I wish I had worms...

It's our last day and we decided to be gluttonous, hence the blog title!

In just about 12 hours we will be flying out of Delhi in pursuit of Qatar. I'm curious to see how Qatar Airways measures up. Our flight from Kathmandu to Delhi, on Jet Airways, just a few days ago, was by far the best flight Lori or I have ever been on. Neither of us wanted it to end (definitely a first!). Not only did we have our own touch-screen t.v.s we had the choice of a plethora of music from around the world to listen to (full CDs!), music videos to choose from, over 10 movies, and even more t.v. prporgams...we felt spoiled. We listened to the new Radiohead, Pink Floyd, both Bobs (Marley and Dylan), a little Om Shanti Om (the soundtrack to the Bollywood flick) and the Dixie Chicks. We didn't even have time to check out the t.v. selections because we were both so jazzed to have some jams. I was blasting Mary J Blige as the pilot told the crew to get ready for landing. Amazing how good music feels after not having your Ipod at beck and call for 7 months.

Yeah, 7 months. And we'll be back on home soil by tomorrow afternoon. I hope Qatar Air blows us away because after our 4 hour flight from Delhi we have a 14 hour flight to D.C. Just thinking of it makes me squirm. We haven't written a blog for a while, and uploading took so long last time we didn't get the chance to put up more photos. Hopefully we'll have a chance to soon. I guess this is it. Homeward bound and still trying to process it all...

होप

Sikkim Photos

The beginning of our trek in Sikkim...saddling up the yaks!

Oh yeah! Snow storm on the second day!
Sunrise at the Dzongri camp

On our rest/acclimatization day it dumped in camp! Sunrise on Kanchenjunga (3rd highest in the world!)

The More

Trying to describe the more is like trying to describe "The Nothing" in The Never Ending Story. It is amorphous, indescribable, ineffable, uncontrollable, unpredictable. Unlike "The Nothing," the more is a positive "thing," not a force to fear. Once you have experienced the more you cannot imagine life without it. One is speechless, dumbfounded and a myriad other cliches because there are no words, at least that I know of, to tell others about the more.

The problem with not being able to describe the more is that those of us who have it, want it, can't live without it, end up sounding like stuttering school children when asked, "Why are you going there (insert country name of choice here) to volunteer?" Why not go to Ghana to enjoy the splendid beaches; it's much cooler there than in a concrete box with a tin roof. Why not check out the gorillas in northern Uganda instead of shifting bricks for two days in the sweltering heat outside of Entebbe? No safari in Kenya? And what about Goa; you went all the way to India to spend time in one of the most polluted places in the universe! The pious have words for it: God, gods, enlightenment, sacrifice, humility, etc. However, those are not the words I would use to describe the more.

The more is the man on Park Street: no legs, hated me for a couple of weeks because I gave him a smile instead of money, yet every morning and every evening greeted him with an exuberant "Hello" until I learned "Namaskar, Ke mon acho?" and now the zeal with which he notices my legs among all the others coming and going, and looks up excitedly as we greet each other in the same instant; he knows I treat him like a human, not a crippled beggar. His presence in my life is the more.

The more is complimenting the family on AJC Bose Rd on their spring cleaning: they live on the sidewalk; a man, his wife, and their little son, on a 4ft X 6ft square space covered by a tarp. They got a new tarp and it's green. Being here every day, a part of a neighborhood, a street community, an auto-rickshaw route, dodging the heroine needles as I walk down our sidewalk just like everyone else that lives there, allows me to make this observation. Noticing the change in a tarp color is the more.

The more is Ganesh, named after the elephant man-god, a Punjabi who turns on the little fan as I talk on the phone in his hot-as-Hades telephone booth. The more is working with a group of women, a school, a project, for an extended amount of time; a trip can't do it. Four weeks rarely does it. Two months teases you with what the more could be. And even though I continue to seek out the more I am continually surprised at how I receive it. As I said, it is not predictable; the only predictable thing about it is how not to find it.

