The Anchorage Daily News

I wish I had worms...

2008-05-14T04:56:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-28T22:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-03-20T01:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-18T23:11:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-17T02:43:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-16T04:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-01T23:37:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-02-16T23:56:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-12T22:46:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-09T22:55:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-04T01:32:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-02T21:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-13T03:04:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-13T02:38:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-13T02:37:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-01-13T02:34:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-13T02:02:00.000-08:00

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

the most wonderful time of the year

2007-12-20T04:57:00.000-08:00

it's almost christmas and the pinna hotel across the street draped tinsel all over their flowering trees and set up a cardboard nativity on the sidewalk. they even erected a christmas tree in their restaurant where people sit and sip fresh fruit juices with lime and where the mosquitos feast on us when we decide to eat our injera and shiro outside. every day is flip-flop weather, people sell pineapples, mangoes, bananas and papayas on the street, and colobus monkeys eye our lunch and occasionally make a grab for it. it's much too warm for a log fire and instead of wassail we're drinking macciatos and eating homemade trailmix instead of sugar cookies.

this is definitely the most unique christmas i've ever experienced. even though ethiopia follows its own calendar, and christmas isn't until january 7, i still doubt that even then there will be mobs of shoppers or stand-in santas on street corners or carols on the radio.

we just finished a seven-day trek from dodola to adaba through the western corner of the bale mountains in southeast ethiopia. we stayed at a different "public use hut" every night--beautiful, amazing, fully equipped cabins with dishes, pots and pans, kerosene cookstoves, a table and chairs, and bunk beds that the hutkeepers would make up with piles of warm blankets and sleeping bags for the chilly mountain nights. the outhouses even had sinks and sit-down toilets...luxury. after hiking around 18 km each morning, mandy and i would spend the rest of the day lounging in the sun, reading, writing, playing cards and enjoying the quiet. no one shouted "you!" "ferenji!" or "where do you go!" at us for seven whole days, we cooked our own meals instead of eating out, and used our own legs to get around. it was paradise. now we're back in awasa for the third time and we head to addis in the morning to meet up with mandy's parents, who are flying here for christmas.

ethiopia. at first glance i was overwhelmed by this country--i thought it was crowded, uncomfortable, strange. now i think about having less than a month left here and i wish we could stay longer. i'm still overwhelmed, but now i'm overwhelmed by ethiopia's beauty, by its diverse and stunning scenery, by the kind and generous people we've met, by the interesting and amazing experiences we have every single day. we've discovered ethiopian food that we love (and that we plan on cooking at home), we've learned a bit of amharic, and we've found comfortable and compatible ways of traveling together.

christmas in ethiopia. i love it.

Volunteer in Ethiopia

2007-12-19T06:48:00.000-08:00

The volunteer program is up and running:

http://www.volunteer.org.nz/ethiopia

Check out the photo of Lori at the bottom...

Ethiopian Time

2007-12-19T06:32:00.000-08:00

In my family we have an inside joke: anytime someone is late we say they were running on “Africa time.” Our experience in Africa so far has been that time is something completely different from what we know it to be at home. In Ghana if a tro-tro (bus) is supposed to come at 8am you will most likely be waiting until 9:30 or 10am…if you’re lucky. In my experience there is a two hour to two day window. One time I booked a tro-tro for a youth group field trip and it came two days late! Patty and Allen (the folks) have had the same frustrating, ahem, I mean, patience-teaching experience in Sierra Leone. My first time to Africa I became an expert at standing in line, under the hot sun, for hours on end, waiting for my tro-tro to arrive. Often the line would stretch over a mile and we would inch up person by person as each tro-tro filled up and the sun went down.

