But it wasn’t water that caught my attention as we winged our way above the Mekong River and banked to touch down in Phnom Penh. It was a thick blanket blocking the sun and shrouding the twisting gold and orange spires of local Wats in a cloak of drab of gray. The thick scent of burning wood catches in my throat and I realize that the city’s shroud is it’s ancient forests slipping slowly skyward leaving only stumps and muddy hillsides where once stood a global treasure.

“They get the money and we get the haze,” laments the businessman sitting next to me.

Contracts held largely by foreign groups have paved the way for stripping much of Southeast Asia of its forests to make way for oil palm plantations and development projects. The dense forests that sent my grandfather rushing off to explore hidden ruins on his first visit here just a half century ago are virtually gone, taking with them the habitat of the big cats that featured prominently in one of his favorite stories of trailside encounters as a young man.

In a sad repeat of ancient history, the short-sited greed of a few has sacrificed the natural bounty on which millions depend for their very existence. Already facing the challenges of climate change and imminent threat of damming, the Mekong and Tonle Sap Rivers—source of 82-percent of the protein for Cambodian people—must also now bear an additional burden as the land itself chokes out channels with silt sent sliding from rootless soil.

And so, before we ever step foot in Cambodia, our first water story for the region meets us in the air. The nearly global trend of replacing forests with farmland—especially for crops such as oil palms—goes beyond quick timber sales and short-sited ignorance. The loss of habitat and biodiversity, destruction of waterways, and the elimination of the carbon-absorbing buffer of our forests is truly a crime perpetrated against future generations. It’s time that all of us examine closely the sources of the forest-based products in our lives—boycotting the companies and countries that harvest irresponsibly. And I ask that you join me in avoiding the purchase of products derived from industrial oil palm development while also calling for global standards on biofuel development that reward responsible crop use instead of trading one environmental problem for another by replacing fossil fuels for crops such as the oil palm.

Films, photographs and notes from the field will continue to be posted here as we explore these and other issues throughout the Expedition.

Corps members come to intimately understand through their ten months of service, environmental education, and job skills training that saving the planet isn’t just about furthering some liberal “œenvironmentalist” agenda. It isn’t even exclusively about saving animal species, such as the native bald eagle, from extinction. It’s about quality of life for every living, breathing being around — including people. It’s about making home a sweeter home.

When it rains, D.C.’s sewer system overflows into the Anacostia, and as a result two billion gallons of raw sewage get dumped into the river each year. “This is the biggest toilet in the world,” says Earth Conservation Corps member Marco.

I ask the youth how working to restore the river is connected to people’s lives. Patrick answers, “If you don’t take care of your environment, it’s just filthy. You don’t care anymore about the place you live. You don’t have any respect for it. So you stop taking care of yourself, too. You treat yourself like trash.” He shakes his short, spiky dreads. “If people have a cleaner place to live, they care more about themselves. They want to make changes to themselves.”

Patrick speaks from experience. With his movie star looks and eloquent way of speaking, he has the potential to make it big. But first he had to choose to change his ways. “I was lucky. I could have died. I got shot here,” he pulls up his shirt to reveal a round scar just a few inches from his spine. “That’s when I knew I had to do something different. I feel like giving back to the community because I took so much from it. Being an environmentalist means caring about your community.”

Rodney is a lanky 38 year-old and father of twelve. He has worked for the EEC since its inception. “It’s the best thing that ever happened to me—besides kids. I used to be the problem. Now I’m part of the solution. That feels so much better. My kids are some of the biggest environmental activists you can find!” He laughs in his big-hearted way.

He continues, “People used to fish and swim in this river; it’s illegal to do both these days. But we’ve made a difference. We’ve cleaned up the river. It used to really smell — it’s not as bad now. We’ve gotten three nesting pairs of eagles to make the Anacostia their home again. People are starting to come back to the river. I see kids playing soccer in the park. I see families having picnics along the shores. We are reclaiming the environment, and in doing that, we’re reclaiming our community.”

At 21, Corps member Lintia has two-year-old twins. But she already has been taking care of herself for ten years. “My mom died when I was 11, and I went into the system” says the striking, golden-eyed young woman. “I’ve had a rough life.” The Earth Conservation Corps is giving Lintia a chance at a better life. And it’s already given her a better home.

Anacostia, in southeast Washington, D.C., is famous for entirely different reasons. It has one of the highest murder rates in the world. And its river is one of the most polluted in the country.

In this dark landscape, home to so much violence to nature and human beings alike, the Earth Conservation Corps shines a bright light. Part of AmeriCorps, a government-funded public service program, ECC’s mission for the past 17 years has been: “To empower our endangered youth to reclaim the Anacostia River, their communities, and their lives.”

Many of the African-American teenagers and young adults who form the Corps have spent time in prison. Few have high school degrees. Their opportunities for career advancement without ECC training and the small stipend it provides would likely be limited. The dedicated, somewhat harried ECC staff offers not just environmental education, but also leadership and problem-solving skill development, GED (the equivalent of a high school diploma) classes, and assistance with budgeting, time management, and life planning.

21 year-old Robert has a broad, white-toothed smile and mischievous demeanor. He joined ECC this past January after attending the third of his closest friends’ funerals. “I want to live a long life,” he says emphatically. “If I stayed out there in that world, I probably would be dead.”

We spend the day with the Corps. First, they gather at their riverside headquarters, brightly decorated with paintings of the Anacostia and its wildlife, including bald eagles and barn owls. After a brief physical training session, they sit around tables to share recent news stories about the environment. Next, we travel by bus to a housing project that hires the ECC to do its landscaping. Corps members pick up trash, pluck weeds, and mow grass. Then we return to headquarters for a pizza lunch.

In the afternoon, we head to a tributary of the Anacostia. Here, the Earth Conservation Corps has installed a metal basket in the water, the nation’s first “trash trap.” An unbelievable mound of garbage has drifted downstream in just three days. A few of the guys don waders and galoshes and trudge into the murky, smelly water to gather up dozens of plastic bottles, Styrofoam cups, and plastic bags. In the end, they fill eight large garbage bags with rubbish people have thoughtlessly tossed into the river.

“People need to pay attention!” Patrick shouts as he scoops up the refuse. “If we weren’t doing this, the garbage would flow into the Potomac, out into Chesapeake Bay, and out into the ocean. Everyone gets affected by this stuff, not just people here in our area.”

I ask Robert what the ECC experience has brought to his life. He says, “It’s helping me get my life on track. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I don’t want to die. I want to get married, have kids. I want to rise up. We’re cleaning up the river and we’re cleaning up our lives.”

The president of ECC, Bob Nixon, speaks of “environmental injustice”: the way that societies dump their pollution from human waste and industry into the poorest communities. Unfortunately, this is true not just in the United States but in many parts of the world. It takes tireless devotion on the part of staff members and participants as well as outside funding to make a program like ECC’s possible. But there can be no doubt of the benefits to the environment, the people involved, and the world at large.

Two offsprey, eagle-like birds who prey exclusively on fish, have built nests along the filthy river’s shores, beneath the ruckus of a freeway overpass. As they soar gracefully overhead, Robert grins. “That’s tight. Tight.”

We drive over an hour along the flat, long highway that leads from Golden Meadow, the Cajun town we’ve enjoyed discovering over the past few days, to Grand Isle to see where the shrimp vessels dock and unload their catch. Jos guides us with the GPS. “Look guys!” she says. “We’re not even on the map anymore. According to the blue dot, we’re in the Gulf!”

And in a sense we are. We’re surrounded by water on either side. Carolyn, our local guide, tells us, “To the left, this has always been bayou. But to the right, those were fields just a few years ago. Now they’ve sunk, and the land around here is going to keep on sinking.”

