulf of Alaska Keeper, a group of conservationists who wanted to clean up the debris along the coast. Beim-Esche called '2013's best young adult novel' is being adapted for film, with the script written by 'Eleanor' author Rainbow Rowell. Other interests include Downton Abbey, heat lightning storms, Harry Potter land and (begrudingly) one orange tabby. Stewart met the forces of Serb warlord Arkan during a dangerous train trip through the Balkans in the late 1990s. I liked my job and loved my wife and was inclined to agree with Emerson that travel is a fool's paradise. NPR reserves the right to use the comments we receive, in whole or in part, and to use the commenter's name and location, in any medium. So you not only have the thrill of discovering a surprise or treasure, but you also have the chance of, like on a scavenger hunt, finding something that you're looking for that actually might serve some scientific purpose." On the importance of the spills to the scientific community "They do show us something.
The assassination ended the life of a warlord who became one of Serbian President Slobodan Milosevic's most valued henchmen in the country's civil war.
It was July 1998 and my girlfriend and I had been backpacking through Europe for about a month. The currents have been compared to rivers in the sea, but ocean currents don't flow like rivers between two banks a€” they meander [and] they change seasonally and are, in a way, more mysterious than one might think. I loved the part about conA­tainers falling off a ship, the part about the oceanographers tracking the castaways with the help of far-flung beachcombers. Most of the trip was like any other postcollege adventure a€” sunburned days spent wandering ancient streets, boozy nights in tiny outdoor cafes lit by strings of naked bulbs, dancing that went too late, the occasional Gypsy run-in, hangovers that didn't quit a€” until Arkan's men entered our world and changed everything.
I especially loved the part about the rubber duckies crossing the Arctic, going cheerfully where explorers had gone boldly and disastrously before.

And another beachcomber found a duck and had mercy a€” he gave it to me." The Plague Of Plastic In The Ocean While tracking down the path of the rogue ducks, Hohn also confronted the plague of accumulating plastics in the ocean. By following flotsam spills, you do have useful data to show us the movement of the currents and how they change." On the worst shipping container disaster in modern history "[A ship named APL China] was traveling from Far East to the Pacific Northwest [in 1998] and it lost 407 containers overboard in a single night [after a possible typhoon]. Stewart tells the story of how Arkan rose from petty criminal to head of Serbia's notorious "Tigers," a death squad that killed, raped and looted its way through the Balkans in the 1990s. He details the journey a€” via plane, foot and container ship a€” in Moby-Duck: The True Story of 28,800 Bath Toys Lost at Sea and of the Beachcombers, Oceanographers, Environmentalists and Fools, Including the Author, Who Went in Search of Them.
Images of his baby face had been appearing regularly on CNN and BBC that summer, and much of the world, including the United States, believed that he and his private militia, the Tigers, were responsible for torturing, raping, and killing thousands in the Balkan wars of the early 1990s. I certainly never expected to join the crew of a fifty-one-foot catamaran captained by a charismatic environmentalist, the Ahab of plastic hunters, who had the charming habit of exterminating the fruit flies clouding around his stash of orA­ganic fruit by hoovering them out of the air with a vacuum cleaner.
There was also talk of other criminal exploits, how, in an earlier life, he had been one of Europe's most prolific thieves, a communist hit man, an escape artist, and an international mob boss on the scale of Al Capone. Though he became known in Western Europe as the "smiling bank robber" for his Houdini-like escapes from prison, Arkan eventually became one of the region's wealthiest men and married a pop star. The general feeling was that Arkan had to pay for his crimes, all of them a€” or be killed. Using his prison connections, Arkan rallied gangs of violent thugs to carry out crimes on behalf of Milosevic's regime. Called convergence zones or "garbage patches," these parts of the ocean contain trash, plastic and toys a€” whatever happens to get sucked in while floating past. Or to cross the Graveyard of the Pacific on a container ship at the height of the winA­ter storm season. Or to ride a high-speed ferry through the smoggy, inA­dustrial backwaters of China's Pearl River Delta, where, inside the Po Sing plastic factory, I would witness yellow pellets of polyethylene resin transmogrify into icons of childhood. By the time he was killed the following year, several former members of Milosevic's regime had already been assassinated.
When we landed at the empty train station in Thessaloniki, in northern Greece, I didn't even know we were going to Serbia. Nor did I know or care that such toxins are surprisingly abundant at the ocean's surface, or that they bioaccumulate as they move up the food chain. Honestly, I didn't know what "pelagic" or "adsorb" meant, and if asked to use "lipophilic" and "hydrophobic" in a sentence I'd have apA­plied them to someone with a weight problem and a debilitating fear of drowning. One night, sleep-deprived and nearly broken, in thirty-five-knot winds and twelve-foot seas, I would overindulge all six a€” rolling, pitching, yawing, heaving, swaying, and surging like a drunken libertine a€” and, after buckling myself into an emergency harA­ness and helping to lower the mainsail, I would sway and surge and pitch as if drunkenly into the head, where, heaving, I would liberate my dinner into a bucket. His ratty white button-down was almost soaked through, and patches of chest hair curled out from his lower neck, like field grass. And all this I would do, I hoped, without leaving my desk, so that I could be sure to be present at the birth of my first child. Spot a yellow duck dropped atop the seaweed at the tide line, ask yourself where it came from, and the next thing you know you're way out at sea, no land in sight, dog-paddling around in mysteries four miles deep. Instead of going straight up through Serbia, we would first travel east through Macedonia and then go north through Bulgaria and Romania. You're marveling at the scale of humanity's impact on this terraqueous globe and at the oceA­anic magnitude of your own ignorance. In the absence of official tickets, he decided to write them out in pen on what looked to be two take-out fast-food stubs.