Time, and the concept of it, became so irrelevant that the word itself seemed absurd. The word “time” in Ghana seemed to have nothing to do with the time/space continuum, rather more to do with fancy, a working tro-tro, enough drivers, and a road that wasn’t blocked by mud. The word “time” in Ghana, Sierra Leone, West Africa, and for all I knew, all of Africa, did not mean “time” as I knew it, and to continually conceive of time in this fashion made me crazy. So, in order to work on my patience and get through each day, I had to think of something else, instead of time. I could not think about how long I had been waiting, or whether or not it was time for dinner, or time to wake up; I had to zone out while in the queue for the tro-tro, amusing myself with daydreams and hissing at the ice-cream sellers to come my way. I had to wake up when my sweat soaked my sheets signifying the sun was up, and eat the evening meal when the laundry was done, the water had boiled, and the rice was cooked. Sunrise and sunset signified a new beginning and a time to reflect.

Coming to Ethiopia I had “Africa Time” on my mind. I knew it would be another exercise in patience; maybe another three months would do me good. Yet again, I was surprised. Unlike like West Africa, Ethiopians seem to actually value punctuality! Here when we are told that we need to be at the bus station at 5:30 am, they are serious: the gates open, people trample each other, pushing and shoving to be the first to the bus, and madly press as many bodies through the small bus door as humanly possible in order to get the best seat. If someone tells us that they will meet us for coffee at 10am, they are there at 9:45am…so much for “Africa Time.” I think I will have to travel throughout all of Africa to find out where the “time” line is, dividing West from East, and late or whenever, to on-time and now!

There is one quirky time anomaly in Ethiopia, however. Ethiopians run on a 12 hour clock, but not the way we think of it: “12:00 in the morning” is 6am and “12:00 in the evening” is 6pm. This was incredibly confusing when we first arrived. There are two forms of time here: Ethiopian time and Western time. Therefore, when you are asking someone what time to catch a bus, or what time a restaurant opens, or even what time it is at any given moment, you must clarify which time they are referring to once they have given you a response. Lori and I have gotten used to adding six hours when someone tells us the time, but it is often the most baffling when we are in an internet café. Invariably some computers are set to Ethiopian time, some are set to Western Time, and some are not set at all, and the time is completely random. So, the two of us will be engrossed in our emailing, knowing that we need to catch the minibus at a certain time, and realize well over an hour into surfing that we have different times on our computers. From here we try and decipher the time by looking outside, and when that proves fruitless, we ask someone, and then decide whether or not they have told us Ethiopian time or Western time…a vicious cycle! So, not only does Ethiopia have a 13 month calendar, it runs on its own time. I am back to my pondering on whether or not I can even use the word “time” at all…

It’s as if we have entered a different world coming to this country and I am struck by the beauty of Ethiopia’s obstinacy. I have never been somewhere that had not yet converted to the western scheme of time, in general. Ethiopia would rather just have both: when you go into an office, the desk calendar has the Western date and the Ethiopian date. They are straddling two different times and dates, rather than picking one or the other. (Did I mention they are seven years behind us? Yep, it was the Ethiopian Millennium this year! So, does that make me seven years younger? Maybe I’ll stay…) I love the pride in their voice as they tell you, “It’s 2:00” with a smile. (That’s either 8am or 8pm depending on the angle of the sun.)

Since coming to Ethiopia my concept of “African time” has changed, just as my worldview has changed. Each day we get a little better at telling time the Ethiopian way, and each day as we sink into this time and place we feel a bit younger…

More Photos - November

2007-12-09T01:44:00.000-08:00

Photos from November...
The camels coming out of the desert on the salt caravan

Day one in the Danakil Depression: the eerie sulphuric hot springs

More of the Mars-like sulphuric structures

Solomon, our killer driver, with Lori and the Land Cruiser

Day three in the Danakil: Erta Ale, an active caldera volcano

Finally! Photos! (From October)

2007-12-09T00:35:00.000-08:00

Photos from October...finally...The amazing ceiling mural at Debre Bihan Selassie church in Gonder

Market Spices in Gonder, used for making Bere Bere

Sunset at Gich Camp, day three of our Simien Mountains Trek

From the summit of Immet Gogo, one of the boys who came to greet us on the precipice

The summit of Rash Dashen! Tired from the altitude (4533m): Mandy, Mike, Lori and our lovely armed scouts!

