Trip of a Lifetime

The End of a Trip of a Lifetime

2009-07-21T16:33:00.000-07:00

How does one possibly write a piece of closure to the last almost 2 years? I have no idea what to even say, and I have to warn you, whatever I come up with is probably going to be horribly cheesy. At this point, nothing feels real and all I know is that time goes by SO incredibly fast I cannot believe it, and that I can’t believe it’s over. I just can’t. But I feel like I should attempt to write out something, no matter how cheesy and boring it may be.

I will start with a poem that I have started my trip with:

Ithaca:
When you set out on your journey to Ithaca, pray that the road is long.
Full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops, the angry Poseidon- do not fear them,
You will never find such as these on your path if your thoughts remain lofty
If a fine emotion touches your body and spirit
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops, the fierce Poseidon, you will never encounter
If you do not carry them within your soul, if your soul does not set them before you.
Pray that the road is long, that summer mornings are many
When with such pleasure, with such joy you will enter ports seen for the first time
Stop at the Phoenician markets, visit many Egyptian cities to learn from scholars.
Always keep Ithaca in your mind, to arrive there is the ultimate goal
But do not hurry the voyage at all, it is better to let it last for many years
And to anchor at the island when you are old, rich with all you have gained on the way
Not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches, Ithaca has given you a beautiful voyage
Without her you never would have set foot out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you, but has not deceived you. Wise as you have become,
With so much experience, you already must have understood what Ithaca means.

Part of me is just devastated that this trip is over. I mean, I have known my entire life this is what I have wanted to do, but now what? I know I should see it as an accomplishment, but it is also so sad, something ending always reminds me that I am getting older and life is passing me by.

But maybe passing me by is the wrong expression for it, because I don’t think life is passing me by at all. I think I have grabbed hold and am careening along with it. I think that I made a statement that day in Boulder, sitting at Café Sole studying for finals, pretty miserable with my life at that time and I randomly bought a ticket to Bangkok. I thought that so many people wish and hope for something to happen to them in their life, or they say they will do something, and a lot of people spend their entire life with this, putting travel off until retirement or what have you. But I decided to choose life at that point, to take control of my life, though I was terrified, and jump. I decided that was the moment that I went from talking about living a life to living it and I decided that was how I would define my life from here on out. It was one of those moments in life that you can see a clear before and after.

And yet, I almost don’t recognize that girl. I have been through so many countries and seen so many things since that moment. But I don’t regret anything. Well, I sometimes regret a few things that I didn’t do, but nothing that I have done. And I can’t complain. I think about all that I have been through and it all feels like a dream, and at the same time I am so sad it is over. Time is cruel, that is for sure.

How many lifetimes do we have in a life? I sit in my hotel room in Guatemala, getting ready to leave for the airport tomorrow morning and nothing feels real. Nothing. It is all a dream, like my whole life is a dream. Since the September before last, I have been caught up in crazy violence in political rallies, swam in the Caribbean, seen horrific violence, been tear gassed and shot at in riots, heard so many languages spoken, had incredible conversations with people from all walks of life, spotted animals in the Serengeti, found untouched beauty in Antarctica, looked at amazing stars from a canoe in Bolivia, thought I would die of malaria, bribed border guards, fallen briefly in love many times, had my heart broken, met people that I will never forget, met people I thought I would never forget but they have faded away, had so many moments with people that could be a lifetime of their own, a private world nobody else could ever understand and known things will never be the same, yet somehow they always are. I have eaten all sorts of incredible food, looked at the Southern Cross which has always given me strength in many countries, stared up at massive mountains in Patagonia, gone to the world’s newest country, seen some of the oldest sights in the world, been helped time and time again by perfect strangers, been in situations I probably shouldn’t have survived, spent more time on a bus or waiting for a bus than most people will in a lifetime, come face to face with death and with life, had disappointments and also moments of untouched beauty, seen things that have changed my spirituality and beliefs in life, walked through sand dunes in the Sahara, watched dolphins jump in the ocean, wrestled with monkeys, laughed so hard I thought my insides would explode, cried so hard I thought I would never stop, listened to the Muslim call to prayer over haunting rooftops, been to church, been eaten alive by mosquitoes and bed bugs, stayed in the most horrific accommodations and not eaten to save a couple dollars, seen more world heritage centers and world wonders than I ever thought I could, trained horses in South Africa, gotten to interview people in another language and found some amazing journalistic stories, been offered a travel advice column, lived with families all over the world and been taken in and invited into their lives, chatted with Hamas, hiked through countless jungles, been to some of the world’s most beautiful beaches, cage dived with Great White sharks, looked into the eyes of refugees, attempted to read Finnegan’s Wake in a pub in Ireland and realized the more beer I drank the more it made sense, found a soul mate of a friend in my sometimes travel buddy Colleen, slept in a baby tent for an extended period of time, danced in a mud hut in the candlelight to incredible music in Zimbabwe, been thrown into crazy rapids and rescued by a kayak, gone on a date with royalty, been spun around Salsa and Meringue dancing in Latin America, been surrounded by penguins and been incredibly close to a Humpback Whale, spoken Kiswahili in front of huge crowds at political rallies, been an extra in a movie, sat on top Mayan ruins alone looking at the jungle before me, born witness to people’s fears and hopes in some crazy situations, I have had incredible times doing nothing more than looking out a bus window, or waking up on a bus with that feeling you get of being headed to an unknown destination and feeling so safe and happy in that, blissfully happy. I have hiked in the Himalayas, been treated like an honored guest, been the first white person many people have seen, gone spear fishing, meditated in a giant pyramid, watched waves crash on rocks as the sun set over the ocean, been scared and lonely, elated and full of life, gotten a new family, had some incredibly difficult times but throughout it all had the best time of my life. Since September of 2007, I have been to 59 (I think) countries. How have I been so lucky?

I am so sad this trip is over, but at the same time, my life has been so incredible that I know it is time to move on to the next step and really give back. So many strangers with nothing have given me all they had. I am absolutely humbled by the endless kindness I have found. My life has been touched by things I have seen and people I have met and I want so much to be able to contribute to humanity and help people as much, or better yet, even more than I have been helped in my life.

I hate endings and I hate time passing, I don’t want to get older. I have always been such a nostalgic person, I still miss high school, college, my horse, etc., but I was thinking about it the other day and if the hardest part of my life is my nostalgia, namely, if my biggest problem is that my past is so good that I miss it and all the people in it, then I think I am doing ok!

But still it is something I really struggle with and most people don’t understand. But with traveling so much, I realize that there is much of my life nobody will ever understand. There is a community in travelers for sure, a camaraderie that nobody else gets, but from the places I have chosen to go and the life decisions I have made, I am very much alone and will always be so. But
I do know I am incredibly strong in myself, especially after all I have been though.
Like I said, I feel like I have had so many lifetimes in this one lifetime, and I don’t know where things end or begin, but I am honored for all the people I have met and experiences I have had. I love my life so incredibly much. But endings are bittersweet.

This trip has all had a sense of inevitability with it. One thing has lead to another in ways that I never possibly have predicted, but somehow it has always been right. I was looking at my old journal and here is what I wrote when this journey started, sitting at the airport in South Africa, waiting for my flight to Zimbabwe:

“Leaving on this journey, I know in my heart I can never go back. I have decided to have a higher quality to my life than before. It is a moment-to-moment conscious decision not to hold anything back. I am on a path with a heart, momentum builds when I trust in my heart. When it is the right thing to do there are no limits. I trust that because I am on a path with a heart, life is opening up to me and new possibilities are being created every moment and I am right where I need to be. I really have this sense of faith/trust that everything comes into my life should be here. It’s all good. I’m going to look back on all the things I used to worry about and see it was a waste of time because none came to fruition. I’ll look back on this trip as the best decision of my life, the beginning of life.”

We can all live this way, all of us.

I want to thank every single person that I have met along the way and thank everyone who may be reading this from home and from other journeys. I don’t know if you could ever fathom how much your emails and support have meant to me throughout this trip. Thank you. I have met such incredible people that have absolutely changed my life and given me faith in humanity, and at the same time, feel so incredibly lucky for all my incredible friends I have at home as well, thanks for keeping in touch and for welcoming me back into your lives when I have come back to Boulder briefly. I love all of you more than you could imagine. I want to thank my mom for her endless support, all that she does for me, I don’t have words for how much I love her and how much she means to me, anything I could say is insufficient.

I have been living such a temporary existence for so many years, always knowing this trip would come, then coming back and touching base only to know I would leave again. I have seen my best friends get married and buy houses. It is strange to have chosen such a different life than the people that I grew up with, but I know in my heart this is the only way it could be for me. Yet it still feels like a dream, does all of life feel that way with time?

One of my goals while traveling was to find what my passion is. I have always been envious of those people who know what their passions are. Finally it hit me and I realized how stupid I have been, it was right under my nose, travel. My passion is travel. So I must, and will, find a way to always keep it in my life, this is what I need to remind myself when I am sad about this trip ending. And I do believe I am ready for the next step, ready to contribute in a big way somehow, though how I have not yet found the way. And I know that I thrive on the outdoors and adrenaline and I do always want to live my life as an adventure.

I have learned so much in my travels and I hope to retain what I have found. One says that travels have hidden meanings that don’t surface until long after the trip has ended. I have yet to see what those are. But I do hope that I, and everyone else who is inspired to do so, to continue to live a brave life. I have always felt deeply, always struggled with having such strong emotions and that has caused turmoil in my life, but lately, I have realized that for me at least, that is not a bad thing, simply my way of experiencing my life without a filter.
“We do not commonly live our life out and full; we do not fill all our pores with blood; we do not inspire and expire fully and entirely enough, we live but a fraction of our life. Why do we not let on the flood, raise the gates and set all our wheels in motion”

So really, I apologize, not only is this cheesy, but it is meandering too. Coming home after extended travel is always difficult, especially after living this temporary existence, as I said, for so long. I don’t know what life has in store for me, but I hope to take what I have learned and apply it to the next step. I suppose there are no words for ending a trip like this. So instead of words, all I have is gratitude. And though some days are easier than others, I am learning to not ever be afraid, and to have nothing but trust. I wrote this in South Africa watching the sun set over the ocean:

“I learned that I will never be afraid again. It’s true. Look at this world, it is so beautiful. I am not afraid. I trust. I completely trust in this beautiful life. Look at how amazing it has been and still doesn’t even scratch the surface. It’s limitless when you trust, soften, believe, dream, let go and allow for space. I am free. The universe is creating possibilities for me as I travel on this path with a heart, it will take m to where I need to go.”

What a crazy couple of years. I love my life and everyone in it so much, I really do. Thank you. Thank you so much.

The Scream (Belize- this time at least)

2009-07-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

It happened early this trip. It happens to me every trip, but I suppose with this really being the final one, it makes sense that it came early. I remember the first time it happened I was in Thailand. I was in the most disgusting hotel you could imagine and I woke up in this nasty bed and looked at the cracked ceiling. Before I knew it, my friend was shaking me awake, completely freaked out, he said that I had sat bolt-upright in my bed and was screaming at the top of my lungs.

The scream. Coming back from long-term travel is possibly one of the most mind boggling things one can ever experience. People that haven’t done it completely could never begin to understand, but anyone who has knows 100% what I am talking about.

It is incredibly strange to have come back from a trip to such a foreign location, to have changed and feel so different than you felt when you left and then to walk back through the gate that you have walked through thousands of times in your life when you get home. It is completely surreal because you feel like nothing will ever be the same again, I don’t know what you expect, but not that it will feel exactly the same as it did before you left. It is puzzling and trying to fit long term travel back into a life at home is almost impossible. I think after something as extreme as some of the things I saw and experienced in Africa especially, it is even harder to fit in.

But you do it somehow. It is great to see people, but strange to have a refrigerator that you can open anytime. I find myself unable to wear anything other than the same 3 shirts I wore my entire trip. I go to the grocery store and usually have a freak-out moment because of the excess of choice. That happens in several realms of life. I wander vacantly around the house, unable to concentrate in this in-between stage that I am not really sure who I am or where I am. Everything feels so familiar but so different.

There are the sleepless nights where all I can do is go outside and look at the stars and try to transport myself back to a balmy tropical night, I can almost feel the warm humid air on my skin and feel like I should panic when I can’t see the Southern Cross, but refuse to give in and keep looking as if it will magically appear in the sky and I won’t feel so lost anymore.

Then the restlessness kicks in. Not changing locations every couple of days feels suffocating. Relationships are different. You don’t spill your deepest secrets, talk about religion and philosophy and the most disgusting of bodily functions within moments of meeting someone. You don’t meet someone on a bus and move on to your next location with the understanding that, “Hi, you are going to be my best friend for the next bit of time and we are going to be closer than we are with almost anyone back at home no matter how many years we have known them. We will completely depend on and trust each other. We are going to spend the next bit of time probably sharing a bed and together almost 24 hours a day, and be eating off each other’s plates and sharing everything.” So there is a new way of adjusting to normal social relationships again.

It’s funny too, most of this trip hasn’t been your typical hostel trip for me, it has been more away from other backpackers and more work-oriented, and it isn’t a fun, but it is definitely interesting and a different experience, but the end of my trip here in Belize is about as classic backpacker as you can get so it brings back all that nostalgia from previous trips like South East Asia that was like this.

So back to the scream. I woke up this morning and was sort of thinking about life as I watched the sunlight come in through the strange ceiling, and it is this very familiar emotion that came that I have had several times now and I can't explain it very well. It is sort of like my whole life flashing through my eyes in the travel world and I know it only takes a second but it feels like eternity.

All the feelings of these images of waking up alone in a strange hotel room, waking up not sure what country I am in, moments with friends where I know I will never be as close to anyone as I am to this person right now and I also know I will probably never see this person again, moments of lifetimes and expedited relationships, and this clink of home and waking up under the same ceiling, seeing the same people, flights home from previous trips and all the emotions swirling there.

And the next thing I knew I was screaming at the top of my lungs (just like i have done at the end of every trip, it is this BIZARRE reaction I have no control of) until the 2 guys in my room jumped out of their bunk beds and start shaking me to bust me out of this trance and more people have stuck their heads in the door to see what the noise is. Then it was all I could do to just not cry because if I started crying, sometimes I think I wouldn't ever stop. How can this all be ending? How can so much have already ended?

Quotes from the Road- a tribute to traveling stupidity

2009-07-16T10:49:00.000-07:00

This might not be very funny for anyone who has not been traveling with me, but I had to throw it in there for those of you who have if anyone is reading this. Names have been left out to protect the guilty.

"That is so nice of you to come all the way from the US to Africa to see my house"- old woman in rural Kenya"
"Aren't you worried about getting caught?" "This is Africa." - Talking to a Nigerian gem smuggler in Ethiopia
"Safari? Boat trip? Leaf of Wisdom?"- rasta guy in Tanzania
"It's just what you do, you try goat in Kenya, you get a Lady Boy in Thailand." - Kenya
"No, it’s cool, some people bring home stray puppies, you bring home refugees." - Kenya
"When you see something beautiful don't you want to keep looking at it?" "You can't talk to me that way, I'm from the US where romance is dead."- Egypt
"What kind of protection will we have?" "A jeep full of soldiers"- Tutsi rebel on the Congo border
"You're doing what? You are absolutely insane, do you have a death wish?- Marine at the embassy in Rwanda
“Here’s our guns and here’s our cock.”- South Africa
“Want some cheese?”- South Africa
“HELLO! Where’s Jesus?”- South Africa
"Girls don't get drunk, they get tired and confused." South Africa
"When you brought us coffee in our tent, I felt some sort of love for you I have never felt for anyone before." Patagonia
"No, I can't say it. Damm. I have a bad taste in my mouth. Actually, I think a unicorn died somewhere." Patagonia
"Matame guayavo, matame ya que el amor no pudo"- India
"Lasst uns wandern gehen!" - Swaziland
"It's been a while since I had a good meat sweat." Morocco
"Men on bicycles shouldn't be so forward"- India
"The next time I go backpacking I'm bringing a suitcase"- Argentina
"Come on, you know this, no grabbing, no licking, these are the rules of the jungle."- Bolivia
“I had some distractions, I was too busy gaining 20 lbs and sleeping with everyone I saw”- Chile
“Well, he’s just human like anyone else. “Which is a good thing.” “Yeah, I wouldn’t want him to be an alien or something.” “Unless he had a vibrating penis or something”- Chile
“That’s why I love hooking up with you, I never know where your tongue has been. And you never stop thinking about food”- Argentina
“Poor water molecules. Do you ever think about them? They’re like, damm, I’m stuck in a glacier. I can’t move, eh eh, let me out. Woo hoo, I’m free. Yay! I’m in a river. Uh oh, I’m stuck. I’m in jell-o, but I can kinda jiggle.”- Patagonia, referring to our glacier water jell-o
“What I really like is how completely unrelated things are taped to things in grocery stores here. Like you buy a box of cereal and get a deodorant for free.”- Guatemala
“So how did you learn English?” “Well, I learned it because it’s the official international language for Viking re-enactment.”- Panama
“dolphins are just gay sharks”- Boat captain in Colombia
“I train horses, yes, but I am not a horse trainer, there is a big difference!”- South Africa
“I wish I was cool enough to have a nickname from a drink.” “Well, we can start tonight, what are you drinking? That can be your nickname.” Silence. “What are you drinking?” “A Panty Ripper.”- Belize
“Well, my underwater theme music. . .” -Belize
“Oheeo. I have heard it is the most magical place in the world. I want to go there.” “Oheeo?” “Yes, where Obama is from.” “Ohio? Oh Obama.” - Uganda
"No I am not jealous. Honestly, he is a porter, how much do you think he makes? Look at us: oil, finance."- Nepal

And the rest are just too inappropriate to put up there (especially with Rachel). And I know there are some amazing ones I have forgotten which makes me sad. But I want to thank each and every person I got to know on this trip and the others. It is amazing how close you can get to people so quickly and cheesy as it sounds, it’s true, only you can understand that little bit of my life and me with yours, and part of my heart will always be with you. So prost, salud, cheers, shucram, skal, viva, kampai and l’chaim.

Belize Days and Sad Endings

2009-07-16T10:41:00.000-07:00

My time in Belize is not indicative of how I have spent the rest of my trip, but it has been a great way to end the last almost 2 years of my life. I feel like more of my trip has been geared towards work or getting off the tourist track. It is funny to see the progression of trips. Australia, my first big trip, was the most fun crazy and wild time of my life. Travels in South East Asia were just so much fun and I had so many amazing crazy stories. Even Central America the first time was full of random moments.

Contrast that to my time in Africa which almost none of it was fun, but it was definitely interesting. Eastern Europe as well. Each trip seems to have a different flavor. And I suppose my last week of this trip in Belize has more of your classic backpacker feel to it.
I met 2 guys on my boat over to the island of Caye Caulker, we decided we were now a group, going to be best friends, hang out together and be a crew until we parted ways. So of course we made more friends at our hostel and have been having a great time in tropical paradise hanging out.

The locals in Belize are all so nice and friendly and have the most amazing accents I have ever heard. We have all been laying in the sun and tanning during the day, listening to the standard reggae music, drinking rum out on the dock of the Caribbean at night, eating amazing lobster and coconut rice and reminiscing about trips. I can’t tear my eyes away from the beautiful Caribbean.

It is your classic backpacker place to stay as well, a social and funky atmosphere, indicative of most hostels. I have literally been eaten alive by bedbugs. I look atrocious with bites all over my face and body and the bump on my head from almost knocking myself out after a rum induced sailing trip on the deck of the boat doesn’t help. There are 2 nasty bathrooms for 50 people. The kitchen is insufficient and dirty and rats have gotten into most people’s bags by now. Oh, nothing like a love-hate relationship with a cheap hostel to bring back classic backpacking memories. It’s too expensive to eat much here in Belize so we treat ourselves a little to the lobster because we have too and don’t eat for the rest of the day. There is always someone laying around in one of several hammocks around the hostel. It is bitter sweet because I don’t think I will do this again, some things you just get too old for.

We went snorkeling the other day which was amazing, sailing out on this boat. We didn’t see the manatees that we had hoped for but it still may have been the best snorkeling I have ever had with stunning coral, huge green moray eels up close, getting really close to sting rays, fish the size of people, schools of fish just following us around, getting close to lots and lots of big nurse sharks, more amazing tropical fish and barracudas. Life is good.

Just another day to hang out beachside and then lots more hours on a bus back to Guatemala and Antigua (oh how much of my life have I spent on a bus?) and then back to reality. But Belize has been a good place to end. If there is such a thing!

Nuestros Ahijados (Guatemala)

2009-07-11T16:09:00.000-07:00

Walking onto the grounds of Nuestros Ahijados, or God’s Child Project as it is known in the US, one finds well manicured lawns, stone buildings surrounded by lush trees, and most of all, tranquility. “We have had people see the place and turn around and walk out because they thought it was too nice looking and a charity shouldn’t be like that, but it’s not like that, it’s about giving the people human dignity,” said Patrick Atkinson, founder of the program.
Patrick Atkinson is a prime example of how with a lot of hard work and a great vision, one person can help thousands.

Part of what makes Atkinson so inspiring is the fact that he never imagined his life would turn out the way it has. He started by going to Guatemala in 1983 to work on a farm. “I didn’t speak a word of Spanish and I thought I was going down for six months to drive a tractor and pick coffee.” It was during the civil war and a group of nuns had purchased some land and thought having an international presence would help deter an attack on the refugees who were staying on the land.

He worked in an orphanage with 35 children on the land. What started small has grown to a nonprofit that has branches in Guatemala, the United States, India, El Salvador and Malawi. In Guatemala alone, he has helped 4,000 children and 8,700 women, mostly single mothers, change their lives and learn to dream.

God’s Child Project, also known as Nuestros Ahijados, is based in Bismarck, North Dakota, and has its main branch in Antigua, Guatemala. It has proved to be a successful nonprofit even through these difficult economic times because of this. Atkinson takes no salary for himself (he does for business purposes but then donates it back to the program). Most of his employees are in Guatemala and work for stipends. Everything is far more cost effective being based in a developing country. Because the charity doesn’t pay six-figure salaries to its executive and puts almost no money to a marketing or press budget, they are able to maximize their funds with 93 cents on every dollar going directly to the children the project funds. This in turn, makes more people want to donate to the project when they see how efficient it all is.

“There are a lot of people with a lot of money willing to donate, but they don’t want their money to go to waste, they worked hard for it. They often come down and see the program and how it works and then become our biggest donor,” said Atkinson.

Almost all the funds are raised by a direct mailer. “Our direct mailer has been absurdly over successful,” said Charles Moore, Director of Operations for the Institute for Trafficked Exploited and Missing, a branch of the nonprofit. “We don’t buy mailing lists. Everyone that we mail to has had some sort of exposure to the project and said that they want to help. In some way or another, every donor has connected with us as people, so that is probably why it has been so successful.”

It wasn’t always so easy. There were several times when the project almost had to be shut down, but it was only by what looked like a miracle in the last minute that kept it going. At the beginning, Atkinson would sometimes make what he calls, “Hamburger Soup” to feed the children of the project. “I would go to fast food restaurants, buy one or two hamburgers and leave the restaurant with my pockets filled with the two hamburgers and dozens of ketchup packets. I would then cut the hamburgers into small pieces, put them in a soup pot with boiling water and add the ketchup.”

But somehow, the organization always managed to survive, despite several close calls, Atkinson always felt compelled to keep going. The program itself has grown as well. He created the Bismarck Educational System for developing nations which has become an international model, he was asked in 2000 by the United Nations to develop other international programs for AIDs victims.

Nuestros Ahijados or the God’s Child Program acts like god parents to these kids and creates family. The word God is not meant to have a religious connotation; rather it means they act as god parents.

“If you don’t have family, you can get it in Nuestros Ahijados, I am unable to explain how much it helped me. It gave me love and a family. I don’t have words, only love,” said Jose Leon Suruy Valle, who was found in a plaza by Atkinson when he was thirteen and now works as a social worker for the organization to help other families. He will be going to university next year.

The project itself is multidimensional. It includes a shelter for malnourished babies, a hospital, a dental clinic, food and clothing distribution program, educational programs, house building project, a rescue, awareness and rehabilitation program for victims of human trafficking and a school. They also help support local charities in the countries in which they operate.

“Our vision is to form family and to break the poor out of poverty through education,” said Atkinson. “These kids don’t have a culture of success. They need to form a family, to teach these kids how to dream and give them the tools to make those dreams come true.”

It is just this, the forming of family through a nonprofit that makes Nuestros Ahijados so unique and so successful. Unlike other nonprofits which recognize the value of education and strive to help underprivileged kids graduate high school, Nuestros Ahijados realizes that a high school education often isn’t enough to break the chain of poverty. Once a child is accepted into the program, they are sponsored until they choose to stop studying.

“I remember a boy we pulled out from under a park bench when he was seven years old, now he is a doctor,” said Atkinson.

Some of the students go on to study in the U.S. and come back as doctors and lawyers, and many of them return to work for the very organization that gave them a chance and a family. The real family environment makes a huge difference compared to other charities. “We ban vernacular like, ‘you already got yours,’ ‘come back later,’ or ‘we are busy right now.’ These are our children. We create a family for them. We don’t institutionalize them, that’s fine for summer camp, but this is these kid’s only chance for childhood. They want someone that is going to remember their birthday, someone who will remember what they were like when they were 7 when they are 23,” said Atkinson.

Nuestros Ahijados is not a handout charity. They work on an ideological system based on earned rights. Everyone should have access to certain humanitarian rights, but it does no good to set up a paradigm that creates a dependence on help. Through a point system, children are encouraged to read more. For every fifteen minutes they read they get a point and with these points they can “buy” a new toy. Mothers get points for attending lectures that cover common issues regarding raising children or basic medical care. With these points they can receive food and clothing donations. This also helps because Nuestros Ahijados is not an orphanage, so children go back to their parents, or more often single mothers, at the end of the day and the program helps to create positive changes at home as well as at school. Children get more privileges based on their report cards which teaches them take responsibility for their own achievements and work towards setting goals.

The children help with the maintenance of the school and the clinic grounds as well. They, in essence, have built the program so it is in their self-interest to help maintain it. This sets up an environment of dignity and family. This dynamic replaces the donor mentality that resides in other nonprofits.

“A lot of programs fail because they don’t dignify the people, they treat them as caseloads,” said Atkinson. This approach adds to the sustainability of the program.

Though the project has grown from the original 35 kids, the vision as well as the founder has remained the same. “I’m still the same as I was when I thought I would come down here and drive a tractor. The vision is the same as it was originally,” said Atkinson, “The project has grown and my role has changed. Now I meet with presidents, ambassadors and secretary of states from around the world but I have stayed the same. I am just so ordinary. I don’t want to lose that because if I ever start to believe my own P.R. then it’s over.”

And Atkinson does have some remarkable P.R. Now the man who used to struggle to buy two hamburgers for orphans has been interviewed by CNN, LA Times, Christian Science Monitor, and has a book written about him that is currently being made into a Hollywood movie.
He is an example of how one person can make a difference without knowing how. “I say something so much that it has become known as the Atkinson Law and that is that people want to help and they can afford to help, they just don’t know how. And that is why I have never had a problem fundraising. I just give people the opportunity to realize their dreams,” said Atkinson.

He firmly believes that everyone can help. “Everyone has their gifts. Take the time to take a personal inventory of what those are, because someday the time will come when some group will need them. Simply say yes.” That is his advice for anyone who wants to help, “Say yes. The opportunity is going to come your way. It won’t take anything from you.”

Because so many people are saying yes, Atkinson has managed to make a difference in so many people’s lives. Many of the volunteers in Guatemala come back to volunteer several times because it is so effective. The Director of Programs, Luke Armstrong started his involvement with the project when he was 13 and came down as part of a service team to build houses.

Because the program is so affective, donors and volunteers keep coming back to help.

“It has become more of a social movement, I know of at least eight charities that have started because someone came down here and saw how this was run and have started their own charities that work the same way,” said Atkinson.

The sky seems to be the limit as the project continues to grow, and Atkinson is a prime example of how one person really can help change the world. “People want to give. All I am doing is giving them a chance to realize their dreams,” said Atkinson.

Guatemalan Healthcare

2009-07-11T16:07:00.000-07:00

I have always complained about the medical system in the U.S. I am not alone in this. I do feel very direct effects from suffering from our atrocious healthcare system for sure though. So I thought I would write about my experience with healthcare in Guatemala.

I found their system to be the most efficient system I have ever seen. I do realize that cheap to me is in no way cheap to many Guatemalans, but I still think that my experience in Guatemala compared to the US is illustrative of the atrocious state of our healthcare system in the US.

So I figured that in the last, almost 2 years I have been traveling, there is no way I have escaped getting a parasite. I tried to get tested in the US the last time I was back but it proved to be expensive and ineffective. So I thought I would go in Antigua, Guatemala.

I went into the hospital in Antigua and asked to do the tests. I did not have to have a pointless doctor’s consultation before either. They simply had me go up to the lab where I got to speak to the actual technicians themselves. They handed me two glass Gerber baby food jars (ok, so that is a little disconcerting, especially when I went back for another test the next day because one was irregular and they gave me another jar and told me to rinse it under hot water for 5 minutes, but we won’t dwell on that) and had me hand over stool and urine samples. Then, right away we went down for a blood test. The needle was fresh out of new packaging, clean and the nurse was very efficient.

They told me to come back that afternoon for the results. I did, and not only that, but instead of just giving me a sheet of paper of the results, which they did additionally, but the very guy that read my results was there to explain. The whole ordeal cost me about 8$ US and took 20 minutes in the morning and then another 5 minutes when I came back.

Like I said, there was an irregularity so I had to come back the next day with another urine sample, and the lab tech tested it for free, just in case the irregularity was on their part and because I had misunderstood some of the Spanish. He said it was no problem; he was on a break anyways so he could do it for me then and there. That took 10 minutes and cost me nothing.

Let’s compare my ordeal in the US this winter. I tried to make an appointment with a doctor to refer me to a lab but was in too much pain to wait the allotted time so I went into urgent care. Urgent care did my labs (after a wait time, though I have to admit, throwing up in the bathroom right next to the reception desk did expedite things) only to tell me that I should get the tests done and then see a doctor.

5 days later I got my test results back from the labs.

I think it was 2 weeks later that I was able to get into the doctor, but my memory is foggy on this one. There was the usual waiting room time. The doctor told me he didn’t really know what was wrong with me and offered some weak suggestions.

The whole process took about 2 weeks and I don’t remember numbers but am sure it cost over a thousand dollars. God bless America.

Oh Life, What a Tease (Guatemala)

2009-07-11T16:05:00.000-07:00

When is it time to give up on your dreams? I know the Disney answer to that is never, and that there should be a happy ending, but who is to say there should be? And sooner or later, money does play into things, you cannot pretend that it is going to magically appear along with the castle and prince charming. A girl has got to pay the rent somehow.
For me, part of the reason I have been traveling is to start a career as an international journalist. Now with less than two weeks of this trip left, I have realized that life has taken me in a different direction. So have I failed? I look at the facts, if I had stayed in one place instead of moving around maybe I would have started that career. It was a huge learning experience to see that I do need to be in one place to get contacts and learn the language, I think I would need that to be a more effective journalist. But I was also compelled to keep moving. So one could argue that I didn’t really give it my best effort. But that is the problem with conflicting priorities.
Life with its ebbs and flows can be interesting, how it can give you something and then take it away in a second. When I got to Antigua, Guatemala, it was sort of sinking in to me how I did fail in a sense. How I didn’t publish as much as I would like, and though being offered a travel advice column was exciting, that isn’t where I want to put my energies, I want to focus on human rights issues, not travel articles.
I enrolled in Spanish classes and quickly one thing led to another, and life sort of teased me again into thinking I could make it as a journalist. The timing especially was strange, right when I was thinking how I failed. I was going to volunteer at an NGO, via the Spanish School I was studying with. They took me to Nuestros Ahijados, or God’s Child project, ran by Patrick Atkinson. It is absolutely the most effective, well-run charity I have ever seen and it completely changed my mind about development work. I decided that instead of just volunteering, I wanted to write about the charity.
Soon I was swept into this crazy world of reporting. I was invited to meet the mayor and the attorney general to interview about the project. I went and followed social workers on their visits and saw how some families live. I met some of the most amazing people of my entire trip that work at the project and even allowed me to move in with them while I was there. I was shocked that these two boys that were my age were in such prestigious positions and did so much, it was truly inspiring.
But Patrick Atkinson himself, who by chance happened to be at the project which is very rare, was the most inspiring. Though he is interviewed by CNN and the Christian Science Monitor and meets with ambassadors and secretary of state’s, he treated me with credibility and dignity and gave me lots of time. He is one of the most amazing people I have ever met.
At the same time, while all this was going on, I started Spanish classes. My Spanish teacher happened to be a journalist as well and for my first class we went to a meeting of the board of directors at the main hospital in Antigua. There, another hot story fell into my lap. So two things are happening, supposedly, Guatemala is exaggerating their Swine Flu cases, so that they can get more aid money. The economic crisis has not only hit industrialized countries, but it has been catastrophic for developing countries who are losing their aid money. So Guatemala has seen the Swine Flu as a way to remedy the situation. I had the director of the hospital on record saying that the national health board has told them to only test one in ten people that come into the hospital with swine flu symptoms. He said that they are doing this for two reasons, the first is because the money that is allocated to the test kits is being funneled into Swiss bank accounts. Second, because they want to make the problem worse so that they get more aid money. I thought it was a pretty hot story to have him on the record saying this. Apparently so did authorities in Guatemala, because my professor who runs his own small paper had someone break in and smash the monitors of this computers while he was working on the story as well.
But for me, both of these stories seemed to be a sign that I should keep pursuing the journalism dream. And I have never been happier, I was working nonstop, I had no time to eat and my pants began to fall off of me, I was always running from one place to the next and food and sleep didn’t seem to matter. I loved the adrenaline and I loved thinking I was going to help people. My roommate would come home to find me asleep over my laptop, I was constantly rushing around doing interviews, then Spanish class with every now and then taking a night off to go salsa, mambo and meringue dancing in Antigua, which is by the way, so much fun. And I was so alive and so happy. Then the coup in Honduras struck. And I happened to meet a contact who had some very interesting information. Once again, I don’t want there to be tragedy in this world, but I felt like I was in the right place at the right time, and I love the lifestyle of thinking I have 1 hour to figure out how to tie things up because I am going into Honduras before the borders close.
Despite it feeling like everything was going in the right direction, life was only teasing me. No news source I could find was interested in the Honduras story, and in a different vein that situation ended in a bit of a disaster. I couldn’t develop the hospital story because the director had to clamp down and wasn’t able to talk all of the sudden. And the most devastating of all, after all the time that Patrick Atkinson and his staff gave me, I queried almost 40 periodicals and nobody was interested. And over half of those had shut down because of these awful economic times.
I felt like this dream had been given back to me, and then shattered yet again. It is worse to be so close and have it taken away. And the worst part of it is that I was loving the lifestyle and it felt like everything was going right.
I headed off in a daze to Lago de Atitlan, which is a whole different story in itself of life taking you in crazy directions, and a beautiful place as well. My trip is about to end and I didn’t really accomplish what I set out too. I read a quote by Patrick Atkinson himself actually, “God doesn’t ask that we succeed, only that we try.” And that was sort of a weight off my shoulders.
And I realized that this is really my first experience of failure that I can think of in my life. And then I realized that is something that I need to develop a better relationship with. We are all going to fail in our life, and if I want to accomplish anything I need to relax more with failure and not let it get me down.
But like I said before, where is that line between being practical and making a living, and not giving up on our dreams? Because I know the lifestyle of a journalist is something I am passionate about, but not the freelancing and not making a living at it part. Either way, it was an interesting time in Antigua.