Passing by telephone poles, trucks, and even graveyards partially submerged in water, I get a sick sensation in my stomach. New Orleans is sinking because the wetlands that naturally would form new land have been destroyed for the construction of navigation channels along the Mississippi River. But this is what many coastal areas will look like in 50 to 100 years if global climate change continues at its current rate: abandoned, hopeless, under water.

It takes nearly three hours to drive back to New Orleans. We spend the night in a charming hotel in the French Quarter, and head to a quaint bistro for dinner. Feasting on the best roast duck most of us have ever eaten, crisp green beans, and bread pudding, we toast to the incredible experiences we’ve had so far.

Well, my friends, this will be my last daily blog for the time being. We’re headed back to DC now to finish up the Mississippi River films and do pre-production for Cambodia and Australia. But keep checking in at the website regularly. We’ll be posting more films soon. And we’ll be back on the road in a matter of weeks!

Most of the farmers and fishermen we have spoken with on this leg of the Expedition do not realize just how tightly intertwined their destinies are. But the truth is, the chemical fertilizers the majority of farmers in America’s heartland use to maximize their crop output have a direct impact on their sea-born blood brothers’ existence.

Wilma Subra, southern Louisiana’s own activist-grandmother extraordinaire, was one of the first people to identify the Dead Zone. A chemist, she’d been conducting tests off of oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico when she noticed a strange dearth of dissolved oxygen. She and other scientists launched an investigation, and now understand how the Dead Zone works.

Wilma explains, “Nitrogen and phosphorous from fertilizers travel down the Mississippi River and into the Gulf of Mexico. This makes algae blossom like crazy. As the algae grow, they use up all the oxygen. When they die off, they sink to the bottom of the ocean and use up more oxygen there, too. So there’s this layer of water in the Gulf that is void of oxygen—that means nothing can live there.”

Fish and shrimp flee the liquid graveyard, but anything that can’t move out of its way — including coral, oysters, and clams — dies. The result is a shocking gap in marine life for over 8,000 square miles (20,000 square kilometers). And with production of corn, a fertilizer-intensive crop, on the increase due to ethanol subsidies to farmers, the Dead Zone is only intensifying and growing with each passing year.

The Lafourche shrimp boat captains know of the Dead Zone because it impacts their ability to support their families. Scott, the head of the Golden Meadow fishermen’s association, says, “You get to places where you trawl the bottom of the ocean and there’s nothing there—no fish, no shrimp. It gives you this disgusting hollow feeling. You’ve got to go deeper and deeper out into the Gulf. That’s more dangerous, and it also costs more money in fuel. It’s getting harder to make a living as a shrimper. We’ve lost over 50 percent of our fleet in recent years. A lot of shrimp I used to see are gone.”

Dean, a fiery shrimp dealer with strong opinions on every topic from the US government to Jesus, tells us, “Last year was the worst of all. The Dead Zone came at exactly the same time as the shrimp season. We saw shrimp jumping out of the Gulf right onto the beaches to get away from that water they couldn’t breathe.”

Prior to traveling to Golden Meadow, we met in Baton Rouge with Nancy Rabalais and Eugene Turner, two of the pioneers in researching and spreading awareness of the Dead Zone. They have known about this issue for over three decades, but have been unable to draw enough funds or attention to it to bring about major change. On a societal level, they feel the government must cease providing agriculture subsidies that encourage farmers to use chemical fertilizers. However, they also feel strongly that ordinary people can have an impact by making simple lifestyle choices: eat organic, and consume less meat (much of the corn raised in the Midwest goes to feed livestock).

40 percent of America’s land drains out the mouth of the Mississippi. “We’re the cesspool of America,” Scott the shrimper says, shaking his head. “Farmers don’t care about us. Or maybe they do, but they don’t understand what they’re doing. They’re killing all the fish! They’re poisoning the sea with what’s coming out of the river from off of their fields.”

I ask Terry what can be done to solve the Dead Zone problem. He shrugs. “All we can do is pray and hope someone will do something about it.”

Carolyn, our extraordinarily hospitable local host, has other ideas. “We should boycott the US fish market for a week. If Americans didn’t get the nearly one-third of seafood we Cajuns produce, they’d quickly realize our worth. Maybe that would help us get the funding and support we need to combat this Dead Zone.”

And finally, Wilma, with her inspiring, tireless efforts on behalf of the poorest communities of the region, suggests, “Just take action. Get your community involved. Go to the local churches. Educate people. Drum up awareness. Every person has the ability to make a difference.”

A dozen wooden boats decorated in American flags, blue and orange banners boasting “Shrimp,” and metallic streamers parade proudly up and down the 100 foot-wide channel, an offshoot of the Mississippi River. Each is crowned with scaffolding that resembles two giant ladders with bars connecting them. These structures support trawling, or dragging of weighted nets across the ocean and bayou floor in order to catch the shrimp that live there.* A Filipino Catholic priest stands at the bow of the lead boat, chanting prayers and asking for God’s blessings.

We ride on the lead boat as well, taking pictures and talking to the locals crowded aboard. The people are as colorful as their boats, with thick, twangy accents that sound more Bostonian than Southern. Many of the older generation still speak French, as the Cajun’s ancestors first immigrated to this area from Nova Scotia in the French-speaking part of Canada. They’re obviously proud of their unique culture—and the fact that they contribute significantly to the 40 percent of US seafood supplied from Louisiana’s waters.

“We’re not American, we’re Cajun,” says Scott, a shrimper in his mid-40s with the clean-cut look of Harry Potter grown up. “We love food, we love our families, we love the church, and we love to fish.”

“Fishing means freedom,” our boat captain Terry tells us. His deeply lined face traces a lifetime on the water. “The roar of the engine is like music to our ears.”

Scott concurs. “When we get tired of being on land, we go out. We say, ‘I don’t know where I’ll go or when I’ll get back.’”

Sadly, the Cajun way of life is gradually dying out due to pressure from a number of factors, all related to water. The land is rapidly sinking because Louisiana’s wetlands have been nearly destroyed. Hurricanes, which are growing increasingly frequent and powerful due to climate change, threaten to wipe the town off the map. And local young people are leaving for jobs in big cities in part because the Dead Zone is eradicating the Gulf of Mexico’s shrimp supplies.

When the boat parade comes to an end, everyone files directly into the Catholic church at the bayou’s edge for mass. An hour later, the church doors swing open and 200 of the warmest, most enthusiastic people we’ve ever met pour into the recreational hall for the celebratory feast. We excitedly join them. A five-piece band plays everything from French Cajun classics to modern Nashville hits as the crowd devours vast quantities of barbequed meats, potato salad, and fried pork rinds. “What happened to the vegetables?” MeiMei asks.

“It’s time for desert!” Sybil, the head chef, says, guiding us to three tables stacked high with sweets. Ben enjoys the chocolate cake. Jos loves the bread pudding.

It’s not time to go home yet, though. A sprite 75-year-old man walks up to me and demands, “Young lady, you come here now!” We do a Cajun jig while the crowd watches. Then Ali and Duff join in, learning the steps to a line dance. By the end of the song, we’re all in hysterics.

We head out the door floating on a cloud of well-wishes, hugs, huge smiles, and sincere invitations to come back soon. Duff carries an enormous paper bag that Sybil has given him at the last minute.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“More dessert!” he replies with a grin.

*Trawling can cause significant environmental damage to the ocean floor, and shrimping generates wasted by-catch. But that’s a story for another time. Industrial fisheries do far more harm than these individual operators. Fishing and shrimping are regulated by the government to make them as least damaging as possible, so American shrimp are less harmful than shrimp from other countries. New, sustainable practices also are starting to be implemented.

Today, Wilma is taking the Expedition team around to show us the impact of pollution on local communities. We drive just twenty minutes west of New Orleans past the airport to Norco, a town sandwiched between two massive oil and gas refineries. While Norco sits along the banks of the Mississippi River, you would never know that as you drive past because the grass-covered levee reaches twenty feet high, blocking the view. In fact, when we try to drive up the levee, we get chased off by an oil company security truck. “Private property,” the sign reads.