Man and Beast

2007-12-08T23:13:00.000-08:00

One of the things I have been struck by since I have been in Ethiopia is animal power. In Ghana everyone carried everything on their heads. I saw people carrying everything from a tub of coconuts weighing more than me, to an entire tree trunk, centering themselves in the middle of it for balance. Daily I was humbled by their strength. Were Ghanaians endowed with superhero strength in their necks and heads?

Anything one could possibly need could be found on another’s head. Never was I in want. I could be sitting in a tro-tro (bus) waiting for it to fill up and eat a three course meal: pineapple as an appetizer, tofu or meat on a stick as a main course, and ice cream in a bag as dessert; all from different vendors calling out their wares as they walked by. Having spent so much time there, I thought this is how they did it in Africa; not so in Ethiopia.

Here the animals easily outnumber the humans, which is hard to believe for the third largest population on the continent. But for each person walking down the road there are easily four or five donkeys using the same freeway. Horses, mules, donkeys, cattle (many different kinds), sheep, goats, camels, use the same streets and sidewalks as humans and are carrying all the weight. Each donkey that passes is laden with towers of eucalyptus bundles or large plastic jugs of water. The horses are tired from carting the humans to and fro on rickshaws up and down the hill towns. Mules are burdened with stacks of backpacks, stoves, and food for the eager trekkers in the Simien Mountains. Cattle perform gravity-defying angles on sheer cliffs, carving out the sides with tracks for the crops. Camels tower above them all caravanning the salt hundreds of kilometers. The humans walk alongside the beasts cracking the whip. Isn’t it a sign of society’s advancement when they trade human labor for bestial labor? Or is it just that the climate in West Africa is too inhospitable for animals of this quantity?

Either way you look at it, it’s better for the people here, but not so good for a lazy shopper like me. Lori was looking forward to the machete-cut pineapple and green drinking coconuts that I promised her would be at our beck and call, and I am not used to planning ahead before a 12 hour bus ride. Where are all the vendors outside my mini-bus window with everything at the perfect height for someone sitting on the bus? Now I must buy my Hip-Hop cookies, oranges, and nuts before I get on the bus at 5am. This type of lucidity is hard for me, even the day before. Supermarkets are great when walking around town and camels are pretty rad animals, but I’ll take my 5’9” super-human-powered store any day of the week!

Mercy Children

2007-11-30T02:58:00.000-08:00

mer·cy [mur-see] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation –noun, plural -cies for 4, 5.

1.	compassionate or kindly forbearance shown toward an offender, an enemy, or other person in one's power; compassion, pity, or benevolence: Have mercy on the poor sinner.

child [chahyld] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation –noun, plural chil·dren.

1.	a person between birth and full growth; a boy or girl: books for children.

It's amazing how innocuous the english language can be. Before Lori and I left for Ethiopia I searched for months for somewhere for us to volunteer while we were here. I googled "volunteering in ethiopia" and came up with next to nothing. I was flabbergasted that in the third largest country on this poverty-stricken continent there was no one looking for help. Maybe there was just no one with internet capabilities? Finally arriving at the Travel Abroad website I was presented with a couple options, only one that looked remotely legit or even worthwhile: Mercy Children. I emailed the organization using the online form provided, frustrated that there was no direct email address, and waited. Nothing. A month went by, and then another month, still nothing. So, I tried again, time was running out. Still hearing nothing we left for our trip, but I still hoped to find something when we got there. The night we arrived in Ethiopia we checked our email and I had a response! I was excited at hearing from them, finally, they had been having problems with their email server, yet we had already decided to leave the capital the next day. Promising to call when we returned, Mercy Children was put on the back burner.

After having spent the last two weeks with Obsa, Metiku, Yohannis, Getauhun, Sami, Mikyas, Ermias, and Asnake, the definitions for "mercy" and "child" seem like gibberish. These eight boys started as eight faces and eight hard names to remember and have become quite dear to our hearts. Even now, being 275 km away in Awassa, we can't help but wake up at 7:20am out of habit, thinking it is time to say "good morning" to the boys and wait for them to finish their kinche for breakfast before we can walk them to school. What better way to start a morning that holding on to two tiny hands swinging back and forth?