2009-06-21T12:31:00.000-07:00

Due to unfortunate time constraints (alas, the end of my trip is in sight, I cannot even begin to think about that for fear of a nervous breakdown so we will gloss over that one), I found myself on a bus from Panama City to Guatemala City. Am I really going back to the US? I don’t think I will believe it myself until I see myself get on the airplane. I remember my mom picking me up from the airport after Eastern Europe and her saying she was worried I wouldn’t really come back, now, to be honest, I fear the same thing here. But, vamos a ver.

It was actually a rather strange experience to be traveling through countries that I have already been to, I visited Central America about four years ago for Christmas and New Years. I saw familiar sights and the familiar borders, most of which were pretty dreaded. Crossing through

Central America this time was a rather uneventful trip, once again with everything working out somehow. For example, a guy on my bus sitting behind me asked me what hotel I was planning on staying in (mandatory 5 hour stop in El Salvador) and I told him and he said it was one of the more dangerous hotels in the city, suggested another, so I went to the other one with him and another guy (which I know sounds sketchy, but it wasn’t, there was nothing remotely strange feeling about it, it felt like genuine concern) and that worked out well. Then arriving in Guatemala City, I wanted to get right out of there and was a little stressed about getting to Antigua, but I met someone else who told me he was renting a car and driving to Antigua and invited me along. So that just goes to show how things ALWAYS seem to work out in amazing ways while traveling.

It was nice to chat with people on the bus too and tell them that I am going to Guatemala to study Spanish and have them say I don’t need to study Spanish I can already speak it, even though I know they were lying through their teeth and I was only pretending to understand what they had to say!

But it was a nice journey through the past to watch the world go by and think about all that has happened between my last trip to Central America and now. I mean, think about where you were 4 years ago and all that has happened, the things you have done, the places you have been. What a crazy ride! I am amazed at how much can happen so quickly. So I thought I would wax nostalgic (surprise, surprise) and write about a memory from each country from my last trip.

Costa Rica: I went here with my mom and it was so great to travel with her. I even got her up surfing at one point and she was a natural. We took mud baths in a river in the rain forest with huge blue butterflies, went to Christmas Eve church service in a little church in the mountains and had a great time. Funny how much shorter anecdotes on tamer parts of the trip are, looking at the length of the other countries, but not to diminish how much fun I did have with my mom.

Nicaragua: I was in Granada for New Years, and worried how it would be since I was alone, but met up with a great group of people, including a German, Stephan who wound up traveling with me for the rest of my trip. It was a little funny to travel with him though because he was so freakishly good looking that I couldn’t carry on a conversation with him. He would be talking to me and I would just have to stare at his face, completely miss what he is staying and try to abstain from touching his face and saying, “ Wow, you’re pretty.” But distracting hotness aside, he was a great travel companion, always up for adventure and always with a smile on his face.

We sat on a wall for the countdown in a huge field with a random horse in it that I tried to make friends with. Nights in Granada were spent playing with the local street children, watching guys drum these amazing and huge drums and setting off fireworks. It was all so random but worked out in such a great way. Later, arriving in the city of Leon, Stephan and I got swept up in some parade with the Bishop of Nicaragua, or something like that, all the craziness of the random festivities that seem to erupt on Latin American streets was positively contagious.

Honduras: I pointed at Honduras at a map to find a random city that no tourists would go to that I had never heard of. In fact, I almost wound up off the map which is how we ended up in the city of Amapala on a little island just off the coast of Honduras. Definite adventures ensued.

We got lost on a volcano, which sounds difficult, I mean, you think, you just hike up right? Not that simple. Or maybe we were just that slow. But we finally, made it to the top, literally bleeding all over from scratches of brambles, only to be met by a guy with a machine gun; pointed at us. That was the first time a gun was ever pointed at me, come to think of it, and we were terrified. We were obviously trespassing, nobody would have known if he shot us, and when we turned and walked away, the man still with his gun aimed at us, both of us were terrified we would be shot in the back.

We were a bit of an oddity on this island since it doesn’t see many tourists so news traveled quickly and local kids rode their burrows over to say hello. The family we were staying with invited us to another island nearby for a picnic. This was quite the affair, lots of kids and family members and sports equipment, but I couldn’t help but notice the lack of food being taken on this picnic. This was because over the process of the day on the island we caught our own food. There were all sorts of fish, muscles, crayfish, etc. It turned out to be a spectacular picnic. They did buy beer especially for us foreigners too. And we had so much fun playing with the kids, playing soccer and burying everyone in the sand. Our Spanish was a bit weak, their English nonexistent, but it was one of the most fun days I have ever had traveling, even at this point.

El Salvador: Not until I made it to Africa did anywhere ever rival how unsafe I felt in El Salvador. We had several horrifying instances that I won’t go into, also got stuck at the border, nothing about that was really good. A pretty country, yes. Some nice people, yes, but I have nothing good to really say about my experience there.

So I will reminisce about our sick night. This was the first and only time I have ever gotten food sick while traveling. It hit me before it hit Stephan. So remember, I have this huge crush on this guy and we are sharing a room. This room contains a bed and a bathroom. The room is small and the bed takes up almost the entire room. Which means that the bed is about 5 inches from the bathroom. This is bad enough, but there was no door to the bathroom. There were walls that didn’t even reach the ceiling and a flimsy curtain. So basically, there was no privacy in this bathroom.

I don’t know if it was the sounds or the smells that were worse, but getting traveler’s diarrhea is no laughing matter, except until you look back on it, where this hellacious time converts into hilarity, because let’s face it, these stories are golden if you survive them. So anyways, it strikes me first. And am I wrong to say that I was happy it got Stephan too so I wasn’t alone? I did enjoy the camaraderie and it made it all a lot less embarrassing, but then when you are both fighting for a toilet, it adds a whole new element of annoyance to the equation.

I was definitely more sick than Stephan and I just wanted it to all be over. I had a fever and felt horrible, so I decided to take some Nyquil. There was no way to measure and it tasted horrible so I took a few big gulps and saw after the fact that I had drank almost ¾ of the bottle. You know that rumor that Nyquil makes your trip? Well, it’s true. Stephan drained the rest of the bottle and we were quite the pair.

I was colder than I have ever been in my life so I had put on every piece of clothing that I owned and half of what Stephan owned. I had the blankets and was huddled in a little ball tripping and almost enjoying myself if I didn’t feel so horrible. Stephan on the other hand swung the other way and was so hot that he had gotten completely naked. In his delusional state he became convinced that there was a vicious mosquito in the room. For all I know there was, but I am huddled in this ball on the corner of the bed watching him, butt-ass naked jumping around the bed (remember it takes up the whole room) trying to swat at a mosquito. Ah the joy of Nyquil.

And that way my first foray into Central America. Now I am in Guatemala trying to learn Spanish and come to terms with the fact that my grand world adventure is coming to a close, which is rather strange when this is what I have been waiting my whole life to do. But it has been worth every moment so far, and hey, I still have one month left to make the most of. I think one of the best parts of traveling is how it encourages me to make the most of every moment, take advantage of every opportunity and really be there and appreciate everything. It’s funny how we live with this sense of permanency, when really all of life is as fleeting and temporary as a journey is. So travel, in essence, reminds me how to live.

Colombia to Panama by Sailboat

2009-06-21T12:30:00.000-07:00

I was rather devastated to be leaving Colombia. I realized that not only am I crossing the border from Colombia, leaving my favorite country and moving on in my trip, but I am leaving the whole continent of South America behind. I cannot believe the places I have been and things I have seen in the last 5 months. Arriving in Santiago feels like a lifetime ago, really it does. South America is truly amazing for its people, variety and most of all natural beauty. I was really sad to say goodbye to one of the most spectacular places I have ever been. But, I went from Colombia to Panama by sailboat, so at least I was leaving in style!
For some reason, I felt this huge ending colliding with a beginning sailing away and watching Cartagena, Colombia fade into the distance. I felt like a chapter had been resolved in my life, like I was moving on to the next step. I can’t explain why this had such an impact on me, but I also felt this weight removed from my shoulders. I felt free.
Sailing was a great adventure, I still have the burns on my hands from the ropes to prove it. I spent most of the day up on the net on the bow of the ship, at one point almost 20 dolphins came to play in the ship’s wake. It was positively magical since I am pretty much obsessed with dolphins (or gay sharks as the boat’s captain called them). At night there was quite the storm but I couldn’t bring myself to go inside, it was much more fun to be out on the deck with the elements, the rain pouring down and lighting flashing. Eventually the storm cleared up with only these amazing bursts of lightning in the distance and dazzling stars just showing off for us. At first I thought it was clouds in the sky, but then I realized that was the Milky Way! And as our ship sailed through the Caribbean, it lit up the phosphorescence in the sea. There were stars above us and it looked like stars in the water.
After 36 hours of sailing we arrived at the San Blas Islands of Panama. They are really interesting because they are owned by the Kuna people, a small ethnic group with an autonomous government on these islands. But they live on very few islands, choosing to live very close together, which leaves hundreds of these islands uninhabited.
It looks like paradise. These coconut islands, nothing but white sand and coconut trees, floating in the Caribbean Sea, schizophrenic with blues, greens and aquamarines. Picture a postcard of paradise or a calendar of these paradise photos and you are probably picturing the San Blas Islands.
We had a couple days there of snorkeling and hanging out, I went with the captain spear fishing though I didn’t shoot the spear. Sunsets were unbelievable and so many times I just had to stop because I was shaking with incredulity that this is my life. There was some of the best snorkeling I have ever seen and whenever I felt like it I could swim to my own private island from where the ship was docked.
Visiting the Kuna people is a touchy subject. Because they are autonomous they are really one of the very few untouched ethnic groups left in the word, but with tourism this is quickly changing. It is your typical problem of a vicious cycle of tourists brining in money, which creates a demand for more things which creates a demand for more money. There are tours set up for people to visit Kuna villages but it is all pretty awful sounding to me, with the villagers feeling like animals, not wanting their photos taken in traditional clothes and just a whole touristy sham, so I decided not to go visit.
But one day, I was chatting with a Kuna fisherman (they speak Spanish) for a while and he invited me and the people on the boat to his village. I figured this was a different opportunity so we agreed. He took us by motorized canoe about an hour away to his village. There we were definite oddities so a crew of kids followed us around. They were showing off, walking on their hands, doing races, doing all sorts of tricks. They were hilarious. Everyone wanted to talk to us, to show us their homes, the school, ask us questions. It was one of the most rewarding experiences for me because they are this small indigenous group but they speak Spanish so we were able to communicate and close the gap between our relative worlds. I didn’t take any photos of people, though they seemed like they wouldn’t have minded, but it was so much fun to spend a few hours in their village.
Then, the excitement continued when we were heading back to our boat and our canoe’s motor died. We were in the middle of nowhere. We had been stranded for over an hour and the sun was beginning to set. With no water and nowhere to sleep, another guy from the boat and I realized that we should probably start to swim to the nearest island, rest there, then continue to the next until we got to the ship for help. I am not the greatest swimmer, but I figured I could kick and float on my back. We had been paddling the canoe to no avail, all it did was keep us from drifting to the tide. So just as we were getting ready to jump in, the motor started which was a huge relief.
I was sad to leave the boat and get to Panama proper. It is always hard to leave paradise and there is something about leaving the watery world of possibility and stepping back onto land- more chaotic, unforgiving and insistent. But, it was off to Panama and on to Central America.

The Only Danger is in Wanting to Stay (Colombia)

2009-06-03T17:06:00.000-07:00

Feeling Happy in Colombia!!!

If I had to list a favorite country I have ever been too, at the moment, I believe I would say Colombia. It’s true love. I have never felt this way.

Colombia has everything. It has spectacular beaches, unexplored jungle, stunning mountains, huge waterfalls, great canyons and everything in between. It has some of the friendliest people I have ever met. It has great dancing, music and passion. It has adventure. It is just off the main tourist track so I feel sort of like I have the country to myself sometimes. The people here are always eager to help me so it makes getting around easy. And it makes making new friends a piece of cake.

The new slogan for tourists in Colombia is, “The Only Danger is in Wanting to Stay.” As I search for a job and look at getting a working visa, I have to agree. I find myself trying to rationalize putting off the LSATs or maybe just staying another year or so. I do need to work on my Spanish. . .

And right now I am doing just what I want to do. I have some great interviews and am writing about my passions; human rights and politics. I just conducted my first interview all in Spanish, which I have to admit is not as great as my interviews in English or with translators, but this is just what I want to do- be speaking in a foreign tongue, writing about things that are important instead of my weekly travel advice columns, and hopefully in some small way being able to help people through my writing or at least help people understand the situation in Colombia better. I couldn’t be happier.

I get to practice my Spanish since there is hardly any English around and drink fruit smoothies that are absolutely life changing.

The ride from the Ecuador border was amazing, full of mountains and canyons and waterfalls, views that I would have walked for days to see. Popayan, was the first city in South America, that I arrived at the bus station at 11pm and night and felt safe just walking around the city looking for a place to stay by myself and not taking a taxi or anything.

Every bus I got on, people were curious about me and wanted to chat. They always wanted to buy me meals and once the bus conductor even surprised me by handing me an empanada that he bought for me while we stopped. When I walked through the bus station, security guards and just people standing around would always ask me what I was looking for.

The streets are alive and thriving, and the street food is always sizzling in true South American style. But Colombia is one of the more developed countries in South America. It is definitely more expensive but you can find anything that you need and things actually always seem to work here.

I spent a week in Parque Tayrona, which must be one of the most beautiful places in the world. I hitched to the park gates and then there is no road so everyone has to hike or ride a horse to get to the beach. I was hiking through this jungle alone, realizing how fortunate I am to have spent so much time in South American jungles lately and couldn’t believe this was my life. Then the dense jungle broke through to this endless white-sand beach.

I got to meet up with a great old friend I met in Thailand, we seem to meet on some of the world’s most beautiful beaches. Days were spent deciding which stunning unspoiled beach I wanted to hang out on, and I almost always had the beach to myself. Because it is a national park there is no development so it is only jungle, rocks and that Caribbean sea with its spectacular colors that show depth by colors and fish swimming below and can only be described as Caribbean blue. We would crack open coconuts and suck the juice out of mangos all along the beach before swimming in the postcard perfect waters. Nights were spent in a simple campground without electricity, sleeping in a hammock that overlooked the ocean. I don’t know if life can get much better than that.

Now I am in Santa Marta and it is your typical dirty city, but for some reason I love it. I love it because coming back from Venezuela, it felt like home. I love it because the people are so friendly that I feel like I am speaking almost only in Spanish. And I suppose I just love it simply for the fact that it is Colombia. And I am contemplating staying, because I cannot imagine ever leaving this place. And I feel like I have far more people to interview.

Colombia does have this reputation for danger, but seeing the change in the last few years in incredible. It is truly inspiring. And it is humbling to speak to people about their experiences with La Violencia. It blows my mind to meet people my age that while I was taking horseback riding lessons and going to ballet class, they weren’t able to leave their homes because there was a warning about a car bomb. They have told me that I would probably be unable to meet anyone in Colombia that had not had someone that was killed or kidnapped by FARC or Paramilitaries. But instead of hardening people, it has made them strive all the more for change. They have accomplished things in 4 years that I don’t think we could do in 10 in the US, but it is because they had to. They were sick of the violence and sick of the way things were. Uribe, the president really did make some amazing changes.

And the best part for me as a journalist, is that the people here want to talk about things. They want people to realize that the FARC are not the freedom fighters that so many foreigners believe them to be. They are not this group that was fighting for a revolution and really, nobody liked them, even in the beginning. They are a terrorist group and most of all, a drug cartel. It is all about the drugs. The people here are fed up with violence and want to correct the image that Colombia isn’t safe. Times have changed.

It also is interesting to realize how much of Colombia’s problems are directly related to the US consumption of drugs, particularly cocaine. We play a role in this too and it makes me think about the interconnectedness in the world and the things that we don’t often think about, the repercussions of actions in our lives. So what is the answer? Legalization or decriminalization? More aid money to Colombia? Who knows, but it definitely makes me think about the depths of actions.

I am truly captivated by Colombia, the exoticness mixed with the livability. And adventure and feeling like I am in some place really special. It has that sort of undiscovered feeling, but that won’t last for long. I keep searching the world for a place that I would want to live for a while, looking for that paradise. And while Colombia is by no means paradise, it just might be home for me.

Home Sweet Home in Medellin (Colombia)

2009-06-03T16:57:00.001-07:00

The absolute best way to see a country is with someone who lives there. When Colleen and I were in India, we met 2 Colombian guys that we joked were our “Colombian Body Guards.” I was fortunate enough to get to visit them in Medellin. It was by far, one of the most fun times of my trip.
First of all, it was amazing to not have to make decisions. Anyone who knows me knows how bad I am at making decisions, so it was great to have Pablo and Santi there to make all my decisions for me. It was just nice to feel taken care of for once too after constantly battling to travel alone.
They picked me up from the bus station and took me to “my house.” They live a good life in a high income bracket for sure. They had a housekeeper that cooked all our meals for us and we even had snack time. She did my laundry every 3 days. It was nice to have a place that felt like home too after staying in so many hostels.
The boys took me on a food tour of Colombia, which is, of course, the best kind of tour. At restaurants they would even order for me. Every meal was a different typical dish in Colombia. One day, Pablo and I went to the supermarket and bought every single fruit that I had never seen before, there were almost 20, and I got to try them all. Colombia is famous for its fruit and I can see why.
Pablo was incredible, teaching me all about Medellin’s history and the region and all about Colombia. The boys patiently helped me with my Spanish and taught me Colombian slang. They took me out with their friends and took me to their FInca, sort of a country house, which most upper class Colombians in Medellin have. I even met the whole family. They answered all my questions about the FARC and politics and what life was like for them growing up (and believe me it was scary, something I could never imagine) and they helped translate interviews for me.
Medellin has some of the most amazing nightlife that I have ever seen too. And the women are by far the most beautiful in the world, talk about intimidating. Days were spent working, going about life with the boys and getting to see the city. One night Pablo and I were extras in a Colombian movie. Random; yes. Fun; definitely.
Medellin has truly transformed as a city. It was once considered the most dangerous city in the world and now I felt completely safe. It seems more like a city in California than in Colombia. It is surrounded by mountains with huge buildings sprawling through the whole valley and climbing up the mountains themselves. Most people live in apartment buildings, not in houses so that makes for a lot of tall buildings. It also has the only cable car used for public transportation in the world. Having the cable car really cleaned up some of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city.
Medellin also has a program that has created these, “Parque Bibliotecas” which they built in formerly dangerous areas. These are libraries with free internet, free classes and places for kids to play. Medellin has transformed itself from Pablo Escobar’s drug filled city to a thriving metropolis that is striving to be a bilingual and the “most educated” city in South America. It is well on its way if it is not already there.
To me, Medellin represents hope. I look at the changes that took place there in the last few years and it is absolutely an inspiration for the world. It’s not perfect, but it is getting closer every day. And the hospitality that the boys showed me was unbeatable. It made all the difference to have friends to take me around. I love Colombia!

Venezuela was Weird

2009-06-03T16:01:00.000-07:00

My trip to Venezuela was. . . weird. Really, there is no other way of putting it. Actually, you could technically say that I was kidnapped in Venezuela. I suppose it diminishes impact if I add that I was kidnapped by a sweet, albeit crazy, Abuela. It’s true. To look at the facts: If someone offered to pay me a million dollars to tell them where I was in Maracaibo, Venezuela, I would not be able to do it. However, wherever I was, there was no public transportation and I couldn’t very easily leave the house I was in and walk around where I was because this city is huge, pretty dangerous and it just wouldn’t make sense.

In addition, this woman, who I lived with for a few days, I couldn’t tell you her name either. I’m telling you, this whole thing was just plain weird.

So let’s start at the beginning. I was a bit nervous for Venezuela because it is sort of on the traveler’s Do Not Go list. But of course, this was also a lot of the appeal. I tried to get 2 people to go with me but both guys separately backed out, the first because his mom said she would disown him if he went and he had promised that was the one country he wouldn’t go to in South America, the second just because everyone told him not to go. The owners of the hostel I was staying at in Santa Marta, Colombia offered to let me stay at the hostel for free if I would change my mind and not go to Venezuela, they were that worried about it!

But obviously I went. The difference was big just crossing the border. In Colombian customs, we waited in seats in an air-conditioned room. In Venezuelan customs, we wrapped ourselves around this strange bar and I passed my passport through a tiny window of such tinted glass I couldn’t see anything behind it, it was like passing my passport into a void of mystery and who knows what they did with it. And next to the customs window was a picture of a man carrying a bloody child saying to stop the holocaust of Palestinian’s in Israel.

Just entering the country, there was more trash on the roadside than I had ever seen in one place. We are talking trash as far as you can see, even in the middle of nowhere, I have no idea how it got there. We did drive by some interesting salt lakes though.

One smart thing that I did, though it was weird, was to change money on the bus. I have never heard of changing money on the bus with a fellow passenger before but I got a decent rate and people are hungry for dollars. The problem with Venezuela is the money is so devalued you can’t take it out of ATMs, it all must be exchanged on the black market.

It was fortunate that I did exchange money because, silly me, I thought that the bus that left from the bus station in Santa Marta would end at the bus station in Maracaibo, Venezuela, not some random sketchy place in the city. Luckily I had money for a cab. But then the bus driver, as well as the people around me on the bus who were distressed that I was there alone in the first place, told me I can’t trust a taxi. But I definitely shouldn’t walk because that is suicide. Hmmmm.

As I was debating, the Abuela made up her mind, grabbed my hand, and said that I was coming to her house with her. She told me she lived alone and I could stay at her casa. There was definitely no room for me to object, she was determined and had quite the grasp on my arm.
Arriving at her house was a bit awkward, I was a little unsure how to act in the situation. It was interesting to see her house though which looked like what I expected a 50’s home would look like if everyone froze time and went and hid in a bomb shelter. But at the same time, it was your typical grandmother’s house full of photographs, clutter and knickknacks, ceramic cats, coo-coo clocks and wooden houses on the walls.

She told me that it was best if I slept in her bed with her because it was cooler in there (down-right frigid with the AC cranked up to be honest). I opted for my own bed. The whole house was full of fans because Maracaibo is one of the hottest places around.

The next morning I woke up and expected to take a taxi into town. I had hoped for more time in Venezuela but didn’t have a lot so I decided against going somewhere touristy. I thought it would be best to go to a typical Venezuelan city and experience as much of typical Venezuela life as I could, and maybe take a day trip to a little city since Maracaibo is so big. Well, to be fair, I did get to experience plenty of typical Venezuelan life with this woman.

I went into the kitchen to find that she had made me breakfast. And planned my day. She told me that her neighbor was going to take me around the city in the afternoon. So we spent the morning hanging out in the air conditioned bedroom of hers. I think she was mostly lonely and wanted company. My Spanish isn’t great, but usually I understand that gist of what is happening. Not with her. She talked so quickly and had such a thick accent, I was lucky if I understood 15% of what was being said. I found out later she didn’t understand hardly anything I said either! But she told me it was ok that I didn’t understand her, and I think it was, she just wanted someone to talk at.

And she talks a LOT. And she really was a little crazy. So I sat there was we watched exercises on TV. Then she decided to do some exercises in her pajamas. I was pretty much in the way wherever I sat because the room was small. I was ducking and bending to avoid the unpredictable limbs of this 89 year old woman as copied the exercises that looked like were filmed in the 80s on the beach. It’s ok, it kept me on my toes.

We spent most of the day cooking. Then later one of her neighbors came over. I introduced myself and held out my hand to her. She stared at me. And stared. Then stared some more. Is everyone in Venezuela a little off?

Eventually the other neighbor came to take us around the city. It was huge but the historical center was nice and colorful and I was happy to see the sights. It was a little awkward because I knew I had to pay him and didn’t know they had agreed on a fee, just one of those situations without precedent.

More time was spent cooking and hanging out in the house, my time in Venezuela mostly consisted of just being in the house with the Abuela. Eventually the neighbor came back and spoke to me this time and I could understand her more than the Abuela. My last night there, a man walked into the house. Much confusion ensued when he told me that he lived there. So much for her living alone. But he was really nice and I felt a lot more confident with my Spanish because I actually understood everything he had said. Before the Abuela’s craziness had been wearing off on me and I had become convinced I didn’t speak any Spanish because I couldn’t understand her. So that was a relief.

That last night I asked the Abuela for a needle and thread to sew a hole in my pants. She ignored me so I figured I had already asked enough of her. I said that she was crazy, and she is, but I also cannot stress how kind she was to take me in and feed me and everything too. I think that the situation could have been really bad if she hadn’t have found me.

My plan was to take a taxi (her neighbor) to the bus station the next morning, but actually go to a hotel near the bus station and spend more time free to explore Maracaibo and not feeling like such a captive. There would have been no way I could have told her I wanted to stay there but not at her house without hurting her feelings. The bus that I was supposed to get on left at 5am, so I had to leave at 4 and set my alarm for 3:50.

At 2:45 am, the light comes on in my room. The Abuela is standing over me with a needle and thread. She is in full make-up and nice clothes. I couldn’t tell if she hadn’t slept at all that night or had gotten up and done herself up that morning. Either way, she had decided that 2:45 am was the best time to sew my pants, which she did while I got ready to wait for the taxi. I told you my trip was weird.

Then, she accompanied me in the taxi and waited while I bought my bus ticket, so alas, I found myself headed back to Colombia earlier than I had expected. But to be honest, going back to Colombia felt like coming home and I was happy to be back in the safety of Colombia.

Another strange thing about Venezuela was the road signs. Chavez (who everyone that I talked to said they thought was crazy) likes to put up bulletin boards everywhere that he does something . So there are all these bulletin board say that people should work with Chavez and that he built this school, etc. My all-time favorite though is a picture of him hugging a child. The child looks wary and positively squished, while Chavez, with his arms around the kids looks like he is enjoying himself entirely too much.

As for danger, I have to admit, maybe it was just from all the warnings and the locals being scared too, but I did feel uneasy in Venezuela. It just had sort of heavy energy. It seems like a country that could have had a chance but really was ruined by Chavez and his craziness. But that is another discussion.

When to Draw the Line (Ecuador)

2009-05-13T12:57:00.000-07:00

Ok, I admit it. I have one of those personalities that is drawn to danger. I need constant adrenaline in my life. I get through various ways. At school I used to thrive on finals week, not wanting to study for a test until the very last minute when there was this do-or-die feeling of having to learn everything in a caffeine-fueled night. I know it's not the best way to learn, but hey, it helped with my fix. I love the rush of a deadline in journalism, the craziness of having to put something on air so you are running to the production room with a tape in hand right at the last minute. I love every extreme sport I have ever tried. And I am convinced that I want to work in a conflict zone. I like to think that this is not for the sheer adrenaline but because I see how I could have more impact on helping others in that sense, and I love the clarity that comes with danger. And part of me wants to understand what so much of the world lives with, yet at the same time I am glad that it is incomprehensible to me.

Yes, I do like danger. But I have no death wish and I fully intend on keeping all my limbs and to have no lasting injuries. Being raped is my worst nightmare. And I am afraid of cars. Some of the things that I saw in Africa and in a few other countries I will never put down on paper, some of them bring a shadow of reality to this illusion of danger and will haunt my consciousness forever while others I have repressed so far that they only come back to me in dreams and I know more lurk beneath but I will never go digging for them. So yes, I am drawn to danger and I have my limits.

I would never be as naive as to think that I have experienced danger as those who are unfortunate enough to live in it. And if I was forced to live in such circumstances I am sure my attitude would be entirely different. Yes, I know that the desire for danger, much like boredom and feeling too full are only feelings of luxury, of desires from being brought up in an ideal condition. And I know how incredibly selfish it sounds (and that my desire to go alone to Afghanistan broke up a good relationship) but I am just being honest.

I was struck by a passage I read not too long ago by John le Carre, “In my writing I have sometimes felt an obligation to share the pains I try to report on. Occasionally I have obtained some passing sense of absolution by taking risks and saying to myself afterwards, 'Wow, that was REALLY close' or 'That could have been the end of me.' But the cure doesn't last. In the end I remained a war tourist, an observer, not a participant, never a victim. I always had a valid passport and a return ticket in my rucksack, and a wad of dollars in my money belt. I was only vising. In the scale of human suffering, I did not even qualify for a mention.”

And I have been in some sketchy situations, though nowhere near as bad as they good be. I look back at many, many instances in my travels where I just don't understand how I survived, and I only did because of the kindness of the local people that I met. I am very lucky. But I also try not to be stupid. It is only in retrospect sometimes that I realize how lucky I have been and how close some calls have been too. And I am realizing that “Well, I am sure I went through worse in Africa,” though often true, is not the best way to approach things. South America has some dangers too.

In Quito, it was only me and one guy that had not been robbed in our entire hostel. And one night we were sitting around talking when we heard this popping sound outside.

"That's gunfire." A guy said.

"There is no way that is gunfire, those are fireworks." I replied.

"No, that is gunfire, I have grown up with guns my whole life." he retorted.

"No way, it is too close and we are right downtown and there is way too much of it, what are they shooting 30 people or something?"

Then the guy that works at reception at the hostel crawled into the room on his belly as we were arguing and said, "Can you please get down, that is gunfire and they aren't aiming at us but in a rare case there could be a stray bullet."

Ok.

Also, I have been hearing all these stories lately of people being robbed, my friend in Peru just lost everything. I hesitate to write this down because I don't want to jinx myself. But there is this general climate of danger that I sometimes notice in my life, I did right before leaving for Ethiopia and Sudan when people were being beaten in Kenya by the security guards at the nearby prison. And I got myself all worked up after my friend was beaten nearly to death, there seemed to be this darkness just hanging around. But I took a deep breath and continued on and it was fine, it so far always has been and I hope it continues to be so. I have learned it is important to exercise caution (I will take a taxi just a few blocks because I have a bus that leaves at 4:30am when I wouldn't normally do that), but to not live in fear.

And I think that so much of fear is self-induced. I traveled Central America a few years ago and it was fine (albeit for a couple horrific experiences in El Salvador that I won't mention but that was some of the closest calls I have had, but ONLY in that country, oh, and a sort of knife incident in Nicaragua/Honduras border but that turned out totally fine and it was nothing but a threat). So other than those few isolated incidents, I felt completely safe, and only just in the last few months learned that Central America is considered far more dangerous than South America! I am glad that I didn't know that at the time because I think that can influence an experience so much.

Adding to this climate of fear is the fact that I am about to enter Colombia, not because I am afraid but because other people make it sound like I should be afraid. First of all, Colombia has an undue bad reputation. It is just as safe for travelers as any other country in South America. And every single person that I have met that has been there has said that is their favorite country. That being said, the South is where the FARC and guerrillas are the most active and there have been problems recently, like this week. So there is this one stretch of road from Ipiales at the border to Cali that I am worried about because trucks were torched yesterday. Most of the people I have met have flown over this part of road. BUT, what can you do? Where do you draw that line?

