Beyond the Shelterbelt

I am Vincible.

2011-09-20T09:56:00.002-04:00

Normally, my body has no problems with travel. Cram me into the smallest seat, feed me the scariest looking food, blast me with air conditioning, steam me with humidity - I typically take it like a champ. Due to my upbringing near the edge of the universe and multitude of hours spent at the mercy of tedious church sermons, I have a preternatural ability to hibernate with my eyes open. And, for the most part, I have been lucky. My body can generally bounce back.

Unfortunately, I knew my luck had to run out eventually. What I didn’t know was that my luck would run out ALL at ONCE, creating Job-like suffering (see mom, I was paying attention) that has hilariously, lasted nearly my entire trip to Rwanda.

First came the cold. The morning I was to get on two trans-continental flights, I woke with a face full of goo. I loaded up on Dayquil, Nyquil, extra soft travel packages of Kleenexes and steeled myself for the hateful glances. No one likes to sit next to Typhoid Mary on the plane; I knew I wouldn’t be making any friends.

But oh, the pain.

Takeoff wasn’t so bad, as I remembered to take Dayquil. But you tend to forget how many hours have passed, and I failed in my timing of the second set of pills (also – does one take Nyquil as it’s 12am at your starting point, or Dayquil, because it’s 6 am at your landing? You tell me). I gave up around the time I was delirious with pain and opted just to cradle my face in my hands. When we finally landed, the nice Ethiopian guy across the way put his hand on my shoulder and said “Would you like a Dayquil?”

Yes, please.

A long hot shower in Amsterdam made me feel human again, as did fishing out the rest of my cold medicine and taking a double dose. I managed to make it to Rwanda without popping an eye.

Three days later, while crouching on the toilet at 4am trying to read an expose of the American Funeral industry (no lie), I would think fondly of that pain. Having emptied my stomach of all its contents, I was at the point where throwing up felt good. At least then I could crawl back to bed and get twenty minutes of sweaty rest before it started all over again. This was not exquisite pain; it was knife-slicing, from my sternum to colon.

I have had food poisoning before, so I knew it was only a matter of time before the worst would pass. So, each time the pain washed over me, I kept calm, counted the seconds and tried to move as little as possible. I made it to 5:00am, and finally fell asleep. I woke up two hours later, knowing I felt better (because hey, at least I rested longer than twenty minutes), but still with intermittent pain. Luckily, it was raining – and Saturday – so I had nothing else to do. The rest of the weekend was dry toast and juice and bad movies, with a healthy dose of antibiotics - which had been waiting at the bottom of my medical kit, blissfully unexpired.

As if that ordeal weren’t enough, I woke up yesterday plagued with bug bites. There’s no bug net to speak of in my hotel room, and I didn’t think much of it, until I realized that due to my earlier illness(es), I had forgone taking any malaria pills (why poke an already upset stomach?). As a result, I may be able to add malaria to my list of ailments. Or bed bugs.

Oh please, don’t let it be bed bugs.

So, right now I sit, covered with cortisone cream and Benadryl, ready to get on a plane for home. I am kind of half expecting another minor calamity; perhaps locusts to fall from the sky, or more realistically – lice from airplane pillows. On the other hand, things come in threes - and I feel like I've met my quota.

Never again will I feel cocky about my ability to go anywhere, eat anything. I get the message, Universe. I am not invincible. As it turns out, I am very, very vincible.

About Skin

2011-02-24T12:17:00.003-05:00

Today, I had a series of conversations with a Rwandan colleague regarding our skin anomalies. I've appreciated getting to know this colleague, and I believe we've reached a level of candor that proves she trusts me, and vice versa. Nonetheless, it's been a learning experience for both of us.

Colleague: Do you have a mosquito net?
Me: Yes.
Colleague: You should use it. Your face looks like it was bitten.
Me: Ah, no, That's a pimple.
Colleague: A pimple?
Me: Yes, a pimple.
Colleague: But you have another one, here (points to forehead).
Me: Yep, that's a pimple, too.
Colleague: Oh.
Me: That's the problem with white skin. Everything shows up. Look at these. (I show her the moles on my arms)
Colleague: Ooo what are those?
Me: Moles
Colleague: Can you put lotion on them and make them fade?
Me: No, not really.
Colleague: (pauses while she thinks about my pockmarked, zit-filled and moley-skin)
Me: (trying not to show her the skin tag on my neck, too)
Colleague: (Thoughtfully) Yes, nothing really shows up on dark skin.
Me: Can we trade?
**********************
Later on, in the car, I notice a nickel-sized scar on her arm.
Me: (touching her arm) What happened here?
Her: I got cut.
Me: You got cut?
Her: Yes, during the genocide.
Me: .......Oh.
Her: Many people were cut, like on their heads and other places.
Me: (kind of wishing we were still talking about my pimples...)
Her: I am lucky.

A Killer Lake = a Killer Weekend

2011-02-20T13:04:00.003-05:00

God bless the internet, it lets me keep in touch with all the great people I've met from around the globe. A woman I met in Sri Lanka two years ago has recently relocated to Rwanda, and we've reconnected while I'm here. In fact, she kindly extended an invitation for me to join her and some friends a Lake Kivu this weekend. Let's hear it for making awesome friends!