From the moment Eyob (Amharic for Job) took Lori and I to the Mercy Children Home to show us around and see if we were, in fact, interested in staying there and volunteering for sometime, I knew we were in the right place. I was impressed with the compound, caught contagious by his smile and spirit, and was ready for the change of pace I like most: volunteering. We saw the room we would share: a simple square with a bunk bed and two tables, and after talking it over we decided to stay. We committed to stay one week; Lori was skeptical: "What will we do?" I already knew the patience it takes to settle in to volunteering and hoped she would soon become intoxicated with ideas too. The next day we moved in and waited for the boys to come home. We had lunch, sat in the sun, and caught up on our journaling. I was outside washing my lunch dishes when they arrived home and I felt their innocent and pure joy flood the house immediately. Soon I was surrounded by boys shaking my hand and introducing themselves, my smile joining theirs. I looked across the room and saw Lori's smile was as big as mine and we laughed out loud.

And so it began; our relationship with eight incredible boys. Eight boys who had experienced more in their seven to forteen years that we had in twenty-eight and twenty-six. Each with an incredible story of living on the street and begging for food for their entire lives so far. One of the boys has two blind parents; one of the boys came from Gonder (almost 700km from Addis) and has no idea where his family is; the newest member came because both of his parents died of AIDS. And now they have a new life, in a safe home, three meals a day, school fees paid, and even karate lessons three times a week. The intensity with which they conduct their own Bible lessons each night shows how grateful they are, that they will remember, every day, how different their life is now. These boys have made such a wonderful impression on both Lori and I that we could not envision a short experience with them; we already thought about their futures on day three of being with them. Who would do times tables with Obsa over and over, and over (and over) when I am gone? Buying flash cards just isn't enough. I make him start all the way back at 8X1 when he can't tell me 8X6! I know I frustrate him as much as my dad frustrated me when I was learning multiplication! So, we had to do more.

Thankfully, I still have an incredible relationship with GVN (The Global Volunteer Network: www.volunteer.org.nz) since I first "met" them in 2003 when I started a volunteer program on the refugee camp in Ghana. Now, they are the ones I go to when I need someone to believe in me and my ideas. Lori and I worked diligently on getting together all the information GVN would need to send volunteers to Mercy Children, to help them grow and give them financial and human support. We left overjoyed that this little non-profit, struggling to pay the rent each month would soon be in want of nothing. GVN will launch their new Ethiopia Project in December and we hope to have five volunteers there each month by February! We hope Mercy Children can now achieve their dream of moving into a huge compound and taking in many more children. I just had to share this story because we are so excited! If anyone wans to see Mercy Children's current website, check it out: http://mercyethiopia.org/

I wish the connection here was faster so I could share photos! Soon enough you will all be able to see a killer photo of the boys and Lori on the GVN website! We feel so lucky these boys came into our lives and already miss them tremendously...

From the heights to the depths

2007-11-06T22:59:00.001-08:00

“Ferenji, give me pen!” In Ethiopia I am a ferenji. In Tanzania and Kenya I was a muzungu. In Ghana I was an abruni. No matter how you look at it, no matter how tan I get, I am white! This is my fourth trip to this continent and I am struck by new similarities and differences between countries and experiences each day. Last night I concluded that Ethiopia has my ideal climate; something I never thought I would say about somewhere in Africa! Every time I have been here I have been hot, and usually, even in my sleep, continuously sweating. Not here. Ethiopia is dry, and most places we have been are at a higher altitude than I have ever lived, or even spent this much time at. We are usually above 2000 meters and the temperature is cool and the air is dry. At night we put on our long-sleeves and our light scarves before dinner; this I can get used to. Ethiopia’s mantra is “13 months of Sunshine!” and this is no lie. 13 months is no figure of speech either; here each month has 30 days and the “leftover” days comprise the last month. And each day we have been here, just about a month now, we have had nothing but sunshine. We have come to love this country.