Butterflies in your stomach, not quite. Chills, goosebumps? Nope. There are physical expressions of the more, but even these are not easy to pinpoint. So, what's the point in writing (or trying to) a blog about it? I've come to realize a lot of people think I volunteer and continue to go on trips like this because it makes me feel good. In no way is this right. In every way this is wrong. It doesn't make me feel good to sweat profusely twenty-four hours a day. If you could see my hands and feet right now you would believe me; they are swollen and soft the way you get from being in the bath too long, covered in heat bumps, red, itchy, painful, hideous. I don't enjoy watching my feet instead of smiling at others as I walk, for fear I might step on one of those needles. I didn't enjoy living in a room with no electricity, therefore no fan, in 40+ degrees Celsius, no running water to cool off with, always at risk of typhoid and malaria. Not fun. I never liked the food in West Africa. And if you think I'm not getting to the point, it doesn't make feel good at all to volunteer and come home. Maybe some can build themselves up and feel good about what they "did," but not me. I, on the other hand, have near panic attacks on my first trip back into the grocery store. I remember the time I stood, completely overwhelmed, in the cereal isle in Fred Meyer guilty with choice. Volunteering, coming on trips like this, makes me feel worse when I go home. I have to leave movies before they finish for fear of discussing the content and being misunderstood; I clam up, I hide out, I try and run off that guilt feeling. I feel worse going home each trip, not better. The reason I travel to volunteer, not climb mountains, not lay on a beach (although I love all of those things and try to do them as much as possible), but make volunteering the point of the trip, is because of the more.

The More is why I am here.

It isn't just for weddings...

So, I work with two wonderful kiwi folks who are going back to NZ after nine years in Calcutta. Naturally, I threw them a party...

Little did I know as I carried a cake all the way from one end of town to the other, riding on a bumpy auto-rickshaw, squishing my way onto the jam-packed Metro, and finally jostling along on a cycle-rickshaw, in the blistering heat, with the cake melting on my lap, that I would soon be wearing it!

I guess in the Bengali tradition, icing is meant to be smeared...

and worn proudly...

The festival of colors isn't until this weekend, but here we are covered in icing!

I managed to clean myself up. Here's me with some of the girls, donning a sari!

hot

calcutta is hot. i thought it was hot before, but now i know, THIS is hot. hot as in: i'm wilted by the time i walk the short four blocks to catch a cycle rickshaw to school around 8 a.m. hot as in: a cold shower, which we long for now rather than just deal with like we did before, is impossible since the water storage tank outside is heated up to around boiling by the midday heat. as in: a cold drink that i buy just down the street is lukewarm by the time i get it home and open it. as in: the air conditioned restaurants we treat ourselves to on the weekend are pure heaven, an undeniable luxury. hot as in: sidewalks sizzle, laundry dries practically instantly, dogs lie in limp-boned piles on every street corner, piles of trash steam, kids run around naked, and i want to run around naked. well....maybe not run. a slow saunter is more like it. it's too hot to run.

but in spite of the heat, calcutta is an amazing city. though i'm fully looking forward to cooler, greener, less populated darjeeling in april, there's so much that will be hard to leave behind. of course there are the delectable restaurants we've discovered, the weekend rituals we've established, the zipping around the city on a shared auto-rickshaw, crammed in seven-deep and somehow still finding it impossible not to move with the blasting bengali techno and strobe lights affixed to the rickshaw's ceiling. you know--typical city stuff that's always fabulous. then there are the people we've met: people who have impacted my life even if our only interaction is greeting each other every day while passing through our respective lives. there are the teachers at tiljala primary school, beautiful, fun, big-hearted women who try to teach me bengali, who insist that i rest after my sweaty but short walk to school (they who travel by train and bus two hours each way to get to school), who, i think, love the kids as much as i do even if they don't show it. and then there are the kids, the kids! these amazing and resilient kids who live in the filthy, chaotic maze surrounding the school, yet who show up on time every morning, clean, hair oiled, perfectly attired, so excited to be at school and genuinely eager to learn. each of their names is poetry, sitting cross-legged on the floor with them while they eat their rice-and-dal lunch is a joy, and helping them learn english (their THIRD langauge, after hindi and bengali) is a privilege. i'm learning as much as they are, if not more.

so. yes...it's unbearably, uncomfortably hot. i don't enjoy my clothes sticking to my skin or tossing and turning at night under my stifling mosquito net. but i'd never take back my time here. in the end, i think a little heat provides a lot of perspective.

Photos from Calcutta

View of neighborhood where Lori teaches

Two great girls at Lori's school

Mandy and Colleen at Sanlaap -designing a new bag, block-printing area

All dressed up on Kelsey's last night in Calcutta

Shelano! - The lovely ladies Mandy works with.

pondering place

preconceptions. perceptions. powerful. piety. pagan. pestilential. painful. personal. poverty. porous. pollution. pity. poking. puking. purging. pining. prayer. pineapple. papaya. pastry. pasta. pancakes. paneer. pakora. protein. popcorn. pounds. period. piazza. panache. peacock. paisley. pantaloons. panch. postcards. packages. past. present. presence. photos. pages. punjabi. parade. pride. paralyzed. punch. passive. p.c. philanthropy. pathetic. perplexed. passionate. perseverance. patience. pure. privilege. perfect.