The stories that float around hostels don't help. Impossible to decipher between travel-lore and truth, because each person I meet swears it happened to a friend, on any route with travelers there are bound to be the same recycled stories.

So I will only repeat the ones that I have been told that have happened first hand to people that I trust. In the last two months, one friend was the only gringo on a bus in Southern Colombia that was robbed. Everyone on the bus had their money stolen. The gringo had his I-pod around his neck and all his money on him, but the paramilitary or whomever it was that robbed them all didn't take a single thing from him. He told him to get back on the bus because this does not involve him.

Farther up north, a group of tourists, including a guy that I met, were on a tour in a mini-van. They got pulled over by men with machine guns and it seemed like the company had not paid off the right people in this instance. The driver and the tour guide were both shot and the bodies thrown in the back with the tourists who were then driven to the nearest police station and delivered unharmed. Horrific, yes. Sad and screwed up, definitely. But the point is, Colombia, though it may not be safe everywhere for Colombians which is absolutely tragic, seems to be safe for foreigners. And to be fair, I think these are very rare instances and I do think that Colombia will be VERY safe.

And despite these cases, everyone else that I met absolutely loved Colombia and had nothing bad to say about it and had no trouble.

Colombia is the country that I have most looked forward to on my trip and I am ready to go. So with a bit of apprehension about this road in the south, I bought my bus ticket yesterday. I told people in my hostel afterwards and they all said that I shouldn't go because now buses in Cali are being attacked because of some political turmoil. The few people I met that came from Colombia flew over this southern part. But after careful scouring of the newspapers and travel alerts I found no information about this. So who do you believe?

My point of all of this is, where do you draw the line in travel? Like I said, I have taken plenty of risks and always been OK. Has it been luck or have things just been over-hyped? Yes, I travel to exciting countries because they are exciting. This isn't a summer in Europe type of trip. That isn't my style at this point in my life. So when do you hold your breath and go, and when do you believe the hype? 99% of the time, things work out just fine. And the hint of danger adds to the appeal But only the hint, not the reality.

So I am going for it because I do think the danger is over-rated and I am almost positive that it will be fine. But it is a strange climate to make decisions in. And, because I am just a little bit superstitious, I am writing this blog before I leave tomorrow morning, but I am not posting it until I arrive safely in Medellin!

Machu Picchu (Peru)

2009-05-12T14:29:00.000-07:00

After the “World's Most Dangerous Road” in Bolivia, I found that mountain biking not only helps quench my need for speed but my constant desire for adrenaline too. So it only made sense so sign up for more of it. It would have been amazing to hike the original Inca trail to Machu Picchu, but it is very expensive and you have to book way in advance to to it. The alternative trek involves a day of mountain biking and two days of trekking so that was just perfect for me.

Sometimes the group you are with can make all the difference and we lucked out and got a great group for our trek. Our first day of mountain biking we descended from the freezing mountains above tree line down into the tropics of the valley. I hadn't expected it to be so tropical but all the lush vegetation was really beautiful. We stayed in a small hostel in the tiny village of Santa Maria. People stayed up late drinking and playing cards, just like I am sure the real Incas used to do.

The next day we hiked for about 9 hours. We mostly followed the river. It was very steep going at times but there was also a ridiculous amount of resting involved. Lets just say it tested my patience, which hiking in a group usually does. One other guy and I who also wanted to keep going ahead amused ourselves by actually being authentic Incas and making use of the coca leaves that you can get along the way.

Coca leaves are actually really awesome. I am almost positive they are the same thing as Mira which is chewed in Africa. A lot of the mine workers in Bolivia chew them and porters in Peru. If you chew them they help you with digestion, awareness, energy, has lots of vitamins and help you not get hungry or thirsty or tired.

The only problem is they taste awful. You take this black activator stuff and put it in a handful of leaves, ball it up and stuff it in your mouth as I would imagine people do with chewing tobacco. Then you just try to keep some saliva in there and chew every so often. It makes your cheek go numb but the nasty taste of grass persists. But it saved me, especially as water is expensive and hard to come by on the trek.

The second day did afford us some stunning views. At times were were walking along a very steep path with a huge cliff drop off just below us. After the long hike we ended the day at these natural hot springs and then a moonlight walk to the city of Santa Teresa. This time our crew entertained ourselves by playing this game, “Mafia” which is sort of a role-playing game that I think I played when I was 12. We played this for about 6 hours and had one of the most fun nights ever. Like I said, it is all about who you are with. We had sort of this cozy sleepover atmosphere as all our beds were jammed into the room so close that you had to crawl over them to get out of the room, there was no floorspace.

By the third day I was exhausted from such little sleep. The walking was a bit more ghetto as it was along a dirt road for the first half of the day then along the train tracks the next. Once again, my friend and I amused ourselves by walking along the train tracks the whole time practicing our balance which at least slowed us down. And finally we arrived in our launch point for Machu Picchu: Agua Calientas. Agua Calientas is a very strange city as it is basically only built for tourism. It is sort of a cross between a ski town and a river town.

But the anticipation was palpable. It was in a stunning location of this huge canyon surrounded by green mountains ripped through by a roaring river. And just behind the tallest mountain, Machu Picchu lay waiting. I felt like I used to feel on Christmas Eve when I was a kid, waiting for morning to come. I felt like how I felt this year waiting for election results. All my life I have dreamed of going to Machu Picchu and now to know that it was just behind that mountain was this dizzying feeling of expectation and excitement. We had a nice dinner and went to bed by 11.

A 4 am wake-up call had us tromping up the mountain in the dark. Luckily this time there was no group effort so my friend and I were free to go ahead. We hauled up the hill as quickly as possible, passing people along the way and not stopping once. It may have been the hardest hike I have ever done, it was nothing but stair after stair. At one point I thought I couldn't breathe. It is pretty disgusting how out of shape I get traveling! But it was spectacular to be climbing up with mountain as the stars were dying to the light, you could barely see, but you could tell there was mist intermingling with the high peaks, and as the sunshine won over the night, you could see clouds floating in swirls among the mountains. We were some of the first people up there which made all the difference.

Instead of going right to get my ticket for Wynapichu, the mountain everyone wants to climb but they only give out limited tickets every day, I ducked up some of the stairs and watched the ruins unfold. The mist shrouded the buildings in clouds, but I knew more was there and more mountains lay beneath. Llamas grazed on the terraces and there was quiet all around so that I could almost imagine when the Incas were there. I have never seen anything like it.

It reminded me of surfing. So, ok, I had been obsessed with surfing for years before I got to try it. I dreamed about it and lusted after it so much that I thought it could never possibly be as good as I had built it up in my head to be. But, it turned out that I loved it even more than I ever dreamed that I could. It was sort of like this with Machu Picchu. I hate crowds and touristy things, but this didn't even matter compared to the majesty of the ruins themselves. And it does look EXACTLY like it does in photos, which instead of making things a bit disappointing, it actually makes them better.

We had a little tour of the place, but were all so exhausted we had to resort back to our trusty coca leaves to keep from falling asleep. Then 2 friends and I decided to sprint up Wynapichu. We made it up in record time, which once again, made all the difference because we found the world's best picnic spot up at the top. Machu Picchu looked so small from above. We played around on the terraces before descending more and more stairs.

While the rest of the group decided to give up, my friend and I pressed on. I had 12 blisters at this point, but you are only at Machu Picchu once, so we hiked up to the Sun Gate which was nice because it was away from the crowds and had an amazing view of the ruins looking so impressive surrounded by these incredible mountains. Honestly it was one of the most beautiful things I have seen in my whole life. The landscape alone is absolutely stunning, add in this ancient Inca village and I don't think it could get any better. I felt so incredibly lucky.

It didn't feel right to take a bus down with everyone else, not after we have been so far, so despite the fact that I was hobbling on blisters and my legs shaking, I forced myself to walk back down to Agua Calientas. Anything else seemed like it would be cheating. And my friend came with me, go Americans for once!

After a very dodgy uncooked meal, we caught a train and then a bus back to Cuszco where there was a sad goodbye to our group as we parted ways. Most travelers get so good at goodbyes because they are such a constant part of our life on the road, but I am definitely not one of them. I always miss people, I think that is endemic in my personality. But what an incredible experience!

Travel Days (Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador)

2009-05-12T14:23:00.000-07:00

I was reeling after my luck getting to see Morales speak when I headed into Peru. Time constraints put me into Cuzco on my first day after driving past epic mountains, brown homes and llamas everywhere.

My luck continued because the morning I woke up in Cuzco I heard bands playing and lots of music. I followed the sounds to the Plaza Del Armas, the main square in Cuzco where a huge celebration for the Day of the Crosses was taking place. This involved people dressed up in traditional clothes dancing from probably over 30 different ethnic groups. It was incredible.
They had costumes of these scary white clowns with whips to huge feather headdresses to sparkly dresses to streamer hats to knitted face masks and assaults of color everywhere. It was such a cool introduction into Peru to get to see all this and not in a touristy situation.

Cuzco was nice but a bit touristy for me, so after going to Machu Picchu, I headed on an overnight bus to Lima. It began innocently enough. It was a rough night though. To get to Lima from Cuzco you have to take a very windy bus that goes around and around these hairpin turns. Throughout the course of the night I think over half the bus threw up. Normally that doesn't bother me but the sounds of people retching and the smells in the tight quarters of the bus made me so sick. So you would think that I would be excited to get off a bus in Lima, but Lima is supposedly really dangerous and just a strange city in that there is no central bus terminal. You can't trust any taxis, since anyone can buy official taxi stickers on the street. So I risked it because what else was I going to do and took a taxi to a random international bus terminal. From there I found out that in 10 min I could be on a bus to Ecuador and not have to stay the night in Lima. Momentum builds and I wasn't thinking clearly so I jumped on the bus and out of Lima.

A second overnight and all day bus ride delivered me to Guayaquil, Ecuador. This is the biggest and also the most dangerous city in Ecuador. I arrived at about 5pm. Not wanting to take another taxi (the city is having huge problems with taxi's taking single passengers from ATM to ATM and then killing them in the end) I lucked out though because I had only heard about this later from a fellow traveler. I walked to the bus station and booked another bus at 11pm to Quito. So much for not having anymore travel marathons I thought as I waited in this bizarre combination between a shopping mall and a bus stop.

I bought my bus ticket and asked to store my bag with them. The guy told me that was fine and to come around to the back. He charged me a dollar, which granted isn't that much, but it is comparatively to a 9$ bus ride, but what could I do? I knew he was cheating me, but I really had no choice. Then he grabbed me by my wrists, and this is a big, strong, nasty man, and pulled me up to him and forced me to kiss him. What do you do in that situation? All I could do was push him away as best I could and laugh it off because he has my bag and I didn't want him to do anything to it. I was really feeling the effects of being a woman traveling alone here, arriving in sketchy cities and having to put all my trust in a taxi driver as well as feeling exploited in a situation like this. And granted, it isn't that bad and I have been through a lot worse, but it is just never a good feeling. It was sort of a double-whammy that he both forced me to kiss him and charged me for the bag, it wouldn't have been nearly as bad if he had just done one of the two.

But 65 hours later I arrived in Quito where I am now and the thought of getting on another bus makes me want to puke. At the same time, I am the happiest I have ever been and the last few days have been amazing too. I have gotten to practice a lot of my Spanish, meet a lot of nice locals and best of all, I have no plans. I am excited to get to Colombia, but it has been so fun to just show up at a bus station and book the next bus, none of this has been planned and this is my best kind of travel, the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind. It isn't easy, but it helps me learn to trust in myself. Every time I arrive in a new place I have to make a decision. Do I want to trust a taxi driver? Should I risk it and try to walk? Should I ask someone for a recommendation for a hotel? Do I try to make friends with the other traveler around and see where they are going or if they want to share cab? Should I just get on another bus to another city? Where do I want to go? Should I look for a place in my book or just ask the driver to take me to a cheap hotel? Is it safest to try to sleep at the bus station?

It's not easy but I love it, the sheer freedom of travel. I am enjoying being alone and choosing not to travel with other people and I just feel happy, free and in my element.

La Paz Days (Bolivia)

2009-05-12T14:20:00.000-07:00

After recovering from my bout with malaria and my experience on the “World's Most Dangerous Road” I was ready to leave La Paz. Or so I thought. But, anyone who knows me knows that electronics, and especially computers, hate me. It was only a matter of time and my computer broke down from some nasty virus.

So I missed my bus even though I had my ticket and spent the next few days waiting for hours on end for people who never showed up to fix my computer. But I do think I made the best of it. The staff at the hostel all got to know me and I got to participate in a Bolivian birthday party since I was stuck by the front desk for so long. I shoved a guy's face in his cake, a Bolivian tradition.

I met a local guy who was so nice and made every effort to fix my computer, just for free as a friend, but it didn't work out, but still it was the thought that counted. When the tech guy told me he would come at 9:30 am and didn't show up until around 6 (twice) I made friends at the hostel that turned out to be some of the most interesting people that I met my whole trip

And I learned a lot about changing my attitude. I was bummed about losing my pictures, documents, music and most of all my LSAT study stuff, but I feel like it didn't hit me as hard as it would have before I went to Brazil. I sort of adopted an attitude like I see in Colleen, my sometimes travel buddy, who always inspires me, and just rolled with things. Yeah, it was a bummer to lose everything but I either way I lost it, so I realized I could lose it and be upset or lose it and make the best of it and move on, either way I was going to lose it. And in the end, some of it was recovered, I got to spend more time wandering through La Paz which is one of my favorite cities, and I made all sorts of new friends, two of which I traveled to Peru with.

I love La Paz, I really do. The city has a whole street dedicated to wedding cakes. Seriously, who wouldn't love that. Like a lot of South American streets, La Paz is organized into sections. So you have your wedding cake street, your paint street, your tire street, your dentist street. It is pretty amazing. The city is in a huge bowl surrounded by mountains, houses as far as you can see, backed by snowy mountains and craggy rock above tree-line. It is so high up that it is easy to get winded, being the highest capital city in the world at 3,660 m above sea level.

The street vendors in La Paz are exceptional. There is so much fresh fruit juice. One day I went to a street vendor and ordered a fruit salad. What I got was a fruit-salad-extravaganza-orgasm-in-your-mouth. It was this mound of fruit, some recognizable, others not, drizzled in yogurt, honey and sprinkles. I was flabbergasted.

But the best part about my computer breaking was labor day. I got to see, in person, with my own eyes, Evo Morales speak. He was my first president to see in person. Now, there are differing opinions about this. I was really excited to see that so many people were out for Labor Day. Protesting is a national past-time in Bolivia and I thought it was inspiring that so many people were in the streets peacefully protesting and happily celebrating compared to the complacency that you see in the U.S. My friend who I was with took a different view, he thought is was depressing that they continue to protest and there is no real change. Either way, it was colorful with lots of flags, and Morales looked just like he did on TV, waving his arms and speaking passionately.

Bolivia is definitely one of my favorite countries.

World's Most Dangerous Road (Bolivia)

2009-04-29T09:50:00.000-07:00

¨You are going to die. You are definitely going to die.¨ This was he consensus of everyone in my hostel when I told them I booked biking the ¨World´s Most Dangerous Road¨ with one of the cheap unknown companies.

"Do you want to leave your passport with me in case you don't come back?"

"Oooh, can I have your bed, I don't like the top bunk." I threw my pillow at my inconsiderate dorm mates.

I didn´t mean to do it, but I had gone into the office and the woman spent so much time with me that I just felt bad not doing it. Everyone else seemed to go with the bigger companies.
They have to scrimp somewhere to save money so it is on the bikes???? But anyways, I like supporting the locals, it's part of responsible tourism.

My group was small, just four of us. We started biking down the road in clouds, far above treeline. Semis were passing us and I was terrified. My brakes didn´t really work, I was wobbling on my bike and hearing strange sounds and I happened to look down and see that a very key part of my bike was taped. Awesome.

It didn't help that a girl on the tour biked up behind me, her eyes wide saying I had a big problem, and I eyed her back with even bigger eyes and then she said, "Never mind, it's not like you can do anything. You'll be fine. I mean, I think you'll be fine."

I never did figure out what the problem was.

The view was spectacular, stunning cliffs and rock faces, huge waterfalls tumbling down rock. Clouds swirling in the valley below.

I was shaking and I didn´t know if it was from being cold, malaria shivers, or because I was so scared. But I was loving it too, I mean, how often in life is one truly scared?

We made it down the paved part and to the rocky road where only bikes go.

"I've never mountain biked before, does anyone have any tips?" I asked.

"Just be bouncey to absorb the shock, " a guy on my tour replied.

Whew. "Ok, I can do that, it's my specialty," I said.

"I've known you for an hour and a half, but that doesn´t suprise me one bit."

The views were spectacular. More vegetation and waterfalls, a really windy road with a huge cliff drop off. We could see demolished vehicles with vegetation growing over the wreckage. As I got more comfortable I went from being the one that was waiting behind the others to the one up in the front, trying to race the guide. The speed was addictive. And who we kidding, going slow is not a skill that I have.

In the end, I was glad I went with the less expensive company because I never would have had the same adrenaline rush if I had been on a more sturdy bike which made it so much more fun in the end. And now I want to try more mountain biking.

La Selva (Bolivia)

2009-04-25T11:24:00.000-07:00

I am really happy that I visited the Amazonian jungle, but I can rest assured that I will no longer entertain fantasies of running away and living in it.

Our little crew of 4 from our Pampas tour decided to all go to the jungle together. I was happy because one of our crew is from Spain so he is like a walking dictionary for me while trying to learn Spanish .I wish I could keep him in my pocket. But it was a good group with nice people so I was glad to go to the selva with them.

If we thought our pampas camp was basic, it was luxurious compared to the jungle one. Our living area was teeming with cockroaches and all sorts of other bugs and spiders. There was ankle deep mud between the bed area and toilet area and dining area. My pants will never again be clean. But the mosquitoes weren’t so bad. But the other bugs were.

The jungle is amazing. The trees are enormous. They are taller than most buildings. There is so much life crammed into every area of the jungle. I could stare at one small area and still not see everything because the eye has to get used to the subtle shades of green, density of light and movement. There are more colors of green than I ever knew existed, it all depends on how sensitive your eyes can be. It is so beautiful and so immense and so ancient.

Our guide Juan-Carlos was great. I am convinced that there is a cure for everything in that jungle and he knew most of them. He showed us plants and trees to use as mosquito repellent, to put on bites, for diabetics, to help the kidneys, to make tattoos, to shoot poison arrow darts, the Viagra tree, anesthetics, to prevent Yellow Fever, to help with eye-sight, to help with back pain, to help the sinuses, to keep you alert, to help with constipation, to help with sleep. It was endless.

Being in the jungle also felt very vulnerable too. There were jaguars around though unfortunately we didn’t see them. But you do have to be careful. We saw spiders that one bite could kill you, others that you don’t feel bite you but then a year later you start to cough up blood and what western doctor knows how to cure that? We saw crazy looking frogs that looked like the poison arrow frogs that could kill you but my Spanish isn’t up to pare to understand if that is what they were. We saw this amazing yellow snake that was 9 feet long. Most of all, it is completely disorienting. You can’t see the sun, the foliage is so thick that you can’t keep track of where you are going and every step is a battle because there is so much life there.

You definitely don’t want to stand still for long. There are lots more biting insects. There are ants that are bigger than my thumb. I had a nice little group of them, biting red ones in fact, on me. You have to be very careful where you put your hands because some of the trees have dreadfully poisonous thorns or leaves, and chances are, wherever you touch is likely to have insects on it, poisonous and biting or not, but most are biting.

We were standing around this incredible tree, so big that 11 of us wouldn’t have been able to all hold hands and stand around it. I heard this buzzing sound really loud in my ear. Then more. I was attacked by these bee/spider looking hybrids of bugs. They attacked a few of us, they come at you fast and try to burrow into your hair and into your scalp. They are sticky and hard to remove and you hear them buzzing but can’t get at them through your hair. I had a bit of a fit there but I think that was reasonable. Brushed it off and moved on.

Now I love this, Juan-Carlos told us that there are around 30-40 tribes of people that still live in this very jungle that have no contact with the outside world. They are semi-nomadic, only eat raw foods (including meat) and most wear no clothes. I love thinking that still exists in the world and to see a whisper of where they live was just incredible.

That night we went on a night hike. It was amazing and touches all sorts of different senses to go through a pitch black jungle with nothing but flashlights. It was amazing to turn off the lights too and just listen to the sounds.

Everything in the jungle seems to have more depth and texture than I ever thought could be in one place. It is saturated with it. This includes depth in sounds, in vision and in scents. It is an amazing place, mysterious and unforgiving. It would seem soothing at times if it wasn’t for the fact that everything in the jungle seems to want to bite me.

Las Pampas (Bolivia)

2009-04-25T11:16:00.000-07:00

I did something bad. I am a little ashamed to admit it. It is unlike me, and I didn’t mean to do it, but doing it on my own was out of the question. Really, it had to be done and there was no way around it, I really wanted to see the Amazon Basin. I took a tour.

But tours in Bolivia are different. They are a bit more ghetto than you are thinking of. We carry our stuff as well as community stuff to the camps. Conditions are pretty grim. And I think the most telling part of how different the tours here are is the fact that none of the guides speak a word of English. As a side note here, there is very little English spoken at all in South America. I have a hard enough time talking with people, I have no idea how people with no Spanish can get along. But it is one of my favorite parts about South America. Most other places where I have been people in the tourist industry at least speak some basic English, but it is good to have to get around on Spanish only.

Anyways, a rickety jeep to Santa Rosa, then another 3 hour canoe ride through the wetlands of the Amazon Basin. The birds were stunning, crocodiles lurking, monkey mischievous, sloths sloth-like, and I was positively enchanted by the pink river dolphins. They were my selling point on the whole trip to be honest, I was only planning on going to the jungle, but I heard you got to swim with river dolphins and I signed up right away.

Our guide, Diego, was impressive navigating around this maze of wetlands with so many channels and routes, I had no idea where we were. The water is impossibly still with these ripples percolating from the depths every so often that could be anything really, it is the Amazon Basin.
I
t was beautiful and tranquil, just nice to not be on a bus as well. Our accommodation was basic, a river camp over a nice mosquito breeding ground of stagnant water, though this was not to matter because they would have found us anyways. Our camp had 3 resident alligators, one of which was maybe 3 meters long, named Pequeno. We watched the sunset of the river, so entranced by the peace and beauty and then, all of the sudden, it was like a dog whistle was blown calling all the mosquitoes. As I write this, after 3 days in the Pampas, I would not be exaggerating at all, not even a little to say that I have 300 mosquito bites (and about 50 unidentified bites) on me. I could say 400 but that could be exaggerating, so somewhere in there. It was horrific. It was a bloodbath. We were not happy campers. There was nothing we could do but put on every piece of clothing we had in the heat and scratch.

In the morning the mosquitoes weren’t so bad. At least not by the river. We took a pleasant canoe ride to another part of the pampas. We landed and set out into the jungle to go look for anacondas. I love hiking. I really do. It is one of my favorite things to do in the world. Nothing about this was fun. We thought the mosquitoes were bad at camp, this was a whole new level. It was like, my experience with mosquitoes had been taken up a notch the night before, and then this blew my mind. We couldn’t enjoy the walk, we were so busy being attacked by the mosquitoes. Swatting is useless .We had on ponchos and all our clothes as we walked through the steamy jungle. We did find a small anaconda and then a cobra type snake which Diego then wrapped around my neck and had me hold its head so it wouldn’t bit me, but he had me hold it so tightly I felt really sad and didn’t like that at all either. We continued but were all wanting to get out of there with the mosquitoes. The fire ants weren’t so pleasant either and their bites are a lot more painful.

It was nice to all share in some misery together, nothing like bonding over looking like we had the chicken pox from all our bites to bring strangers together. Two of the crazy people in our group decided to go back in the jungle while the rest of us waited outside. I practiced my Spanish with this great toothless old man that lived in the pampas and he showed me types of fruit I could eat in the jungle.

Later in the day we went swimming with dolphins, and it was more swimming in the vicinity of dolphins. I think Diego could see how I was disappointed so he took us through what would be the equivalent of canoe 4-wheeling to another place. It was a little un-nerving to swim in a river that you can’t see anything in because it is so dark after having seen so many crocodiles and even more un-nerving to be swimming in a river where there are people just 40 meters away fishing for piranhas. But I had to appreciate his effort and I jumped on in. The dolphins came pretty close to me and that was really great, but they didn’t come play around me or anything like I had hoped. It was still fun.

That evening we were let out to play with some other tour groups so I played some volleyball. Then we went looking for alligators and crocodiles by flashlight in the canoe in the dark, looking for their sinister looking red-eyes. I was sitting in the back of the canoe and Diego, the guide and I started talking. He is a fascinating one, he is indigenous and grew up in the jungle. He knows about all the medicinal purposes of plants and he has this special affinity with animals, they just seem calm around him. He has been lost in the jungle and come face to face with a jaguar and also has calmed dangerous snakes. He is an interesting character who is always singing and plays his guitar when we have a free moment and sings songs he has written. His father is a medicine man in the jungle. I was fascinated by his stories of growing up in the jungle and the things his father has done, not to mention the fact that talking to him really helps my Spanish being that he doesn’t speak a word of English so we have to muddle through somehow. We both are pretty dolphin-obsessed and he told me that every night he goes to a place where there are dolphins and I could come with him if I wanted that night.

So after dinner we snuck away from the camp and canoed out to this stunning lagoon. The stars were so incredibly bright I could see the Milky Way dust in the sky and heat lightning in the distance. It was nice to be away from camp and away from people and out in quiet wilderness. Unfortunately we didn’t bring a flashlight to check the water for crocodiles, but I decided to jump in the water anyways and just stay close to the boat. No dolphins came, but it was still a really nice night out for a swim and it is always good to click with a new friend.

Our last day we went Piranha fishing in the morning. They don’t taste so bad actually and by eating them we surmised we were asserting our place on the food chain. I have never eaten anything with teeth like that before though. Another quick swim with dolphins and then a canoe ride back, jeep ride and back to Rurrenebaque with mosquito bites for souvenirs.

Epic Travels (Brazil to Bolivia)

2009-04-25T11:05:00.000-07:00

It was a popsicle vendor’s dream and a nightmare for everyone else. Fortunately, there was a popsicle vendor around to be the only one to appreciate our circumstances.

I think about my last blog entry with my saccharine comments of the joys of the road and sort of want to bitch-slap myself. That was written a few hours into my trip with such blithe optimism and now I know better. In all seriousness though, it goes to show the microcosm of life travel is, how it tends to inflate every emotion. Some of my best times and some of my worst times have been traveling. Actually, no, that was a lie, none of my worst times have been traveling, but sometimes are more trying than others.

I was fine until the last leg of the trip, really I was. I was enjoying myself. I was positively blissful waiting in the shopping mall in the middle of nowhere, Annapolis for 6 hours, sitting on a bus and attempting to sleep for 18 hours, then waiting in a bus station in Campo Grande for 6 hours, then an 8 hour bus ride to Corumba. I missed crossing the border into Brazil because immigration closed 10 minutes before I got there but I did get to sleep in a bed for about 5 hours before catching a motorcycle taxi across the border and waiting another 14 hours in Quijarro, a dusty town with nothing to do and nowhere to go. From there it was the 30 hour “Death Train” which only turned out to be 19 hours because I caught the faster one. Then I had to wait in another crappy city, Santa Cruz for 12 hours, which happened to be right at the same time that 3 foreigners were shot for an alleged assassination attempt of Morales which seems to be a big set-up and was interesting timing for me to be there, though admittedly I missed all the action, before catching an overnight bus to a backwater city, Trinidad in the Amazon Basin. So really, I was happy, I was loving travel, things were good. Until the last leg.

It is one thing to go into a 33 hour bus ride knowing that. It is all mental, you see, though because I have such bad neck problems I need to be as discriminating as possible about which buses I take. But the one I was taking was only for 8 hours and it’s not like I had to sleep on it so it was ok that it was uncomfortable, plus there was nothing I could do, the road to Rurrenebaque, my final destination is not really a road, thus instead of a bus, a 4-wheeling Camion type is needed instead for the harsh conditions of such a less-traveled mess of a road.
The thing about buses that one must keep in mind is you can’t use the bathroom very often. This is a huge problem. Especially for me who has the bladder the size of a raisin. So I have to be very careful to dehydrate myself, it isn’t fun, but I have no choice. So by the time I got to Trinidad I was already really dehydrated.

Two things happened before I got on this bus. I had an intuition to buy more water, which I did. And I had an intuition not to get on it, which I ignored. I had this weird feeling because it was all men on the bus and some of them looked rather sketchy, but I had no choice to get on this Camion because no women were traveling, so that was just the way it was. The bus was broken down and beat up. The driver seemed to get lost in the city before we left which was a bit disconcerting. As soon as we got out of the town the door fell off the bus. They roped it back on but eventually gave up.

We had to cross the rivers twice on these crazy little wooden raft ferrys. I was practicing my Spanish with the guys on the bus (nobody spoke English) and a man almost got run over by the bus when we were sitting behind it on the ferry and had to jump into the water because the bus was rolling back and we had nowhere to stand. But that was fine, nobody was hurt.

Then came the mud. We got stuck once and managed to eventually get out. The second time we got stuck the men all had to get out in to the mud and pull the camion through. Then we got really stuck. We, and all the other people in other vehicles had nothing to do but wait. Wait for hours. Out came the popsicles. I was dizzy with heat and dehydration, and then, out of nowhere, a man I had befriended was handing me a popsicle. A guy that had gotten on our camion had a whole cooler full of them that somehow didn’t melt. I think it was probably one of the best business days he has ever had.

Finally a tractor came and pulled us all out. We got stuck three times and three times it had to pull us out. Then we got through the deep trenches of mud and back to just the normally horrendous road. Then our bus broke down. A few hours later, I am seeing double I am so dehydrated. I am trying to ration my water because it is not looking promising that we will get moving. Other people are complaining of hunger, but I have no hungry, the thirst is like an all consuming animal inside me.

They fix the bus but have to constantly pour water into the engine. Luckily, we are surrounded by swamps and wetlands on either side of us. We drive very slowly, pouring water from buckets into the engine constantly, and have to stop every five minutes so the drivers can scramble to the water to fill up more to pour into the engine.

Then we get stuck in mud again. This time I get out and help them pull and my parts are permanently turned another color. Eventually the camion moves. The sun dips behind the horizon and I become and all-you-can eat buffet for a swarm of mosquitoes. The wetlands on either side of us that are keeping us going are also housing all the mosquitoes. I am too thirsty to raise my hand to brush them off, it is hopeless anyways. There has recently been a Dengue Fever epidemic in the area and I say a silent prayer that I will be ok.

Then we break down again. The other people are looking ready to riot they are so hungry. I try to use this as an opportunity to practice my Spanish, but unable to say anything intelligent, I wonder if they think I am un poco lento. A couple hours later we are able to move again, but we do occasionally have to get out to push the bus. The water has to constantly be poured into the engine. This goes on for about 11 hours, all night. At one point, late at night we stop in the only pueblo we find, San Ignacio. I love this pueblo right away. We go and get food but there is a big problem, somehow they don’t have water. I am willing to drink the tap water, but my new found friends tell me even they won’t do that and buy me a coke instead.

We push the bus out of the small pueblo and continue on into the muddy night. Finally we get to a bigger city. It is 10 am now and we go to the bus station. The company has an office there and us remaining passengers and shoved into a tiny, hot and very uncomfortable van that my neck hates right away. But another 6 hours and we are at our final destination, Rurrenebaque in the Amazon Basin.

Total travel time: 129 hours straight
Number of mosquito bites: 73 that I can see
Meals eaten: 2, plus a bag that my friend in Brazil packed me
Bottles of water drank: 2
Number of times I contemplated drinking swamp water: 12
New Spanish words: 4
Hours in which I had no will to live: 5
Times I will repeat that journey: 0

The Life of a Ghost (Brazil to Bolivia)

2009-04-15T07:52:00.000-07:00

It seems to haunt me wherever I go. I could have easily stayed in Brazil my whole trip, or at least until my visa ran out if it weren’t for the whisper, “the world awaits. . .”

Back on the road again. I stayed in Brazil for six weeks, instead of the two that I expected which is speeding up my whole trip a bit now. It was sad to leave Brazil, I stayed there longer than I have stayed anywhere that I can think of. It was a tearful goodbye to a close group of some of my favorite people that I have ever met.

But, sitting in a shopping mall in Annapolis, a nondescript industrial Brazilian town pretty much in the middle of nowhere, waiting for my bus that was due to depart in 7 hours; an 18 hour bus followed by another wait in a bus station and an 8 hour bus followed by sleeping in another bus station before going across a notoriously sketchy boarder to board a train that is actually called “The Death Train,” for 30 hours to jump on another bus for 12 hours with maybe a night’s rest in between that one, and I was sublimely happy.

I wonder how much of my life I have spent waiting in bus stations and other random places for buses to depart. More than your average person, I can assure myself of that. But for some reason, instead of minding it, it feels like a part of life to me.

Bus stations are places of tremendous energy for me. I love the possibility of them. I can jump on a bus to anywhere if I wanted to. I love having options.