With its towering steel structures sending flames and fumes into the atmosphere, and pipelines filled with crude oil remnants, we jokingly nickname the area “Mordor,” after the treacherous home to the Dark Lord in the Lord of the Rings books and movies. But the region is more infamously known as “Cancer Alley.”
Wilma and other local residents claim that cancer rates along the industrial corridor between New Orleans and Baton Rouge far exceed the national average. There are at least three recorded cases of a highly unusual form of childhood leukemia, as well as a few other rare cancer clusters. Wilma has been testing the air and water here for years; she knows both have high levels of toxic chemicals from the plants. Cancer is not the only result, she says. Asthma rates also have skyrocketed.

However, controversy rages over whether or not the neighboring industries are responsible for the increased cancer rates—or if the rates are even higher here in the first place. Wilma says she has the data proving that they are. She explains that statistics are easy to throw off: exotic cancers end up getting treated in Houston, where better facilities exist, and so those cases don’t count towards Cancer Alley numbers. Furthermore, statisticians lump together numbers for the entire parish, or county, rather than separating out just the neighborhoods near the industries.

Regardless of the cancer debate outcome, the question remains: why would anyone choose to live here in the shadow of these industrial monstrosities? Wilma says, “Some people, mainly those employed at the oil and gas companies, like living here. They say it’s safe — which it is, there’s a very low crime rate in Norco — and close-knit. Those people have even lied outright about the negative health impacts they’re experiencing, denying their asthma and cancer. That is, until someone close to them dies. Then they come to me and say, ‘Can you tell me what killed my wife? Or grandson?’”

“However, a lot of people wouldn’t want to live here. They just don’t have a choice. I helped out the community of Diamond [in Norco], where about 1,000 people were stuck. It was a poor, mostly African-American neighborhood. Many of them had owned their land for generations so they had no mortgage payments, and couldn’t get jobs at the oil and gas plants. So they just had to stay here, even though they and their kids were getting sick. The refineries were burning their waste right behind the schools! People from other parts of the parish would have to come here for little league games every so often, and they would complain about how the air stank, they got headaches and sore throats from spending just an hour here.”

Wilma didn’t think that was fair. So she worked voluntarily for years to conduct tests to prove the air and water were polluted, and to get the people living in Diamond out. Eventually, she won her battle. She convinced the oil and gas companies to buy out four blocks of real estate and relocate the 1,000 residents.

“People got angry about that,” Wilma says. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve had threats made against me.” But none of this has intimidated her. She keeps on fighting.

It’s easy to point fingers and blame the oil and gas companies for the degradation of our water and air. But while many of them could be engaging in more environmentally sound practices, we, as average citizens of the world, must also hold ourselves responsible. We contribute directly to this problem by creating demand for oil and gas in the first place. All the more reason to not buy a gas-guzzling car, to take public transit or ride your bike to work, to recycle, to install solar panels and water catchments on your roof, and to turn off your air conditioning.

Our visit to Norco serves as yet another reminder that every aspect of our environment is interconnected: land to air to water, and all is connected to us through what we eat, breathe, and drink. We must take better care of our planet in order to take better care of ourselves, our families, our communities and our environment.

What a gorgeous day!

We flew last night from St Louis, MO to New Orleans, LA to continue exploring water stories for the US leg of the Expedition. And yes, it has become clear to us that there are several critical storylines related to the Mississippi River.

We follow the red thread of one such tale to the mystical Jean Lafitte National Historic Park and Preserve in Barataria, where approximately 30,000 acres of wetlands have been tenuously protected from the fate has devastated the other 3.5 million acres of the Mississippi River delta. Those have been “engineered” out of existence.

The rugged National Park Service guys take us out on swampboats, the kind you’ve likely seen in movies—open steel hull, tall seat in the center, and single, massive fan-like engine at the rear that allows us to hover over the marshes like a dragonfly. We move through a watery world painted eighteen subtle shades of green: a layer of neon algae carpeting the bayou; cypress trees reaching skyward surrounded by stump-like roots bending two feet out of the water known as their “knees,” eerie pale moss dangling from branches. We glide effortlessly through areas of thick chartreuse grass that look impassable to the unpracticed eye but actually float atop the water. As we tear through the marsh, blades of grass whip our bare faces and arms, leaving us covered in a fine layer of sticky sap.

We see numerous alligators along the riverbanks peering suspiciously through their bubble eyes, dipping below the surface when we venture too close. Birds call out from trees and brush. Geese fly overhead. Ducks meander in and out of the swamp grass. A water snake slithers past. Here and there, we spy evidence of humanity: abandoned fishing and hunting camps, mostly, but also the occasional refrigerator someone has illegally dumped (this is apparently a big problem in Jean Lafitte.) A few fisherman glide past on their boats, giving a cheerful wave. Other that that, it feels forgotten, as though a dense cloud of peaceful slumber had descended upon the swamps. We are placed under a black magic spell of hushed wonderment.

Tragically, this land is disappearing—and disappearing fast. So fast, in fact, that if you buy a map of the coastline of Louisiana, it’ll be no good just five years from now. Our guide David Muth, the Chief of Resource Management for the park, tells us that we have only ten years left to save the wetlands of the Mississippi River Delta. After that, he says, the ecosystem will have reached a tipping point: the damage to the floodplains caused by human interference will be irreversible.

These wetlands serve as more than a relaxing place to hunt, fish, and birdwatch. They also filter harmful chemicals out of the water, work like speed bumps for hurricanes, and play a critical role in supporting the land structure of all New Orleans. Without them, and with the compounding effects of climate change causing sea levels to rise, New Orleans might very well sink or be blown away into oblivion. If land loss continues at the current rate of 34 square miles per year, Louisiana will shrink another 700 square miles by 2060.

What is the cause of this ecological mess? Channels, levees, locks and dams separate over 90 percent of the Mississippi River south of St Louis all the way to New Orleans from its floodplains. People have been busy constructing such water management devices since the French first settled the region in 1720. But they interfere with the delta’s natural regulation of water flow: three miles of wetlands can reduce water storm surge height by a foot. In addition, jetties extend far out into the Gulf of Mexico to ensure a channel wide and deep enough for barges to travel up the Mississippi River. But these same jetties carry sediments out to sea that otherwise would be forming new land to help offset the loss of old land.

What is the solution? “Piecemeal efforts will not work. We must look at the wetlands systems as a whole,” says David, his white hair reflecting the hot sunlight. He suggests freeing the river from many of its constraints, setting it loose to flood, deposit sediments, and retreat as it did long before humans interfered. The jetties must be deconstructed, businesses and even people displaced to make room for the Mississippi River to build itself a new delta.

Sacrifices must be made, David tells me. “If not, all this will be gone in 100 years.” He shrugs his broad shoulders and smiles impishly. “You might have to crab somewhere else, but it’s better than not crabbing at all.”

As it journeys through the middle of America, the Mississippi suffers the bombardments of human civilization, deteriorating with each mile. Several factors contribute to its degradation. For one, the river becomes more and more polluted with run-off from the whopping 40 percent of US land that it drains: chemical fertilizers from agriculture, industrial toxins, as well as sewage and waste. By the time it reaches Louisiana, the water is so filthy that the government advises against eating the fish or swimming in the river.

But there is another reason why the Mississippi today is like two different rivers. At the northern reaches, it still flows virtually untamed, as it has since glaciers first formed it hundreds of thousands of years ago. Along the way, however, it becomes increasingly constrained by locks, dams, and levees constructed both to create agricultural land and to ensure a minimum nine foot-deep navigation channel for the barges that swim constantly back and forth with their cargo. In St Louis, the great river is 50 percent severed from its natural floodplains. South of St Louis, less than ten percent of the Mississippi River flows free.
Why does it matter?