Stay

Because you can't go.
Because you are a part of something.
Because you are stimulated, challenged, excited and anxious every minute of every day.
Because you already love this city as if it is your own.
Because you love your routine, your favorite restaurant, your community.
Because you may never feel this way again...

I know what I don’t know, and supposedly that’s a good thing. I know that I don’t know enough about Dreamweaver when I’ve already committed to making a webpage for Shelano. I know that I will never know how much, if at all, I am affecting those around me in a positive way, and they, me. I know that I cannot make sense of the world; I can only experience it. I know that my world-view only becomes more three-dimensional with every new element added to it, good or bad.

What do I know? I know that volunteering is always the most rewarding part of every trip I take. I know that when people ask me upon my return, “How was your trip?” they expect a one-sentence response. Not possible. I know that people would rather hear “It was great,” than “It was hard. It was tough. And yes, I did love it.” I know that saying “no” in response to “You must love Africa; you keep going back!” is confusing. I know that I am not a poet, an incredible writer, or an unbelievable teacher. And I know that my strengths only multiply and shine when I am a part of something, not doing something for myself.

Stay. That one word has been playing over and over in my mind since my first week in Kolkata. Even when I think about a week hiking n Darjeeling, a month in Sikkim, and a week or two on the beaches of south India, everything we planned and desired. Stay. Ok. I have things to do. I have barely begun, and still I know that no matter how long I stay I will still feel that way when I go. The decision has been made, the rent paid until the end of the month, I’m staying. We’re staying. That is definitely the best part of the equation. Lori wants to stay too. We didn’t talk about it, letting ourselves make up our own minds, and yet here we are beginning a new month together in a city intense and beautiful. “The city of joy” is the motto of Kolkata. I believe it. I may have volunteered many times, but each time is new, different, and altogether rewarding. I’ve never been a part of a group of women working so hard to gain pride and independence, laughing in the face of their poverty. I’ve never been on a creative team developing new products, ideas, and support for a fair-trade cause. My cup is spilling over with projects to be involved in; maybe the monsoon is coming early this year.

27. 12 ½. 1000.

27 million women in the sex slave trade
12 ½ is the average age of the girls who are trafficked
1000 rupees is the average price for having sex with a virgin

Sex trafficking is a huge issue. I happened to be in the D.C. area for my ten year high school reunion last summer I ended up at a conference last minute. Here I met Becky Bavinger, a great girl working for The Emancipation Network (http://www.emancipationnetwork.org/ ) and Made by Survivors (http://www.madebysurvivors.com/ ) whose mission is to spread the word about the sex trafficking trade and do something about it. I elected to be in a small breakout group with her and found myself beset with a topic I knew next to nothing about. She was heading to Kolkata in October when Lori and I headed to Ethiopia, but we made a pact to meet up in Kolkata in February. Here we are in the middle of February already and I am still on the cusp of learning about this huge and overwhelming subject.

The first day I met up with Becky she had this bag over her shoulder:

http://store.madebysurvivors.com/Jute-Messenger-Bag

Intrigued I asked about the numbers. Finding out their meaning I realized the power of the bag: discussion. So much about what we are doing here in Kolkata is about opening your mind, having discussions, and being challenged to the core by the answers. Most volunteering I have been a part of has been this way. This topic, however, is something completely new for me. My parents called the other night and I was trying my best to put everything I have learned so far into words, sentences, meaning. Asking the tough and pensive questions they are both so good at I could only reply that I knew very little and was doing my best to learn more. This conversation made me realize I needed to write a blog about it. So, I’m putting it out there as something to think about for those of you who will take me up on it, and challenge you to learn with me.

There are many organizations here whose sole mission is to work with women currently in the sex trade, or living in one of the red light districts, while others go so far as rescuing victims and keeping them safe in a shelter for years of rehabilitation and vocational training. It is daunting that there are so many organizations working on the same cause because it means that the issue is so great. Girls who have been stolen from their home village, disappearing usually forever, or even those who have been sold at a young age, and then manage in one way or another to escape, are not welcomed back. They are tainted, unclean, and ultimately, not welcome. Even though most of the women and nearly all the young girls did not choose this profession, it is because they took part in it, no matter how unwilling, they have shamed themselves and their families permanently. Therefore, even though they may have escaped they have no safe place to go and end up on the streets or back in the trade. Places like Freeset (http://www.freesetbags.com/ ), Sari Bari (http://www.saribari.com/ ), and Made by Survivors, are just a few of the organizations set up to fight and to help.