Travel for me, is pure freedom. It is absolutely addicting in its freedom and I have no idea how I will ever settle down to a normal life. The only thing that has ever come close to that kind of freedom was when I used to gallop my horse as fast as she could run up a steep hill, bareback. I couldn’t even steer her, just hang on for dear life and trust. I suppose travel parallels that in a myriad of ways.

I realized that when I travel, I move like a ghost. In fact, because of all the time I have spent traveling, I have spent far more time only as a ghostly presence in this world the last few years than I have as a human being. What I mean by that is the fact that most of the time, absolutely no one in the world knows exactly where on this planet that I am. I can tell people what my itinerary is, but it changes more often than not. And I also know that what I am doing, most people cannot relate too or even picture. It makes me view the world differently as a ghost.

I love how I never know who I may meet on a day on the road. I don’t always know where I will go. The possibilities are endless and every day has potential to be life-altering. How does someone who craves freedom and possibility as much as I do ever cram back into a routine?

As we grow up and decisions are made, people always talk about all the things that we gain. But as we and our friends make irrevocable choices, possibilities are limited; whether it be a friend we have always seen potential with getting married, people having babies which will change their lifestyle forever, a career choice or moving choice, people we care about moving away or us deciding on a new place to settle. And yes, much is gained. But people only seem to talk about what is gained as we grow up, but what about all the options and chances that we lose as things are limited and decided?

Some people are ready to close those other options. But me, I prefer my freedom right now. I love my life as a ghost. As I ride along the marshy swampland on the bus, I wonder if I will spend the night in Brazil or Bolivia tonight. I am happy.

Are all Travelers Crazy? (Brazil and everywhere else I've been)

2009-04-15T07:46:00.000-07:00

Long term travel definitely attracts some unique people to put it lightly. Maybe all of us that are crazy enough to choose such an unconventional life-style are a little off, but some more than others for sure.

I think that I should write a book profiling some of the people I have met on the road. This idea first came to fruition on my first long-term solo trip to South East Asia. Some of you that read my blog traveled through Laos with me. I am sure you haven’t forgotten the Gold Smoking Ninja either, he was my prime inspiration for this idea.But at a close second would be a man that I met in Brazil.

He looks like the tall quiet guy from the American office, but I will not divulge what country he is from to protect the identity of the unique. I had seen him before, he sort of scurries around like a chipmunk carrying crystals. This is our first (and unfortunately not our last, I had one other but he didn’t remember me from the first one) conversation. This is as verbatim as I could possibly be and how it started, no introductions or anything.

Him: have you got your crystals yet?

me: um, I don't think I'll buy any, I am traveling with a backpack.

Him: Yeah, they are really good to buy here. It is good to buy them here. You can touch them and the warmer ones conduct the most energy and you can bring them to current and they charge.

me: oh, ok.

him: I know a lot about crystals. I was alive in Atlantis before it sank and I was (insert name of somebody important in Atlantis. Yeah, that's right). And then, when it sank, I grabbed the (insert name of some crystals or something that he assumes I should know the name of, in fact, I got the point that he assumes everyone knows the name of) and swam with them to Macchu Piccu (this is in the mountains by the way but apparently it wasn't then I suppose.) and buried them under the sun temple. Are you going to Macchu Piccu?

Me: um, I think. . .

him: because I need to turn on the crystals if we are going to save the world from 2012. Because I burried them I am the only one that can do that and I failed in my last lifetime because i forgot but there was another guy who was here last week that was guarding them, but he left them. SO I am going t go there and dig them up and activate them because I know how. They are under the sun temple. Im going to bring a shovel and dig them up.

me: I don't think they let you dig at Macchu Piccu.

him: no?

me: no, they probably won't let you in with a shovel.

him: Well, I'll go at night.

True story. Just thought I’d share.

On the Journey (Brazil)

2009-03-04T07:12:00.000-08:00

I have hesitated to write a blog about this, being that it is so personal and that I don’t want it to typecast me into a certain person. I have never been one for alternative healing and all the hippie stuff Boulder is so known for, but at the same time, I have always believed that I need to follow my heart where it takes me and to keep an open mind. I have never been religious and that has not changed. But I do believe there are forces beyond what we know, be it our brains, be it the universe, the unknown, whatever. I think that life has a way of pulling us in strange directions, and when it is somewhere I wouldn’t ordinarily go, all the more reason to pay attention and go.

Anyone who knows me knows that I suffer from chronic neck pain. It is persistent and debilitating and affects every area of my life. Western medicine has done nothing for me. It has been a long, painful and frustrating process.

I was first told about John of God just days after this whole journey began in Zimbabwe. I thought that was quite a coincidence and filed it away in my brain since I was going to South America in a year or so. I don’t really remember where the plan actually took shape, it just did. And soon, I knew that I would go see John of God, I have nothing to lose. He is a healer in a rural city, Abadiania, in Brazil.

Once I made the decision, more and more things seemed to point me in that direction. My boyfriend’s (yes, I cannot believe I just used that word in a blog. Apparently even commitment-phobics can change, believe me I sweated over putting that word in but whew, there it goes. And that is another story in itself of things leading in one direction and almost feeling inevitable) best friend and her husband had been to see John of God. From there all these coincidences brought me to meet more people who had seen him. My mom was on the phone with someone who by chance had someone over for dinner who had spent months in Brazil with him, and so on and so on.

I got my visa for Brazil in Iguazu Falls, Argentina. I was nervous about getting to Brasilia, my jumping off point for the city of Abadiania, but everything fell into place in ways that I never could have imagined. I seem to continue to find that and I have no idea why I worry at all anymore. It felt like I was supposed to come, so it worked out. Hopefully the first of many miracles here.

Crossing the border into Brazil was easy and instead of having to take a variety of buses to get to the main bus station a ride worked out really well. I always stress about money and ATMs, it is a nightmare to be stranded in a country with none of their money and no ATM around and believe me I know this from experience. I was told ATMs are hard to come by in Brasilia, my destination. Luckily not only did the bus station have an ATM but my card worked in it, crisis: averted.

The bus turned out to be comfortable which was good because 26 hours turned into almost 30. I was nervous for Brazil not speaking the language and hearing an assortment of horror stories of robberies and muggings. I was due to arrive in Brasilia at 2 a.m., which not only is scary because it is huge but it is expensive and hard to navigate, but I figured I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

Sitting next to me on the bus was a guy that looked like one that I would suspect could rob me. He was all gangsta’d out, tattoos, tough looking. He turned out to be great and gave me his jacket to sleep on, brought me water, and became a new friend.

And we only really got to be friends thanks to contraband. And he was only on the bus because he had lost his passport in an ecstacy binge at Carnival, and this is important for later in the story because he is possibly going to have saved my life or at least saved me from breaking my legs.

So the beginning stretch of road on my trip I had been warned about a couple times. Apparently it is a route for smugglers and bandits and is best avoided (sorry Mom). So I wasn’t all that surprised when we got pulled over by men in black. But looking closer I saw that though they were wearing bullet-proof vests, they had no guns, just trucks with white plastic bags and clipboards.

It turns out that they were the feds. They began to take out all our luggage from under the bus and search it. I watched them dump items into the white bags. I was frustrated to not understand what was being said by all my fellow bus mates in Portuguese. One word that is universal though that my seatmate said to me was, “contraband.” Then I understood.

We were stopped for a long time and through the help of a guy from Paraguay who spoke both Spanish and Portuguese, my seatmate and I were able to communicate more and I began to understand that most of our bus were smugglers and they had all this illegal stuff from Ciudad Del Este on them. The feds came on board to search through all our stuff and the guy behind me began furiously trying to stuff laptops and DVDs into my arm rest and under my chair which I tried to inconspicuously shove back at him so I didn’t get busted for them.

I knew there was big trouble when I saw outside the window one of the feds find these huge bricks of white powder wrapped in fleece blankets inside a bag. Nothing like contraband and drugs to bring a bus together.

Eventually we set off again with about 2/3 of our bus passengers missing. Somewhere during the night we lost our translator friend but my new friend and I continued to communicate. The thing with Portuguese is, they can mostly understand Spanish (or are REALLY good at faking it) but it is harder for Spanish speakers and especially a sucky Spanish speaker like me, to understand them. So I was only understanding about 10% of the conversation and either doing a good job faking it and not faking it in too offensive of a way, or he just thought I was slow.
But I learned that he was a DJ, has spun all over the world, and got invited to some incredible sounding raves, including one at Machu Piccu in a few months. So that was a good connection.

He managed to get me a ride from a nearby city instead of me going all the way into Brasilia so I could get to Abadiania 2 days early and with much less hassle and not to have to worry about navigating Brasilia at night (though he would have helped me there too, see no reason to worry ever!). We were at a rest stop while he was on the phone arranging this and I was standing in the parking lot when this car comes speeding towards me. I’m an idiot and I froze, it was coming so fast. My new friend jumped down and shoved me out of the way and the car rammed into a wooden post just in front of me which didn’t stop it, but slowed it down before it ran into a wall. Less than a second later, a kid gets out of the car and tears off, the driver in close pursuit but has to give up. I am still not completely sure what happened since my Portuguese lacks but it all caused this huge scene and someone told me it was a robbery and the guy had a gun. Welcome to Brazil, right.

Finally I got to this ride that deposited me right in front of Abadiania, and I was able to find a posada (hotel) right away, no problem, owned by a woman who used to live in Wollongong, the city I studied abroad in in Australia. So it couldn’t have worked out better.

Now I am here and feeling good about things and I am ready for a miracle.

Ciudad Del Este (Paraguay)

2009-02-27T09:25:00.000-08:00

South America is surprisingly well-traveled. But for some reason when people list the countries they are going to or will go to, Paraguay is conspicuously off the map. I always like the places that most people don’t go the best, so I was really looking forward to a journey to Paraguay. Anywhere that people really avoid makes me curious. It speaks of hidden treasures and friendly locals. And I usually enjoy the places the people tell me not to go the most.

The plan was to get my visa at the Paraguayan embassy in Puerto Iguazu, Argentina. Then I would go visit my friend Kevin at his Peace Corps site in Paraguay. This is one of the things I have been most excited for. Much to my dismay, the embassy in Puerto Iguazu doesn’t issue visas to Americans. I was really sad I couldn’t go and who has heard of an embassy that doesn’t issue visas?! So I had to settle for just a day trip to the much talked about and supposedly best avoided Ciudad Del Este.

Ciudad Del Este has a horrible reputation. It is infamous for being a bit of a shit-hole. It is one of two places in the country that Peace Corps Volunteers aren’t supposed to spend the night. It is known for being rough, dirty, dangerous and insidious. People equate it with cheap electronics, a huge drug smuggling system, Hamas and crime. With such a strong reputation, obviously the question was not if I would check it out for myself but when and for how long.

I was nervous crossing the border. It turned out to be with due reason. The information was conflicting. Some people said you didn’t need a visa to visit for a day, others said you did. I looked into a boat that takes you across the river, bypassing all the customs and though there was a time in my life where I would have gone just because sneaking into a country is the kind of adrenaline rush that I love, I decided against it, not that I didn’t want to, I just don’t want any reason for the State Department not to hire me if I ever want that option!

So I went the old-fashioned route. I jumped on a rickety bus, stamped out of Argentina, drove through Brazil, not a nice city in Brazil either, hid in the bathroom at customs in Paraguay, and then I was home free.

And I am glad I did, because I LOVED Paraguay. Or what little I saw of it at least. Now, it has been pointed out to me on several occasions recently that I have abysmally, in fact, freakishly low standards. This can be looked at as a good thing or a bad thing I suppose, but either way, after traveling for so long in developing countries, it seems inevitable to me if I ever want to have any fun. And I suppose I am drawn to wildness and chaos in these places that others see as lawlessness and grime.

What is it that makes us like one place over another? I write enthusiastically about Ciudad Del Este, but if one wants to go there, be warned because I have not met a SINGLE other person who has had ANYTHING good to say about it. So no plans should be made based on my reviews.

I have noticed that with everything, I seem to expect Africa. I think that when people say things are difficult, it will be on the Africa scale of difficult. Same goes for danger, dirtiness, chaos, crowds and transportation. I wrote once that Africa is a continent of superlatives and I still agree. To be honest, nothing has compared for me. Iguazu Falls would have been nothing if I had thought too much about Victoria Falls. The poverty in India that people warned me about was nothing compared to places I saw in Ethiopia. People say transportation is difficult or the market is big and crowed or anything along those lines and I expect so much worse. I wonder if my heart will always belong to Africa now.

So I was expecting chaos. But no chaos was found. I found Ciudad del Este to be clean, orderly, full of everything you could ever want, convenient and friendly. The markets are nice and clean and a shopper’s dream. Not being a shopper, I headed farther into the city which was really nice.

I found this sweet little park that was nice and clean and comfortable. It had a huge fountain. There was this great walk/bike-path along the river and wandering around the city there was so much green-space. There is a little forest and a nice lake. It is quite tranquilo. Ciudad del Este has a very undeservedly bad reputation.

Crossing the bridge into Paraguay, I got that feeling I get when I cross a lot of borders: that this is going to be my favorite country yet. I could see the little shacks by the river and maybe I just felt comfortable with it if I can say that. It was familiar. So were the rickety cafes with plastic chairs on sidewalks, hawkers and street food. I can’t explain it, but I know I want to go back to Paraguay and travel around for a while. There is something really enticing about it. And I don’t understand why travelers avoid it but I want to learn more about this place.

I did have an interesting experience. I chatted with a guy from Lebanon for about an hour. He asked me about my wedding ring, (never travel without one, as important as a passport) and we talked for a while. Learning he was from Lebanon I asked him about the war, told him about a guy I interviewed for CBS that summer, etc. Learning I was from the US and after chatting for a while he said I must be pro-Israel being from the U.S.

I told him things weren’t that simple and that we don’t necessarily have a cohesive foreign policy that everyone agrees with, that in some places, I had been talking to Colleen about, the “Free Tibet” bumper stickers might be replaced by “Free Palestine” ones. He laughed once I explained this.

It gave me the courage to flat out ask him if he was Hamas. Now, I know I ask inappropriate questions, this is something else that has been pointed out to me recently, I tend to skip formalities and go to the things people wonder but don’t ask, and people have told me that they have been flabbergasted but I get away with it, usually because I have the voice of a 5 year old and seem harmless. He laughed and said almost the same thing.

“Things are neither black nor white either. But maybe more black than white and yes, there are many Hamas here.”

I sweated it out in the bathroom again while some people got busted on the border, but other than that, it was a very successful day in Paraguay. And I know that is a place I want to return too. I don’t know why, but I know it had potential to be one of my favorite places.

Tango (Argentina)

2009-02-25T16:18:00.000-08:00

Argentina is enveloped in passion. I hinted at this before but it is worth saying again. The streets are colorful and bold. There are no apologies for the boldness. Soccer is a national obsession with die-hard fans. People talk in gestures. Their food is passionate, their nightlife is too. When people relax or stroll slowly, they mean it. But most passionate of all is the art. Especially tango. Tango is a great symbol for Argentina. It is bold, passionate, classic yet individual. It is beautiful and captivating.

Sometimes a whole country can be encapsulated by one person. Their essence can capture that of the place like only a metaphor can. I met Guillermo Alio on a street corner in the La Bocca neighborhood of Buenos Aires. La Bocca was my favorite place in the city, known for its colorful streets, tango, crazed soccer fans and robberies. I found it positively intoxicating.

I was reading a poem embossed on a stone wall. Alio put his hand on my shoulder and shook his head. He told me that the poem had been killed, shortened. His voice of the missing verses filled the void dribbling from the rock. I too feel passionate about the slaughter of poetry. Some words are not meant to be sliced and it seems unfair to take a poem and chop it down, like giving someone a lick from a juicy peach as it dribbles down your hand, but nothing whole to bite into. You miss the meat of what the poet was trying to convey and turn it into a sound byte.

He took Colleen and I back to his studio, a small space sandwiched between colorful buildings. The studio smelled of oil paint. Pages folded off the wall, paintings clipped to each other, maximizing every inch of space. He took out a scrap book and poured through page after page of yellowed newspaper articles. They were all about him and his performances and exhibits around the world. Time, Associated Press, New Yorker told his story, as did the mischievous glint to his eye and delicateness of his skin. I suspected that though he had to be pushing 65, this man was well-versed in passion. He carries himself with beauty, like a real artist.

Tango for me is sultry and captivating. There is some sort of passion and sexiness to it that I could never attain myself, so I can watch two people twist their legs around a dance floor with such intimacy that I cannot tear my eyes away from it though I almost feel I should look away, and feel the passion myself.

If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I want to be a tango dancer in my next life. A tango dancer or a bullfighter, not because I could kill a bull, but I think of Hemmingway, “Nobody lives their life all the way up except bullfighters,” I think that could pertain to tango dancers as well.

Alio has two great passions; tango and painting. And, he has managed to unite the two. He is famous for his dancing and his art separately, but the most incredible part is the combination. He paints his dances on canvass.

In an interview with Bill Comer from the Associated Press, Alio describes the passion of tango, “The melancholy of the soul is what pure tango speaks most about. But tango also speaks of many things: of motherhood, of friendship, of sport, of neighborhood, even of the horse races. It's something very profound," says Alio. "The tango is a reflection of all within man."

So he dips his and his dancer’s feet in paint and lets them dance on the canvass. It is two art forms blending into one full of the passion of both. It’s a kind of passion soup if you will, and plenty to sustain someone without food or drink, only by satiating the soul’s desire for real fervor.

In the same interview, he says, “The feet show what is going on in the head and heart. They are a means of expression and the world needs this dance, the tango, to understand what is within."
He tells us of one of the most influential tango dancers in the world who was his teacher before he died in a plane crash. There are endless articles about him in the loosely put together scrapbook and he is even a chapter in a textbook to teach Spanish through artists.

He seems to live life with a different lens, one that makes me think of what other lenses I can choose through which to view my life. I think passion is one of the most important things to follow or find in life. I think most of Argentina would agree.

A Lazy Day in Uruguay

2009-02-24T16:10:00.000-08:00

Adjusting to life after Antarctica was hard, sort of like after a long camping/backpacking trip in the wilderness, full of these incredible highs and insightful experiences, raw nature and silence; how difficult it is to fit back into life in a city. I bounced from the sleepy town of Ushuaia, the end of the earth in Tierra Del Fuego and my jumping off point to Antarctica, up to Buenos Aires a city with endless life.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved Buenos Aires. It is a city defined by passion. I thoroughly enjoyed exploring it from the artsy urban grunge side of San Telmo, the colorful brightness and energy of La Bocca, the regal cemetery and flowering opulence of Recoleta and the vibrancy of downtown.
Buenos Aires is electric at night. Something in the warm air seems to bring out that passion. Even during the day with its open air cafes and inviting plazas, Buenos Aires is a great place to be. I was captivated by the sultriness of Tango, the cafes with their little cookies with the coffee, huge trees covering the plazas with flowers like confetti and artsy bustle. But I needed to decompress.

It was when I was laying on the rocks next to the muddy water in Colonia, Uruguay that I first felt relaxed. Something about a beach, no matter how small or chocolate-milky the water induces relaxation. I felt the warm sun on me and listened to the guys behind me strumming their guitars and felt myself gazing blissfully up at the clouds.
It was amazing to be out of my layers of clothing, to lay on a rock and sweat. And listening to the music and being swayed by the charmingly small city of Colonia and its huge splayed trees, sprawling across every street and colorful houses I finally remembered what travel can be about, though seldom seems to be for me. I seem to worry so much about how to get where I need to go next, logistics, etc. that travel is far more work than a lot of jobs at home.
Uruguay was great to decompress and wander the streets. Each street is covered in huge willowy trees. It is amazing what a difference shade can make! Around sunset, I walked through the cobblestone streets and watched birds fly silently above the crumbling but alluring buildings.

I wandered out to the pier with my friend and sat on the stone wall to watch one of the best sunsets in my life. Sunsets are funny in that they tend to evoke memories of other great sunsets. It is sort of like a chain reaction that makes me smile when I think about whom I was with or where I was. A great sunset is a gift that should be appreciated more.
Far across the water, tiny like a toy city, we could just make out the buildings of Buenos Aires. Above them, a squished oblong sun dipped behind the land. Behind it were smeared pink, orange and yellow. It was spectacular. As the sun squeezed itself behind the buildings in sharp contrast, city and nature, the water turned from burnt-marshmallow brown to a shimmery oily blue. I could almost pretend I was at the real ocean.

Behind us were biblical clouds, a real-estate poster for heaven. They billowed pink, boasting of angels and pastels. I thought of wedding cakes and cotton candy cones. Entranced, we stayed until the first stars began to venture out into the night.

Colonia was a more gentle transition from Antarctica and a great reminder to not always be so caught up in the how of the things I am doing as what I am doing, and how wonderful life can be.

Last Day (Antarctica)

2009-02-14T07:59:00.000-08:00

Sitting by myself on my little bench spot, looking at the endless miles of open ocean, the power of the waves that thrash our boat. I am so sad to leave. I feel like after the wildness and vast expanse, pristine serenity, awe and power I have seen in Antarctica and the Southern Ocean, everything else will seem confining, even other expanses of nature.

The wind thrashes me so severely I feel like someone has grabbed me by my shoulders and is shaking me. Waves explode over the railing as we hit stormy seas. I love the raw power and strength.

There is something so sad about leaving nature and going back to civilization. I know I have been on this boat which is of course civilization, but still it’s hard. I always think of that quote about how hard it is to return after you have been touched by nature, after you have summated a mountain.

Tears literally spring to my eyes when I think about not only what I have just experienced, but the places I have seen the last few years. I am sad. How is it that the happiest times in my life give me the most sadness? Why can’t I be like other people, just glad that I had them, instead I am so nostalgic that I miss the past. The ending is in sight of my travels. I can’t imagine them being done, when this is my passion and has been my life for so long. But the fact that this is the last leg of my trip hits me at times. I know I need to prepare for it somehow. Another ending, the one of this Antarctica trip always reminds me of this.

There is that inevitable let down and I have to do my best not to let it get to me. Instead of being sad, I need to carry the energy I found forward and use that. I’m going to miss this wild, stormy ocean.

I don’t want to forget the enormity of what I have just experienced. I don’t want whatever resources Antarctica has touched in me to fade away.

My travels are the most important thing in the world to me, they define me in the fact that I do it alone, not taking the easy way out, without anyone else to depend on but myself and definitely not with a tour group. The experience is completely and vastly different if you do it alone as opposed to with someone else.

Most people that I know have a travel companion, but I prefer to find the strength in myself, I feel like it makes me grow and challenges me. It is not the way most people can travel and yes, it is painful at times, it is not the same kind of fun you have with another person, but to me, it is the only way to do it. The thought of knowing who I will meet or what I will be doing this time tomorrow feels like death. I love possibility. How will I ever fit into a life again at home?

I don’t want my travels to become stories or anecdotes when I get home. Somehow, I want to find a way to keep them alive, not just alive, but burning. But it is all so tenuous.

Real Loneliness (Antarctica)

2009-02-14T07:58:00.000-08:00

I am standing on the bow of the ship, alone. Waves crash beneath me as snowflakes tangle in my eyelashes. White is all around in varying densities, a playground of shades. In places like Antarctica where the colors are few, the eye can see things it wouldn’t if it had distractions. The purity of colors are striking. The whites and blues of this continent and surrounding ocean have nuances that train the eye to see in a new way. It is like I am really seeing things for the first time.

I look at the sea of ice, splayed out before me, tinkling and crackling like a chandelier in an earthquake, popping like Rice Crispies with a stream of fresh milk. I hear the water swirling. All I can see for miles is ice, glaciers, cold rock face and snow. Every so often there is a solitary seal laying on an iceberg, maybe a single penguin, porpoising through the water.

This is real loneliness. I think Antarctica must be the loneliest place on earth, forgotten by the world, at the very end of this continent. The loneliness permeates my bones, seeps in through the space in the cells of my body. It is all encompassing and it is wonderful. I embrace loneliness. After all the solo travel I have done, I see loneliness as a friend. But this is a different kind of loneliness. It is so completely full. Complete and utter full loneliness. Beautiful loneliness. The kind that changes you but you have no idea how it changes you. You just know that somehow you will never be the same again.

I breathe in the air and feel it, frigid and full in my lungs. The snowflakes touch me then glisten away, the warmth of my body defeating them. I can’t stop smiling.

First Sighting (Antarctica)

2009-02-14T07:56:00.000-08:00

We have spent over 2 days on the Drake Passage, infamous for being the roughest water in the world. I thought seasickness was something that happened to other people. Something that happens to the weak, but I am strong. I was wrong. Very wrong. I am ready to stand on firm ground.

But the third morning we wake up with anticipation in the air. And finally we approach land.
The first echo of land is a cloud in the distance. As illusive and imaginary as the White Continent itself. It is stronger in folklore than substance. It’s the land of penguins and ice, far away, the most remote place on earth, but now it is a cloud on the horizon.

Chunks of icebergs bob in the sea, more expected than the hardness of rock that solidifies to sight. The cliffs rise up in the mist as mysterious as the whispers and ghosts of the stories, books and photos of this place.

The dance of description pales in comparison to the freezing wind on my face, butting painfully like a frozen knife through warm butter. But the shrouded rocks glimpsed behind the clouds stand firm. I am here. The place you always hear about but never dreamed I’d venture too. Antarctica- even the word sounds foreign yet familiar on my tongue.

Journey to the White Continent (Antarctica)

2009-02-14T07:48:00.000-08:00

Departing from Ushuaia, in Tierra Del Fuego, Argentina, the end of the earth, I get on the Polar Star. It is a smallish ship, bound for Antarctica, via the Drake Passage and Beagle Channel.
Our days were kept full by a lecture program. The boat I am on is full of experts in several fields which made things really interesting and a great way to learn as I visit this beautiful continent.

The ship is an expedition ship. We are one of the very few boats that will cross the Polar Circle. Most boats play around the peninsula, but we will go farther than almost anyone does that isn’t a scientist. I love being on the ocean despite my seasickness. I spend endless hours, hypnotized, staring at the waves.

Everyone on the boat is very amicable. They are super well traveled. I am the youngest on the ship, but not by much, there is a shocking number of us last minute backpackers that jumped on for a discounted price. Still, most of the people are triple my age. They have been everywhere. At first I was in awe at how much they have all traveled, but by the end of my trip I realized that yes, I am extremely humbled by the places they have been, but they have done almost all of them on tours, which is a different experience. Still, it is a lot of fun. I quickly settled in to a nice little crew of us, mostly Dutch. I don’t know if it is because the group I was hanging out with happens to be very tall, the next person being about 5’ 11’’, but there were an extraordinary number of short jokes aimed at me. Even the staff joined in. I don’t mind, and I am used to it, but it was an unprecedented number.

Most of the people on the boat are smart. And they are opinionated. And we spend so much time together that people seem to argue for argument’s sake. Also our conversations are strange. Mundane. People take many more chances on jokes here than they do at home and as a result there are a lot more misses than hits but it is all rather entertaining. I find myself flitting from group to group, but returning to my core group, and seeking out alone time.

Still, one American, Patrick, touched me when he said, “I am really happy that you are traveling so much. You are always so happy, bubbly and genuinely friendly and nice to everyone that I like knowing you are out there in the world representing our country like that.” Aw.

Getting to land took 2 ½ days, but once we arrived we were able to do zodiac landings at least twice a day every day. We crossed the Polar Circle and went so far south that we may have done a first landing, though it is hard to tell. It was a first for all the crew at least.

It is surreal to wander around colonies of penguins, so close I have to watch to not step on them. We had Humpback Whales approach our boats as well as Minkeys. It was when a Humpback got so close to our zodiac that I almost cried it was so stunning. It was awe-inspiring to watch its fluke disappear into the water. It really felt like a gift.

We saw loads of Weddell Seals, Fur Seals, Elephant Seals, Leopard Seals, Gentoo and Adelie Penguins, Albatross and more. Penguins feed their young by regurgitating in their mouths. I saw that at close range a lot and it still didn’t put me off my dinner.

Also incredible were the ice formations. There is something so humbling about watching calving glaciers, hearing the thunder echo through, reverberating through still, silent bays. The floating ice is incredible too. It is never monotonous. There is sea ice, ice bergs, brash ice, glaciers all varying in colors and textures. Often the ice spreads out under the berg in this surreal blue that looks like the painted bottom of a swimming pool. Wind relentlessly carves the ice into shapes that the finest artists couldn’t create.

When we land, we usually are able to go off by ourselves so I find myself at the water’s edge, watching penguins work up the courage to jump in or rocketing through the water, just reflecting on how incredible it is to be here. I am so lucky.

The peninsula is full of mountains. They are massive, absolutely massive. Some are white peaks but there is so much stunning rock face. The bays and inlets sometimes have water that is so smooth it looks like a photograph while at other times it is full of white caps.

We visited an English and a Ukrainian science station. Both seemed to come out of the 50’s. On our last day before we headed back we went to Deception Island, one of the South Shetland Islands. It is a black sand beach, a ghost town from the whaling days, full of seals now. There is something completely surreal about being on a black sand beach, surrounded by waves with the snow falling down on you.

It was one of those trips that I never wanted to end. That I worry nothing will be so immense, wild and raw as what I just saw, that my craving to be in nature will never be satiated after this. I don’t know how to fit back into the world after being somewhere so isolated, powerful and extreme. But it was one of the best experiences of my life.

A Stange New Feeling

2009-01-31T09:01:00.000-08:00

It’s funny the times it hits me. I was reading The Economist in a rainy tent in Torres Del Paines, Chile, Patagonia. The article was about the woman P.M. in Bangladesh. It’s sort of a wave and shiver. It’s honestly a feeling I have never felt in my entire life and really something I genuinely never expected myself to feel. It’s shocking and I don’t wuite know what to do with it- do I embrace it? Because I have been so adamant not to in the past, the acceptance is tentative. Extremely tentative. What do I do with this new feeling that I am actually proud to be an American?

We have a new president. Bush/Satan is out, Obama is in. I actually get goosebumps when I think about it. I’m so used to being apologetic for being American. I have actually never felt American. It was always them and me, especially out traveling the world. I always felt that I should have been born in another country. I don’t associate with being an American at all.
But sometimes, I realize that me, in another country with my very American pony tail or pigtails and my Nalgene water bottle, I really can’t escape it.

Still, people would ask me where I’m from. “The U.S., sorry, don’t hate me.” It’s a shitty thing to feel like you have to apologize for your country, but somehow the U.S. has this unprecedented status in the world.

I’ve always felt like the U.S. was a place I had to escape. I was ashamed and disgusted. So now, all of the sudden, I want to work for the State Department?! I’m not sure how to deal with these new feelings. My aversion to my country my whole life has been so strong that it has been a catalyst and driving force in my need to travel.

But I am also privileged to have the ability to travel. I have a great life and so much of that has been because of the country I have been born into. I act like a spoiled child by shunning it. Thus the inner turmoil.

When I was in Zimbabwe talking politics with my friend Kenny, I remember how patriotic he was. He lives under one of the world’s most evil and oppressive dictators, his beautiful country in shambles, but he tells me he would never leave. He loves his country.

The hatred that burns i8n my bones to a physical extent, that catches in my stomach and makes me see how violence towards a human being could be conceivable that I have for Bush, Cheney and Administration seems unfair when I am looking for food but the grocery store shelves are almost completely empty in Kenny’s country. But still the venom for me is there and it is palpable.

“Don’t you think you can love a country even if you hate its leader?” Kenny asks me.

I feel like I have been slapped in the face.

But my country elected the leader (sort of) so is it different? Still I feel spoiled and ashamed, but now what do I do with this new feeling? I can physically feel a load removed from my shoulders. My identity built around being a reluctant American needs to evolve because I am proud.

I am an American and my president, MY president (Bush was never my president, I said I’d leave if he got re-elected and I did and spent as much time as possible away while he was in office), my president, is Barak Obama. I don’t expect miracles, he’s only human, but I have hope. And now the way I relate to the world and my country is markedly different. But how, I am not quite sure yet.

Torres del Paine (Chile)

2009-01-31T08:57:00.000-08:00

“Everyone builds it up in their heads that Patagonia is one of the most extreme places in the world. Well, I hate to break it to you, but the only thing extreme about Patagonia is the weather.” A local guide told us.

He was right. We were expecting Himalayas and steep trails but the elevation is near sea level and plenty of people hike the popular Torres Del Paines loop. But the lack of difficulty made it no less wonderful.

I was constantly stuck by moments of awe in such magnanimous and unapologetic beauty. Nature is to me what church is to the religious, and lets just say, Patagonia is quite the temple.
It’s a good thing it wasn’t too difficult to hike either because my epic foot issues continue and, long story short, I was hiking in sandals almost the whole time. Never once did I see anyone in anything less than hiking boots.

The best part of Torres is the stunning natural beauty. The worst part is the weather. The wind was some of the most horrendous I have ever experienced, the cold made camping not so fun and made me not want to leave my sleeping bag or tent, and the rain spoiled some of the views. But still, it’s Patagonia and I am out in nature, my favorite place to be so I can hardly complain.