John Chick, Field Station Director for the National Great Rivers Research and Education Center and the Illinois Natural History Survey, explains why. Standing on a hillside in Illinois overlooking a mile-wide swath of the brown, fast-flowing Mississippi, he says, “The river is much more than what you see here, the water stretching from this bank to that bank. It naturally would cover a broad area of land far out on either side that would seasonally flood due to rainfall and snowmelt. All the organisms in the river are designed to take advantage of that. Plants grow in the backwater lakes, then fish move in to get food, reproduce, and rear their offspring.”

“So what happens when the river is cut off from its floodplains?” I ask.

John replies, “When you levee the floodplain from a river, you’re leveeing off 90 percent of the ecosystem, because the floodplain is huge relative to the river’s size.

“Water isn’t allowed to flow back and forth from the wetlands into the river. An excess of sediments builds up in backwater areas, which makes the water so cloudy that sunlight can’t penetrate. As a result, plants can’t grow, fish can’t reproduce, and wildlife can’t feed. The habitat is completely destroyed.

“In addition, the water flowing into the floodplains would deposit nutrients on the soil, making it more fertile. Now that natural process isn’t occurring, farmers use chemical fertilizers to make their land more productive instead.”

John concludes, “This flood pulse—the annual rise and fall of water levels that naturally occurs along all rivers—is the heartbeat of the Mississippi. It drives the ecosystem. Along the lower Mississippi, we’ve virtually stopped that heart from beating.”

MeiMei, Ben, Jos and I are filming interviews and stand-ups near the arch in St Louis for the afternoon. But after two straight days of rain and another of fierce winds, we don’t have enough b-roll. So Duff, Pablo, and Ali take the mini-van rental north along the Mississippi to find shots of dams, levees, barges, people using the river for recreation — whatever they can get. We don’t have a map or a local guide, so they simply follow the coastline. Little do we know they’re driving deep into a depressed area in a city infamous for its high crime rate.

As we’re mid-interview with Daniel Romano, a journalist and former Green party candidate for Senator of Illinois, Jocelyn’s phone rings. “It’s all over!” Ali cries from the other end of the line.

Jos listens calmly, then fills us in. “Some guys broke into the van when the team was filming just 200 meters away. They got two of the Canon still cameras and Pablo’s and Ali’s bags, which included both Ben and Ali’s passports. No one was hurt, thank heavens. They’ve called the cops so they can file a report.”

Two hours of panicked phone calls to credit card companies, our producer Justine in DC, and the Australian Embassy ensue on our end. The crime victims talk to the cops then make a trip to the airport to swap out the mini-van, which now has a broken window. We all meet up at a sports bar in downtown St Louis for dinner and the debrief.

“I heard this crash and went running,” says Pablo. “I saw the guys taking off with our stuff. They dropped the camera bag at least when they saw me. All our media was in there.” By this he means the only copy of video footage from the past four days, which would’ve been a devastating loss.

Duff adds his version. “When I saw the commotion, I thought Ali and Pablo were fighting. Ali had her hands up in the air; Pablo was pacing back and forth looking pissed. Then I saw the glass everywhere. I couldn’t believe it!”

“Seriously, you guys,” I say, “We’ve traveled all around the world — to India, to South Africa, a place that is world-renowned for its crime, to the Middle East — and nothing happened to us. Here we are back in the US, and we get robbed. How ironic.”

The good news is we’re all okay. We did lose some valuable equipment, but it was insured. And the president of Lewis and Clark Community College, who hosted us for a roundtable discussion with scientists and representatives of environmental non-profits and the US government earlier this morning, offered to help get the Aussies on the flight to New Orleans tomorrow with only photocopies of their passports. In short, all is well.

Let’s talk about the other heist—the one being pulled on our entire country by certain lobbyists for agro-business and political representatives. In 2006, the US government paid $7 billion in subsidies to farmers for the production of corn ethanol, a biofuel.

But corn ethanol is like the punch line of a Jon Stewart joke on The Daily Show: it offers no environmental advantages, and makes no sense from an economic standpoint. “It takes a gallon of oil to make a gallon of corn ethanol,” comments John Chick of the Illinois Natural History Survey.

Corn also has a huge water footprint. This means if you take into account the amount of water it takes to produce corn, the cost to the environment is much higher. It required an average of 18 trillion gallons of water to produce 13.9 billion gallons of ethanol in the US in 2006. This is more water than the entire US population consumes for domestic use in a year, yet it only replaces three percent of our fuel needs.

So why are taxpayers footing the bill?

“It’s ridiculous,” says Christine Favilla of the Sierra Club, an environmental NGO. “We should absolutely be looking at other crops for biofuels.”

Bill Franz of the Environmental Protection Agency, a government regulatory body, has strong feelings on the subject, as well. “Instead of using corn for ethanol, farmers could be planting native species such as prairie grass and switchgrass, which don’t need much maintenance after the first year. In fact, you don’t even need to irrigate or fertilize these perennial plants, so the demands placed on water resources and the resulting pollution are far less.”

“With corn ethanol, we’re perpetuating a cycle that degrades our water supply,” Christine adds. “It’s not sustainable. Unfortunately, farmers are sticking to corn because they get financing for it. Let’s hope the current administration changes these policies and starts offering incentives for farmers to grow native grasses instead.”

Bill puts more of the responsibility on our shoulders. “It’s up to the public to tell the government what to do. This is a democracy; people are in charge. You have to speak out for what you want and make sure your public officials are doing their job right.”

Like many other farmers in the area, Steve grows corn and soybeans, commodity crops subsidized by US agricultural policy. Tragically, these policies have also subsidized the use of nitrogen and phosphorous-based fertilizers, which flow through the watershed, down the Mississippi, and out into the Gulf of Mexico where they create a Dead Zone over 8,000 square miles in size.

“I’m not a tree-hugger,” says the fit, modest 65 year-old. “But I understand the connection of the fertilizers and pesticides we use to water quality. It makes ecological and economic sense to change what we’re doing. It’s not as hard as lots of farmers think.” Indeed, when it comes to environmental sustainability, the best possible solutions offer financial benefits as well as personal and global ones. But so far, the US government has made few funds available to farmers for conservation efforts, and still rewards them for maximizing output per acre of a few select cash crops.

Steve talks to me about how farming has changed over the decades. “When my great-great-grandmother bought 500 acres here, she said it was a ‘wild land.’ It would’ve been totally undeveloped at the time, the real frontier. This house was the only sign of civilization for miles around, and the plains were covered in tall prairie grass.” The native vegetation has been gone ever since she cleared the land, except for a small area Steve has restored. But the farm itself has evolved into something completely different. Like other farms, it was self-sustaining for about 100 years.

“They planted all kinds of crops and had animals — cows, hogs, and chickens — as well as orchards and beehives.” Steve explains, “Now we’re mostly doing monocropping due to economic and social factors: just planting one or two crops. There’s not as much physical labor involved, more technology and mechanization. We take a more science-based approach.”

“And what about the impact of chemical fertilizers?” I ask.

“There is a lot that farmers can do to try to address that.” He tells me about the best environmental best practices he has implemented, some with government assistance: no-till farming to reduce soil erosion, as sediment is the biggest pollutant in the country per volume of water; variable rate technology, where farmers do soil tests using a GPS system to determine precisely how much fertilizer is needed for each 2.5 acres of land; drainage tiles, which retain water in the fields over winter and can reduce nitrate run-off by 30 percent.

I ask Steve if he has always been concerned with the environment, or if that was a more recent decision.