I visited Freeset the other day and was amazed at the organization of the business, the joy of the over 100 women employed there, the love of those running it, and the way the women were treated. At Freeset there is a nursery for the women who have children, so that they can have a safe (and free) place to put their kids while they work. They are given a salary and even a retirement plan / bank account for later. These women have truly been set free.

Each day I volunteer with women in the fair-trade business as well. However, the organization I work with, Shelano (http://www.shelano.com/ ) is not specifically for women in the sex trade. It is poverty-focused, and each woman has her own unique story. After work I usually meet up with Becky or visit one of her projects, since I am hoping that beginning next month we will be able to place volunteers interested in this subject in with her work in the city. A couple of nights ago I met five fabulous young women. They are living in a flat together, on their own, for the first time in their lives. They spent 3-5 years living in Sneha (http://www.sanlaapindia.org/ ) a shelter for minors who were rescued from the sex trade. These women have been given a new life. At Sneha they got counselling, a safe place to live, and vocational training skills. Now, as a new part of the Sanlaap (http://www.sanlaapindia.org/ ) project, they have been given a chance to begin a new life, together. They are cooking for themselves and working as a group making items for Made by Survivors. Becky goes over almost every day to hang out, listen to music and do what girls do best: chat. It was on one of these nights that I went along and enjoyed their company.

I haven’t come to any amazing revelation; I haven’t made any huge leaps and bounds for these women, but I am learning. I’m doing my best to tell their story too.


Links:

The Emancipation Network http://www.emancipationnetwork.org/
Made by Survivors http://www.madebysurvivors.com/
Freeset http://www.freesetbags.com/
Sari Bari http://www.saribari.com/
Sneha http://www.sanlaapindia.org/
Sanlaap http://www.sanlaapindia.org/

India Photos #2

Buddha, Thai style, Sarnath

Bangle Paradise, Varanasi

Sunrise on the Ganges River, Varanasi

Boats on the Ganges River Ghats

Prayer Wheels, Tibetian Temple, Sarnath

India Photos #1

The Toy Train to Shimla

Manali: A temple under snow

Hiking above McLeod Ganj

A chilly sunrise at the Taj Mahal

Impromtu concert in an alley in Agra...I love the horns

kolkata

sitting in an internet cafe trying to concentrate as the guy at the computer next to me blasts his easy-listening hindi pop. although i'm halfway down an alley, off the busy city streets, i can still hear the impatient car horns and squallor of human living that are a constant here, late into the night and starting up again at first light. calcutta (kolkata) is a city of contradictions. tiny tailor shops barely big enough for the tailor and his wares reside on the same block as massive multi-story malls with expensive crap clothing and jewelry from china. shabby chai-wallahs sell hot, sugary tea by the terra-cotta cup for a fraction of the price as the uniform-clad baristas at the coffee-chain down the street. a well-dressed local strolls down the sidewalk with a well-fed dog in his arms or on a leash, past dozens (hundreds?) of starving, mangy mutts that fight over greasy garbage. shiny brand-new cars with shiny clean drivers maneuver the same streets as rickety buses crammed with people and thin men on old bent bicycles and even thinner men pulling rickshaws in their bare feet. kids with perfectly-plaited hair and creased uniforms ran laughing past breast-feeding babies with big eyes and their sad mothers, hands outstretched. this is an intense place. it is challenging my mind, my every philosophy i've ever had about life, my concepts of right and wrong, good and bad, having and lacking and needing and wanting. sometimes it's beautiful, sometimes it's horrible, but it's all here right in front of me as i struggle to keep my eyes and mind open.

Due North

There must be some magnetic pull in my body that draws me to the north. I know I felt it most powerfully at the age of fourteen when I stepped off the plane in Alaska and knew I was home. It only makes sense that Lori and I arrived in Delhi on January 13th and made a beeline north. We knew before we left that where we really wanted to go, Ladakh and Leh, would be closed for the winter by the time we arrived, so we decided to head for Shimla and see what happened. Shimla is a hill town, a typical resort town, a Breckenridge, if you will, of India. In the summer it is crawling with the upper echelon who have come to escape the heat of the southern regions, and Europeans who enjoy the Toy Train ride up the steep cliffs-quite an exciting novelty. We enjoyed it, but felt transported out of India to a new country altogether. The best part about heading this direction at this time of year is that there were very few tourists at all, so we felt we had the run of the place. We also found out here, ducking into the tourism office to escape the freezing rain, that we could head even further north, a gift!