Of course, there were other things that weren't quite right after that, like the fact that he directed us to a train car holding goats and chickens, and that our assigned seat numbers didn't even exist. Solitary, nocturnal circumambulations of the outer decks by supernumerary passengers are strictly forbidden, for good reason. We were young, however, and perhaps most important, traveling on a tight budget like every other Lonely Planeta€“armed backpacker, and all we cared about was escaping the punishing heat and humidity and making it to Budapest by the next day.
Nevertheless, there you are, not a goner yet, gazing up at the shipping containers stacked six-high overhead, and from them cataracts of snowmelt and rain are spattering on your head. Of the hundred or so other passengers, we appeared to be the only backpackers, let alone Americans. There you are, listening to the stacked containers strain against their lashings, creaking and groaning and cataracting with every roll, and with every roll you are wondering what in the name of Neptune it would take to make stacks of steel a€” or for that matter aluminum-containers fall. Or you're learning how to tie a bowline knot and say thank you in both Inuktitut and Cantonese. The walls, like the outside of the train, were scarred with colorful graffiti in languages I didn't know, and the plastic-tiled ceiling was stained with moisture and caving in. And you're rememberA­ing the scene near the end of Moby-Dick when Starbuck, family man, first officer of the Pequod, tries in vain to convince mad Ahab to abanA­don his doomed hunt. E., or learned of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, or met the Ahab of plastic hunters, or the heartsick conservationist or the foulmouthed beachcomber or the blind oceanographer, any of them. You're wishing you'd never given Big Poppa the chance to write about Luck Duck, because if you hadn't you'd never have heard the fable of the rubber ducks lost at sea.
At least that's what happens if you're a nearsighted, school-teaching, would-be archaeologist of the ordinary, with an indulgent, long-suffering wife and a juvenile imaginaA­tion, and you receive in the mail a manila envelope, and inside this enA­velope you find a dozen back issues of a cheaply produced newsletter, and in one of those newsletters you discover a wonderful map a€” if, in other words, you're me. In fact, so pretty and brimming with green life that it was strange and almost obscene to imagine the evil that lurked out there. Whatever motivated the ticket man to send us into what was an emerging war zone not yet on the public's radar, I'll never know —but we'd been duped. Both wore high-water gray pants with blue button-downs stained black and brown and missing buttons.
The fighter pointed out the window at the decrepit concrete building that acted as the station. Behind him soldiers slung with automatic weapons carted off two passengers tied up with a rope. A crying woman passed our cabin, her dirty hands desperately reaching out for something left behind. Stuffing his revolver back in his pants, the fighter leaned in close to me, pressed a fat index finger to my temple, hard, and then murmured, "Painful trouble. You understand?" 3 This would be my first taste of Serbia's horror, my first look at a country crippled and broken by fear. Until this time, I had only heard stories about this part of the world, distant and improbable stories of war, which had been waged on and off for centuries a€” from the wars with the Turks, Austrians, and German Nazis to the blood-soaked civil wars in the 1990s, where Yugoslav brothers fought brothers over religion, where genocide was probably committed, and where even now there were freshly shoveled mass graves hiding thousands of bodies.

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