Steve replies, “No matter where you live, you’re in someone’s watershed. It’s a community. Your property goes downstream to someone else’s, and then clear on down to the Mississippi River. So it’s to all of our advantage to manage that. But there isn’t a single thing I’m doing on this farm — from nutrient control to water management — that isn’t to my economic advantage, too. It’s not an either/or situation. You can do both.” I am thoroughly impressed with Steve’s levelheaded, moderate approach. It is my sincere hope that he can influence more farmers to adopt his sensible, money-saving sustainability practices.

In the afternoon, the Expedition team travels from the Black Homestead Farm to Three Rivers Farm, a community-supported agricultural project on the top of a nearby hillside. Here, Amy Cloud and her husband farm just twelve acres of land, a much smaller plot than the industrial agricultural farms, which can be several thousand acres. Every year, they plant over 65 vegetables and a few fruits, and also keep livestock over the summer season. Their farm is organic, using the animal waste as fertilizer. They rotate crops depending on which nutrients they deposit into the soil and how attractive they are to particular bugs. Members of the farm must travel here in person once a week to pick up their produce—which gives Amy and her husband a chance to know their customers and their children.

With her brown hair, brown eyes, and shy, good-natured presence, Amy seems content. When I ask her what drew her to this demanding line of work she says, “I grew up on a conventional cash crop farm in Michigan. I saw my father struggle his whole life to make ends meet, and I don’t know if he enjoyed it. I wanted to be able to grow things people could eat. I wanted a relationship with the people who eat it. It’s definitely hard work, but it’s also profitable and rewarding.”

We discuss the growing awareness among the American public of organic, local foods. Even Costco and Wal-mart carry organic produce now, and the number of farmers’ markets in the St Louis area has grown exponentially within the past few years to over two dozen. “People are excited about it,” says Amy. “They know it’s healthier and better quality food with more nutrients.”

The irony is that Amy Cloud’s new way of doing things is really Steve Black’s great-great-grandmother’s old way of doing things. Nevertheless, both farmers are doing their part to help reduce water pollution and care for the planet. Steve is successfully adapting his “big ag” farm to make it more sustainable while still producing on a mass scale. Amy eschews chemicals and mono-cropping in favor of a small, community farm. In the future, our world will be better off if more people take these approaches to feed ever-increasing global populations, shifting away from dependence on chemicals that poison our water supply—and cause our health to suffer as well.

In the morning, Ben, Pablo and Ali went to the cornfields to shoot b-roll of the agriculture—mostly corn and soybeans—that dominates the Mississippi River basin. They returned shortly after noon with dripping hair and muddy pants. We teased them mildly, but found ourselves in the same sorry condition not much later.

It took nearly 45 minutes to drive from our motel in Alton, Illinois to the center of St Louis, Missouri for our visit to the iconic silver arch. It impressed us with its sheer scale and slender elegance. Duff and Pablo took off with one camera to film the views from the top. Meanwhile, Jos, Ali, Ben and MeiMei stayed on the ground trudging through the steady downpour to interview local people about their impressions of and connection to America’s longest river.

Never underestimate anyone. I am constantly reminded of this lesson. People spoke with eloquence and insight in response to our spontaneous questioning. Jos waylaid a man in his mid-60s, silver hair bursting in great bushels from around his ears and face. It turned out that he used to be a river captain. He talked of the history of the river as a major mode of transport and a route for slaves escaping the south, as well as the enduring love of people around the world for the tales of Mark Twain. “The Mississippi River is a storybook,” he said. “I love it.”

Later he added, “It’s a good thing they tamed this river,” referring to the numerous dams, levees, and canals that have been constructed over the past 150 years that virtually sever the Mississippi from its natural floodplains. “She used to be wild.” I find it helpful to have his perspective, as today the over-engineering of the river is considered a mistake from an environmental perspective. It has caused sediment to build up which makes floods worse than ever, and negatively impacts both plant growth and fish hatching in the former floodplains.

Ben snagged an early twenty-something couple as they exited the monument. The attractive, multiracial woman with curly black hair and a tender smile felt that people don’t care enough about the river. “It’s polluted because people show no respect for it. They’re too lazy. America should set a good example for the rest of the world, but we don’t.”

Of course not everyone felt this way. A stocky, square-faced man with cropped hair and glasses bravely admitted, “I don’t feel connected to the river. I don’t think many people do anymore. Most of us just think of it as the place where we can come to gamble at the casinos.”

But my favorite moment of the day may have been when Jos asked a middle-aged African-American woman from Mississippi what the river meant to her, and she answered immediately with just one word: “Freedom.”

What I loved about these interviews was how much people’s perspectives on the Mississippi River differed. To one, it is a path to liberation. For another, it is the dividing line between east and west, a geographical boundary. For someone else, it is a source of entertainment. For another, it is a symbol of the proud history of a great country. One man marveled simply at the engineering of the various bridges constructed over the river, never mentioning the Mississippi itself.

The river is a storybook. It tells not only the story of a nation, but of the people who share its water. It is a literal and metaphorical connector between states, accents, races, socioeconomic boundaries, career paths, ages, and values. We may have vastly different ideas of who we are in relation to nature and how we should manage our water resources in a philosophical or ideological sense, but from the purely ecological standpoint – as humans, beings who are part of nature, just as are the trees, the birds, the fish and the fast flowing river – we must honor our place in the world.

The team traveled today from Washington, D.C., where we’ve spent the past ten days completing the Middle East films (to be posted shortly!), to St Louis. This city nestles into the heartland of America at the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers.

Mississippi is a Native American word meaning “great waters,” and it is easy to understand why. This is the third longest river on Earth, stretching over 2,300 miles. Even from the plane window, it looks impressive. I can’t help but feel an emotional draw to this body of water, which has played such a central role in the American psyche, a symbol of freedom, adventure, and bounty. I vividly recall reading Mark Twain’s Huck Finn as a young girl and fantasizing about taking a similar journey of discovery down the river myself one day. I am thrilled to realize I am doing that now – albeit with six other team members and a mountain of electronic equipment rather than a simple raft!

It is a relief to touchdown at an Expedition location after only a two-hour flight, feeling energetic, well rested, and ready to work. We cross both the Missouri and the Mississippi Rivers to reach our motel in Alton, Illinois, a landscape littered with strip malls that still boasts some collections of charming, rustic brick and wooden buildings from bygone eras. Starving at 3pm, we wind up at a roadside diner for lunch. The Aussie team is particularly excited to experience “genuine American cuisine.” Unfortunately, the vast quantity of fried food we consume leaves us all feeling a bit sick to our stomachs.

We are here to explore water challenges and success stories related to the Mississippi River. Our guide for the day is John Chick, Field Station Director for the National Great Rivers Research and Education Center and the Illinois Natural History Survey. With his mutton-chop mustache and jovial grin, he looks like he could have stepped out of the 18th century, when trappers roamed the Mid-West and the Mississippi River served as one of the most vital modes of transit and transport in the country.

John’s primary concerns are with water quality and fish populations. The good news, he tells us, is that water quality has remained fairly consistent for the past 14 years, ever since the Clean Water Act went into effect. Admittedly, levels of nitrogen and phosphorous from chemical fertilizers – which are creating a massive Dead Zone in the Gulf of Mexico over 8,000 square miles wide – must be halved in order to achieve the EPA’s goals (more on that in future blogs – stay tuned). But still he feels that this lack of increase in water pollution is a positive sign of how government, industry, and non-profits can cooperate to affect change. The bad news is what’s happening to the fish. John says we have to see it to believe it.

We ride a car ferry for five minutes across a portion of the Mississippi River to an island off the coast of Grafton, Illinois, where John takes us to a local fishing spot. The site there is quite spectacular. Every few minutes, a huge fish, often two to three feet long, leaps from the water like a ballerina in the final act of the show – thrusting itself skyward and twirling about before taking a dramatic bow with a splash.