Two days later we headed north to Manali by bus, an eleven hour ride, and stepped off into a winter wonderland. We gleefully looked up, as if in a snow globe, and rejoiced in the white Christmas we didn’t have in Ethiopia. Though delightful and making us feel at home, we were ill prepared. We were those people we loathe in their heavy cotton and flip-flops struggling on Flattop! We had our wool, and I had my long underwear (Lori accidentally left hers in Addis), but our airy tennis shoes were immediately soaked through by the first icy puddle we stepped in, and our one pair of tall wool socks was ruined. None of this would be a problem if the hotels had heat in the rooms, or even a fireplace in the lobby where we could dry our things out, but, alas, with power cuts each night the electric heater we paid extra for in our room was a waste, and our clothes were frozen when we woke up in the morning! Needless to say, the next day our mission was to remedy our situation. We ended up with three new pairs of tall woolen socks, rubber boots, a new pair of long underwear for Lori, and a heavy wool coat for me. We were kitted out for winter and ready to explore Manali! We explored the mountain area, the temple so beautiful with snow all around it, and found a fireplace (finally!) late in the day to warm our bones.

Our time was limited since we needed to be in Kolkata (Calcutta) by the 31st of January, so we wanted to see as much of the north as possible. Two nights in Manali and then we got on another bus, this ride exponentially more dangerous, to Dharamshala. That morning everything had frozen and we basically very carefully ice skated from our hotel to the bust station, balancing our bodies and our packs in our very slippery rubber boots. We contemplated waiting a day for things to thaw out, but put our trust into the trip and held on tight when it was our turn in the bus to head down the icy hill out of town. Thankfully, we made it, over a 12 hour ride, and we were even more grateful when we read in the morning’s paper that a few buses had crashed or tipped off the mountain cliffs, in this region, due to the weather. We stayed in McLeod Ganj, the part of town above Dharamshala, where the Dali Lama resides. We ended up spending three nights in this town, our favorite so far, and could have spend three months. The surrounding mountains made for a great day hike, making us long for a week-long hike further back. We visited the main temple, cueing up with Buddhist pilgrims to turn the prayer wheels, and spent a few hours in the Tibet Museum, a well-done exhibit documenting the crimes against Tibet by China. This area is so unique, more Tibetans than Indian. “Danyavad“ (Hindi for “Thank you”) didn’t work here, we had to learn “Two-chi-chay” (phonetic spelling) the Tibetan version. We met some fantastic people, and divulged our senses with shopping, eating Tibetan momos (a lot like potstickers), and drinking apple tea. It was hard to leave, but we headed to Pathankot, a town that borders Pakistan, to catch a train east.

After arriving back in Delhi at 5am from the north we boarded another train to Agra an hour later. By late afternoon we were surrounded by travelers who had come from all over the globe to see the famed Taj Mahal. We ended up meeting a fabulous auto-rickshaw driver at the prepaid stand at the train station who we used later to see the city. We had intended one walking ourselves around to all the sites, but this was a much better option amidst the city bustle. We visited the Agra Fort, built by the same man who commissioned the Taj, a Persian tomb, the Itimad-ud-daulah (the“Baby Taj”), got a chance to see a marble carving shop where artists related to those who worked on the Taj so may years back madk table tops, boxes, and many other souvenirs our of the same material, and even went down to the river to see the Taj from a backside view. That evening we relaxed, looking hard for a spot away from all the other tourists, unsuccessfully, and then went to bed early so we could get up for the sunrise. The sunrise on the Taj was entirely worth it, even with hundreds of others there to see the same thing. There was a quiet that came over everyone as the orange glow finally rose above the eastern side of the building and lit up the passionate structure. Having seen pictures of the Taj throughout my life was nothing compared to its immensity in person. The work that went into the building, the attention to detail, the structured layout, were beyond impressive.