It’s hard to fathom we have only been here short of a month. We have already done and seen so many things, that for me it’s going to take a while to process. Lori and I have been going and going almost since the day we got here; acting as if we don’t have a leisurely three months to experience this incredible place. It wasn’t intentional. Wonderful and amazing connections fell into our lap and we couldn’t pass up the opportunities. Months before we even left we were reading our Ethiopia guidebooks and putting colored paperclips on pages of interest. We thought we would take our time meandering from place to place, but as it turns out we have already summited the highest peak in Ethiopia (Ras Dashen: 4500m) and the lowest point in Africa, and one of the lowest places in the world (The Danakil Depression).

Trekking in the Simien Mountains was an awe-inspiring experience. We spent almost the same amount of time getting to the summit of Ras Dashen that I spent on my Kilimanjaro trek a few years ago. However, it was completely different: on Kilimanjaro we were going up, up, up, on one big mountain, and in the Simiens we were crossing mountain passes, going from 1800m at camp to 3500m midday and back down to 2600m at the next camp. It was difficult and exceedingly rewarding. We had frost on our tents in the morning, and a beating sun on us by mid-afternoon. We met Gelada baboons along the way which we lingered and watched for as much time as we could, taken aback by their similarities to lions, and had our path crossed by a bounding Walia Ibex. We learned the essential Amharic words we needed communicate with our dear Scout Mula, like “aruk” and “ategeb” (far and near) as well as “muk” and “kaza-kaza” (hot and cold)! And we were humbled by the altitude the last hour of our summit, but the top was a panorama to remember.

Going from the highest point in this country, to the lowest point was pure luck. The Danakil Depression is no easy place to get to, and arranging a trip there is arduous and expensive. Having left Debark (the town where we finished our trek in the Simiens) we headed north to Axum, planning on spending a few days there relaxing and seeing some sights. However, after breakfast on our first morning Lori was approached by a Canadian woman looking for two more people to join her on a trip to the Danakil. When Lori told me I was psyched, but we both thought it was bit out of our price range. Deliberating a few hours we decided to go for it. And then next thing we knew we were scheduled to be on a minibus the next day with 5 others to Mekele where we would stay one night before getting in our 4X4s to head into the desert. There are many rules associated with making a trip into the Danakil, to name a few: You are required to take two 4X4s, no less; you must have an armed Afar scout who (is supposed to) knows the roads and can communicate with the forceful Afar people; two armed and official policemen are also required to accompany you; and you must bring in all your water, food, fuel, etc. as there are no supplies out there. I will have to write more about this trip later since there is so much to say, but to put it simply, each day was a sensory overload. From walking amidst Mars-like sulphuric structures and fluorescent green and yellow gurgling pools, making us feel as if we were scuba diving in the sea, to climbing down into an active volcano in the middle of the night to witness a churning caldera of black with what seemed like teeming veins of blood constantly changing direction, we were bug-eyed the whole time.

At the moment we are in Mekele again, and have been here for two days. We are finally taking the time we promised ourselves to chill out, and have spent the days eating leisurely breakfasts, over-indulging in Ethiopian coffee and pastries, reading, and yes, usually the internet. Forgive the long blog; this is the first time we have been able to access it in Ethiopia at all, and who knows when we will be able to again. We are intensely happy, loving this country, and looking forward to the next two months.

Love to everyone.

hallelujah! it works!

2007-11-06T22:33:00.002-08:00

After not being able to acces our blog for a month, it is suddenly, randomly working at a random dial-up internet cafe in Mekelle! So, for those of you I've pestered with mass emails, I apologize.
Ethiopia is...amazing. It's so different than i expected, and we've covered so much ground, seen so much and done so much in the last month that my head is spinning. We landed in Addis Ababa, spent one night, and fled in the morning, much to my relief. The capital city was too much for me...to crowded, too noisy, just too much, and i wasn't mentally ready. It was nice to get on the road, to stare out the bus window at lush, fertile farmland, thatched-roof homes and something new and amazing everywhere i set my eyes.