I saw my first glacier. I found a back path, twisting along the lake. Grey’s glacier is caught by land, but spills down on either side. The lake it runs into is an ethereal blue that only glaciers can attain. Icebergs float in the water, massive chunks of ice- ice cubes for giant’s margaritas. I could hear only my own breath and footsteps over the roaring wind as I twisted my way around the path, overgrown with roots and green shrubs, pediatric trees.
I couldn’t fathom how big the glacier was. I broke around the corner and saw it full out, unobstructed, nothing but me, then rock, then glowing water, then ice. The glacier melts into the lake with shades of blue I didn’t know existed. The most brilliant blue is the blue raspberry of icy-pops I used to have as a kid.

The Patagonia wind picked up. I literally couldn’t stand, it almost didn’t allow me to kneel down. I had heard horror stories of full grown men with their packs being swept up by this ridiculous wind. I laid flat and gripped with my nails to not be blown off the rocks. It was the most extreme wind I’ve ever felt and a wave of fear welled up in me. I clung tighter. Beauty can lull me, but it is also deceitful.

Wind aside, the views were incredible. The variation in landscape was incredible. The area is covered in lakes. There was this great rainbow over one and the snow capped peaks in the distance, huge stony mountains covered in glacier behind me. I walked along the lake shore which was all these white stones next to the grey-blue water. I could see the other lake, this brilliant turquoise blue far away after these rolling green hills. The huge tower was lost in ominous and stormy clouds, it almost looked like it was smoking.

The Torres themselves are stoic and imposing. They demand attention, and attention they receive. The great part of the hike is that it lets you see the towers from all sorts of angles. Lakes and rock and glaciers were amazing, but so was the vast quantity of water.

The rivers in Torres were brutal. It is one of the last places on earth you can drink water right from the river and there was something great about filling my water bottle up in the river and drinking straight from it, nice and cooled for me already, nature’s refrigerator. The water in some of the rivers is this glacial grey, but so turbulent it’s almost all whitecaps. It flows and bubbles in pockets of turbulence, some areas more grey, others varying densities of white. It showers over the rocks, indifferent to anything in its way.

The wooded areas are full of twisty trees, their mossy bark slowly peeling and folding away. Tiny yellow leaves are left over from last fall, too early for this one, carpet the ground among stones and roots.

Leaving the park was sad. There is something hard about leaving nature and heading back to the city. It’s almost like a small death. A quiet one, but still a real loss.

Here we go Again

2009-01-31T08:29:00.000-08:00

Back on the road again. I am finishing the third part of this trip in South America. The plan is to go basically from Antarctica back to CO overland. We will see if it happens or not!

So far I love South America. It is nice to sort of speak the language. It is different than traveling in other countries because I have not felt like a single person has tried to cheat me here. The locals are so friendly, I can’t get out a map without at least one person asking me if I need help. Nobody wants a commission, they just offer to help and then leave. There is very little English spoken here, almost none, but that is good for me trying to improve my Spanish!

People are incredibly welcoming. On inaguration day, after watching it all, Colleen and I went back to the guesthouse we were staying at. The family that runs it had glasses of beer ready for us to celebrate. They insisted that we join them that night for an Obama Party/Feast. We sat out in this back shed with an open fire cooking this crazy food that is actually typical on the island of Chiloe, potato and flour mashed up and put on this huge, maybe 7 foot rolling pin to cook. (My neck was hurting so I didn't make it to the end to see how it turned out). They plied us with beer and warm converstation. It was fantastic to hang out with a family like that.

Another time, the same day actually, Colleen and I were sitting by the bay speaking English. A man heard us while he was on his way home from a journey but he plopped his bag down and sat next too us, talking until it was too cold for us to sit there anymore. At a hostel we were staying at in Punta Arenas, the guys there bent over backwards to help us. One guy gave me his favorite necklace while I was leaving because he said I was the funniest and nicest girl he has ever met and he was sad I was going. I about cried right there because he had been so helpful and interesting to me. Another guy there had seen our cheap bottle of wine and before he left he bought us each small bottles of nice wine.

Nobody has given off any sort of feeling that their intentions were anything but pure. I have become quite hardened and suspicious in my years of travel, but there seems to be nothing to be on guard about here, just genuine people wanting to talk and include as and willing to put up with my appalling Spanish.

I have focused my time in Chile so far. I was so happy to meet back up with the love of my life, Colleen. It is so different to travel with someone else and recently I have realized that for some reason I seem to make things much harder than I have to by myself by traveling so cheaply and traveling alone. I do enjoy traveling alone and wouldn’t change the things I have done in the past for the world, but it is also nice to feel like I no longer have to prove to myself that I am independent.

I am also on somewhat of an anti-social kick, not really wanting to drink or party or even hang out with many other travelers. I feel like I am at a point where I would rather talk to locals or be alone, and don't get me wrong, that sounds horrible. I am just trying to focus on being professional and writing a lot more on this trip, and I am so sick of 2 years of the same conversations you have with other travelers. "Where are you from? Where are you going? How long have you been traveling for? Where have you been?" So it has been really good to have Collleen there who really knows me so I am not completely a loner. But I have decided this trip is more about professionalism and internal things than external.

So South America has been more fun and less difficult so far. Sadly, Colleen and I split up tomorrow. But so far we have been to the colorful city of Valparaiso, then on to the more remote island of Chiloe. On Chiloe we explored the national park there and spent a day talking on one of the most amazing beaches I have ever seen. Now that is happiness.

After a 36 hour bus ride to Patagonia (the first of many and nowhere near the longest) we explored Punta Arenas and spent a lot of time in Puerto Natales. I just got back from a 5 day backpacking trip in Patagonia. We had an incredible time hiking through Torres Del Paines, up Grey’s Glacier and camping in the park. Next I head to Ushuaia, the southern-most city in the world, my jumping off point to Antarctica.

It is good to be back on the road and to begin to think about how my trip is going to end. It has been quite the journey and part of me is terrified to think about trying to re-integrate into a normal life at home. But visits home have helped and I have found more reasons to stay, though I fear part of my heart will always be on the road.

Evaluating how the last year and a half of travel has been, I still have some regrets and feel like I regressed, but all I can do is move on from here, and everything has so far turned out better than I ever could have expected in the end. I have learned that it is much easier to say you will follow your heart than to actually do it at times, especially for someone as nostalgic and attached as I am. Sometimes it is hard to let go, even though you know it is for the best and it is what you want to do. I also learned I need to really stick to my intuition. Like, why did I change my mind and decide to go to Europe even though I knew that was a terrible idea and setting me back in my quality of life? Live and learn I suppose. But that is still frustrating to feel like I harmed myself so much when there was no reason to and I was not being true to myself.

But it was good to get back on track. And I trust that the answers will be clear someday and hope I can continue to trust in life. And really good to once and for all get rid of things in my life that were dragging me down for way too long. Long overdue for that one, but what can I say, I’m a difficult case.

Don’t get me wrong though, I love my life. I was hiking in Patagonia next to this huge glacier the other day and I got to thinking. How on earth did I get to be so lucky? Reflecting on the last year and a few months alone, I have been to places like the Serengeti, the Himalayas, the Sahara and Patagonia. I go to Antarctica in a couple days. I have trained horses in South Africa, been tear-gassed, ridden water-buffalo and camels, cage-dived with great white sharks, interviewed refugees as they fled with nothing but what was on their backs, drank mint tea with turbaned men in Morocco, played with children in the slums of Kibera at an orphanage, slid down sand dunes, meditated along the Ganges, saw lions in the wild and was bartered over to be married off for 100 camels and 20 horses to an Egyptian man.

There are stamps in my passport from Namibia, Kosovo, Zambia, Bosnia, El Salvador, Ethiopia. How on earth did I get so lucky? I don’t know how I worry about anything .I look at my life and have nothing but gratitude for not only all the things that I have been fortunate enough to do, but for my family and everyone at home and the people I have met along the way that make my life worthwhile. I care about them more than words could express. And I am so incredibly lucky to have this amazing mom that supports me in absolutely everything that I do. Life is good, so I need to learn to let go and enjoy things more.

I am excited to see how the final leg of my trip turns out. I want to focus on strengthening, healing, passion, lightness and adventure. I want to do random things I never thought I would do. Instead of asking “why?” I want to ask myself, “Why not?”

And here I jump into this last leg of my trip, with some sadness that it is the last, but also hoping for some miracles and at the very least, incredibly happy with my life.

My mom sent me a card with a quote that I always want to keep at the forefront of my mind:

When you come to the edge
Of all the light
You’ve known,
And are about to step off
Into the darkness of the
Unknown,
Faith is knowing one of two things will happen,
There will be something
Solid to stand on or
You will be taught
How to fly

Headed Back (Turkey, Bulgaria)

2008-11-08T15:48:00.000-08:00

I can't believe how much has happened in the last 3 1/2 months and how quickly they have gone by. I never in my wildest dreams thought I would be headed back to Boulder so soon, but I have to go with the flow and trust. I hope the next step brings me closer to a career. Right now I am just a jumble of feelings and a bit of a mess. I know I haven't been gone that long but returning to Boulder is always so strange. There is a very different feeling to it than I had returning from Asia, or more recently, from Africa.
I still feel lot with where I want to go or how to get to the next stage of my life, but happy with the feeling that I am loving my life so much and living it to the fullest. But mostly I'm sad at how quickly this time is going by. It doesn't feel real. It's strange and a bit sad when I can't imagine how I want my life to be. It's sad that travel can't last forever when it is the best and most important part of my life. In my last couple days I find myself trying to soak up every moment. I try to squeeze out every last contrast of the places I'm in, one last glimmer of light, scent, or foreign word. One of my favorite quotes is, "Every place has its own hidden room, it's up to you to find it."
Istanbul, especially is full of hidden rooms. I keep finding them in fishermen under the bridge, a delicate painting under the curl of a roof in an old building. I love the unexpected moments that come with travel. They are like air to me, a person who gets tremendously stressed by routine, I will miss life on the road. I could go anywhere. I never know who I will meet. I feel like this tiny speck on a huge globe and nobody knows who I am or where I am. I feel utterly alone, but strong in myself. The adrenaline, freedom, learning, new people and places, unexpectedness, adventure and contrasts of travel are what I thrive on. It's hard to go home and not meet friendly people from all over the world all the time or see things I've only ever read about in books. Riding on the train through the Bulgarian countryside today, I felt happy and for no reason but my own, having noting to do with anyone else. That's the best kind of happy. I will miss the generosity and curiosity I encounter every day as I explore this strange world we walk in. It's the simple things, like the boy I met waiting for a train in Turkey who wanted to practice his few years of English on me and was just curious about what I was doing. After a simple exchange and I had to be on my way, he gave me his bookmark as a gift.
I may have gotten lost looking for hidden rooms in Plodiv, Bulgaria, but that's the best things about not knowing where I am supposed to be going, I suppose I can't really get lost in the end, only found.
Recently I've realized how little I actually have to lose at this point in my life and there is something incredibly freeing in that. I am having the time of my lie and wouldn't' change a thing. There are more and more moments when I catch myself and think that there is nowhere else I would rather be than in this very moment.
So I am scared about how I will make a living and a life in this world, but I am so grateful for the life I've had so far. I have seen so much. I may not have a lot, but what I do have, the memories of the places I have been and things I have seen and people i have met, those can't be taken away. They are building a lifetime. I can only hope that in the next step of my travels things will become more clear and remember there is more to his journey. If I am still unclear next time I'm headed home then I can (and probably will) have a nervous breakdown. But for now, I'm happy to be here, sad this part is ending, but I trust that the next will be even better. As for life now, I really can't complain!

A Wonderful Day in Istanbul (Turkey)

2008-11-08T15:07:00.000-08:00

I love the unexpectedness of travel and have reaffirmed how much I want to try to make it as an international journalist, somehow. I wanted to get out of the touristy old city part of Istanbul, Turkey, so I headed across the bridge to Taksim Square, where the locals are supposed to hang. I may not be the most observant person in the world (when I was home for the summer half way through the visit my mom moved a big palm tree plant I used to have at my old house into the guest room where I was staying and it took me over a week to notice and I only did in the end because she said something) but there did seem to be an awful lot of police with riot gear around. As I got closer to the square, there were even more, it looked like they were prepared for a full-out war. It seemed the rest of Istanbul could be raided by the Chinese and nobody would notice because all the police were here.
I got to the square which was covered in Turkish flags, which all have the Muslim moon on them. There were police tanks (yes, tanks) and I counted 11 bus loads of police in full riot gear. There was a mound of press squirming around with their cameras, microphones and gas masks. Unable to find anyone who spoke English to tell me what was going on and hating myself because I make it a habit wherever I am to try to track down an English paper if possible so that I can see if anything interesting to me journalistically is going on but I hadn't been able to do that yet in Turkey.
I sat down close to the action. A nice man bought me coffee but the only info I got out of him was a, "boom!" sound and him splaying his hands. The only bomb that looked like it had gone off in the square was one full of Turkish flags and also the ones with the wolf, the radical ones. More caffeinated but not any more enlightened, I continued on my quest for information, loving the chaos. Finally I talked to a Reuters reporter who told me there was supposed to be a pro-Kurdish demonstration and the police weren't allowing it. I asked him where the best place to watch the action would be and he said he wasn't sure protesters would be able to get in with all the blockades outside of the square and I should get out of the square anyways if I don't have a gas mask because Turkish police tend to be a bit gas-bomb happy.
Not one to pass up a good old fashioned riot, I parked myself at a restaurant on an open-air deck with the best view of the square. (It was actually at a Burger King!)
I wasn't the only one with that idea and soon struck up a conversation with at Turkish photographer who spoke a decent amount of English. He cracked me up because he is from Turkey but hates Turkish people. I felt bad for him because he feels really isolated in Turkey not being religious, but he said there is actually a large underground movement of Atheists but they keep quiet.
He filled me in that it was the DTP (sort of like a less-extreme, legal PKK that is a political party the government recognizes) that was supposed to come that afternoon. I asked about the police blockades, "Oh, they will find a way in." He said.
He told me that the last time there was a protest there a sniper shot 36 people and showed me the window he did it from. I couldn't understand if it was that protest or the one before it that a suicide bomber came and killed several people in the square because the police had blockaded it and weren't letting people out.
I obviously don't want anyone to get hurt, but if there is going to be action, I want to be there for it, I do have a career I want to start but this made me nervous, especially since there had been two suicide bombers in Turkey in the last 3 days. My new friend said he thought it was likely there would be bombs today. asked if we were safe and he said, "Well of course, that's why I am up here. The bombs are hardly ever big enough to reach up here and I don't think a sniper would aim in this direction."
Feeling more alive than ever, adrenaline coursing through my body and energized in a really interesting conversation about politics, I decided to wait it out. Suddenly there was a lot of commotion. My friend snapped some photos then zoomed in to show me the two main leaders of the DTP had come, a man and a woman, and were talking to the press. He said the protesters wouldn't come because police would obtain the video footage and identify as many people as they could and go to their houses in the night and beat them. I may complain about my country, but I felt a rush of privilege to be from the U.S. after hearing that.
He looked through my photos and told me that in a crowd shot I had was a PKK leader who was meant to be hiding in the mountains but was actually there in the crowd and I had his picture! That was exciting. Then, the tension seemed to fizzle out. The police were still there on roofs, all around the square, and the police helicopter continued to do rounds overhead, but the thrill in the air had evaporated.
"They won't come. The police get their cues from the media. It's the media who is in contact with the protest leaders so when the media begins to leave we know they got a phone call and it's over," he said.
So the most action I saw was the press jostling each other to get a better view of the interviewees, but still got that rush and reminder of what I am striving for. Imagine being on the phone with a PKK leader! Another wonderful day in Istanbul.

Adventures in Albania

2008-11-08T13:42:00.000-08:00

After some time wandering around in Skopje, Macedonia, a gritty, communist-block like city that seems to be trying valiantly to redefine itself, I found myself stepping onto yet another bus into the night towards Albania. This was another country I was a bit nervous about, mostly because every single person I had spoken to told me not to go. To be fair, none of them had been there which is how I rationalized going despite the warnings.
Albania has long been a traveler's blacklisted country and it is only recently that it has opened up its borders. Like for Kosovo, I wanted to be one of the first let into a country with such a torrid reputation. I was a little apprehensive on the bus because it was just two men (the drivers) and me. But it turned out to be great. I was able to spread out and sleep in the isle, and the men were really nice and despite not speaking any English, their hospitality was impeccable. They tried to buy me coffee or food at every stop and just seemed to look out for me.
I got off the bus dazed at 5 a.m. in Tirana, the capital. I had no idea where I was. Like Macedonia, Albania is trying to give itself a face lift by painting every single building a different color. We are talking Easter egg colors here by the way. It was the full giant Crayola pack, not the small one. Knowing very little English would be spoken, I had armed myself with as many Albanian phrases as I could manage. I certainly attracted stares walking down the street with my backpack, but I felt very welcome.
Transportation in Albania is absurd. There are no bus stops, just plots of dirt throughout the city where buses sometimes stop. They leave haphazardly and just to make it a little more fun, they like to mix it up by constantly switching the plot from which certain destinations will depart from. I asked a girl in Albanian where the bus to Saranda would be. She laughed at my awful Albanian then dropped everything, got out of line for the bus she was waiting to board, took my hand, and led me along the street. She spoke maybe 10 words of English, to my 10 of Albanian but we babbled at each other. It should have been awkward but wasn't at all because of her warmth. Apparently the Saranda bus plot had changed recently. We got to where she thought it was and had to ask someone else. He promptly dropped everything to walk us to the new plot. Soon we had a whole crew of Albanians joining out team and detouring from their day on a mission to help me find the right bus. When we finally did they all shook my hand or hugged me goodbye. The bus driver took out his wallet to show me how much money I was to pay and he didn't even try to cheat me. I went across the street to get some coffee while we were waiting for the bus to fill. The waitress patiently held up each kind of coffee and milk for me to make sure I got just what I wanted with unending precision. On the bus the only other English speaker, a 10 year-old girl with great English sat next to me. We chatted about things you could talk about with a 10 year-old, sweet Albanian girl. Each time the bus stopped people would try to buy me food. I decided I never wanted to leave Albania.
There might not be much English spoken but that was the adventure of it. I got by through hand gestures and writing down numbers or showing money or just blindly guessing, it was all tremendous fun. I thought it would be frustrating but it never was. People could see I was a foreigner and wherever I was, they would buy me coffee and try to communicate in any way that we could, or just stop to say hello and shake my hand.
Sadly, for all the kindness of Albanians, the majority of the countryside I was was not nice. All the old cars that didn't make it to Kosovo wound up in Albania. The communist urban sprawl is appalling and even the rivers had the glazed sheen of oil coating them.
Also disturbing are the 700,000 concrete bunkers that are scattered everywhere. They are in front yards, fields, mountain sides, everywhere. Later, an Albanian that had lived in Canada so he spoke English told me that the government had convinced them that the entire world was against them so they built all the bunkers. He said that the cost of building one bunker is equivalent to the cost of building a one-bedroom apartment. That's a lot for a poor country.
The whole time I was in Albania, the hospitality was unending. Anyone who spoke any English at all wanted to come talk to me and seemed genuinely happy to share their country with me. Despite the challenge, or maybe because of it, Albania was one of the most rewarding places I have ever been.

Words from the Balkans

2008-11-08T13:28:00.000-08:00

I had the honor of talking to several people, despite how fast I was moving on my travels in the Balkans. They have lived through things most of us have only read about, and hopefully will never experience ourselves. I asked them about freedom and democracy, the former Yugoslavia, the genocide, religion and communism. Here are some of their words.
On independence:

"Before people didn't have to think for themselves, now they do and they are not ready."
"Things were so much better with Tito and communism. My kids could go to school. We had medical care. Now we have nothing."
"With communism we had health care and homes, we had bigger salaries. We were taken care of."
"It's a difficult transition, but it always is, I am sure things will improve, we are adjusting."

On the genocide:

"If you had told me 20 years ago that this would happen I would have laughed. You can't imagine. I can't imagine."
"I left, I had to. I had to forget, but the people still living here, they aren't forgetting. They can't forget if they stay."
"It happened so fast.I don't understand how it happened.It was never a problem before. I'm from Croatia. I married a Muslim from Mostar (Bosnia). Nobody cared. Then all of the sudden, people became like animals. So fast. It happened overnight, they became animals."
"I can't forget. But there is nothing I can do. There is no justice. But like the Chinese saying, 'The stupid only look back. The smart look ahead.'"
"I lived in a cellar with the Croatian army for 2 months. For 2 months, I didn't know if my husband and children were alive or dead. My husband was right there. All he had to do was cross the bridge to get to me, but he couldn't. It took him two months and he had to go all the way to Moscow first. He had to get fake papers to leave. We were lucky."
"People just turned into animals. I saw neighbors looting stores, people I knew doing these terrible things. You couldn't imagine."
"I never thought it would happen here. Never. It could happen anywhere. Nobody is immune."

On Albania

"Of course things are better after independence. People have been learning. After 1997 it was hard, but we are rebuilding."
"The bunkers were mistakes, there were a lot of mistakes made back then. But we must try to forget and look forward."
"We used to think the whole world was against us. That is why we built the bunkers. We thought everyone wanted to attack."
"They built them because my parents used to be afraid, but now they are not." (bunkers)

Wandering Through the Balkans

2008-11-08T13:26:00.000-08:00

After spending a week in Western Europe I was looking forward to going somewhere more adventurous. The information I could get about parts of the Balkans where I wanted to go was extremely limited. I realized that this is going to be a complete shit show. I was right, but ti was one of the most amazing shit shows I could imagine and my only regret is I had way too little time there.
There was hardly any English spoken. It took half a day to figure out daylight savings was creating a time change. I know I am a little slow, but also imagine dealing with that and having to catch a bus but nobody was really sure about the time change or if the clocks went forwards or backwards all without English! There were some unique hand gestures in there for sure. Another good time was in Montenegro, trying to order food from a restaurant with a large menus, but with only a few times actually available and no English. Apparently the universal fish sign for a mackerel varies from that of a bass. I'm still not sure if that was what the waiter was trying to tell me, but I have to admire his enthusiasm. I went back to Croatia from Montenegro and then on to Bosnia and Herzegovina.
At this point in my travels, I didn't think I could really be shocked, but I was shocked in Bosnia. I think about the genocide in Rwanda and they were killing each other with axes. For some reason even after being there, it seemed so horrible that it was too far away to imagine, almost like the reality of it never hit me. And axes and those sorts of weapons don't leave lasting marks on a city. More buildings than not that I saw in Southern Bosnia and Herzegovina were either bullet-riddled or had been poorly patched. There were more burnt out shells of buildings than actual buildings themselves. And walking around Mostar, there were more bullet holes in buildings in that one city than I could comprehend there being bullets in the world. It was unbelievable. It was absolutely devastating, and to see it in a place that looks so much like home was really surreal. What happened there I can't make sense of. I don't think the people who were involved can either. It seems closer to home. It was incredible to speak with people about their experiences. I never pried, but people seemed to want to talk as if to try to make sense in their own heads. But at the same time, in a town like Mostar with the famous bridge, I had to question the idea of turning a genocide into a tourist attraction.
But despite such a history, everyone I met was incredibly warm and also thanked me for coming to their country. It made the damage everywhere seem all the more unfathomable. I could also see some wildness left in people. I was with another traveler for a few hours and we met a local Bosnian who offered to buy us coffee because he wanted to practice his English. One cup turned into three and soon he decided that we had to meet his cousin. We piled into his pick-up and he handed both of us a beer. He cracked one open for himself and put it in his lap. He had a huge joint in one hand and pulled out a gun and started waving it around in the other while he drove and sipped his beer and pulled on the joint. "Welcome to Bosnia!" He said. We careened around curves and he said, "Just kidding, we hate guns here." As he put it back under his seat.
My introduction into Serbia wasn't as nice. I boarded an overnight bus from Mostar to Belgrade. Luggage costs extra, so I was fishing through my purse and in one hand I had 50 euros and the other the requisite 10 euros. The driver snatched the 50 out of my hand. On the bus I did everything I could to get my change back or to get my 50 back so I could just give him the 10, but he just laughed. The bottom floor of the bus all tried to help me and soon the driver started yelling at them. The woman who was translating said he was angry and I don't speak his language so why should he bother to give me back his change, and she said she told him that I shouldn't have to speak his language and he almost kicked both of us off the bus. He wouldn't unlock the bathroom door either so I was quite pleased when a woman threw up just outside the locked door (not because she was sick but because I hoped the asshole driver would have to clean it up).
But it was late at night waiting for my bus in a sketchy Bosnian bus station that I realized how happy I was. Travel may sound glamorous, but most of your time is spent waiting for a bus or being on a bus or being lost in a city or trying to figure out how to do a simple task. But mostly lots and lots of waiting. It was a comfortable feeling. The last few months had been really hard on me, Western Europe was a rough transition from Africa and there have been a lot of rough changes in my life lately, but at that moment I felt free. I felt strong and independent. The waiting for a bus to carry me off into the dark unknown, alone with nobody knowing where I was or who I am has become the most familiar feeling to me. After having a rough time, I finally felt more like my self again, the girl who headed off to Asia and Central America and then Africa- alone.

Travels in the World's Newest Country (Kosovo)

2008-11-08T11:26:00.000-08:00

I was scared shitless when I entered Kosovo. Well, first I was surprised I got in because I was coming from Serbia, but then I was scared because I realized what I was doing. There was no information about borders, visas, or really anything except warnings not to go, so I was surprised at how easily I was stamped into the world's newest country. The border guard spoke some English and asked me why I was there. He looked shocked then doubled over laughing when I told him I was a tourist. Then he shook my hand and thanked me genuinely for coming to his country.

That nice exchange aside, entering Kosovo is like entering a war-zone on pause. I go the feeling I did when I was the only person walking around and the only person without a gun in the D.R.C.. The border was surrounded by intimidating circular barbed wire and carefully watched by NATO and UN vehicles and a few choppers standing by for good measure. What they were guarding I am not sure because to put it bluntly, Kosovo is a bit of a shit-hole. It is mostly flat, a bit like Kansas, full of rusting oil drills and burnt out houses. It seemed to be the place that all the old cars in the world must be sent too. I don't know how they all get there, but believe me, they are there.

What really scared me was the approaching darkness. This is always a worry as a single woman traveling alone, but especially in a place where I had no idea what to expect. It seemed ominous and full of danger. Soon I couldn't see anything but silhouettes of houses. Kosovo is the darkest country I have ever been too. There were plenty of big houses, all in the middle of nowhere, but they were mostly uninhabited and scattered along the roadside. A couple had a light bulb shining, one for a two or three story house, but most were just dark. A few had open fires, but other than that just black. It was an intimidating entrance into an intimidating country.

But I loved Kosovo. I don't know why. There is nothing pretty about it. Pristina, the capital, is your typical socialist block city with added graffiti and plenty of signs looking for war criminals like we look for lost children on the back of milk cartons in the past. A few buildings have attempted to be creative, but the result is more shocking and garish than anything. I never thought I would say it, but they should stick to the block buildings. But what the city lacked in character, people made up for in warmth. Yes, many were confused as to why I was there, but because of NGO/UN presence, there was a little English spoken.

When the owner of the hotel I stayed at found out I was from the U.S. he smiled a huge smile and shook my hand enthusiastically. "America! You recognize my country! I give discount to you. Thank you."

People went out of their way to help me. When I was trying to leave, there was a problem with my bus. A janitor at the station saw me waiting and went in search for someone who could speak English and tell me the bus wasn't coming. When I went to use the bathroom, the station manager personally showed me where it was and made sure I didn't have to pay the fee they usually charge, then handed me a towel himself to dry my face after I had washed it. I was treated like an honored, albeit unexpected, guest. The people I met were proud of their country and fiercely optimistic about the future. It was one of the best experiences I have ever had. I have found that often, in the countries that scare me the most at first end up being the most rewarding.

Lessons from Western Europe

2008-11-08T11:17:00.001-08:00

Once again, I don't have as much to say about Western Europe. But I will impart a little information gleaned from this stop instead of ignoring it completely:

Everyone goes the the Colosseum and Vatican City in Rome while I will admit are must-sees, but after that, just as entertaining is to sit in a square and watch people in tourist groups get pooped on by pigeons. Roman pigeons seem to aim for the Japanese, though that could be a sheer numbers game, but it is quite a good day out if you are as easily amused as I am.
If you are ever in Ireland in a pub reading Finnegan's Wake and it starts to actually make sense, you are officially too drunk and it's time to go home.
Likewise, if you are ever in Dublin, dazed from just having arrived, carrying a huge backpack with nowhere to go and a group of wasted guys (still drunk from the night before because it's 10 a.m.) invite you to sit down and have a beer with them, despite your first reaction being to run away, do it. They will likely sing you Irish songs and rhymes and be hilarious to hang out with and a great welcome to Ireland.
I'm going to go ahead and put Croatia in with Western Europe because it is so easy and touristy. If you ever go to Dubrovnik, it's a great afternoon to play hide and seek with kids in the old city.
Do not go to Corfu, Greece if you are feeling independent and loving being the only tourist. If you are looking to get laid and wasted with a bunch of half-naked 18 year old Australians, then it is your place.

So that is a little bit of what I learned. I'm glad that I saw the things I did in Western Europe and feel lucky to have been there, but I also realized that's not the type of life-changing, challenging, brain-quenching, thought-defining, or adventurous travel that I am looking for at this stage in my life. But someday I will be back with money to have a good time!

I do not love India

2008-10-21T03:32:00.000-07:00

I'm not quite sure how to approach a description of my last two weeks in India, but I suppose it could not be ignored. I don't want to be too mean, so I will focus on some highlights:

Sleeping on the train and getting up in the night and finding a policeman asleep in our cabin using his AK as a pillow, luckily it wasn't really aiming at me. The same train ride spending most of the time squashing cockroaches that were running all over our seats with our Lonely Planet.

Glasses of chai and amazing food at street side stands.

Being asked constantly if I would be in a photograph with Indians. If I said yes they would arrange their families around me, or take at least a couple with just them. This happens all the time, everywhere.

Going into a Hindu temple while several men were playing the haunting sitar, a rythum unknown to Western ears without any sort of regular downbeat. Watching others clap and sing along.

A typical street in Rajhistan- constant honking of horns, cows, dogs, camels, elephants and more traffic than you could imagine, rickshaws and bicycles, tuk tuk and more honking. A man talking on a cell phone as he sits on a wooden cart pulled by a camel with a heavy load attached to it.

Finding our Colombian boys to be bodyguards from awful Indian men and the four of us renting a car and driver to negotiate Rajhistan.

Riding a camel named Mona in the desert.

Riding the train with no windows, listening to it chug along the tracks, no filter to the outside world, nothing but wind and smells and pure sound. Watching the sun set over unfiltered India as the green rice paddies jostled by.

Watching a Bollywood movie being filmed, then going to one in the theater, quite the Indian experience!

The Colombians coming into my room to sing me happy birthday and bring me breakfast in bed.

Later in the day, exploring an old fort, everyone singing happy birthday to me in the echoing "om" room.

Seeing the beggars, most notably a man with Leprocy with his nose twisted inside out in a spiral so you could see what should have been on the inside of it.

Watching Hare Krishna worshipers sing and walk around the lake in Pushkar as I was up at dawn watching the sun rise, hoping for a quiet moment in India.

Walking through the tented camps of the untouchables, India's lowest caste, seeing how these people live in tiny tents with nothing, absolutely nothing, and the types of society they formed in the rubble.

Getting our driver drunk the night of my birthday and having him read our palms.

The Colombians on our last night, the four of us together, with this cute little skit, giving us our bracelets of the Colombian flag and helping us to memorize the Colombian pledge of allegiance, our ticket to visit them in Colombia.

The rat temple- probably the coolest thing I saw in Rajhistan. The whole temple is dedicated to rats, and it is a virtual playground for them. They have free reign of the place and plenty of food and milk. They have all these little holes to run through and there are thousands of rats all over the temple that run over your feet as you walk through. The happiest rats in the world!

A word about India- I want to be kind, I really do. It is not in my nature to visit a country and dislike it. I don't expect a country I visit to conform to me or my cultural expectations and I think I am usually pretty easy going and accepting. I know that I am a visitor and should adapt to their customs, I am lucky to be able to visit their country and I have no right to complain. But India was hard. Part of the challenge of India is exhilarating. There is a feeling of chaos and that anything can happen. I love that, and the dirt and grime and assaults on reason. All of that is great, but the feeling was overshadowed by constantly feeling violated. This is a country where despite how conservatively you dress, men bump into you in the streets to cop a feel.

Colleen and I were constantly started at by Indian men. It is not a normal staring either. I was stared at a lot in Africa, but it had a feeling of curiosity to it, completely different. In India it is a horrible, creepy, violating, awful, uncomfortable leer that makes me ashamed to be a woman. It never goes away. We got it from old men, young men, boys, men in restauraunts, rickshaw drivers, vendors, taxi drivers, men on buses, men on trains, men in the street. I wrote earlier about the men crowding into our train compartment. This happened constantly. Men would try to force me into stares or corners, grab my crotch or boobs as I passed in the street.

I had a pharmacist completely violate me but I was naive and trusted him because he was a doctor. It was really bad, we are talking under the bra, bad groping. I could feel his disgusting hands for days and wanted to rip off my own skin. I can't convey how violated and horrible I felt all the time in India. The men look at you fully clothed as if you are naked and you want to crawl up inside your skin and die.