Two nights in Agra and then we were off on another train to Varnasi. We spend another majestic morning watching the sun rise, only this time from a small boat on the sacred Ganges River. Varanasi was another major spot for travelers; such a different feeling being surrounded by so many Westerners as opposed to locals, everywhere we went. In Ethiopia when we went into a restaurant to eat, or stayed in any hotel, even in the capital city, we were always in the minority. It forced us to learn the language, meet locals, try new foods, etc. Nonetheless, Varanasi was a beautiful and colorful city that was most enjoyable viewed from the open-aired seat of a slow-moving cycle-rickshaw. We took a day trip from Varanasi to Sarnath, another pilgrimage site for Buddhists. Here we wandered from temple to temple, seeing how many different nationalities practice Buddhism. We saw a Chinese, Japanese, Tibetan, Burmese, and Thai temple, each one specifically a Buddhist temple, and yet each so different in its structure and the way they portrayed Buddha. It was incredibly interesting. Buddha was lying down made out of wood, sitting and laughing with a huge belly, meditating erect with his eyes closed sheathed in gold, and sitting, but relaxed in the from of terra cotta. The buildings themselves also had very different furnishings, or lack there of, inside. We explored the temples, the town, and, of course, the street ice cream!

From Varanasi we took a train to Gaya, where we hopped in an auto-rickshaw with a few other travelers trying to make it to the city of Bodgaya before a new day began. Arriving just before midnight (our train was late) we crashed into our beds without dinner and woke up the next morning in the city known for the Bodi tree under which Buddha sat for many weeks. Many Tibetans come down to this city during the winter months to pray and meditate at the temple, and because of the amount of pilgrims there are also many temples from around the world here as well. We spend our first afternoon exploring the famed site where Buddha sat, and walked in meditation, and then ate a huge dinner because we had committed to a 24 hour meditation and were not going to have dinner that night. At 5pm we began our Vipassana meditation. I will have to write more about this experience later, but for the next 24 hours we practiced this silent art of sitting and walking. We paid attention to our senses, were not allowed to think about anything but our physical movements, did not speak, write, read, or look anywhere but in a 3ft radius. It was an intense trial of patience and focusing of attention.

Now, we are in Kolkata (Calcuta). We will be here for the next month at least, volunteering. Our orientation was on Friday, and since then we have been exploring the city. We’re going to like it here. There are six of us volunteers starting this month, and there are four that are here and have been here for a couple of months already. We start our projects on Monday: Lori will be working in a slum school and I will be working with a women’s business group, producing fair trade items for export. More on our projects later. I figured it was about time to write a blog from India, and as soon as possible I’ll put up some photos...

2008...in style

The last thing I thought I would be doing on New Year’s Eve 2008, and in all countries Ethiopia, was seeing a Rhianna and Akon concert with near to 25,000 other people. For those of you who know who these hip-hop stars are (Holla!) this was quite a shock. It all began with an innocent, albeit indulgent, trip to the Sheraton Hotel with my parents on December 29. Reputably the posh-est hotel in Africa and after having been there I agree; it’s the posh-est hotel I have ever been in in my life, we went for a taste of the high life with the ‘rents. Driving up Patty was tickled by the numerous Santa Claus’ climbing ropes of light all over the outside of the building. Inside, it was as if Christmas has thrown up: massive trees decorated in sickeningly over-the-top decorations, glitz and glitter, lights and shiny balls everywhere you turned. (Yes, we did get the proverbial family photo in front of the tree in the lobby. Are parents always this cheesy?) The icing on the cake, or should I say, the topping of all toppings, was the dessert buffet in the lobby café, complete with a chocolate fountain. I had never actually seen one of these in person; it was as if we were magically transported to an alternative Christmas reality when we walked through the metal detectors at the door. Were we even in Ethiopia anymore? Lori and I wandered in a daze, trying to focus on other things around us, while our minds still dwelled on the chocolate fountain – did we really need dinner? And then, a poster caught our eyes: “Rhianna and Akon at the Millenium Hall, December 31st 2007.” What?! Was this a joke? Of all places these artists could be to bring in 2008, they were going to be in Addis Ababa? After reading and rereading the poster a few times, my parents were interested and needed a full explanation of who these musical talents were. We found a scantily clad Rhianna singing her (overplayed) hit “Umbrella” on a nearby T.V. and my parents laughed. “You should definitely go,” said Allen.

Yeah right…but the seed was planted.

The day after my parents left was New Year’s Eve and we had no serious plans. However, we still had Rhianna and Akon in the back of our minds. Fortuitously my folks had some birr (Ethiopian currency) left over and decided we needed it more than they did. We refused, they insisted, force ensued, and of course the elders won out. So, here we were a few hundred birr richer and what better way to spend it than go to a hip hop show for New Years? The flyer said “Proper Attire Required,” which of course really meant, “Look hot or you won’t be let in!” What else were we to do but go all out? We found ourselves in the Piazza Market after breakfast and a trip to the Sheraton to buy our tickets, the last day of 2007. A few hours later our arms were laden with bags: two shiny new dresses, enormous earrings, a little eye shadow, red toe nail polish, and one pair of high heels. The last time we put on makeup was in October…this was a day to remember. After showering and getting gussied up we headed for a taxi, already 8pm, only fours hours left in 2007.