A group of four fishermen stands in knee-high rubber waders in the river, casting their bait into the Mississippi. They catch an alarming number of fish. Every five minutes, one of the guys gets a powerful tug on his line and reels in an enormous, twenty-pound sucker-faced creature. But he does not throw it into a bucket or shout out with triumph. He takes a long, sharply pointed metal hook and rams it forcefully into the fish’s head and gills. Then he whacks the fish powerfully several times against the stones at the river’s edge and tosses it, bleeding but still alive for a while longer, back into the water. The reason he gets rid of it is because Americans don’t consider the bone-ridden Asian carp edible (though we may one day soon, as all the large fish we currently eat are rapidly disappearing from the oceans due to over-fishing).

“We hardly ever catch the local fish we like to eat,” a round-faced red-head fellow tells me with a sigh.

The snagging process is difficult to watch and I must admit, as an animal lover I find it gruesome. However, the fishermen’s actions cannot entirely be condemned. The plentiful fat jumping fish they’re destroying are a scourge upon the river. These Asian carp are non-native species. Catfish farmers initially brought them from China to the US to serve as vacuum cleaners: the bottom-feeding carp are fantastic devourers of algae and catfish poop, which collect rapidly in fish farms. But the clever carp jumped fences and made their way into the Mississippi and other American rivers. Now they are consuming phytoplankton and zooplankton, which otherwise would serve as food to local fish—and the invaders’ numbers are increasing exponentially. For the first time this year, John Chick reports, evidence suggests that the carp are highjacking the native fish food supply to the detriment of the locals. This situation has the potential to turn quickly into a major ecological disaster.

“We saw signs that the native fish are under-nourished.” John adds with a smirk, “They’re becoming skinny little Paris Hilton fish.”

While in D.C. during the coming 12 days, we’ll be posting the final Botswana videos (nearly finished!) and producing all the Jordan River Basin films. The two primary pieces for the Middle East will concern: 1) Water as a vehicle for peace and cooperation, and 2) Dealing with water scarcity.

Please be sure to check back daily for the latest videos, photos, and blogs, which we’ll continue to post on a regular basis!

Water is scarce in the desert. This shouldn’t come as a shock to anyone. The problem is, it is rapidly growing scarcer. So far the situation has been managed through much negotiating between nations, rampant siphoning of freshwater from lakes, streams and rivers, and drilling of wells to tap deeper and deeper into the aquifer. But with population increasing exponentially, rivers running dry, lakes shrinking to puddles, aquifers being unsustainably depleted, and climate change bringing less rain and snowmelt than ever, the region is destined to thirst more and more for water with every passing year.

Israel uses nearly four times more water than Palestine. And neighboring Jordan has one of the lowest amounts of available freshwater per capita in the world. Access to water rights therefore is a crucial part of any regional peace agreement. And yet even Israel’s domestic water consumption in cubic meters per capita is less than half that of North America (see chart below). In addition, Israel is one of the most efficient countries in the world in terms of wastewater usage, repurposing treated sewage to irrigate fields.

Region Water Consumption Level
(cubic meters/person/year,
domestic-urban and rural usage)
Palestinian Territories 26
Jordan 77
Israel 103
North America 221
(Source: Schlutter, 2005 and Lipchin, 2006)

However, Israel’s current leading freshwater strategy is desalination. Dr. Clive Lipchin of the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies takes the Expedition: Blue Planet team to see a desalination plant on the shores of the Mediterranean. We can’t go inside due to security concerns, so we stand outside to film. But even there, a guard quickly approaches, demanding that we leave. Clive and Pablo try to convince him to allow just a few shots, but he declines. So we end up conducting the interview from a nearby beach, a cool wind blowing off the sea, with the power station that provides energy for the desalination plant in the background.

Thanks to Israel’s long coastline along the Mediterranean, the country has ample supplies of salty water available for conversion via reverse osmosis into freshwater. Desalination already produces 15 percent of Israel’s drinking water. But the process has its shortcomings. First, it is energy intensive. “We’re manufacturing water,” Clive explains. “That takes a lot of energy.” Secondly, desalination has negative environmental consequences. “Israel is using coal imported in some cases all the way from Indonesia to power the desalination plant. This generates massive amounts of greenhouse gases, contributing to global warming. In addition, the leftover water, which now has a very high saline content, gets pumped back into the Mediterranean, which can negatively affect marine life in the sea.”

I ask Clive if, given these limitations, he thinks desalination is the solution to the region’s water crisis. “It is in part,” he answers. “In the short-term, it can help reduce Israel’s reliance on precious freshwater resources in the region that Palestine and Jordan also want to access, which could free up more surface and groundwater for them and could potentially facilitate the peace process. However, we need a comprehensive policy that is long-term and sustainable to deal with water security in the Middle East. Desalination is not the ultimate solution. It should be part of a larger package that includes increased water efficiency, especially in the agricultural industry; wastewater management; and awareness campaigns to reduce domestic consumption, mostly in Israel.”

As for the issue of whether dealing with water scarcity can serve as a path to peace rather than conflict, Clive is an optimist. “Even though evidence shows that we live in a contentious area, one thing that brings us together is how to solve our water problems. Because without water, there is no life. So we all can agree that we need regional collaboration; individual countries can’t afford to take a unilateral approach. We should separate water from politics. If we make smart decisions now, we can ensure water for the next 20 to 30 years. Water can bring us together because it’s fundamental to all our futures.”

Once we’re done with the interview, we drive back through more arid hills and valleys to the Arava Institute campus for a final night at Kibbutz Ketura before returning tomorrow to the US for a brief break in the Expedition. Our trip here has been eye opening. All members of the team feel we’ve learned a great deal about the issues confronting the Middle East in general, and the role that water plays in the relationships between nations in particular. We can only hope that here, as in the rest of the world, people continue to develop awareness of the need to manage our natural resources jointly, collaboratively, and peacefully for the benefit of all.

Osama Suliman. Amman, Jordan:

In Arabic we have a saying, “The sword has two blades: either you can use it for good, or you can cut yourself with it.” It’s the same with water: you can use it for peace or it can be a source of conflict.

Where I come from, Amman, we get water delivered only one day a week, which forces people to minimize their water use. My mom does the washing and the cleaning only that one day a week, and we shower as little as we can. It’s hard, but we know that it’s important.

I heard about the Arava Institute from a friend. My friend was at University with me, and then suddenly he disappeared for four months. When he got back, I said, “Where have you been?”

He said, “I’ve been to this amazing environmental studies program. It’s abroad.”

I said, “Where is it?”

He said, “It’s in Israel.”

My first reaction was, “You’re crazy! You went to Israel? They’re the enemy!” As with any Jordanian originally from Palestine, you think of Israel as the enemy on the other side of the border. We’re at war with them. To hear a different perspective from a friend of mine was a shocking thing. But because he was my friend, I was willing to listen.

So I said, “Tell me more.” After a while, I was really interested in coming here and meeting the Other. I thought I would come only one semester just to try, and I would probably stay on only one or two weeks. But I ended up staying for four years!

When I came here, it was really a transformational point in my life. It changed me 180 degrees. I realized that on the other side of border, we all share things. I put the conflict aside. The other side is not the enemy anymore. There’s Arik, there’s David—they’re Jewish and they’re close friends of mind. I can’t talk about ‘the enemy’ anymore. So maybe this is a bridge we can build between us. If we can discuss water, the environment, it will open channels.

The thing is, it’s not about being here at Arava. The work is not here. The work is when you get back home. Can you resist the flow of hatred and conflict that’s in the whole region? Can you maintain? When you’re here, it’s great—it’s a peace oasis. But can the real work happen outside of here? I’m always questioning myself on this.

Gavriel Vinegrad. Golan Heights, Israel:

My parents are English. They came to Israel in 1967, after the war, to live on a kibbutz. We live in the Golan Heights, which Israel occupied in ‘67, conquered from Syria. I don’t really understand why my parents, who taught me to be peace loving, settled there in occupied territories, but that was there choice.