Aside from the men, India was hard for me not because of the general chaos or lack of development. It was hard because of the crowds and traffic. I had a hard time because people were always pushing and there is no such thing as a line. Walking down the street with every single car honking at me, coming within a couple centimeters of hitting me and getting hit a few times, was enough to push me over the edge of a nervous breakdown every time I walked on the street. I am a nervous driver to begin with, but I had to take Valium before getting in the car with our driver we came so close to accidents so many times. Not only am I the only person to take imodium in India, but I think I was the only one to wear a seat belt! But all of these things are laughable and part of the adventure. I suppose that is what makes them forgivable, but the men, were not. When it comes down to it, all the developing country stuff is the appeal of difficult travel. But the feeling of being violated should not be a part of that.

In case I sound too harsh without justification, I will end with my final experience in India, my trip to the airport, which I think about sums it all up. I had ordered a taxi because I had a 1am flight out of India. I confirmed this taxi 3 times, but of course it did not show up. My flight time was rapidly approaching, so I had to grab a rickshaw off the street. The Colombian boys helped me flag it down and made a big show of taking down the licence number and all since I was by myself and it was late at night. We had not been driving for 3 minutes when the driver pulled off down a dark ally and tried to force me to kiss him. I took out a pen to stab him in the ear if it because necessary and told him to get driving, loudly and aggressively. It was really scary though and so late at night I could have really been in trouble. He was barely paying attention to the road because he was spending all his time looking at me in the rear-view mirror. His look would change from this intense, probing, sexual, devouring, evil stare to this demented, creepy, violating smile. I was so unbelievably sickened and uncomfortable. I tightened my grip on my pen and wished I had more. I had told him to take me to the international airport over and over and made sure he knew, but of course, he took me to the domestic, despite me telling him where to turn, he would just ignore me. I arrived about 5 minutes before my flight was due to close and barely made it on.

I tried to like India, I really did.

Alien Baby (India)

2008-10-17T09:30:00.000-07:00

Lets talk about poop. This is something we tend to shy away from at home, but when traveling, it is inevitable that it will come up (usually in detail and frequently) even with people you have just met. Now India is infamous for Delhi Belly, the runs, diareah, whatever you want to call it. You mention you are going to India and sage travelers tell of their horror stories. Everyone you meet in India has their own tales. It is just assumed that if you go to India, you get sick. It is considered a right of passage.

I am not a cautious when it comes to food. I eat from street vendors, use ice, brush my teeth with tap water, so I was fully prepared to get sick. In fact, I even counted on it to lose the weight I gained in Europe. Unfortunately my plan was foiled. I really do have a stomach of steel because despite my lackadasical nature regarding the sanitariness of my food, I am probably the only person ever to go to India and need laxatives.

Collen had her own battle with India when she first arrived. I met her a week later and was scared to hug her because I thought I might break her. I nicknamed her Skelator and looked at the bones protruding out of her skin with hopeful excitement.

I brushed my teeth with tap water. I ate more from the street than not, I ate at questionable restaurants. The stomach of steel prevailed. Colleen is an adventurous eater too. In Nepal we had our favorite restaurant that was maybe a little dodgy. There were bugs on the walls and the toilet might have been the worst toilet in the world (and I consider myself an expert on horrible toilets after travels in remote Asia and Africa). But the food was cheap and amazing and we ate there twice a day almost every day in Kathmandu.

One night we decided to bring out British boys to our gem of a restaurant. They, being on a bigger budget, had slightly more delicate constitutions. We found this out the next morning on the bus to go rafting. I looked over at one of the boys and he had turned green. Long story short, there was an unscheduled stop for the bus and I have never seen someone duck behind a building and run so quickly when he thought he was out of view. It struck the other boy about an hour down the road. We were already stopped and he got off and went to the nearest "bathroom." He came back, obviously shaken, pale from horror of what he had seen, proceeded to empty half a bottle of hand sanitizer in his palm and refused to talk about it or even joke about it which says a lot for him. I waited anxiously for my turn but nothing came.

It was after rafting that Colleen got sick again. We both got sick at the same time, but with opposite problems. We joked about the alien baby inside of me. If being pregnant feels like 9 months of that, forget it. I have never been so envious in my life as when I watched Colleen or the boys dash off to the toilet at meal times and frequently in between. It was uncanny to continue to be hungry and to eat and have nothing come out.

So I sucked it up and went to the pharmacy and told the pharmacist that I wanted laxatives.

"Imodium." He said wisely.

"No, laxatives." I countered.

"Travelers, diarrhea," the pharmacist nodded, "I know."

"No, no, the opposite. To make you go." Just to make sure there was no mistake I did this with a hand gestured that could be considered a bit lewd but stopped short of sound effects, for which I think the pharmacist was grateful. I took a moment to admire my own tact.

Doubtfully, the pharmacist handed over the laxatives. Apparently what goes in does not have to come out when you are growing an alien baby inside you.

Back in India, I began to tempt fate- homemade ice cream popsicals from the street, a sip of tap water here and there (I drank a lot of this in Kathmandu to no avail), really strange street food, unpeeled fruit, fresh salads, homemade juice. Guess what? Alien babies like that stuff, I think it makes them stay in. So moral of the story is, not everyone gets Delhi Belly, and for me, whether I want it or not, my stomach of steel (maybe refined after years of sketchy travel eating) prevails. Hopefully the alien baby will come out soon and not explode through my belly button as I continue to imagine on long bus rides when I am bored. It's not a pretty sight if it does.

Himalayas (Nepal)

2008-09-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

There are some places in this world you are told about since you are young, whose reputations proceed them and create a legend that you build up in your mind that could not possibly compare to the reality of their place on the planet. The Himalayas are not one of them. For all the majestic and sweeping views, enormity and heights I had been imagining, the Himalayas were still more than I expected. They are one of the few places in my travels I'd return too as soon as possible.
After spending a couple of days relaxing in Kathmandu, Colleen and I were ready to head out on our Himalayan trek. I wanted to go to Everest Base camp, but the less-touristed Annapurna region won in the end. We decided not to hire a guide, being Colorado girls we figured we knew what we were doing and didn't need porters, we could carry our own packs. We were the exception, the vast majority of everyone we met had hired one or both, but that decision made all the difference. We were free to go where we wanted to go and stay where we wanted. Both being quick hikers, we had no one to hold us back.
It was rough going at times, easier than I expected at others. The Annapurna region was more populated than I had pictured, but it proved to be a great way to met locals and get a glimpse of village life. Everyone was friendly, saying "Namaste!" when we passed and surprised to see us on our own.
The foothills of the region we began hiking in are vast and green- full of rice paddies and waterfalls. We were constantly near rivers with the largest influx of waterfalls I have ever seen gushing in all sizes. The clouds float down in wisps below the peak zeniths, creating a mysterious and dark atmosphere, especially with the thunderheads ominously poised above us, and it did storm quite a lot on our trek.
As we climbed higher we saw sweeping views of snowy peaks. We crossed saddles where there was nothing but clouds disappearing off both sides of the trail so all we could see was the 1ft wide trail, a couple feet of grass and wildflowers on each side of the path, then a drop into cloud soup nothingness. Higher up we passed through mossy forests with gnarled and twisty trees out of a Tolkien novel. Water was pouring everywhere we went. Our trails were steep and up and down. It would have been amazing to go to base camp, but unfortunately time, Colleen's ankles and my neck didn't allow for it on this trip.
One of our best days was actually due to a huge storm. We had hiked quickly and arrived in a little village right at the onset of a downpour. It happened to be the coziest tea house of the trek and all of us bundled together next to the fireplace. We met a couple of hilarious English boys who quickly helped us pass time with an enormous amount of shit talking, card playing and laughing. The next day we were too socked in to go anywhere. The highlight of the trek is a hike up to the top of Poon Hill (3,193m) for a view of the Annapurna range, but we couldn't see a thing. While others with guides pressed on out into the storm we were able to wait out the miserable weather and the English guys persuaded their guide to wait it out too.
The day had an inauspicious start with lots of rain and us scrambling out the third story window sill when we thought a view might appear, but by late afternoon it had cleared up and we ascended Poon Hill.
The top of Poon Hill might have be the most impressive view I have ever seen. On one side, I only saw clouds. Turning my head, I got a view of the Himalayas like I have seen in the Everest I-max. The peaks are more imposing than I could imagine. The sun seemed to clip the tops and the longer I stayed the more the view changed; the sun highlighting various features of the snowy mountain face. The mountain range stretches on for most of the view until white peaks collide with blue mountains in the distance, rolling off into green at lower elevations, then the river of clouds shadowing over the valley.
Standing there in such intense beauty, I felt so lucky to be there but other than that I felt numb. I don't know what I was expecting- a glimpse of enlightenment or earth-shattering realization would have been nice, but all I could think were Saturday Night Live "Deep Thoughts." Nothing. Maybe in the events of the last year I really have just shut down.
We had a photo shoot at the top and made it down in the dark. That night the four of us laid out under the Himalaya stars in a village with no electricity. It was one of the most impressive starry skies I have ever seen. One of the English boys had it right when he said, "Today I have seen two of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen in my entire life."
An early start the next morning got us back up Poon Hill for sunrise. It was exciting to see a little blaze of pink erupt over the darkness, a sliver of the mountains lit up by the moon. We made to to the top as the sun struck the first peak face and pink and orange rippled down the mountain range. The valley was filled with purple and blue clouds. It looked exactly like I would imagine the ocean would if it was frozen. There was a sea of waves. For all the beauty I still felt quite numb.
It was only later as I was jostling back to the city of Pokara on the local bus that any emotion hit me. I'm a nostalgic person to begin with, but the sadness and aloneness of the mountains as I drove away was staggering. I didn't' want to leave the Himalayas in their absolute strength of loneliness, their inspiring solitude and magnificence. It reminded me of coming back from long-term travel or camping trips, how hard that readjustment can be, how nothing fits anymore. I was so sad it was over and struck by how fast this trip, life as a whole is reeling by, I could physically feel the nostalgia, urgency, pointlessness, wonder and sadness.

You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.
Rene Duamal

Whitewater Rafting (Nepal)

2008-09-28T22:16:00.000-07:00

I've been sitting on my hotel rooftop in a semi-delirious feverish state, sick yet again, trying to do something productive. I thought I'd write about our rafting trip, but truth be told, I'm not sure it merits a whole blog space, and most of all, how do you really describe a white water rafting experience?
So I will keep it to the highlights and say it was one of the most fun things I have done and one of the most exciting rivers I have been on and I have been on quite a few.
The first day they gave us helmets and talked about rescue procedures. I thought it was all a little over the top, but it turned out to be rightfully necessary. Granted, I was in the more flimsy "adventurous" boat where we had a habit of hitting holes more than avoiding them to get our money's worth, but it was ridiculous fun.
Our first grade 4 rapid all four of us in the front of the boat spilled out. Tumbling through whitewater, I found the surface, then the boat, then was pulled back in.
Second time was in the most peaceful part of the river. Our little crew of Colleen and I plus two English boys we met trekking were all on the same boat (with the nickname of Team Short bus for the trip). The boys had threatened to push us in but I honestly and naively didn't think they would actually do it. I unhooked my feet from the raft and the next thing I knew I was in the river. Colleen fared better and got the guy that tried to push her in instead. I get pulled back into the boat and go on the offensive which only landed me back in the the water. Eventually with Collen from the raft, me from the water, we got the other guy in but how embarrassing.
Our next bit of excitement had everyone fall out except the guide and one clingy soul. The boat came extraordinarily close to flipping and sort of swished around in different directions in the hole. On the first swish, I had been tossed into the boat and then I see one of the English boy's eyes widen at what I can't see and I hear the horror in his voice, "Oh shit!" before a huge wall of water took us out Perfect Storm style. To be fair, I think I would have stayed in the boat had he not ripped me out with him. I got to float down much of that rapid then caught a rescue kayak to the other boat through more rapids, found everyone from my boat had migrated to the other and hitched a free ride through the remaining rapids.
The next day I think we succeeded in actually scaring our raft guide a bit because we all fell out, including him. Three of us managed to cling on to the boat through the rapids. I was surprised to be the only one to mantle my way back into the boat. A kayaker and I got the guide back in and fished the rest out of the river, navigating the rest of the rapid a bit short handed. After that people were pretty beat up.
Lets just say it was all I hoped for and more, rafting in Nepal is amazing. But oh, how much I love Nepal (this is a theme in case you haven't noticed).

The Bug Scream (Nepal)

2008-09-27T22:57:00.000-07:00

I don't remember where I was but it was in some foreign country that I first had the conversation. I think it was with several people from different countries to confirm the theory and I know there were also several burly men to corroborate including some locals of that country as well. We spoke of the universality of the bug scream.
The bug scream is part of a universal language that eeks out with embarrassment on rare occasions for some, and is followed by a hard stop and sheepish silence. For others it is emitted more freely, sometimes repetitive and even proudly. But sooner or later, everyone in life will emit a bug scream and it is always recognizable in whatever country you may be in.
Colleen and I like to think that we are not girly-girls. We both think the greatest compliment we could give each other is that we are "hardcore." We can read a topography map better than mall floor plan and are hiking in the Himalayas with no guide or porter, passing guys in their 20s who have hired a porter to carry their pack. But we are guilty of the bug scream.
Colleen got it first on our second day of hiking. I was up ahead so I missed it. Nepal is infamous for leeches this time of year. Somehow she brushed up against a tree and got a bunch of them on her. She had mostly calmed down by the time I saw her and I disgustedly picked the remaining few off her back. Later in the shower, a few fell out of her hair and she about lost it.
Now, bugs are one of the things that I don't do well with, but the leches didn't seem so bad to me. They aren't nearly as big as I expected and it's not like they can hurt you. I thought I'd be OK. One of the side effects of not having a guide is that when the trail is gushing with water it looks like a creek bed so we took a slight detour, or scenic route shall we say, unintentionally on our fifth day.
As we were trekking through the forest our error became apparent and we stopped to regroup. Then I heard it; shrill and squeaky, the bug scream. "Oh my god, oh my god, they are everywhere!" Colleen was yelling in between screams and shaking her feet off. Then the bug scream got louder and I realized I had joined in and the scream was escaping me as well. I only had sneakers for the trek so the leches had made their way in. We pretty much did nothing but scream expletives about leeches and have a tizzy fit equivalent to a five year old who wants a candy bar as we kicked and picked them off.
Really, like I mentioned before, I didn't think they would be so bad, but its the way they inch along and how sticky they are. You try to pick them off, but their little sucker teeth thingies resist, then you do and they stick to your fingers. Or you get them off but have to squish them in the process and they explode with blood and you don't know if it is yours or someone else's. They are vile. Absolutely vile.
After our shudders of "eews" we started walking. Then Colleen said it, "oh my god, the leaves are covered in them." The leaves were a swarming mass of the blood suckers. I booked it to the river, pack and all, over the rocky step hill. We were feeling imaginary leeches for hours stopping to check for them, absolutely disgusted.
So you may think you are tough but the bug scream will always prevail.
To be fair, the leeches are the singular bad aspect of Nepal I have encountered. If that is the worst thing here, then I think I can handle it and its a pretty impressive thought really. I do love Nepal.

I Heart Nepal

2008-09-27T22:53:00.000-07:00

I would just like to take a moment to say how much I love Nepal. It might be my favorite place. Coming to Nepal from India was like a breath of fresh air. After a typical train experience; delayed for 7 hours in India, the usual crowd of men staring at us, cockroaches, just an unpleasant experience, we arrived at the hotel near to the border. This room had a rat and 4 huge cockroaches so we switched to one that only had some sort of suspicious blood/puke/shit stain on the wall, a clogged toilet and sheets with pubic hair that had not been changed it weeks.
From there was the bus to the border. I have never been so happy to be 5 feet tall, for that bus ride it all seemed worth it because I was the only one who could remotely fut my knees in., and it was still really uncomfortable for me. But we could tell as soon as we got to the border that things were changing.
The border officials were nice, helpful and kind. It was the easiest border crossing ever. We got into a decent bus and 12 hours later made it to Kathmandu. When we got to our hotel we really were speechless and for anyone who knows Colleen and I that comment is awe striking. Then they gave us toilet paper and our room had a hot shower and bedding and we really almost cried.
Just as a side note, we were a little miffed at the 15 min time difference, bringing the total time difference from my home to 11hrs and 45min, but once we figured out what was going on, it only added to the charm of Nepal.
The guy at the front desk laughed when we told him we came from India and he said that India stands for Id Never Do It Again. Agreed. Our days in Kathmandu were great. The traffic was so much better. The locals were friendly, shop keepers weren't pushy. Everything was more laid back. But I realize it is all about perspective, the people we met that had flown straight to Kathmandu were all a little dazed and thought it was quite chaotic and terrible while all of us from India saw it as a sanctuary.
It was interesting to observe the 11pm curfew the Maoists set for Kathmandu after writing a paper about the situation in college. I love how traveling for me the last year has brought once-seemingly obscure issues to my daily life. I would be interested to learn more, but there is an unspoken rule that you don't talk politics in Nepal. But even hiking in the Himalayas there are the symbols for the Maoist party on buildings. I couldn't get much out of people but after talking for a while if it seemed appropriate I would ask as much as I could.
Granted, most of the people I have been able to talk to in Nepal are quite poor- porters, guides, local people in rural Himalayan villages, but they all seem to feel positive about the Maoist government. The idea is a 10 year plan to redistribute wealth, though how they plan to accomplish this is unclear. Right now they are in the first two year "trial period." The Maoists wan to abolish the caste system. I learned that there are over 80 castes in Nepal, but am conflicted about their rigidity. One man said he think they are becoming more mobile with the influx of technology and media, while another man I met was ostracized by his family for marrying below his caste.
Dhak, a 24 year old man who lives in a rural village in the Himalayas was amazing. I met him while I was hiking up a steep pass. He was carrying a huge load of grass up to his water buffalo. We chatted and since we were staying in his village for the night he invited me to his home later that evening. We got to meet his water buffalo, his mother, and see the crops they are growing on their small plot of land. We went and hung out in his closet-sized bedroom, simple with mud walls covered with newspapers and a few photos. There was nothing else but a radio and bed. He proudly showed me his passport, certificate of completion of a cooking course, his school report cards, and a photo of his beautiful 22 month old daughter.
Dhak was brave for marrying for love and not caste and it cost him dearly. He was beaten bloody by his brothers and told never to come back. A few years have gone by and now he has been allowed back to care for his sick mother. His life seems difficult but he is cheerful, intelligent and funny.
One of my favorite parts about Nepal has been how easy it is to meet locals. They have all been incredibly friendly, curious and intelligent. Everyone I have met has had sense of humor, sarcasm and biting wit that would rival even the most sarcastic Australians or English. Getting a chance to really talk to and see what life is life for some Nepalese has been a highlight of my trip, whether it be an invite home, a chat over a cup of tea, a homemade bottle of wine, or a rest on a steep mountain pass. I feel so lucky to be here.
Even the expats are welcoming. I went to the US embassy to register to vote and to get more pages in my passport again and there were no marines guarding it! Its too bad because in Africa the marines would be so excited to see a girl from the US that it was a guaranteed free dinner, but much less intimidating to enter an embassy without a gun pointing in close proximity to you. The man working there was so incredibly efficient and helpful and even gave us some grandfatherly advice.
I just can't say enough good things about Nepal. (Which is good because right now as I type this later, we are both too sick to leave and have officially overstayed our visas, lets hope they are still nice to us on the way out!) The views are stunning everywhere, the people are nice. It has that exotic feeling to it but also feels safe and familiar. The Himalayas really are all they are hyped up to be. Basically, just love Nepal.

Life and Death on the River (India)

2008-09-11T03:47:00.000-07:00

Shiva, one of the main Hindu gods is especially revered in Varanasi. He symbolizes the destroyer, but whom without creation wouldn't be possible. Varanasi is considered the oldest city on earth that is still inhabited, the city of Shiva and one of the holiest cities in India. It is fitting then, that life and death are auspiciously thrust into your face in the city of Shiva.
It is a typical city in India- choked with bustling life, bursting from every inch of space. At times in this country it feels like the world puked every bit of humanity into a too-small space so everyone clamors around each other, swarming in a chaotic dance, filled like the Pillsbury Dough Boy trying on a baby's shirt. But as full of life as Varanasi is, it is equally full of death. Where I am staying is near the cremation Ghat, the smoke from the burning bodies is relentless, all day and night.
As I walk the narrow passageways, the tangle of the old city that makes navigation completely haphazard for visitors, everything is so out of place that I am surprised by nothing. The alleys are stuffed with waterbuffalo, bony children, cows, men that hassle me, samosas, goats, shrines, candles, flowers, and women in saris. Tarps cover the narrow streets that are lines with dilapidated buildings, nooks and crannies, coves and holes, creating a carnival-like atmosphere.
Approaching the burning ghat, I am confronted by fortresses of wood- imposing and harsh. Smoke fills my lungs. The fires are tended by the untouchables, the lowest caste who usually live in tarp tents staked down by rocks, owning nothing, some of the poorest people I have ever seen. These emaciated men are dwarfed by the logs as they strain with the heat, sheer weight, soot in the air and ferocity of the fire. In the open fire area itself cremations in all stages are taking place constantly. There were some with bodies waiting to be burned, others nothing recognizable but the skulls. I saw my first dead body- a woman with cloud-white hair, her face painted, mouth agape. I watched as she seemed to float above a halo of red coals, the halo engulfing a lifetime of work, wrinkles, tears, laughter, joy and suffering as men in white turning black with soot looked on. Flowers littered the wood and coals as they do in the Ganges river just feet away where other people are using the cleansing properties of the water for healing and renewal. There is no ailment the holy river cannot cure, the Indians believe, as they pray and dunk themselves downstream from where the bodies continually burn.
I went past a group of children in cheerful rags who were playing a game where they hold hands and run and try to kiss each other. Once one is kissed they join the chain and try to get more. Past the cows and baby goats, men sleeping on basic cots in dirt-floored homes, to one of the ubiquitous sweet shops.
I was looking through the glass at the alarmingly green and orange sweets, balls of fried dough and yellow cookies all lined up behind glass, neatly in a very un-Indian fashion when I was pushed to the side. Another funeral procession was winding its way through the streets. The body on a board, hoisted above the men, followed by a line of people. I wouldn't call them mourners, ringing bells and chanting. The body was a stillness above writhing life, a stillness not often found in India, a moment of rest. They passed, revealing a small girl, knobby knees and elbows digging through a pile of trash. The shop owner cleared his throat, wondering what I found so curious in the mundane, the city where life and death constantly meet, filled with everything in between.
In the morning, I went for a boat ride along the Ganges to watch the city wake up. We wandered along the streets in darkness, lit only by a flashlight, a rare glimpse of peace that lasted about 5 seconds until we began to bump into boatmen. Floating along the Ghats, the wooden boat oars being dipped into the water, drizzling drops behind us, we wanted the morning rituals. Pilgrims come from all over to pray, meditate, wash away disease, and dip themselves into the sacred river. The rituals are done in public, men in speedos of sorts, all shapes and sizes, lounging on the Ghat steps, surrounded by bells, chanting, women in a rainbow of saris, temples and colored flags that change hues as the sun rises.
I'm almost tempted to see if the river really is as healing as they believe, I like to do what the locals do, and lord knows I could use it, but the water is completely septic, meaning there is no dissolved oxygen in it. Not only that, but water that is safe for bathing should have no more than 500 fecal coliform bacteria per 100ml, while by Varanasi, there are 1.5 million per 100ml. This is hardly surprising as there are 30 large sewers that feed into the river and it is visited by around 60,000 people each day along a 7 kilometer stretch. I decided to leave the chocolate milk bath to the others and watch from the boat. As we rowed back after the sun hiked itself up into the sky, the Ghats began to flow with people. All around me were people being renewed by their holy river of life as I breathed in the smoke from the crematorium.

Impressions of India

2008-09-11T03:34:00.000-07:00

I think that anyone who says they absolutely loved traveling in India is either full of shit, on a packaged tour or hid out in an ashram the whole time. I met one person on a previous trip who told me she hated it the whole time she was in India but after she left it was her favorite country. We shall see.
India is a country full of travel-lore. Myth seems to proceed it. People say India changes you, that it's mind boggling. Really, I think it's ironic that people come here for peace and quiet in ashrams when it is one of the busier places I have ever been or could even imagine.
I suppose I was prepared for it so maybe that's why it hasn't shocked me. The poverty of Africa and chaos of some African and Asian countries I have seen, as well as the dirt and garbage of places i have been has maybe decreased the shock value. But despite having survived those other places, I don't do well with the traffic, congestion, crowds and constant honking of horns. It frays on my nerves.
It's strange because India receives a fair share o9f travelers, but the novelty doesn't seem to wear off. People are constantly coming up to us to ask us where we are from, if we are married, why we aren't, what our money is called, what our national flower is (any clue?), our national animal. . . the list goes on. Then they want to introduce us to their family. Then they want to take photos with us.
Those are the friendly people. Others just stare. We took a train from Haridwar to Varanasi. It was supposed to be 18 hours, but of course stretched to 24. We were riding in the lower class sleeper which must be unusual because we were pretty much like animals in the zoo. A group of more than 20 men gathered in our compartment. They were hanging from top bunks, packed in, just staring at us. I thought it was all quite ridiculous so I went to see how full the train was, it was almost empty. We started to feel really violated when the men began sneaking photos of us with their camera phones.
The hassle is pretty relentless, the crowds insane, the streets dirty. But India has its charm. The friendly people help, so do the cows that wander the streets freely. The food is amazing but fattening. I love the little chai stands on the side of the road and the street food. I love the alters that interrupt buildings with gifts of candles and flowers around them. The monkeys that are everywhere are highly entertaining.
Its not an easy place to travel, that's for sure, but then nothing worthwhile seems to be.

Back in Africa (Morocco)

2008-09-10T02:02:00.001-07:00

It scares me how some things in life can affect me so profoundly that I believe they give me strength or maybe show me the strength I have, but that strength can shake away from me in the face of other events. I felt like I learned a lot of key things about how to be in this world in Africa, but somehow I regressed when I left. But one thing I did learn when I was there is that my life is always falling apart, but I don't have to fall apart with it. Now this is easier said than done and usually I do fall apart with it, and I definitely did this summer in Europe. But Africa taught me that more quickly I return to that peace, even if I am lost sometimes. I faced a task this summer, I was prepared for it, and I failed. The peace has yet to return. But when I stepped on the ferry from Spain to Morocco, I swear I could feel a different wind blowing softly around the call to prayer that rolled over the water.
I think life has certain lessons to teach you and if you can learn gently, great, but if you don't then you get kicked in the ass. I felt like was given a second chance (after being kicked in the ass for failing when I had no reason to) to do what I should have done in the first place: go to Africa and not look back.
If I succeed or fail is yet to be determined, but right now my world has broken apart. I am not saying that is a bad thing, it leaves room for a lot of new things to enter it. I hope to eventually use this as an opportunity, not a setback. But for now, just being in Morocco I felt some of the Europe stress melt away.
The first night in Tangier was rough. I was in a familiarly skeezy hotel room with a parade of ants marching underneath my bed that had no sheets but was nicely decorated with some one's pubic hair. The overflowing squat toilet was three floors down and no shower. All of that I can take in stride, but many of the men I find in a Muslim country when I travel alone are more difficult to deal with. As they knocked on my door late at night I wished I had one of those door blocker thingies or a way to better lock my door.
The worst is how difficult it is to get anything done. Men elbow in front of me in ques, the person behind the desk only helping me after all the men have been served. But finally I was on my way to Chefchauen, a small mountain town.
As I looked out the window of the bus and saw the familiar African landscape of dusty people in dirty doorways just being, watching the world go by, others hard at work in the fields, cars brimming with people in every nook of space, donkeys being ridden or driven in carts on the highway and women with things on their heads, I began to relax. This is my style of traveling, not the hostel parties in Europe. I can do this, I thought, the familiar comfort of being on my own in such a foreign place began to take over and I was happy.
Chefchauen is stunning- the maze of the Medina is all in shades of blue, some of the passage ways are how i would imagine the inside of an ice burg to be. Blue fades into another hue of blue. Strikingly bright clothes line the streets waiting to be sold along with mounds of Moroccan bread, dates, nuts, bags of pastel powder I imagine is paint but I don't know why they have something other than blue, and spices. Many people wear these Berber cartoonish hats, conical and straw but personalized with tassels, beads or fabric balls.
I could walk the Medina nonstop if it wasn't for all the unwanted male attention a solo girl has to deal with. But at least it was better than Egypt!
Still, the more lost I got in the Medina, the more I was finding my way back to the familiar. The best part of the day happened every morning at 5am. I w as sleeping on the rooftop terrace and that is when the call to prayer would wake me up.
It called at that whisper of time before night turns into dawn, when the darkness of night is still hovering, thick and resistant before it crawls down past the mountains. The haunting call to prayer would go on and on and with it, the rare cool breeze seemed to swirl until the chanting, the flags blowing, the laundry on the lines, the birds and the last persistent stars all seemed to move in a dance that breathed- you're here- on a rooftop in Morocco.
Still empty, empty of everything, I would listen and add my own hope that this time I'd maybe absorbed more of the lessons life has taught me. I honestly have no idea if I have or have not.

European Highlights

2008-09-10T01:25:00.000-07:00

I know this is long overdue. I never thought anyone read by blog until I got so many complaints for not writing in it, so thank you! And sorry! To be honest, I have felt very, very lost in Europe. I wasn't going to write anything at all because I didn't feel there was anything worth writing about. This is my last day in Europe as i write this and I thought I would at least hit on a highlight from each country I have visited. But I have felt more lost and alone and turned inside out in a different way than I have traveling in developing countries. I suppose my heart isn't here, it belongs in wilder places.
I started my trip traveling with someone else too, which was new for me and took away from my normal style of travel as well, so that could account for some of the difficulty. It's funny how sometimes you can feel so much more alone and isolated with other people than when you are completely alone! But I digress. I feel like i am returning back to myself again. It is good to be back to traveling alone. I went to Morocco which helped revive me, and I am about to leave Europe, so here are the highlights:

Holland: Hiring a cruiser bike and riding out along the countryside next to the new Dutch windmills which are hardly the romantic version you would picture, they are actually quite scary, like slender robots from an angry planet, but also riding in contrast, next to serene canals.

Belgium:Drinking some amazing beer with an old friend, a new one, and my best one in a little hidden tavern only locals knew about, escaping the tourists of Brussels.

Germany: A crazy club in Berlin that my friend from there who I was staying with took me too. It was covered, every inch of it, in graffiti, all 5 stories in this apologetically bright graffiti. Out in the back VIP area was beach sand. Beach chairs were scattered amongst fire twirlers and a fire-breathing dragon. Then, ducking into a cave like room, dirty and unpretentious, to find a world class salsa band with a packed room, every one's bodies helpless to stop moving with the rhythm.

Czech Republic: Spending a day by the river by myself in Prague, just breathing and watching the crowds go by. I had a picnic in the park and looked across the water at the postcard of a city in front of me.

Poland: Walking through a sketchy neighborhood complete with an accidental trespassing, but we were rescued by a guy that showed us the way out in a tangle of construction to find out way to a huge overpass. We walked down underneath the bridge and tied to each pillion was an end of a parachute. On it, some bohemian guys were projecting artsy Polish films. Keeping with the beach vibe like in Berlin, they had imported beach sad. Beach chairs were set up for people to kick back in and drink beer in. Above us was the rush of the overpass, in front of us the Polish movie I couldn't understand but still enjoyed, behind us was the river, to one side a group of pseudo punk kids taking out their rebellious Polish youth under the bridge, and to the other side was more trees and a moon. All around us there was not another tourist.

Hungary: One night in Budapest we climbed up to the top of the mountain. We took some very dark, very steep side paths and wound our way up through the blackness. I was joking and told the 2 people I was with that we didn't need to worry because according to the Lonely Planet only 6 people had been murdered on the trails this year. It wasn't until we were headed back down that I realized they thought I was serious, that must have added some adventure for them! We made it to the top and had a beer to celebrate and looked out at the city lights. It was one of those views that you can only gape at in awe and that reminds you of the few other times in your life you saw a view like that so when you look at the sea of lights you not only get the pleasure of that moment and view here and now, but also the concrete connection to the pleasure, longing and nostalgia for the other times you had a view like that before; who you were with and where in the world you were, so all you can do is smile but it is a bit worn because you know that all too soon you will go back down.

Italy: The food. All I can say is that it is orgasmic food and I am such a food tourist. Food might be one of my favorite things in the world, and lets just say Italy was good, oh my gosh it was good.

Andorra: I came to Andorra with the intention to hike across the country because I have never hiked all the way across a country before. Unfortunately it wasn't possible. Still, Andorra had a very good feeling to it, it wasn't what I expected. I wound up staying longer than expected though, even if it was a bit disconcerting how much it reminded me of Vail.