Arriving at the Millennium Hall was like arriving at a Hollywood event and walking down the red carpet. Everyone was gorgeous. Decked out for the celebration the concert-goers were dressed to the nines. Distracted by people-watching we soon found ourselves immersed in a sea of bodies, near the stage, cheering as Rhianna walked out onto the stage, her first trip to Africa, and we were there to welcome her. It seemed absurd. Here we were in Ethiopia, far away from our home in Alaska, after nearly three months in the country, wearing the same two outfits, using public transportation, eating every meal with our hands, volunteering, and then, to find ourselves, decked out, surrounded by almost 25,000 others, at a hip-hop concert in the capital city…surreal.

The evening was a beautiful blur. The music was better than expected, our feet hurt from dancing, and we couldn’t have had a better time. As the clocked turned the page, a new chapter began: 2008. Only minutes after we entered this current year, Lori and I realized how little we needed. In the midst of the bumping, grinding, and shouting, we lost our bag. Luckily, we really didn’t lose anything. To be exact: 2 black pashminas, 2 chapsticks, 400 birr (~$40), and the high-heels I had bought hours before. Thank goodness my feet hurt so early on that I changed out of my heels into my precious flip-flops! As we rode home in the taxi a couple of hours later, shivering and penniless, I couldn’t stop laughing. It was the perfect way to begin the New Year: with nothing more than we needed. Lori didn’t share my initial joy because, unfortunately, she was the one holding the bag at the time it was stealthily slipped away, but by the next day we were both smiling. It was a great evening, a brilliant story, and the perfect end to a very full year.

going going going

we arrived in delhi this morning...

colors, colors, smells, sounds, too much to take in all at once. i stumble down the street like a typically stupid wide-eyed tourist and nearly get hit by a taxi, then a bicyclist, then a gari, before mandy jerks me back into reality and says we have to walk on the left-hand side of the street here. ah yes--i hadn't even thought about that. at our taxi from the airport this morning i stood dumbly waiting for the driver to get into the drivers-side before realizing that wait...he WAS on the drivers-side and he was waiting for ME to get in the passenger-side. this whole opposite-side-of-the-road thing is throwing me, and i could blame my spacey-ness on lack of sleep from an all-night flight, but really, i think it's mental overload from leaving one heart achingly beautiful and infinitely special country for a brand new one.

ethiopia was so much more than i ever thought it would be. three months there and it8felt like home. we met people that were like family. we became adept at maeuvering the buses, we cracked jokes in amharic (tinish tinish!), we had favorite spots for coffee and ethiopian food and pastries and grocceries, we traversed the country up and down and found every part as amazing as the last. we savored our time there, and when it came down to our last day, i felt unexpected pangs of sadness at the prospect of leaving. we boarded a plane at 1 a.m. and left behind the country i'd never had an inkling to visit, but one i'm sure i'll return to someday soon.

and now... india. once again i'm at a loss for langauge, since "salaam" and "amaseganalo" won't really cut it here. our hotel's busy street is a hippie's paradise: wool sweaters and colorful scarves and linen pants and shops laden with jewelry and beads and bags and trinkets of every kind. stands are piled high with fruit, street vendors peddle delectable-looking fried food (i haven't tried it yet...our hotel owner cheerfully counseled us on "delhi-belly"), men strain at their bicycle pedals in an attempt to move impossible loads, thin dogs shiver on street corners, hawkers shout and cars honk and we're absorbing it all.

india. paneer masala at a rooftop restaurant, fresh coconuts streetside in wooden crates, piles of grapes and pomegranates and so many different kinds of breads and tomorrow we buy our train tickets for shimla, to the north. india--you've got a lot to live up to after ethiopia. but so far things look perfectly promising...

Bump

Looking back on my first trip to Africa I can now laugh at the 20 lbs I gained in Ghana, then, however, it was no laughing matter. I had to blink away the tears the first time someone pinched the back of my arm and said “you are getting fat-O!” Now, I blink tears of joy, understanding their pride. By the third or fourth time my surrogate family and the refugees I was working with slapped my behind with vigor and told me with a smile that my “momma will be so proud!” I could take it with my chin up. In Ghana, and most of Africa, it is a good thing to be plump, curvy, fat, if you will. Because if you have an excess of weight, you must have an excess of food. My Sierra Leonean family was proud that I gained a few pounds a month while I lived with them, shedding my slight figure for a more “traditional build,” as Mma Ramotswe proudly says all women should be in the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency novels set in Botswana. Millicent, my mother for those six months, proudly traditionally built herself, always made sure there was an extra inch of material sewn in to each side of every skirt and dress I had made while I was there – ever hopeful of my weight gain. I think she was never more proud to walk down our street in Dansoman with me than in my sixth (plumpest) month, showing off her fat Abruni visitor to the neighbors.