As soon as I heard about the Arava Institute, I understood that it’s an amazing place. We study in English, with Palestinians, Israelis, and Jordanians all together. I share my room with a Jordanian. Up until 1994, Israel was at war with Jordan.

Our slogan is “Nature knows no borders.” With the environment, it doesn’t matter where you’re from. We have to collaborate, taking care of nature together, sharing our water resources. Just because there’s a fence between Jordan and Israel doesn’t mean that we manage this bit and you that bit. There are Bedouins who cross borders, and water that crosses borders. You go up and down the Jordan River, and you see animals crossing, streams crossing. All that there is, is all that there is of nature—not what’s within our borders. That’s why we’ve got to learn to share knowledge like we do here at Arava. I’d like to see more places like this in the world. Here we have Israelis and Palestinians living together, and there’s no signed declared peace. This is a seed. It’s happening here.

I wish that there would be no more borders. I believe in the future humans will evolve to that level, where we don’t need to live according to this illusion that there’s “us” and “them” and we need to be separated, because there’s only one earth.

Yousre Odeh. Nablus, West Bank:

I’m from Nablus village in Palestine. My family is all from there. My mother and father were born there. We are a big family: I have five brothers and five sisters. My father is a retired school manager, my mother a retired teacher.

Some of the people from my village think it’s bad to live with Israeli people. But I am doing what I believe in. I think it’s a good program. I’m getting so much information and knowledge about the environment and water scarcity. So I think I can help people in my society when I come back.

It was hard for me to come here because I had to be cleared by Israeli security. My permission didn’t arrive until only one week before the beginning of the program. I was really wondering if I would get the permission or not.

I’ve been here for two months, and I haven’t been able to visit my family. One reason is that if I want to go there, there are so many checkpoints. The one in Jerusalem is the hardest one, and the one in my village. My village is between two checkpoints, so I’m always worried about that. I could spend a lot of time waiting for my turn to cross the checkpoint. So for that reason I don’t go home.

In class, we had a discussion about war in Gaza. We had an exercise where we would hold sticks to indicate we are angry, and dry leaves of trees to mean we feel sadness. First I took the leaves. I couldn’t control myself. I was really sad when I started to talk about the war in Gaza: the people killed in that war, the people still in jail, the people who are still refugees who haven’t been able to come back to Palestine and see their villages. After that I moved to the sticks and I said, “I am angry because I can do nothing to stop this war.” After that I looked around and saw most of the audience was crying and they were feeling with me, even the Israelis. It was good and I felt proud of myself for making them feel with me for the people who live in Gaza.

When I come back to my country, I know my friends and my family and I will try to affect my society by educating them about water and the scarcity of water. Maybe now we have enough water so that we don’t feel water will be scarce. But in future, it will be, if we don’t take care of it at this time. I want to do that.

Jerusalem’s narrow stone paths are totally free from garbage, filled with tourists, the male Hassidic Jews standing out most noticeably dressed all in black with a long curl dangling over each ear. The overall feeling is calm in spite of the recent conflicts between Israelis and Palestinians and the massive concrete wall that separates Jerusalem from nearby Ramallah, which is under Palestinian control.

Today, it is a treat to get to explore the old city of Jerusalem, just a short walk from our youth hostel. We walk down the main road from Jaffa Gate to the Western Wall, where Jews go to worship against the last remaining section of the ancient temple, stuffing prayers written on torn fragments of paper between worn white stones. Pablo is excited to visit it: he is Jewish, and he hasn’t traveled to Israel since he was 15.

In the Jewish quarter, stores sell menorahs and Star of David necklaces. But one turn down another lane and we are suddenly in the Christian area, shops filled with gold-encrusted paintings of Jesus and clocks in the form of crosses. Yet another turn and wham! It’s the Muslim quarter. The smell of flesh from the meat market overwhelms me. MeiMei stops to buy a kilo of halvah, her favorite local snack made from sesame seeds, which I think tastes like chalk. Jos is thrilled to find an Arafat-style white scarf with black embroidery. Duff is just excited to be out of the editing room. Ben and Ali wander off on their own to enjoy some couple time.

We all marvel at the sites – the Muslim Dome of the Rock, a golden-roofed mosque rising up just a short distance from a church and a synagogue; all these religions attempting to share one tiny, sacred place. And I wonder, can confronting water scarcity, an increasingly critical issue in the Middle East, serve as a way to bring people together in the name of one common cause?

We regroup in the afternoon for our four-hour bus ride from Jerusalem to the southern tip of Israel, where we’ll be staying the night. You can definitely see evidence of the lack of freshwater in the region. Unless there is agricultural development, the landscape is void of greenery, deep rocky canyons on one side, the unusable, highly saline Dead Sea on the other.

The bus driver, Vadim, cranks up an enthusiastic mix of American music ranging from the ‘50s to the ‘80s, and we end up having an old-school road trip sing-along. This makes the time pass more quickly. We’re relieved to get into the kibbutz shortly after sundown, just in time for most of us to enjoy our first Shabbat dinner, a Friday night Jewish tradition. The dining hall is packed with people. First, a kibbutz member makes an announcement about births, illnesses, and soccer tournaments. Then the rabbi gives a short prayer, and we feast on chicken, fresh-baked bread, and, of course, hummus.

When we crossed into the Palestinian-controlled city of Jericho two days ago to meet with the Mayor and a local farmer, the checkpoint seemed significant. We had to walk 100 meters through the “no man’s land” from the Israeli to the Palestinian side. But this crossing from Jerusalem into Ramallah, the capital of the West Bank, is far more intense. More barricades, more soldiers, more anxiety in the air. My heart rate rises as we exit the Israeli bus under the watchful eye of a dramatic concrete tower. To get into Ramallah, we must pass through several metal gates in a large bunker-style building, feeling like herded cattle, trapped.

We grab a taxi. Once in town, we feel more comfortable. There are no signs of the recent war that occurred in Gaza, the other Palestinian region, which lies completely separate from the West Bank on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean Sea. We catch a cab to the headquarters of Palestinian Coca-Cola for a tour of the bottling plant, as Dasani is a major sponsor of Expedition: Blue Planet.

What started out as a work obligation quickly turns into a fascinating experience. Honestly, I had not planned to blog about it. But the meeting with Imad Hindi, the General Manager, is a moving experience. In a region with approximately 50 percent unemployment, Coke provides nearly 400 valuable jobs, at least 10 percent of those to women. It is the largest international industry in the country. Mr. Hindi says that being offered the opportunity to return for this job from his adopted country of Jordan to Palestine, which his parents fled after the 1967 war with Israel, was “a dream come true.”

The Coke management team here is working hard to confront the water scarcity issues that plague the region. Palestinians consume three times less water than the world average, without accounting for climatic need. They are severely restricted in their access to freshwater by Israel. Coca-cola has requested permission from the Israeli government to build a wastewater treatment facility near one of their juice factories, which would provide much-needed water for agriculture to the local communities.

Even the logistics of getting Coca-cola around the West Bank are immensely complex, and the expense is three times the regional world average. Mr. Hindi tells us that it used to cost more to transport bottles of Coke from Ramallah to Gaza than it did to ship it to China. Since the war that just ended in January of this year, the company isn’t allowed to supply Coke to Gaza at all anymore.

Dr. Clive Lipchin, our guide from the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies in Israel, feels that there are several potential solutions to the Middle East’s water scarcity. All involve joint management of the resources by the three riparians, or countries who share the watershed: Israel, Jordan, and Palestine. One is the Red Sea-Dead Sea Conduit, which we discussed in yesterday’s blog. Another is a food for water swap. Palestine traditionally has an agrarian economy. Agriculture is very important to the people here not just for economic reasons, but moreover as a way of life. It makes sense to have Palestinians grow food on their land and sell it to Israel, whose developed economy is based largely on technology. The key to success is that Israel take into account the water footprint of the food, and therefore work with Palestine to provide more access to freshwater to the farmers – which is what Coca-cola is attempting to do.