We spent our second night in the tiny town of Chancho--much to the dismay and confusion of everyone we talked to who assured us there was "nothing in Chancho!" But Chancho was beautiful. We caught a ride down a dusty, windy road to Durba, where a self-appointed crew
of little boys led us through misty rain to Muger Gorge, a chasm as wide and deep, it seemd, as the Grand Canyon, but hung with greenery and spewing waterfalls and housing the first of many gelada baboons we've encountered. Upon returning to Chancho later that afternoon, we sat in front of our room on the edge of a hill that overlooked town and watched the sunset. Everything was peaceful and perfect aside from the still-howling nearly-dead dog that someone had pushed to the side of the road after it was hit by a truck. Still, we enjoyed the sunset. We spent the evening having a drink in the little hotel cafe and playing "injera," an Ethiopian card game we learned from a few people our age who worked at the hotel. It's amazing how people can communicate and joke and laugh and even poke fun at each other without speaking each other's language.

The next morning we headed to Debre Libanos, and it turned out to be a long day of walking, walking, walking. We rode the bus as far as it would take us and then got off and walked with our packs, thinking we couldn't be any farther than one or two kilometers from our destinaton. So we walked. The scenery was stunning, the people were friendly, the air was cool and mild, and we walked. And walked. For about two hours we walked before we decided that maybe Debre Libanos wasn't as close as we thought. A empty school bus took pity on us and picked us up, dropped us at our hotel (at least another 10K down the road) and then we set off on another walk. This time we walked down a dusty, hot road through fields of baboons to our left and fire-wood-laden donkeys to our right, through a smokey, dusty village and to a great cathedral which was, of course, locked up for prayer hour. So, after admiring the exterior for a couple of minutes we turned around and walked some more. Later that day we set out to look for the Portugese Bridge, which our guide book said was on a "clear, unmistakable path", and ended up walking, walking, and walking a little more before we found the completely unclear pathway just off the road. We crossed the arched bridge and climbed to the top of a bluff and sat in awe at the massive gorge in front of us. Another amazing day.

After Debre Libanos (where I encountered the first animal i now completely despise: the flea, who apparently loves me as much as i despise it because it's traveled with me for at least half of our trip...it's an exercise in self control to keep myself from scratching scratching scratching) we took a loooooong all-day bus ride to Bahir Dar, where we met up with our first travel partner Mike from Atlanta, a guy we met at our hotel in Addis. We'd decided to trek through the Simiens together to save on costs. Bahir Dar was nice; a hotel room with a sit-down toilet, a
luxurious mosquito net in our room, and tasty spaghetti. We spent a couple of nights there before heading to Gonder, one of my favorite towns so far, where I could happily go back and spend a few weeks relaxing, eating pastries, drinking coffee, and walking through the hilly streets of town. We wandered through some castles, stared slack-jawed at a celing mural of winged cherubs, and relaxed for a couple of days. After Gonder: an early morning bus ride to
Debark, the jumping-off-point to the Simien Mountains, where we organized our mandatory scout and mules and mule handlers and gear.

The Simiens were grand: sunny and nice during the day, with fields of long orange and yellow flowers that looked like upside-down Big Stick popsicles with leaves, austere peaks that receded, receded, receded into the distance like the regal giants that all mountains are, stunning sunsets and freezing cold nights where we'd slurp down our pasta dinner and hot water with honey and jump into our sleeping bags the minute the sun went down. Our tents would be crusty with frost in the morning when we emerged just before sunrise, and we'd break down camp and grouchily ignore each other until the sun came out and thawed us all out. We trekked for six days, and I was surprised by all the people we encountered. There are villages everywhere; on the top of a mountain, in the middle of a desert, we inevitably see people and homes and livestock and it still surprises me. On the fifth day we staggered to the top of Ras Dashen, the highest peak in Ethiopia, with our amazing scount Mulo who spoke no English but was hysterical and kind and patient. We caught a huge truck out of the mountains a day early and relished our first shower and fresh meal in days.