West Africa is hot. Six months of barely any movement, because the heat wouldn’t allow it, and a diet consisting of carbs, carbs, and more carbs, with some fruit too (doesn’t the sugar in fruit break down into carbs?) was the trick to getting my fuller figure. Unlike me, my parents lose weight every time they are in Sierra Leone, dieting on their prepackaged tuna and eating barely anything else. Therefore, they experience the opposite: every time they return to Bo the kids say, “Patty you are bump!” The equivalent to my smack on the rump! People in West Africa notice your weight and aren’t afraid to share! Ethiopians are less transparent about commenting on your weight; however, at the beginning of our trip Lori and I checked into the National Park office in Debark before we began our trek in the Simien Mountains, and the guy at the counter didn’t believe we were American because “everyone knows all Americans are fat.” I don’t think he would have any trouble believing us now.

Before we left for Ethiopia I told Lori I would gain weight. This being my third extensive trip to the continent I have come to know, and even embrace, my weight-gaining abilities, I mean habits. At this she laughed. The ever exaggerative Mandy. Little did either of us know the temptations and indulgences that would soon surround us. We find ourselves in the country most people stereotype as a desolate place filled with emaciated children, already almost ten pounds heavier in only three months! From experience I thought the weight would come from pasta, bread, and lack of exercise due to the heat, but I was wrong. The culprits? The Italian influence: decadent pasty shops every 15 ft with freshly baked croissants, cakes of every flavor topped with inches of frosting, buttery biscuits drizzled with chocolate perfect for dipping in our sinful cups of macchiatos. That’s right, we can’t just have one – the cups are small! And then there’s the bread, oh the heavenly fresh-baked dabbo (bread) of Ethiopia! Each town has a signature loaf: fat ones, skinny ones, round ones, oblong, square, white, wheat, spongy, hard on the outside and soft on the inside, some with stars and spirals baked artistically into the top – who could resist! Yes, of course you have heard our joy at six days in the Simien Mountains summiting the highest peak in the country, as well as just recently our seven day trek from Dodola to Adaba in the high altitude hills of Western Ethiopia. Sure, we burned calories, walked many kilometers a day, and pushed ourselves up steep peaks. But in our enjoyment of the elements, we couldn’t be selfish; we had to share our delight with others. We had to support the local economy. And what better way to do both of these important things than invite a mule or a horse to carry your things and have his handler come too? Even if we had carried our own (very light) packs, the difference it would have made in our waistlines would have been infinitesimal.

Now, three months later, we find ourselves with rounder faces and a heavier step. My hiking pants are officially too short now, and are in that awkward not quite pants, not quite stylish capris, but more like hideous waiting-for-a-flood?-length, due to the newly acquired junk in my trunk. But embrace it, enjoy it, I say! Pish posh to those travelers who come home skinnier than when they left, clothes hanging off their svelte figures. The only excuse for that should be worms or parasites! Cheers to the extra pounds – there’s more to love! Cheers to the expandable waistline of wrap-around skirts! Cheers to the morning macciatos and pastries! Bring on the bread and the biscuits, what’s a meal without dessert anyway? And how better to let food digest than a nap in the sun, a few hours of reading and writing, or playing cards in the shade? My favorite form of exercise is shaking my bootie on the dance floor, and I can do that much better with my significantly improved ba-dunk-a-dunk anyway! So, here’s to indulgence, and gaining, which is always much better than losing.


…ok, so we did just buy a jumprope…

Photos...because we love to share.

We couldn't resist sharing more Ethiopia photos. Missing it already...

The Mursi tribe in South Omo

Carlos with some of the Mursi tribe members

Visiting the sacred tree in the Konso village

Day one of our trek in the Bale Mountains

Our kitted out hut in the Bale - cold beverages!

More photos from Ethiopia

A few more photos to share...

Lake Awassa: pleicans, storks, and people

Pelicans!

Bringing in the nets with today's catch at Lake Awassa

Lori and I amidst coloful Dorze scarves

In the South Omo region, a boy from the Hamer tribe