After our interview with Mr. Hindi, we wander through the bustling downtown area of Ramallah, stopping for a crunchy falafel and honey-drenched baklava. I love wandering the outdoor market, aisles of shiny purple eggplant, sun-ripened tomatoes and cucumbers crowding the stands.

Crossing back over the border from Ramallah to Jerusalem feels equally intense. We stand in single file in the narrow lanes formed by metal bars, waiting for the gate to open. The Israeli authorities allow ten people at a time to pass. Next, we scan all of our bags in X-ray machines. Finally, we clear yet another gate and emerge on the other side of the wall, the side where freedom of movement and access to freshwater are far less restricted.

We spent the day exploring the Dead Sea on the Israeli side, contrasting this experience to our Dead Sea day on the eastern Jordanian shores. Here, sinkholes—yawning cavities where the earth has dramatically and unexpectedly collapsed—mar the water’s edge, preventing any development (including hotels, roads, or agriculture). In addition, the land slopes far more gradually here, so the visual evidence of the sea’s rapid destruction in the name of human development is more obvious. We visited a public park where you can read the signs showing where the water level used to reach in 1995, 1985, and 1965. The distances between the signs are dramatic: they stand at least 100 meters apart. The Dead Sea has dropped so much due to Israel’s damming of the Sea of Galilee and Jordanian and Syrian extraction from the Upper Jordan River that it has actually split into two: the North and South Basins. It is expected to shrink to little more than a puddle within decades.

Clive Lipchin of the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies, our partner organization here in the Middle East, told of one way in which water scarcity might offer an opportunity for cooperation between Israel, Palestine and Jordan—with the so-called “Red-Dead Canal.” The World Bank currently is exploring a proposal from the three countries to dig a canal from the Red Sea to the Dead Sea in order to replenish the Dead’s ever-dwindling water supplies. However, the option is controversial due to unforeseeable environmental consequences.

For lunch, we lounged under the tents of a Moroccan restaurant, enjoying the cool sea breeze. Roee Elisha, an alum of Arava, talked to us about mineral abstraction. This is the primary industry to tap the otherwise unusable, highly saline water of the sea as a resource. Little did we know that Dead Sea-derived potash supplies one-quarter of the world’s fertilizer—and millions of dollars of income to both Jordan and Israel.

In the late afternoon, we drove to Tel Aviv. While Ben and I attended an elegant cocktail party with local Israeli business people, hosted by the Arava Institute to raise awareness of water issues, Ali, MeiMei, and Pablo got to head out on the town. Israelis say that if New York City is the Big Apple, Tel Aviv is the Big Falafel. Our team reported back that it is indeed a bustling, stylish, 24/7 town. I’m sure we all would’ve loved more time to explore, but we’ve got to be up at 6am tomorrow for anther big day in Palestine!

I had imagined that I might be frightened or at a minimum jumpy while traveling in the West Bank, but I’m not. Shira, a 27 year-old Australian-Israeli who accompanies us from the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies says, “It’s only because you don’t have a history here. You’re too inexperienced to be afraid. I’m scared.” With those words of warning, we cross the border—which is really no more than a glorified tollbooth (no passport stamps or 200-meter long bus rides involved)—from Israel into the occupied territories of Palestine, where we will spend the day.

The difference between the two regions is instantly obvious. Israel resembles many developed Western nations, from the smooth highways and spotless air-conditioned restaurants to the brow-furrowing array of beauty and pharmaceutical products in the stores. Palestine, on the other hand, feels downtrodden. Villages sag and heaps of trash illegally dumped by Israeli trucks brood by the roadside. But the sharpest contrast is in the greenery. Israel’s lowlands are covered in vibrant fields of bananas, dates, and vegetables, while much of Palestine’s landscape stretches like overly tanned skin to the fence—cracked and brown. The reason: limited access by Palestinians to substantial water resources.

We are visiting the village of Wadi Fuqin in Area A, which means that the Palestinian Authority has full control. (In Area B, Palestine has administrative powers but Israel has security control. Area C, which is under complete Israeli control, makes up 60 percent of the West Bank). While the simply constructed low concrete buildings and limited agriculture nestle low in the valley, Israeli settlements encroach further and further down from the top of the nearby hillside–massive apartment complexes surrounded by walls like prisons.

Stepping off the bus, we encounter two older women wrapped in headdresses, their sun-wrinkled faces resembling the dried apricots so popular in the region. “We have no water for four months of the year in the summer,” one of them tells me, her voice pitched high with frustration. “So I have to buy it from a water tank. I don’t even know the quality of that water – it could come from anywhere. But I can’t afford it anyway. It is so expensive.”

“Do we deserve this treatment?” asks an official from the local Palestinian council a few minutes later. He dons a brown polyester suit and chain-smokes as we talk. “We have no self-determination. We aren’t even allowed to dig wells without Israeli permission. We can’t afford to treat our sewage, so our groundwater gets more and more polluted.” He takes a dramatic puff of his cigarette. “The Israelis know what they’re doing. They’re using water as a weapon. If farmers can’t irrigate their fields, they’re forced to go to work in construction or move away or take government money. This gives Israelis more land security, because it separates the Palestinians from their land.”

Our official guide through Palestine today is Monther Hind of the Palestine Wastewater Engineering Group. He takes us on a tour of Wadi Fuqin and tells us more about the political, economic, and water situation of the region. “Palestinians get one-fourth the water allotment of Israelis. They use some of the least amount of water per capita in the world. Israel has blocked off the Sea of Galilee completely, so that the Jordan River is no more than a trickle. Jordan has agriculture all along the Jordan River Basin, but Israel won’t even allow Palestinians access to the river. So all we have – for drinking and for agriculture – is groundwater and rainfall. And even these are getting less and less every year, while the population grows. People are suffering. It is an impossible situation.”

Naturally, the situation has layers and layers of complexity that we can’t begin to explore fully in one day. Not all Israelis want to cut off the Palestinians from water resources that belong fairly to both countries. In fact, many Israelis are not even aware of the realities of Palestine’s water situation. We meet with a confident, matter-of-fact Israeli woman from the town of Tzur Hadassah near Jerusalem who has decided to take action to rectify the situation. She organizes Israelis and Palestinians to bring more water to her deprived neighbors.

There is of course also the issue of religion. That’s the familiar story to most of us. Religious Israelis believe that this is the Promised Land. In their view, it has belonged to their people since the dawn of human history. The Islamic Arabs, on the other hand, argue that they have inhabited the region for the past 2,000 years. Both Jews and Muslims claim Jerusalem as their holy city. Both demand a right to be here.

But the hidden story is the water. Denying people access to fresh water, especially when it comes from a shared watershed, is a sure-fire way to make them angry. On the other hand, it seems that cooperating to protect water resources might be the fastest road to mutual understanding and even peace. We have seen this in the example of the Israeli woman we met today, as well as the Arava Institute, who has been accompanying us the entire week and draws Israelis, Palestinians, and Jordanians to its campus to solve environmental problems and build friendships.

Ban Ki-Moon, the United Nations Secretary General, has warned of impending “water wars” between nations. But the author of that famous book by the same name, who argued against the title, disagrees. “You cannot do without water,” Marq de Villier is quoted in the press as saying, “so when shortages pinch, states do cooperate and compromise.”

Can water scarcity be transformed from a situation that foments warfare into an opportunity to bring people of different religions and conflicted histories together? We have seen evidence that this might be the case. But one thing is clear: we have no choice. Fresh water around the globe is running out. We have to cooperate to save it – and save our own lives.