Spain: I was wandering by myself (actually I had a 103 degree fever so it was more like staggering in a feverish stupor, leave it to me to be fine in Africa but get really sick in Spain!) in a huge park in Madrid. It was Sunday afternoon so it was full of people. Manicured flowers were beautiful but I was drawn to the pseudo-wild woods. I started to hear drum beats. It was a magnetic pull for me to follow the sounds, I felt like my fever went away a bit as I got closer and closer. The drum beats were literally beseeching me to follow. They got louder until i found a group standing beneath the trees. These men were playing huge drums but they were dancing and the dance was what struck the drum and made the beat. They weren't the only ones, I don't think anyone was standing still. A group of women were flamenco dancing in their jeans and tee-shirts and their Sunday church dresses, their sweat pants, a whole mix of people from all walks of life. There were little girls, Gothic teenagers, a girl on crutches and a huge woman. There was a frail old woman that didn't look frail until she stopped dancing, hippie chicks, and a few men. One man had to be around 70, he moved to the front and started vibrating. The intensity bore on his fave as he started dancing and freezing and clapping. I think he even through in a little jiving. He eventually stole the show. It was a nice secret part of Madrid to find.

France: I was only in Paris for a day having been here once before in high school. I slept in the Madrid airport and will sleep in the Paris airport tonight after I write this. Mostly on this day I have been thinking about how much has happened between me being here when I was 18 and now. I never, ever could have predicted so much of it and if someone had told me what would happen, I never would have believed them. It makes me wonder what else is in store for me, for all of us in this crazy world.

Africa

2008-05-06T10:05:00.000-07:00

I knew this would happen. I remember like it was just last week, sitting at the Med with my mom over drinks and tapas telling her I wanted to start in South America for my trip and end in Africa because I didn’t think I would be able to leave Africa. That intuition, like most intuitions, proved to be utterly true. Now I have a ticket out of here and every cell in my body wants to stay on the Dark Continent.
Africa is intoxicating. It is completely tantalizing and addicting.
Now, keep in mind when I say Africa, I have yet to see much of Central Africa and none of West Africa, just to clarify that before I continue, but I have seen a good deal of the rest now. In Africa there is a rawness and wildness you cannot find anywhere else. To be truthful, Africa is completely lawless. It really is. You see both the best and the worst of humanity and only get through most days and situations because of an invisible but cohesive web of basic humanity that threads through your interactions. That and luck.
It cannot be overstated that in Africa, absolutely anything can happen any day. That is why I love it, it’s the perfect place for someone like me who feels suffocated by routine.
I planned to go from Egypt to South Africa overland, but had to take two unexpected flights because of rebel attacks and civil war that sprung up unexpectedly. It feels like there is more life squeezed out of a single day in Africa than a month somewhere else.
I have experienced so many extremes in my 8 months here. I have seen inconceivable poverty and unrivaled opulence. I have been drenched by rain and scorched by the sun. I’ve crossed the equator several times and looked up at the starry skies in both hemispheres, unobstructed by urbanization’s glare. I have seen the sun the biggest and reddest I have ever found set behind an acacia tree in the Serengeti and sand dunes in the desert. I have seen explosive coastlines and towering sand dunes, churches, mosques and huts. I’ve seen the pyramids, I’ve seen lions and zebras. I have seen refugees right after their homes have been burned pleading with their eyes into mine for something I had no idea how to give.
I have seen political rallies full of false hope and seen them turn to violence. I have seen a once-thriving capital turn to a ghost-town of oppression. I’ve seen shepherds with their flocks, women with painted faces, turbans, tribesmen with tattooed faces and gaping earlobes, women who’s only exposure to the world was a small slit in the cloth that covered them over the eyes, colorful tribal clothes and blankets.
I have danced in a mud hut to a drumming that escapes no one’s pulse as the candlelight cast shadows that leapt with the yells that echoed around the walls. I have been absolutely positive that I was about to die. I felt baptized by the spray of Victoria Falls in the high season, hanging on for dear life so that they wouldn’t wash me over the rope bridge. I have sat in more churches in Africa than the rest of my life put together and listened to the prayers of some of the most impoverished people in the world. I have been grabbed and groped and stared at because of my skin color. I have been feared and a curiosity and spectacle for it as well. I have also been an honored guest and allowed to do things other people would never be able to do because of it.
I have felt real fear. I have been hassled more than I could ever imagine before coming here. I have learned to sit and do nothing. I have had more communication errors and lack of communication because of such a vast language barrier. I have laughed and laughed at this crazy life we find ourselves in and the incubation of our culture that affects us so much and blinds us to other possibilities in life. I have laughed because sometimes that was all I could do.
I have heard stories of so may that have stitched a fabric of other ways of life in my consciousness; stories of hope and courage as well as stories of bone-chilling evil that crushes my chest. I have been told things that I would never write down for fear that the atrocities are so massive they could almost come to life if put onto paper. Why did people speak so openly of their own private hells to a stranger like me? Maybe some things are so evil they must be released or they will choke the life out of you. I know I didn’t want to hear them and I still wish I never had.
I have met people that it is inconceivable to me how they go on. Things I have learned about in Africa have challenged everything I have ever thought about and known. It has made me realize that I don’t understand anything,
I look back on what I have done and see that I was completely alone while at the same time never alone. It was only by the good grace and compassion of the local people I met along the way that I could get through each day much less survive on the whole.
Nothing is easy in Africa. It tests you. Things that should be simple never are. Noting is what it seems. The psyche and culture here is completely different from other places in the world. It is a place of extremes, a place of thriving markets, breathtaking scenery, violence, chaos, traffic, passionate music and blood-red soil.
Every African I met said they would never leave this place permanently. The white South Africans I met said if their land was taken away they would go with it because to leave Africa would mean to die. There is so much mystery and rawness on this continent. I think it would be fair to say that Africa is the true embodiment of passion in its purest sense, for better or worse.
T.I.A. (This Is Africa) has become a cliché now, but for anyone who has ever been here, they know that sometimes that is all you can say much of the time. How this place has changed me, I haven’t even began to look at that landscape. I feel the same, but can you really tell when you are leaving a place, and places seem to have hidden lessons you don’t encounter until years down the road. If anything it has made me more confident in who I am but more unsure about everything else in life. But I know it has gotten under my skin. The thought of leaving makes me feel like I am dying a small death myself. I can’t explain it, these last 8 months. Their meaning is poignant but at the same time hidden even to me. Part of me feels that because I did this I can do anything, part of me just wants to cry for both what I’ve seen and what I’m leaving.
I’ll be back. That’s for sure. But now, it’s time to leap and to trust. That’s all I can do as I leave this behind for what I have no idea. I thought I would be more certain of something after leaving but nothing is clear. How can time go so fast? How many lifetimes exist in one life? I don’t know where I’m going but at the same time, I’m always there.

I hope for nothing
I fear nothing
I am free

Training Horses (South Africa)

2008-05-06T05:04:00.000-07:00

I have experienced more extremes on this trip than throughout the rest of my life in its entirety. I started my time in Africa in a mud hut in Zimbabwe with no electricity eating sadza. I finish in a mansion of a farmhouse in rural South Africa (though often with no electricity because of South Africa's current power crisis) drinking some of the finest wine and whiskey I ever have.
I have spent 2 1/2 weeks training horses on a remote farm and it has been an incredible window into life for some South Africans. The family I lived with are some of the richest of the rich in the whole world. It was pretty spectacular to get a glimpse into that sort of lifestyle; private planes, yatch clubs, golf clubs, many many full-time staff, tea served on silver platters, multiple vacation homes, the best private schools, more silverware than I could figure out what to do with. These people have a life of privilege most would never even think to imagine. I met a guy who told me he has never cooked a single meal for himself (he's 27).
Many of the white, wealthy South African farmers are waited on hand and foot, yet this is Africa so the wealth is different. Another guy I met may not know how to do his laundry, but he does know how to birth a calf. For most, these massive ranches are hobbies, though they are multi-million dollar ventures, it's not so much about the money, more the lifestyle and tradition.
I would never consider myself to be a city girl, but they certainly did here. The people I met are adept at hunting, fixing fences and making their own sausage. It is completely counter-intuitive to that kind of wealth, but hey, T.I.A.
Working on the farm with the horses allowed me to get an inside view into a community that few non-members would ever see. I met all sorts of people at the golf club, tennis club, luncheons, etc. They were very welcoming on the surface and I had to tell them that yes, I am here training horses, but no, I am not a horse trainer. There is a big difference! But I think that if I ever wanted to come back to train horses it wouldn't be a problem. It is a tiny community of very affluent farmers. Racial tensions are strong and everyone is racist or a realist, as they explain, in their own way. Yet almost all the kids grow up speaking Xhousa (a clicking language) as their first language because their nanny taught it to them before English. It is incredible to see. The men and boys are a different breed here. They still seem to be in a "Gone with the Wind" era where they are chivalrous beyond belief. I never once had to open a door or buy a drink and their whole "ladies first" mentality was funny because I would lead but not being from the area I didn't know where I was going!
Because town is so small people of all generations socialize together. There is that sense that everyone knows everyone. But another pulse throbs below the surface of this wholesome fresh milk, fresh bread and a lot of whisky veneer.
One night, bored of the blandness of the local pub (all white of course), I went with a couple of local guys to a nearby township of sorts. Their plan was to have me wait in hte car because it would be "far too dangerous" for me to go in, while they bought some booze at the township bar and we would take it back to the farm. Well, there was no way I was staying in the car, we had found the party that was definitely not going on at the all white pub. The bar was bumping music and full of energy. We, the only white people, were all cheered and hugged when we entered. I headed straight for the dance floor where a few girls took me under their wing. I had a blast dancing with them and everyone was so ridiculously nice and welcoming. It was a little unnerving because I was constantly surrounded but most people were just having fun. A few men just came really close and stared, just standing there on the dance floor watching me but other than that it was really fun. So I honestly don't know what would have happened. After about 30 minutes the guys I was with pulled me away. A crowd tried to suck me in, it was pretty chaotic, I was lucky I had 2 big guys with me, one of whom had to force a guy to let go of my arm so I really couldn't tell you the way the night could have gone. I like to believe that my friends were just paranoid when they said it would have gotten ugly. The people seemed happy we were there, but race in South Africa is a very tricky deal. Nothing is clear, it's all sorts of grey area all the time.
But I do know that I learned so much in the last couple weeks. As cliche as it sounds, it has been a very eye-opening experience to say the least. I got to ride whenever I wanted and gallop my horse through the stunning African bush past warthogs, bless bock and impalas. Now that is pretty hard to beat!

A Bus Odyssey (Mozambique)

2008-04-19T04:36:00.000-07:00

A classic African right of passage is the bus ride. In fact, I think you could distinctly separate the world into those who have experienced a bus ride in a developing country and those who haven't and the difference would be quite apparent. For some it's a masochistic pleasure while others simply lose the will to live.
I've done my fair share of such aforementioned bus rides and their chaos has ceased to be an abnormality in my life which is probably unfortunate. But a bus ride is a great foray into the road less traveled and I will take you n my most recent one through Mozambique as an example.
It's still dark when you arrive at the bus station (station meaning muddy lot outside of town with a lot of buses) but the action has been gaining momentum for hours. People yell out where their bus is going, each name competing in volume with the next over the horns that are constantly honking. People grab your arm and pull you towards their bus. Sometimes you can shake them away, sometimes you have to dig your feet into the ground or just plop down on your butt to prevent being shoved into a bus you don't want.
After enough wandering, yelling and grabbing you find your bus, tough you can never really be sure because everyone lies to get you on the bus anyways. It's always a bit of a gamble as to where it is actually going. Never make the fatal mistake of allowing anyone to touch your bag. Insist you put it on top of the bus or into the bus and don't let it out of your sight until it is at least too buried in boxes, bicycles, chickens, grains and bags for someone to easily snatch it.
Once you get on the bus the games begin. You will inevitably be charged at least 5 times the actual price. When they tell you the price the first two times don't' even acknowledge them., The third time is when you show shock and amazement. The fourth try you fix a steely glare and only then to you begin to bargain. The fifth time is usually when you fight to get out of your seat and off the bus until the conductor blocks your way. At the sixth price yawn and look out the window. Finally it all ends with a laugh. The conductor is happy because he overcharged you and gets to pocket the excess and you are because at least you gave it your best shot and T.I.A.
Don't drink water because you won't have a chance to pee all day. You'll sit there a couple more hours waiting for the bus to fill up. Mobs of hawkers descend on the bus selling bread, drinks, eggs, bags, watches, sunglasses, muffins and anything else you could imagine. If they don't have what you want, they'll find it.
The isles slowly fill up with people, cargo, goats and chickens. eventually the bus eeks off over the potholed road. The heat of the day begins to leak in. Your sweat sticks your legs to the seat which is quite handy for going over such a bumpy road. Your leg becomes sealed to the person's next to you.
A bus ride in a developing country is a journey of false hope. The bus starts to pick up speed and you begin to believe, against your better judgement, that you might actually gain some ground. But then it stops again for more people to clamber on and off. Each time it stops hoards of people rush up to it with more goods bobbing up on sticks to reach up to the windows. Hair comb anyone? Fruit? Samosas, dumplings, meat on a stick or a mirror perhaps? A tie? Can you be tempted by a doll, steering wheel or string of fresh fruit? Maybe a bag of nuts?
Now it seems improbably and I used to wonder how anything was sold but, while driving to my hotel in Egypt my taxi driver once bought socks. Another time while stuck in traffic outside the Nairobi airport a man in my shared taxi bought a vegetable peeler. You have to wonder if they ever sell steering wheels though. But hey, if yours falls of in traffic in Africa, you'll probably be sorted right away.
Back on the bus, the air smells of sweat, puke, corn and hay. Babies cry, chickens cluck, people talk loudly in languages you don't understand. You share food and smiles but not words. Usually though, your obvious lack of comprehension, fails to deter the person next to you from long-winded monologues, believing if they talk long enough and loud enough to you they will instill some sort of an understanding.
There is no such thing as comfortable on a bus trip here so resign yourself to the lack of personal space, odors and rough jostling. Eventually you make it to the final destination, and sure enough, the conductor lied to get you on the bus and it is not where you meant to wind up. But never mind, no matter where you are in Africa a mini bus will appear. These are even more common to ride that the regular buses and much more scary. The one you get on now is a typical example.
Once again, you wait for it to fill up. Eventually you set out, techno music blaring. You cruise around the parking lot a few times honking for good measure. The honking is as essential as the loud music. The driver is sure to do it every few seconds through out the trip. You drive a little then slow down. People pile in while the van is still moving. The object is to fit as many people in as possible. There is always room for one more in Africa. At one time there are 28 people, their luggage and a goat in a van made for 11. You are a tangle of limbs, torsos and heads, not sure where you begin and the others end. If you have an itch forget about it. Your body contorts in ways you never knew were possible.
The vans are usually in poor condition. They defy logic by missing bits you are sure are essential for motion. They like to make you think they will fall apart any minute and shudder when another minibus speeds by on the road and shakes you at such speed. It makes it more exciting. In between short stops the driver tries to make up time by going as fast a s possible. You usually close your eyes and pray, looking it far too scary, especially because the driver is usually swigging sips of local whiskey as he goes. Still, locals manage to doze of on the ride.
Every time you stop, the conductor has to throw himself at the door to get it to slide open. Then, he puts it back on its hinges while running along side of it. You are driving down the road when the door falls off completely. Out goes your backpack, some bag and the goat. They cram it all back in and continue on. Just another day on public transport.

Smooth Sailing in Swaziland

2008-04-19T04:22:00.000-07:00

An ostrich ate my friend's breakfast the other day. An ostrich is really quite intimidating despite it being a bird and the whole incident was rather unnerving. She put her granola on the picnic table just outside teh door. She went to get the yogurt from the fridge. I was in the shower when I heard the scream. I jumped out and ran to the kitchen to see what the commotion was. All 3 of my friends were now at the kitchen window, one waving her yogurt and "shooing" the other yelling and the third was waving his arms and trying to make ostrich sounds. Do you know what an ostrich sounds like? I don't. Neither did he.
Finally the ostrich had enough and waddled off, neck protruding with each step, buggy eyes glaring at us as he continued on his day after being so rudely interrupted by us.
In Swaziland we found a real gem. It was backpackers hostel on a wild life reserve. Affordable accommodation where animals are is almost impossible to find and this place was incredible. It was a rocky week for me so I would go for runs to relieve stress. As I ran though wooded trails I passed within a few feet of warthog families, antelope, springboks, heartbeats, impalas, zebras, ostriches and even the occasional crocodile or hippo. There's nothing like that to forget your far away problems.
Swaziland was a great escape from the intense undercurrents of South Africa. It is extremely laid back, the locals are super friendly and its just a relaxing place to be. I spent days hiking all over the reserve, summiting peaks and ambling around lakes. Our hostel was close enough that we went to the legendary "House on Fire", one of the best concert venues I have ever seen, complete with jungles, bamboo balconies, a wicked dance floor, fire twirling, caves, a campfire and cozy nooks. We saw the band "Freshly Ground" and it proved to be an epic night.
It would sit around at a coffee shop and listen to the local women tell me about how when they were younger they would always take place in an annual ceremony where all the young women do a special dance, then, traditionally the king picks a new wife each year.
Two wasted days were spent trying to get a visa in the capital which might be the most boring city in the world. And that is how this blog might turn out, but I couldn't' leave Swaziland out completely. It was a very pleasant place to visit. Very smooth going. I guess uneventful isn't always a bad thing. That's just about all I have to say about that. The end.

Wild Coast (South Africa)

2008-04-19T04:19:00.001-07:00

Get away from the "Garden Route" where tourists flock like hippos to a pond and enter the "Wild Coast" and the Transkei, the original homeland. It' s worth it, I promise. You need your own car which is frustrating, but I got lucky and joined up with 2 Germans and a Dutch girl and we were able to explore the area, which, true to its name is wild.
Endless beaches are interrupted only by jungle and cliffs and the occasional cow enjoying the view of the surf. Proper villages with colorful huts speckle the rolling green hills and lush mountains. Woman paint their faces white and people speak with clicks. Electricity is scarce and cows, horses, goats and sheep are constant road hazards, wondering in the way of our oncoming car, forcing us to drive slowly and stop often. But it's worth is to get away from the commercialism that runs rampant on other parts of the coast. Instead of feeling like I'm in California, I once again feel like I am back in Africa.
I camped or stayed without electricity along postcard perfect beaches. Driving through chaotic cities with vendors spilling into the streets and a jumble of minibuses honking as the only white person in the area cruised through made me feel right at home.
One day we heard about a hidden waterfall. We drove down a back road and 12 naked children ran up to see our car. They beckoned for us to follow them. We slid down a steep, muddy and rocky jungle path and found the waterfall. It was really just a trickle going into a chocolate milk colored river in a gorge but it was worth it to see the kids catapult themselves off staggering heighths, plummeting down into the water. They laughed at our fear and jumped again but higher this time.
If I were 5 years younger and less concerned about the shambles of the U.S. health care insurance system I would have plunged in after them. It's sad to see how much we change.

Kingdom in the Cloud (Lesotho)

2008-04-19T03:56:00.001-07:00

Winding my way up Sani Pass I saw some of the most impressive scenery imaginable. Terrace after terrace of green flanked with imposing rocky cliffs engulfed the pass. Water is everywhere, twisting down valleys to meet up with the river or tumbling down rock faces as waterfalls. It looks like J.R. Tolkien puked the Sani Pass area out of his imagination but instead of hobbits hiding in the rocks there are baboons and people in tribal clothes.
Looking up the tallest cliff and seeing two people in full tribal regalia, their bright green and red blankets trailing out behind them in the wind as they beheld the endless valley in front of them was awe-inspiring for as long as I could focus on it, but the state of the road make the awe short-lived as I held on so as not to be lurched out the window to my death.
Once you cross into Lesotho, ti's like going back in time. This tiny kingdom floating in South Africa really seemed incredibly distinct from the first moment I entered. Even the landscape changes dramatically. Instead of lush and green, it became rocky and rough. Being above treeline, it's much more brown. We cruised into the highest pub in Africa and after a brief stop there we headed farther into the mars-like landscape where horses are the main mode of transportation and sheep and mules scatter themselves amidst the rocks. People seem rugged and hardy wrapped in blankets. Some wear long woolen grey cloaks wrapped over their heads to keep out the cold with colorful tassels coming out the top. Their eyes are darker and their skin more weathered.
The villages are stone huts with thatched roofs clustered together. The inside of the huts is packed with mud to keep out the cold and also contain an open fire pit. They bake amazing bread and brew fruity beer in the huts. To make ends meet, many people will sell things To indicate to others what they are selling they put up flags on their homes. A green flag means bread is for sale, a white one means beer.
There is something magical about Lesotho that I can't explain, and not, it's not just because it's considered a kingdom. It's amazing that there can e this little nation in South Africa and it can be so different from the country that surrounds and dwarfs it. Tradition still runs strong in Lesotho. The boys, for example, have an initiation period before they become men. They go off and learn all about what it's like to be a man, traditional medicine, etc. They have a circumcision ceremony, then once they are healed they go far up into the mountains as a small group and build a hut. When the time is right they light the hut on fire. They walk away and don't look back, saying goodbye to their childhood. They come back to the village as men. Now who can't love a place like that?

Dirty Word (South Africa)

2008-04-16T05:27:00.000-07:00

"The only reason that I can sit here in this bar with you and not worry that if I went to the bathroom 4 guys would follow me and beat me up is because people can tell we are both foreigners." Sam, a black Malawian who has lived in South Africa for 11 years told me.
Already walking down the street with my friend, someone had slowed down in their car and, thinking I was a local, yelled in Afrikaans at me. I didn't understand the words but Sam and I understood what he had meant completely.
Apartheid is over, but has anything changed? The whites live in the cities and most of the blacks below the poverty line in townships. "The problem is there is no middle-class. There are only extremes but the middle class are the spenders so something is sure to collapse." Said Simon, a local to Plettenberg Bay.
So the different colors remain dead locked in a sort of static equilibrium, both need each other, but both are highly suspicious of the other with little interaction. With the vast majority of people living in townships, I asked why the people didn't retaliate because all of the violence and discrimination you hear of is white oppressing black. Just last week white students at a university were discovered to be abusing black workers in horrific ways, beating them, forcing them to eat feces, etc. What kind of a mentality has the workers to not stand up for themselves while at the same time what kind of mentality allows the whites to continue to abuse the majority? Does it go both ways?
"Because they still need their jobs and they work for the whites. It's all interconnected, that's why they don't retaliate," is Simon's opinion.
It seems one-sided, whites hurting the blacks, but I know nothing is that simple. I had been told I would be welcome in a black club, where as a black wouldn't be welcome in a white one.
"You would be welcome in a black club and treated like an honored guest, the most popular person in the club but only because you are a foreigner," Sam told me.
"But how would they know that I was a foreigner?" I asked him.
"Simple. If you were a local you wouldn't be there." said Sam.
So what is to happen to South Africa? The economy is growing but so many live in absolute poverty. The disparity between rich and poor is gigantic. With no mixing and contact between the races I don't see how it can be resolved. I told Sam how to me, appearance-wise, South Africa seems like paradise, yet socially, I could never live here. He agreed that it seems to be nearing a breaking point, a shift that seems hard to break, especially because there is such a lack of education for those growing up in townships, but that education is necessary for upward mobility.
Apartheid hangs in the air like a dirty word. Everyone I have spoken with refuses to say it. It's never "apartheid." Instead it is always, "the past," or "what happened."
I'm reading a book about apartheid now and was talking to a waitress who said she wanted a book to read. I said she could have mine when I finished it. She asked what it was about and I said the A-word. She visibly flinched.
It affects everything you see today, but it is never mentioned. From an outsiders viewpoint, it' snot so much the distribution of wealth that worries me, I think that will take time to remedy. Rather, it's the lack of dialogue, connection and contact between the races that is where the paradise fades. It is the palatable suspicion of everyone and tension.
As Sam says, the problem is the fact that, "There is no love." A huge problem indeed.

False Paradise (South Africa)

2008-04-16T05:09:00.000-07:00

I woke up on my first morning is South Africa covered in bruises. Dark blotches were punched into both my arms. This isn't unusual in a country infamous for its crime bu the bruises weren't from a mugging (yes, I had my "welcome to South Africa" mugging experience the night before as well but it had all been very cordial and business like with no bruises). I had been introduced to the Cape Town music scene and found my way into a mosh pit.
Cape Town is pretty much the coolest city imaginable. Almost all the residents look like they are on their way to or from a photo shoot. I actually saw 4 photo shoots and a music video (complete with 3 Elvises, a break dancer and a cafe where the waitresses were serving a gorilla and a ware wolf) being filmed while I was there.
The people are hip, stylish, thin and glowing with health. They could put any Southern California city to shame. There is always something to do in Cape Town; climbing Table Mountain, climbing Lion's Head at the full moon, full moon parties, galleries, hiking, beaches, concerts and the hippest restaurants and clubs around.
Throw in the university and all that brings and the most manicured and pretty government section I have ever seen in a city and you have only touched the surface of what Cape Town has to offer. But I'm going to leave it at that before I sound too guide-book-cheerleadery.
Anyone who loves coffee shops and cafe hopping as well as the outdoors as much as I do would be in heaven. My days rolled over from beautiful beaches (despite teeth-shaking wind), walking around the city, exploring the posh waterfront, trendy cafes, a wine tour, hiking, sunsets on the mountain overlook and seeing the penguins to the legendary nightlife of Long Street that had me greet each day with a hangover.
Staying on Long Street you don't really have a choice; the music and drunken relics will keep you up all night no matter what, so you may as well join the party. I pried myself away from the near-perfection of Cape Town for the heartbreakingly beautiful cliffs of Hermanus- waves crashing into the rocks. From there it was the quiet wooded seaside village of Wilderness, then miles and miles of unspoilt beaches with incredible rock formations in Buffalo Bay. I sat, hypnotized as the w2aves shattered against the rocks in a synchronized spray far more impressive than at the Belagio.
On the surface, it would seem I have found my paradise. The locals are friendly and easy to meet. The area has everything I could ever want. All the places I have been are filled with fun things to do and the most impressive natural beauty I have ever seen. But if I have learned one thing on this trip it is that things are not always what they seem and I don't know if that perfect place I'm looking for exists.
It has been a strange transition in to such a developed country. I could be in California. Where is the Africa I know? Also, it is overwhelmingly white in the nice areas at least. The paradise feeling stops when you drive outside the beautiful towns and see the shadows of poverty. The vast majority of the population, all of whom are black, live in townships and slums. This is hard to see in any country, but the stark contrast between such a wealthy and developed city, just like one you would find in the U.S., and the slums and townships that surround the cities is horrific.
It seems like these people are just hidden from society, but because they are the majority, I wonder how long this will last. I was talking with a white South African who told me that he thinks they as people are all extremely insecure. They grow up with such violence and crime they they are always behind bars, looking in. Add that to the unstable political situation and instabilities for the whites in particular and you can see why they are so suspicious and insecure. He observed that when people like me come to visit South Africa, we feel like a right has been taken away because we are so limited due to the crime. For him, when he goes to Europe, the first thing he does is sit on a park bench at sunset because he can and he feels he has been given this gift of freedom.
One thing is for sure, you can feel the tension between the races and it is something that seems to destroy the country. It is always there, but never spoken about, impossible not to feel.
The damage of apartheid is deep. South Africa has elections coming up and many of the whites I have spoken too fear that it will turn in the direction of Zimbabwe with land redistribution and zoning, but who is to say what is right. It's like two different worlds here, that of most blacks and that of most whites. It's like the people in the cities don't even see the ones in townships. It's incongruent with paradise to say the least. I don't understand what is happening here and I need to talk to more people, but where before I was just very aware that I was the only white person or one of the few where I was, that was different. Here I am embarrassed and feel oppressive just by being white.

Cage Diving with Great White Sharks (South Africa)

2008-04-16T04:47:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in the water in a metal cage as the boat its attached to lurches unforgiving with each 6 foot swell. The "Jaws" theme song is stuck in my head as I scan the wobbly water for fins.
"Ready, divers read," the captain of the boat yells. He throws the line of three large fish heads at the end and begins to drag it towards the cage.
"Down! Down!" he yells.
The chill of the Atlantic is no match for my wet suit. The water is so cold its like someone has punched me in the stomach. I struggle with buoyancy despite the weight belt to get as low as possible in the cage without any extraneous limbs sticking out of the bars as live bait.
The cold is instantly forgotten as I see the great white; all muscle and sleek, cruise up to the cage right where I am floating. Suddenly he surges and snaps for the bait just above my head and the open roofed cage above me. The classic snapshot of his teeth make the "Jaws" music intensify.
The captain pulls the bait away before the shark closes his powerful teeth on it. He cuts by my side of the cage within inches of me because I fought for the seat at the very end of the cage where all the action seemed to be. He appears to stop, motionless and look at me with his huge eye before rounding the corner close enough for me to touch him.
Gansbai, South Africa is known as the "Great White Shark Capital of the World." The company I dove with, Shark Dives Unlimited, has seen all sorts of celebrities and nature show hosts walk though their doors. Mike, one of the owners is the man you wee in the classic footage of a man swimming with great whites with nothing but his camera between him and the shark in the open water.
Despite appealing to adrenaline junkies like myself, the company is enthusiastic to correct the bad reputation of sharks. Shark attacks are so minimal, yet so highly publicised. The average annual deaths for shark attacks between 2001 and 2005 was just 4.4. Falling coconuts kill more people each year than sharks do. Think about your odds of dying when you get in a car and the fact that it is 30x more likely one would be stuck by lightning that bitten by a shark in a given year and its obvious they do not deserve the reputation they have.
"He's more afraid of you than you are of him," Mike says.
Humans, on the other hand are a shark's worst enemy, killing as many each year that many types will soon be on the endangered species list. According to estimates by NOAA fisheries, humans kill over 100 millions sharks each year. Who is more dangerous then?
Seeing a great white swim inches away from you is more calming than scary. It's like time stops and there is something so primal about this incredible shark, all taunt and muscle. For me, it was mostly about the adrenaline. I am always off to find the ultimate adrenaline rush and though it wasn't in the shark diving, it was still one of the most fun things I have ever done.
There is something completely surreal about sitting in the cage, a cage that could easily be crushed by an angry shark with an open top just a few inches above water level that the shark could jump into no problem, as the boat crew spills fish blood and guts into the ocean to attract a great white.
It was a truly unique feeling and I was struck with the hilarity of it all and this quest for an adrenaline rush. Waiting in the cage before the first shark, the tangible unknown assaulted me and I was happy.
Back on the boat, everyone furiously chews gum to relieve seasickness. The way the boat anchors makes even those who think they have an ocean-worthy stomach nauseous and more people than not lost their lunches to the ocean. But when the captain yelled out, "shark" and the people from the top deck could see the dark shadow gliding through the water towards the boat and a fin slicing through the swell, all else was forgotten.
Down in the cage, holding your breath in the icy cold in the shark's own dark territory you can't help but be impressed by its beauty. But be careful because shark diving is absolutely addictive.
So for me, it was no that great adrenaline rush I had hoped for, but it was still pure fun and one of the most unique things I have ever experienced.
I guess now I have to convince someone to take me base jumping.

Desert Dunes (Namibia)

2008-03-17T07:49:00.000-07:00

For some reason I have always had this irresistible pull to the desert and the ocean. I thought this was a tension like magnetism between the North and South pole, but there is a resolution in Namibia. Towering red dunes spill out to the beach where they are met by crashing waves. You could walk for days and never see another person. I was in heaven.
The natural beauty in Namibia helped me to cope with the difficulty I have been having entering this developed Africa. The emptiness and landscape has helped nurture my desire for solitude as I deal with both this sense of reverse culture shock and the disbelief that my time in Africa has short by at a lightning speed and is coming to an end. I am longing for time to be kinder and slow down, and longing for the more traditional Africa. It all seems to be going by too fast.
But laying there, alone in the sea of red sand dunes, I was in the flow of life again. Peace in the desert is a different kind of peace that I have found anywhere else. It is a heavier, deeper kind of peace. Everything was muted out by endless bright red sand dunes and a stony grey sky.
I found that peace again in Sossosvlei. You drive to a certain point, then a4x4 truck takes you to the actual pan, a dead lake surrounded by red dunes. Despite everyone thinking i was crazy, I decided to hike the 10k through the desert. I took off my shoes and felt the grains of sand, silky soft, slip through my toes. The sun relentlessly baked my skin as I struggled over and through the dunes. Sand is not an easy substance to walk over, so it made the trek to Sossosvlei feel more like a pilgrimage of sorts.
The colors were stunning; a sailor blue sky, craggy mountains, red dunes with animal tracks winding their way through bright green shrubs. Red, pink and purple dunes rolled out as far as I could see. Everything felt pure and crisply alive.
Arriving at the sight itself was anticlimactic, listening to tourists hollering about putting on sunscreen. The highly photographed Dead Vlei, the cracked pan surrounded by dunes with dead trees speckled over it, was stunning to see but the real highlight for me was the walk through the desert, alone.

Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road (Namibia)

2008-03-17T07:33:00.000-07:00

Namibia has to be one of the most remote countries I have ever been too. It's a fairly big country at 825,000 sq kilometers, but the population is only 1.83 million in the whole country. The country itself is like a painting. There are so many landscapes that driving through it I could have somehow entered a living art exhibit. The landscape ranges from dotted green shrubs to rocky mountains to termite hills the size of Volkswagens to breathless red sand dunes to a rocky coastline to plains of white sand to jagged purple and blue crags to bright pink sand and really anything else you could imagine in between.
For all it's natural beauty, Namibia remains impossible to get around with public transportation. IT is probably due to this, and the fact that the majority of people overseas couldn't locate it on a map, that has encapsulated the country in its pristine ruggedness and empty space. Because of this, i found myself driving on the other side of the road adn shifting with my left hand, scared shitless and unsure which way to make turns in a rental car.
Now, I am a nervous driver to begin with. I hate cars and worry more than the average person about accidents. Compound this with a rental car and the fact that I have been switching so rapidly through countries that I have no idea what side of the road to drive on and any traffic sense I had is completely scrambled up. I haven't driven in 7 months and it has been even longer since I drove a stick shift, so the whole ordeal was pretty high stress.
But, you sure couldn't beat the view. We drove first to the cookie-cutter German coastal town of Swakupond. It is a truly bizarre place, a schizophrenic mix of a barbie village and a German city. The streets were immaculate, the architecture inspired by doilies and gingerbread houses and the streets completely empty.
After a couple of nights there we headed to Sossusvlei, the red dunes and white pan in the desert that is Namibia's star attraction, despite how difficult it is to reach. The roads are all dirt and traffic sparse which is pretty scary when you are driving through the desert. Rains up tin the mountains cause streams to infiltrate the dirt roads, rendering them impassible more often than not, leaving cars to have to wait for the rains to pass.
I had visions of us stuck waiting for a river to recede or car trouble in the middle of the desert leaving us alone and stranded for days. Luckily, our timing was good and we had minimal trouble with water. The roads did put my driving to the test even in good conditions. Our only bad luck was a flat tire which turned out to be a good thing because as I was struggling to loosen the lug nuts, an SUV rounded the corner and crashed into a cliff.
I sprinted to the vehicle as it was smoking, both airbags had inflated. The young couple who had rented the car were shell shocked. They were OK other than the girls' arm which we were worried might be bleeding internally. I set up traffic warning cones around the blind curve and rolled the car out of the way (praying it wouldn't explode on me when I tried to start the engine). I tire to calm down the girl as much as possible and we called for help as soon as we got into cell-range. They were airlifted out to safety a few hours later. The incident reminded em that there are worse things than a flat tire and that helped keep some perspective when we arrived safely in Sossusvlei.

I Love Zambia

2008-03-17T06:27:00.000-07:00

Nowhere is it more apparent than in traveling that an object at rest stays at rest. There are places in the world that are almost like black holes and seemingly impossible to leave even if you want too. I think about my narrow escapes from Vang Viene, Laos; Koh Phan Ngon, Thailand; Nairobi; Amapala, Honduras; and Fiji. Lake Malawi is notorious for that as well. I found that an object in motion quickly gains momentum as I blasted through into Zambia.

I caught a lift to the border with some guys who buy petrol in Malawi then sell it on the black market in Zambia. I fully intended on staying in the border town of Chipata so I wouldn't arrive In Lusaka late at night, but I had a crisis with Money. It was a Saturday and there was no where to change money on the border, every traveler's nightmare. It didn't help that there was one place to change money in the city but it closed early and because the border official insisted on going through my entire passport and having me explain where each visa came from, I missed it. Luckily I met a Zambian, Danny, who shared a taxi with me and took me to an underground exchange bureau in a fast-food restaurant that was in the early stages of being built. Danny said he was continuing to Lusaka and could help me get a taxi or I could stay with him, either way I would be sorted.

I thought, why not, and hopped on the bus to Lusaka with him.

I'm not going to say there weren't warning signs. We sat on the bus for 6 hours after it was supposed to depart. The guys did strange things selling us different tickets. The bus was left running the entire 6 hours we were in the parking lot.

I was lost in the beautiful Zambian countryside watching the circular huts flow by. I n the country side as darkness began to coat the air, people would light fires outside their huts. Danny explained that they have to keep them going all night to keep away wild animals. My attention was brought back to the inside of the bus when people began yelling. It turns out, not only did our bus have no headlights, but the alternator was broken too so when we stopped we wouldn't be able to start. The driver and conductor knew this. I guess Zoom, the bus company we were with is notorious for being really dangerous. Great. Half the bus was yelling to stop or else we would probably die, the other half said we would probably die if we stopped in the bush at night. The driver refused to stop. A fight broke out on the bus and people had to be restrained. Danny told me that we were coming up to a road that went along a cliff with a sheer drop off. I joined in on the prayers emanating from the bus.

People were praying out loud more and more urgently. Everything felt really intense. Lightning outside the bus popped quickly like flashbulbs in a way I have never seen.

Then we hit a road block. The police stopped us from going any farther and we pulled into the police station. The driver was arrested and the conductors ran away with all our money. We were absolutely stranded.

"How do you like Zambia?" A man came over and asked me. Along with Danny, 3 other men took me under their wing and they turned out to be pretty powerful people. One man worked for the president's office (the equivalent of the CIA) and he was on the phone yelling at the bus company. Another was the head customs officer for Zambia and he got us food and chairs and his police buddy friends joined us. The last man, Mr. Zuma, is one of the head of COMENSA (the African version of the EU) and works for the World Bank.

I couldn't imagine a better night than drinking soda and eating biscuits w, sitting in plastic chairs in the parking lot of a police station in Zambia with lightning exploding all around us with these kind of interesting and articulate people. We talked for hours about politics, culture, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Kenya, God, the future of Zambia and more. Mr. Zuma offered me a job as a part journalist, part PR representative at COMENSA. The customs officer said he could get me the proper paperwork in 15 minutes. We all agreed that we had been brought together this night for a reason. I could feel more momentum building as the men talked about how they were going to help their country in the future. It was incredibly inspiring.

One of them had an interesting though. WE were talking about God and I was explaining how people in Africa seem much more religious as a whole than those in the US. He said, "Maybe life in America is so easy people don't have to believe in God the same way we do."

Danny said that he thought the US has been so lucky economically because our money says, "In God We Trust" on it.

I eventually went over to the bus to sleep and woke up to Danny covering me with his blanket to keep the mosquitoes from eating my legs off. The next morning with no help in sight, Mr. Zuma bought me breakfast with some Zambian hospitality. We sat around talking with some women from Zimbabwe about the situation there.

Eventually they got the bus running, but I wouldn't have missed that night for anything. Zambia was quickly becoming my favorite country and all the people I met at the chaotic Lusaka bus station that helped me only reinforced that. Everyone was so friendly and helpful.

I decided to roll with the momentum and wait 7 hours for a night bus to Livingston from Lusaka. It was crammed into that bus with no room to even take a deep breath, the window stuck open with the wind assaulting my face but that's OK because the blaring Zambian music wouldn't have allowed for sleep anyways, that I realized how happy I am here. There is nowhere else i would rather be. I was by myself, but not alone, doing this in such a crazy way with only myself to depend on and the grace of the wonderful people that have helped along the way.

It is a great feeling to be completely happy and not due to anyone or anything but yourself. I think that reminds me that happiness is always within reach.

Coming to Livingston has actually been a big culture shock. There are so may tourists. It's the first almost-proper town I have seen my whole trip other than Nairobi. Many of the streets are even paved. Almost everything is available and I find it completely depressing and long to be one of the only tourists, for the bustle of the marketplace and smells of street food and life spilling out of the sidewalks. I'm ready to jump right off my sort of tourist route and go my own way again. It made me realize this transition to more developed Africa will be rough and that Africa is going to be much harder to leave than I could ever imagine before I came. I am in big trouble.

Tobacco Madness in Malawi

2008-03-17T06:01:00.000-07:00

Malawi is commonly called, "Africa for Beginners." I must admit I could already feel the vibe changing from East Africa when I landed in the Malawi airport. Where I have been going has been really rough and tumble with few tourists so it was strange to go to a country where more people than not spoke English!
I headed to Nkatah Bay at Lake Malawi and spent a few days relaxing by the lake. All the locals were super friendly and I spent long days relaxing in the sun and playing bao, a Malawian game on the beach wit h the boys in the shade, mixed with nights at the bars chatting with the rasta guys.
I was getting ready to head back to Lilongwe when I met Carlo, a white Malawian. He offered me a ride back with him in a couple of days. Nkatah Bay is famous for being hard to leave, every day someone says thy will go and then comes back sheepishly wearing their packs 15 minutes later. I was that person for the day.
After meeting Carlo and his business associate, the pace of life picked up to a maddening intensity as life only can when going around with a Hunter S. Thompson type. Carlo works for a multi-national tobacco company. I went along with them on their work tours of tobacco farms. It was really interesting to see the whole process, visit remote villages and drop into local schools while he held meetings. Then he would pop open beers and we would cruise around bar-hopping through beaches and visiting Carlo's crazy friends. The days had that full-blown summer time feel; cruising around in the heat, the boys with their shirts off, drinking too early in the day and making spontaneous plans. It was a carefree summer in February, not what I expected on this trip.
We had a close call one night when we were driving back to the hostel. It isn't a good idea to drive in the dark in Malawi but we had no choice. We were driving through a dark rubber forest and a guy was laying in the middle of the road. Carlo started yelling at us to roll up our windows and lock our doors. At the same time I was yelling at him to stop and couldn't believe it when he drove on without stopping to see if the man was OK. Carlo said that it is a common ploy for someone to lay in the road and then when a car stops people jump out of the bushes and ambush you. Carlo's business associate said he thought he saw people in the woods.
The air seemed chillier after that. Just a half a mile down the road we passed a truck barrelling down the road in the direction we came from. The truck was going really fast and did not have its lights one. Ploy or no ploy, I would be doubtful the man in the road made it. We drove back in silence.
The next day on our way back to Lilongwe we visited more tobacco farms. Tobacco is the main cash crop in Malawi. what happens is smaller intermediary companies will subsidize farmers crop and then buy directly from them. Carlo works for a much bigger company so it is in their interest to encourage farmers to bring their crops to the auction floor where they have a huge amount of buying power instead of farmers selling directly to smaller companies. Technically the farmers will make more money that way too, so the name of the game was to (quite illegally) get people talking and spread rumors about the auction floor prices being high in order to usurp the direct buyers. To help cause a buzz and throw people off Carlo brought me along. I didn't understand what was being said since none of it was in English , but I went to two farms before I realized what was happening and refused to leave the car after that. I didn't want to be part of something like that when I don't really understand it.
Back in Lilongwe, Carlo insisted I stay with him and his flatmate. I realized I have been invited home with locals in every country I have been too except for in Tanzania doing touristy things with my mom, and the DRC.
Staying at Carlo's proved to be an interesting parade of the wealthy party crowd in Lilongwe. It was a little nerve-wracking when I arrived and Carlo left for a bit and one of the first things his flatmate said to me was, "I'll be right back, I must need to go sharpen this knife." Right. Granted it was too cook dinner for me, but that is still a little unsettling to hear your first night in a stranger's house!
It turned out to be quite the party house. There was an endless stream of class A's and the people coming to buy, snort, share and smoke them all through the night. It was definitely an experience most tourists wouldn't get! Not my scene but it was an interesting experience. So I felt like I got to see a wild side of Malawi.

What is Unspoken (Rwanda)

2008-03-04T06:04:00.001-08:00

Rwanda is the most beautiful place I have ever been. It has the friendliest people I have ever met. It is the nicest country in Africa that I have been too. The motorcycle taxis (boda bodas) wear helmets. I couldn't understand what was happening, traffic had this strange flow to it then I realized that the roads are paved and people obey traffic laws and lights. There are even crosswalks! This isn't the chaotic Africa I am used to!
The language barrier is difficult but people are so nice and helpful. Crossing the border even the money changers were polite and that never happens! "Madame, change money?" "No thank you." "OK, enjoy Rwanda!" Um. . . I didn't know how to react without hassle.
The border was a breeze and a big bus coming from Kampala to Kigali took me into the city too. The driver actually found me and asked me if I wanted to ride with them. Not many people spoke English but those who did really took care of me. From the bus I was surrounded by a group of men, but instead of grabbing me as usual or hassling me, they helped me put on my backpack and found an English speaker to help me. He put me on a boda boda, told him where to go and negotiated a price for me to get to my hotel.
The hotel worker was so nice, I couldn't afford a room so he watched my stuff then let me keep it at the hotel while I went to another city. He put me on a boda to the bus and the boda driver found me an English speaker who took me by the hand and led me to buy my ticket and show me the bus.
Walking around almost everyone would stop to say, "bonjour" and try to speak with me. I was walking in the small town of Gisenyi. I happened to be walking up a hill when school got out. The kids all ran up to me and followed right behind me. It was me leading maybe 60 or 70 children in their green uniforms. I felt like a deranged pied piper without music.
But there is a darker side to the country as well, obviously the genocide. There are many people with machete scars on their faces. Then I find myself wondering about the ones who don't have the scars- did they do the killings? Then I wonder if they see me wondering or wonder how I travel here. It is all very bizarre and confusing, especially in such a nice place on the surface.
Rwanda is incredibly lush and green. There are misty volcanoes and tropical forests. IT is very rural so on the buses you see people out in the fields hacking with their machetes to do farm work. I wonder if people on the bus see the flashing of the knives and it brings back memories. It is not spoken up it is all around, impossible to forget.
I just can't comprehend how everyone can be so friendly but capable of genocide. The genocide is everywhere and nowhere. How do people go on? I(t is more in what isn't said that holds the gravity.
At the genocide memorial there are photos of children. Plaques say what their favorite activities were, their best friend, their favorite food, name, how old they were and how they were killed (hit against a wall, macheted, shot in the head, bludgeoned, thrown in toilet or tortured to death).

They tortured babies and children. Babies and children. Known HIV+ men would rape women. I expected it to hurt more but I think it is just so inconceivable that my brain couldn't accept it as real.

There is a place for people to hang photos of their loved ones who were murdered. On the back of one photo that was turned around was written, "The baby is uhuru but the mother is alive." Uhuru is Kiswahili for free.

I set these apart because they were set apart for me.

So I don't know how to put together the way I found Rwanda now with what happened in the past. I had to get out. I wanted to see more memorials I think it is important for journalists, but the country was too expensive for me to stay compounded with the fact that I had such a sense of cognitive dissonance that I couldn't handle it.
My plan was to go overland to Burundi but I went to the embassy to find out how the security was there. The marine told me I am crazy to consider it and when they go they are escorted by more military and take 2 cars and that he would never go. Because there were so recently killings there as well I bought an overpriced ticket to Malawi.
So I am leaving. But I regret not going to Burundi. I regret not seeing more of the memories. I regret not finding a story. I regret turning my back. But I need to go, I just do.

DRC- Take 2

2008-03-04T05:48:00.000-08:00

I wasn't too keen on going into the DRC myself, but I don't want to let fear stop me from ding anything. I have found my biggest regrets on this trip have been what I haven't done, not what I have done. I am still sad I didn't go to Jordan, plus I figured if I can survive the DRC by myself then I can do anything!
So I crossed the border from Rwanda into Goma.
The city was destroyed when the volcano erupted in 2002. Buildings were levied. The few ones that were standing were still charred. Between that and the garbage burning down side streets it gave the sense of a city that is perpetually on fire.
I felt like i had just missed a massive attack by hours. It was the most inflamed, violent and destroyed town I have ever seen, though I witnessed no actual violence or destruction. It just seemed to have a sadness and resonance of desperation and fire.
The whole feel of Goma was that of a war zone. It consists of bombed out and burnt buildings and smelled like fire. UN helicopters and airplanes flew in constantly. I have never seen so many guns in my life.
The UN peacekeeping presence was huge. I saw other foreigners but all of them were aid workers or peacekeepers and all were in cars driving with guns. I was definitely the only foreigner walking around and that was a little intimidating.
The people have built walls out of the volcanic rocks. On all but the main street there is no road or pavement, just volcanic rock; layer upon layer. There is no way a vehicle could drive on most of the streets.
People are rebuilding so there are a few big nice houses, brightly painted to contrast with the black lava that surrounds the rest. Aside from those few houses, poking up out of the lava rock there is a temporary feel to Goma. People live in shanty homes made of tin, tarp and corrugated metal. Even stores seem quickly put up with a few boards and metal along with tarps. It is like nobody wants to admit they actually live there by making something permanent, that or the people are so used to losing everything they don't want anything that can be taken away.
I have never seen anything like it. The only word that comes to mind to encompass Goma is dark.
The people for their part were mostly nice. I was stared at a lot but I am used to that. Some went out of their way to say, "bonjour" or show me around. Others fixed me with steely looks. Two women threw rocks at me. I felt vulnerable and out of place by myself, but I was OK.
There was a stark contrast between the refugee camps I saw in Rwanda where everyone was playing soccer and here where there was more of a quiet desperation of people just sitting and staring, shell-shocked.
I went to find out about climbing the active volcano, my goal for the trip. I found that nobody would go up it because rebels have taken over the area. Another plan foiled.
I was tempted to press on with my adventure, but there was such a darkness to this place I knew that could be a death wish. I would have loved to have been there as part of the UN or feeling like I was doing something to help, but alone all I really felt was lawlessness, darkness and fire.
Hopefully I will be able to come back, like I wish for much of Africa, as a journalist or a diplomat. I keep dreaming and praying. Who knows what the future holds but I do know that I am spellbound by this continent.

Democratic Republic of Congo- Take 1

2008-03-04T05:18:00.000-08:00

I have always dreamed of going to the DRC for some inexplicable reason it is a Mecca of sorts for me. Now, I know this is not normal and I know it is one of the most dangerous places in the world, but for some reason, I have always wanted to go.
I finally had my chance. I recruited a friend of mine to come join me. Our plan was to climb the active volcano and track gorillas in the Virunga mountains. My friend Ryan met me in Kabale, southwestern Uganda. I had met him in Kampala and he seemed game for an adventure.
We made arrangements to track the gorillas. When we asked what kind of security we would have, "A jeep full of soldiers" was the reply. We exchanged glances and burst out laughing. Welcome to the big leagues.
That night I got into bed and felt the coldest I have ever been. It was bone-shattering cold. I thought I would never be warm again and that my teeth were going to chatter off.
Ryan gave me his sleeping bag. An hour later I was shaking so hard and nothing he could do could warm me up. I was sleeping on the top bunk and he was on the bottom and my shaking was moving the whole bed.
A few days earlier I had gone on a really long hike and somehow my trusty running shoes gave me massive blisters. We figured they went septic (maybe the fact that they were so swollen and pussy and red and I could hardly walk and had shooting pains up my legs had tipped us off, we are almost doctors). So poor Ryan, on his first night with me had to carry me to the "hospital" in the middle of the night. It was closed but he woke up someone in the adjoining house.
I am not sure how far we got with the language barrier but they seemed to get the point once they saw my feet and recoiled in horror. They gave me antibiotics. They got across that I had a really high ever and needed to get into a cold shower to bring it down. This was a slight problem because Kabale suffers from intermittent water availability and that night there was no water.
By this time Ryan was really worried but something shifted in me and I thought everything was hilarious. I was trying to tell him I am not always like this because I thought he might be worried about what he had gotten himself into, but I was laughing too hard at everything.
With an extra body and a sleeping bag as well as a sleeping pill i managed to sleep it off. In the morning I felt like I had been hit by a train. Every muscle in my body was aching. Ryan was great, forcing me to the pharmacy which I wouldn't have done alone, helping me get bandages and beds.
There was no way I was going to miss this DRC trip so we loaded up on pain killers and headed to Kisoro, the border town.
The next day were off to track the mountain gorillas. This is where the problems got big. Had it just been one thing I would have pressed on but with two big things I thought this was a sign from the universe that it wasn't meant to be and I should probably listen to any hunch I might have because going into the DRC is not to be taken lightly.
First of all, my feet still wouldn't fit into my shoes. It was all I could do not to cry as I tried to force them on. Then, we got to the border which is controlled by Tutsi rebels. They decided to up the bribe 100$ to get into the DRC. The money was just too much and we decided to call it off.
Instead, we went on a hike to look for snakes in the Virunga forest- Pythons, Cobras and Green Mambas. It was great to hike through all the Congolese and Ugandan villages. We drank beer and ate food with the villagers. We climbed up and down mountains and got to see a side of their life that was really beautiful and remote. Children ran up to us to hold our hands. Yes, my feet were killing me but I had pain killers and tried to concentrate on the mud homes and corn drying in the sun, women carrying baskets on their heads.
It was only later when were were hiking through the lush forest, ripe with banana leaves shutting out the light and vines carpeting the ground looking for these poisonous snakes and seeing holes they lived in as I tromped through in my flip flops that I realized maybe in the end gorilla trekking would have been safer!

Breaking Rules in Uganda

2008-02-21T02:56:00.001-08:00

It was hard to pull myself away from the tantalizing beat of Kampala nightlife nestled with gentle days in the city, but I finally found myself ready to move on. It is amazing how easy it is to get stuck somewhere, an object at rest definitely stays at rest, especially dreading the stress of travel with a backpack on public transport!
I stood a the side of the road with my pack until a van stopped for me. It was a father and son on their way to work and they kindly offered me a life to the post office where I boarded the post but boudn for Kabale- South Western Uganda.
On the way out we passed a huge billboard that said, "You may WANT nice material things, but you don't NEED HIV, say no to sugar daddys."
We twisted our way out onto the unfolding landscapes of tropical Ugnada crossing over the line of the equator. I wateched men with their bicycles dripping with pineapples as they rolled by. Antoher man had a goat in a box tied to the back of his bike; it bleated with every pedal.
Next to me was a girl who just finished high school, Sharon. She absolutely insisted I come stay with her and her sister in Kabale. I wanted to buy her something to eat at a stop and turned to give her a mango only to find she had bought me a biscuit. Not wanting her to spend money on me, I bought roasted bananas and was countered with meat on a stick. That is where I had to admit defeat. I consider myself to be an adventurous eater. Trying new foods is one of my favorite things to do. Plus it would be rude to refuse, but it was liver and I hate liver. I tried it in Kenya and had to choke down every bite as each mouthful seemed to ooze toxins and blood. She smiled and handed me this liver on a stick, cold with a greenish tinge and I had to refuse. I just couldn't do it.
I arrived in Kabale, walked into the hostel and saw that starting the next day was a class for journalists. I asked the owner about it, wondering if I could sit in and the next day I found myself in front of 20 Ugandan journalists and international journalist hopefuls teaching an intro to journalism course! The amount of answers I made up to their questions makes me a little suspicious of all the teachers I have had (though of course none of the esteemed ones that might be reading this now), the words just sort of come out of the mouth. But in all fairness, I remembered quite a few nuggets of information gleaned in between surfing the internet and checking emails in class (not yours).
The response from the class was really great and I have to laugh at the random places I wind up when I travel.
Sharon, the girl from the bus who invited me to come to her come seemed disappointed I didn't come stay with her. I felt bad but I needed to be alone for a bit. The next day we met up and she took me to her house.
Her home was typical of what I have found in Africa: concrete, one room with half sectioned off behind a curtain for sleeping everyone in one bed. There are always old calendars hanging on the walls and pieces of newspaper cover the concrete. There are usually religious quotes and pictures as well as posters of babies and puppies (I can't explain it but it's true for almost every house I have been in). There were no posters in Sharon's house but there were the typical hard cahirs with covering of crushed velvet, hers were gold. Cloth doilies are always placed over the furniture. Of course there is no electricty or running water and the toilet is a hole outside.
There was nothing unusual about her house. It was clean and friendly and I have been in many like it, but I felt horribly guilty. I felt this distance between us, that I lead a life with opportunities she will never experience. I did nothing to deserve my life and it is likely she is a better person than me.
More disturbing was the sudden distance between us. It felt like a thick line that can never be crossed, despite all the preaching that we are all the same. I do believe we are all the same but that isn't enough. That gulf cannot be crossed. I wanted to give her something, anything- my fleece, money, I don't know, but I didn't know if it would offend her. The silence between our worlds became too loud so I made an excuse to go back to my hostel. I'm not proud of it, but that is what I did. I didn't know what else to do.
When I travel I encounter so many situations that I am unprepared for. From hitchiking to the black market, language barriers to a lovely young girl's house, there are so many situations, some dangerous and others heartbreakingly kind and generous, where I don't know what to do with myself. Rules don't seem to apply.

Remembering Why I Travel (Uganda)

2008-02-21T02:41:00.000-08:00

Sometimes all I need is a muddy market under the stars to find my way back to myself. I was overwhelmed after a rough week, questioning what I was doing as I transitioned back into the backpacking world. I felt completely alone and unsure until I stepped out fo the confines of my hostel and into the thick Kampala evening air.
I wandered down the street and found myself in some back marketplace on the outskirts of the city. I settled down into a plastic chair behind a plastic table cozied into the mud, a beer in one hand and a street-food delicacy of meat on a stick in the other. A few stars peaked tentatively through Kampala's pollution as darkness revealed the life throbbing in the market.
Women with babies on their backs navigated the piles of garbage, mud and chocolate-milk water. Kids teneded to the family businesses- sitting on blankets with piles of startling red tomatoes, onions and shoes.
Men grilled meat, fried bananas and chapati as all the smells swirled through the air like juice through a twisty straw.
In one of the semi-permanent wood shops down the line a 10 inch TV showed a soccer game in scratchy black and white as men congregated around it in their plastic chairs. Along my table locals came to say hello and ask what a mzungu was doing there. We passed a bowl of fried grasshoppers around as a bar snack in lieu of peanuts. People came to thank me for coming to the area and to tell me that I am, "most welcome."
More beers watched the world go by with me as people brought me more food to taste.
There are few wheelchairs in Africa and even fewer wheel-chair accessible areas so people who can't walk will buy flip flops and put their hands in them, using them to drag themselves along through mud, garbage and crowds of people's feet. It always breaks my heart, imagine all day scuffling along without anyone to even look into your eyes as they step over you.
A man like this was dressed in a suit, the navy blue sleeves skimming through piles of garbage. He pulled himself up to the table I was at. I bought him and myself some steaming french fries (chips) wrapped, as usual, in someone's old math homework on notebook paper.
Tropical beats of Ugandan music began to drown out the socer fans as we sat without speaking. Maybe it is hard to travel the way I do, but I trael more to meet people than to see sights, and traveling alone I have opportunities I would never have if I always took solace in other travelers. If I was with someone else then the woman I met on the bus never would have invited me to come stay with her. I would never meet half the people I do along the way.
Yes, I spend more time lost than found, but when it comes down to it, don't we all? It is scary and lonely sometimes, well, a lot of the time. But in the end, I know traveling this way is the most powerful way to travel. It gets me under the skin of a culture- blisters and all.
I absent-mindedly scratched the goat that was sniffing at my shoe on the back and remembered why I travel the way I do.

Transitions

2008-02-07T02:37:00.000-08:00

It really hit me how different the tourist route is in Africa to living there. It is like a completely different continent. I got my first taste of tourist Africa in Tanzania. It was a harder transition than you would imagine. It was difficult to leave behind Kenya. I feel very close to the situation and there was something wrong going on a safari when I was worried about pople i have met running away from machete-wielding gangsters. My phone was stolen on my last day in Nairobbery so nobody could reach me and I had no numbers. It makes it feel like a definitive ending to that stage of my life; definitive albeit abrupt.

It is strange to travel on the tourist track where the only locals you meet are the ones there to serve you. At the same time I noticed how closed-off I have become. My mom was open and receptive to people and I was far more suspicious as a girl traveling alone in a part of the world where many people you encounter just want a visa to your country and seem to think you have some influence in getting one for them. Too many marriage proposals and inappropriate touching have left me wary and with a steely exterior (or so I would like to imagine) that I never thought someone as sentimental, nostalgic, naive and who falls in love as easily as I do would ever attain.

It was hard for me to relax inot this luxury that most people in Africa will never experience. But as hard as that was, it was also difficult to transition back to the dorms and nasty hotels that seem to give you crabs just by looking at the sheets once my mom left.

I had my first real breakdown when my mom came. I adapted so quickly as I always tend to do (coming home is always more difficult). Things that would make most westerners stop and stare quickly fade into a real of disinterested normality. But seeing some of it from my mom's eyes: the poverty, traffic, women with everything on their heads, Masai clothing, speers, guns, people peeing on the street, the filth, etc., brought a new dimension to what I am doing.

For the first time it really hit home how dangerous what I am doing really is. I am a girl alone in Africa traveling in such a cheap and haphazard way. I am lost more than not and bumble about by the grace of friendly locals who take pity on me. I have met locals and military personell who tell me I am crazy and they would never do what I am doing. That doesn't make me feel very warm and fuzzy inside.

So I ws stressed with the reality of what I'm doing which suprised me because up until the day my mom arrived I was feelign so confident and at home in my travels.

Then when my mom left I was devastated. Being alone is always much more difficult after being with someone you care about so much. Another thing I realized was that I was a little jealous of my mom going home, not because I want to go home yet but because she has a home to go back to. I realized I couldn't go back, even if I wanted too. I don't have a life in the U.S. anymore. I have no house, no job, and no job prospects.

So I am trying to get back into my confident traveler ways but it is shaky.
The airlines losing my luggage on my flight to Uganda did not help. I write this now and it still has not turned up 6 days later and I still have nothing but the clothes on my back (and 2 shirts and one pair of underwear I purchased). Why have I not bought more you ask? Maybe a comb, a pair of pants? Because I would rather go to the dentist or hang out in a sewer than go shopping at home. Then add in the bargaining, the pickpockets, the hassel, the confusion, the crowds and the craziness of shopping Africa and it is my idea of a living hell. But with shopping in Kampala I don't have to decide between going and hanging out in a sewer or shopping because one pretty much runs through the market. Ah, the airfreshner of Africa.
Now I have to face yet another transition- one from almost-resident and working to aimless traveler. I miss feeling like I am a part of this continent, not just floating by. Also, the backpacking community that I loved so much when I was younger now seems liek a shallower way to travel, people flocking to people who are similar to them, a diluted spritzer of Africa instead of a fresh gulp. But still, backpackers see much more than the typical tourist. I am also aware that when I find someone to travel with I can do so much more than I can on my own. I can't go to more risky places, out at night or take more chances by myself so it is good to meet up with poeple to get in trouble with.
So another transition, I am sure there will be many more to come.

Safari (Tanzania)

2008-02-07T02:19:00.000-08:00

Traveling with my mom was amazing. It was nice to not be alone and I saw a whole different world of travel, the way that most people travel! It was more luxury than I have ever experienced in my life.
We started out safari at Lake Manyara, Tanzania. We had a whole safari jeep to ourselves, cruising aroudn and looking at hippos, flamingos, zebras, elephants, giraffes, gazelles and impalas. We were able to stand up on the seats and look out over the open roof as the landscape flew by. My favorite were the families of baboons that we got up very close too.
We stayed in an incredible hotel with meals served to us in courses. This was quite different than my staple of avacado on bread for my 2 daily meals.
The next day it was off to Ngorongoro crater. We were greeted by the same animals from the day before but also by rhinos, buffallos, wildabeasts, heartbeasts, hyenas, jackals and ostritches. We saw a cheeta make a kill, though it was from so far away it just looked like a streak of dust. The whole time I was saying I wanted to see something kill something like you do on animal planet.
The next day we stopped at Oldavi Gorge where the Leakeys did their work. Then we headed to the famous Serengeti, driving through the wildabeast migration, wildabeasts speckling the grasses as far as I could see.
We stayed at a "Mobile Luxury Camp" which made me ecstatic because it was just like in the movies. I never wanted to leave.
We had campfires at night and were guarded by 2 Masai guys who became my friends and loved my attempts to talk with them in Kiswahili. I have a strange vocabulary which leads people to believe that it is bigger than it actually is which can get me into trouble. I did try to throw one of their speers and they are much heavier than you would think.
At the end of our trip one of the Masai guys (the one that would yell out my name and hello every time he passed our tent and we would yell back and forth in Kiswahili) asked for my number. I mention this only because of the mental picture I got when I tried to imagine how a conversation on the phone with him might go.
"So, what are you doing?"
"Oh you know, just hanging out on the Serengeti in my Masai robes protecting my gotes and cattle from lions with my speer. You know, the uz."
Our first night at the camp we were woken up by lions which, contrary to popular belief don't roar as much as they groan. Still, it was a new experience to be woken up by lions outside your tent.
As we ate our first-class meals, elephants, giraffes and zebras would casually wander by.
We got really close to all the animals we saw in the Serengeti. We saw lots of lions including one with her cubs. We saw a cheeta and her tiny flufball babies as they were eating a fresh kill. Saying goodbye to the Serengeti was hard, but then we were off to Zanzibar.
I picked the 2 places with the most exotic names I could think of- Zanzibar and the Serengeti. The names are loaded and leave the tongue heavy with spice and anticipation as the worlds leave your mouth and a sense of mystery at the same time as recognition clash in the air.
Walking around Stonetown, Zanzibar, I could imagine the early pure Swahili beginnings. I was enchanted with the tiny passage ways, eleborate doors and smell of insence.
We stayed at Matemway Beach in the North. The sand was so white that when it was cloudy everything seemed muted, like we were in a snowglobe of sand.
We lounged pool-side and at the beach. We had the most incredible suite full of beachy and whimsical decorative touches as well as airy curves and an open-air second story complete with swinging sky-beds and a view of the beach. We spent our evenings with a glass of white wine on the white beach, sandwiched in a pastel-painting sunset with a carpet of pure-white sand.
Our last day was chaotic in Arusha as I tried to find out if I could go back to Kenya or not and was followed by a really sad goodbye, but oh, what a trip!