The next morning we crammed ourselves into a delivery truck before the sun rose, and drove 11 hours to Axum. The ride was beautiful even if the company was not. We (Mike, Mandy and I) were deathly sick of each other and had no choice but to sit RIGHTNEXT to each other, sweating on each other, bumping elbows and gritting our teeth. Getting off the truck was pure ecstacy. We had a proper meal with some of the people we'd met while trekking (my favorite people so far: two hardcore amazing Austrian girls who were taking time off from their medical jobs to BIKE through Ethiopia. Wow.) Axum was a ho-hum city, but it was so nice to do our laundry, sit on our sunny balcony, eat pastries and feel the sun on our faces. We were planning on stopping and staying for a few days until I was approached one morning in the street by a French girl who was a very, very good salesperson and who proposed that Mandy and I join her and four others she'd recruited on a trip to the Danakil Depression. I'd read about the Danakil during our trip planning and was intrigued; it sounded so hot, so forbidding and eery and otherworldy and cool, but I figured since the trip required two 4x4s and a guide and scout that it was totally out of our price range. However, with seven of us, it was almost manageable, so after contemplating it for the afternoon, we decided to go.

We set off the next morning in a mini bus headed for Mekelle in high spirits. It was Halloween, a hot and sunny day and we were all getting to know each other. We stopped in Adigrat for juice and snacks then got back on the bus, and thus began the worst day of traveling i've had so far. I puked probably 20 times, out the window of the bus, much to my dismay, in front of the five people i'd just met who I was to spend the next six days with. I was mortified, grossed out, and SO SICK. I don't remember much of the day but I'm glad it's over and now I appreciate my health so much more. I'm sure it won't be the last time I puke in an uncomfortable place, but at least now I know I can do it and it's ok.

The Danakil was crazy. It was hot, dusty, sweaty, bumpy, amazingly beautiful and incredibly interesting. We hiked, in the middle of the night, up a mountain and down into a crater where we watched red-hot lava roiling around in a massive washing machine on a slow, crushing spin. We slept on rocks and ogled bubbling pools of water and alien salt formations and stared at camel caravans slowy making their way into a red, setting African sun. We watched men toil
in the hot, dusty sun, wrenching huge slabs of earth from the salt flats, whittling the dirt off of them and chiseled them into managable sizes and shapes which they then stacked on their camels and walked to the nearest village a week away to sell them for around 10 cents each. I'm so glad we went, and I'm so glad we're back.

We've been in Mekelle for the last three nights, relaxing, emailing, gorging ourselves on food (hmm, what to choose between "meet stew, meet goulash, boiled meet, meet sandwich, or spaghetti"?) and sleeping in. We leave tomorrow for Lalibela and then...who knows. We still have the entire southern half of the country to explore and I can't wait...

Until next time...

bikes, bikes, everywhere bikes

2007-10-13T04:50:00.000-07:00

biking around anchorage did NOT prepare us for biking around amsterdam...

we rented cruisers yesterday thinking how great it would be to bike around like the locals, utilizing the red bike-specific sidewalks and bike lanes that are on every single street. at first it was great--we covered distances in minutes that, from the map, we thought would take hours; we biked to the anne frank museum; we made it to the ocean where hundreds of amsterdam commuters lock their bikes on the pier and hop on ferries to get to work; and we cruised to the red light district and decided it'd be easier to get around on foot. after eating lunch, checking out a secret attic chapel and wandering around for awhile, we decided to hop on the bikes again. that's when things started getting a bit difficult...

it must have been rush hour in amsterdam. at first we were just navigating through hordes of tourists, which was an obstacle course in itself, but once we hit the main streets we found ourselves biking with dozens--no, HUNDREDS--of other bikers, bikers eager to get home from work on a friday night, and they were not pleased with our speed or our confusion. i have a new found sympathy for clueless tourists on the coastal trail. WE were those clueless tourists who were crossing busy multi-lane roads when there was probably a bike path very nearby. i'm sure amsterdam is an amazing city to bike in, but knowing your way around would make things exponentially easier. we made it back to our hostel safely and breathed a sigh of relief once we locked our bikes to the wrought-iron fence that borders vondelpark. when we ventured out again for dinner we stuck to walking.

amsterdam is beautiful and amazing... you have to admire the parent who bikes around with a baby on the front of the bike and a toddler on a seat in the back, and the girl who bikes in an extremely hip miniskirt and knee-high boots. it's sunny and nice out right now and we're going to eat lunch in the sun and then catch a tram to the airport...

next stop: ethiopia.

laughing out loud

2007-10-12T00:18:00.000-07:00

the stewardess (is the correct term air hostess now?) thought the milk was unopened and so she shook it fervently to mix it up. she and the man in 32C were surprised to find out it was, in fact, previously opened, and it want all over him. now you may be thinking how insensitive of you to erupt in seat-shaking laughter at his wet misfortune, but you would be missing the context. not only had this older gentleman been annoyingly flirting with this hostess for the past few hours, but he had done it openly, and he was crushing lori's knees with his heavy frame. so not only did we laugh, everyone laughed, even the good natured man. i mention this quip, not because it was the most significant part of our trip so far-hardly-but because this is a good sign. lori and i had been laughing all day. laughing in the face of difficult situations:

it all began with the indian embassy changing their visa policy on october 1st, unbenounced to us. being the planners that we were we had researched this back in may and were confident we would get our visas the day before we left. what we didn't know was that they had begun outsourcing this process and the embassy was no longer a part of it. and since we are alaskan residents our office was in san francisco. we pleaded our case anyway-arriving at Travisa a few minutes before the door began, at 8:55am, the day of our flight. they would "try"we were told, and instructed to come back around noon. however, the rule was that you dropped off your application between 9am and noon and picked it up between 4:30pm and 5:30pm. not possible for us since our flight was at 5:43pm and we needed to arrive 2-3 hours ahead. noon held no visas and no passports. at 2pm we told them we had to leave for the airport in order to be 2 hours ahead, and we needed our passports to board the plane. not laughing yet. but as we raced through D.C. traffic with the manager sitting beside allen in the front seat of the trusty minivan, we knew all would be well. we got those damn visas, we got our passports, and we were going on this trip. so it was no wonder we planned a scheme to arrive at the aiport with a roll of large bags for putting large backpacks in and freely giving them out, auctioning them loudly in front of the teller who told us that "they couldn't just be given out freely" when we asked for a second one. (after she ripped a hole in the first.) and it's no wonder we laughed so hard when we realized that we did not bring our hotel details for amsterdam as we were an hour from our destination; we would figure it out, laughing. we laughed late into the night last night, and we know that this is an indication of what's to come. we already love travelling together.

anticipation

2007-10-09T21:06:00.000-07:00

we're currently at mandy's parents' house in virginia awaiting our departure tomorrow morning. we re-packed our bags one last time, bought an amharic phrase book for ethiopia, and by 3 p.m. tomorrow we'll be bound for three days in amsterdam. hopefully we'll be able to get our indian visas pushed through before we leave tomorrow. we'll see.

this is our itinerary so far:

oct. 11-13 amsterdam
oct. 13 fly to addis ababa, ethiopia's capital city
jan. 13 depart addis for delhi, india
may 15 leave india for d.c. and finally home to alaska

we don't have many set plans, aside from the month of february, which we'll spend volunteering in kolkata. we're really excited...it's going to be amazing. we'll keep you posted.

we got the itch

2007-10-09T20:57:00.000-07:00

Saturday, July 7, 2007

Here's how it started:We were driving back from a snowshoe to Symphony Lake.

Mandy: "I should just admit to myself that I just want to travel. I just don't have a travel partner..."

Lori: "Well...I'd like to travel, too. Let's do it."

Mandy: "Seriously?"

Lori: "Totally! Let's just do it!"

The next day we sat in Shannon's room for a good hour, tracing various routes on her wall map of the world, looking at plane tickets and fantasizing. Our original plan included about 15 countries; after further research we realized that wasn't the kind of trip we wanted to do. More time whittled our choices down to four; eventually, we settled on two (although neither of us are willing to forfeit a few days in Amsterdam as a kick-off to the trip).

And here we are. It's July, I'm discovering how terrible I am at saving money, and we've got three months. The India and Ethiopia travel books have been living on the bathroom floor for easy and frequent access. My bank account is slowly, slowly growing. I'm consumed with excitement even though I think I'll actually miss Alaska winter. There will be plenty more...