Lake Kivu sits between Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. "Kivu" actually means Lake, so the lake is effectively called "Lake Lake" (much like East Timor is really called "East East"). There's some remark to be made hear about duplicity in English naming conventions, but I'll let it lay. I'm not sure how big (on what scale) size-wise it is in the world, but it's quite deep and holds the 10th largest island.

But that's not the coolest part - according to our friends at Wikipedia, Lake Kivu is one of the worlds "exploding lakes" . Because it sits on one of Africa's seismic hotspots (the Rift Valley), Lake Kivu is sitting on enormous amounts of volcanic gas - mostly made up of methane and CO2. Scientists are afraid that triggers, such a landslides or seismic shifts, can upset the delicate balance of CO2 in the lake, causing it to reach saturation point and one day release enormous clouds of the stuff into the air. (It's happened two other times - in different lakes). As we've learned from climate change 101, massive amounts of carbon dioxide, of course, are suffocating. So far, nearly 2,000 people have died from other lakes - the time is ticking on Lake Kivu (which has many, many more people living around it).

Luckily, none of this happend while we were there. But still, the concept of a killer lake is pretty cool.

There are may points on the lake for visitors, but we chose to stay in Kibuye. The drive from Kigali is about two hours, on good - but windy and mountainous - roads. We left the capital city and found our way north-west, past mud homes chiselled into the hills, scraggly maize plants fighting for height, and streams of pedestrians. The weather has been hazy, with intermittent showers that kick up pollen (causing my nose to go haywire), but the sun peeked out now and again, welcoming us up north.

The lake itself is a deep teal, and surrounded by steep hills (much like all of Rwanda!). I hear there are beaches in Gisenyi, another point along the lake, but in Kibuye the shores are rocky, and covered in what looks like white-washed volcanic stones. The weather is cloudy, grey, but still warm - and still better than Minnesota.

We arrived mid-afternoon at the Bethane Presbyterian Lodge. For $10 a night, we each got a lockable room, twin bed, commode toilet, clean towels and a mosquito net. While waiting out (another) intermittent (and hardpouring) rainstorm, we had a late lunch (fish kebab and chips) and some enormous Primus beers. After the rain lifted, we wandered down to the shore and hired a boat to take us out to Amhoro ("Peace") Island, where we met Mama Josephine, and had sundowner beers on the beach. (I also got chased by a cow).

Dusk fell like a fleece blanket, warm and comforting. Too cloudy for stars, we hung on to the receding sunset, chatting and thinking about life. After the last light had leeched from the day, we headed back to the Bethane, lulled by the dull roar of the outboard motor.

More beer and some public readings of "Auntie's Guide to Being an Obedient Wife" left us in stitches until bedtime (some highlights include: 'don't mess with Rastas' and 'All young women are shameful'.) In the morning, we had continental breakfast on the terrace (during another intermittent rainstorm). After breakfast, we explored the other areas around the Lake and had lunch at the Cormoran Lodge. We were back in Kigali in time to catch some late afternoon weekend sun at the (normally non-lethal) pool.

Rwanda part deux

2011-02-15T16:18:00.002-05:00

This will come to no surprise as avid readers, but I'm back in Rwanda. I kind of stopped posting about my travels, mid-to-end of last year - when my life stopped resembling a 'life" and more like a pinball machine of the African continent.

Although its had its ups and downs, my job continues to surprise and invigorate me - as well as as frustrate and abuse me. I guess it's not unlike any other long-term relationship; there are hard times, but you stick it out because overall, it's a stable, mutually beneficial relationship.

I was kind of on the fence about coming back to Rwanda this time mostly because a) last time was so ridiculously stressful, and b) I'm kind of over the hard-work thing. But then I land here and I deplane - right onto the tarmac just like in the movies - and the rainy fog envelopes me, rich and heady with the smell of lush greenery. I'm hooked, again. I'm a user. I'm addicted to - travel? Africa? I'm addicted to something, because I keep finding the energy to come back.

I'm not sure if I'm world-weary (or even old enough to be world weary?), but I'm certainly not as excited about things as I used to be. The bloom is off the rose, so to speak. I hate that that would be the case, because life is so fully of interesting and unique experiences, who am I to grow tired of them? But I am. I'm tired of those crappy airplane meals, working out in hotel rooms and not being what anyone every expected of me - and not what I expected of myself.

These feelings keep coupling with the thought - when will my life start? Today, I walked onto the verandah during a massive downpouring rainstorm, and watched people struggle uphill getting soaked, thinking "Where is the beginning? When does my story begin? When will my life have meaning?"

I admit, this probably sounds ridiculous to most people. From the outside, I'm sure it seems like my life has taken a roaring jump. And, even in writing it, it sounds like something a person of privelige (and anxiety) would thing about. But I can't shake this sense that I'm still waiting around for something.

I don't know. I don't know when life becomes habit. I'm not sure where my biographer would pick up my storyline - if at all. I am happy with my life here, now. I have interesting friends. I go interesting places. I do interesting work. I don't see what the "more" might be - but it's out there, lurking. And for now, I don't know what I'm waiting for, but I'm a bit bored for it to show up.

Some General Observations

2011-02-06T09:52:00.002-05:00

Some general observations about being my current age:

being comfortable in my own skin
being painfully aware of the "should's" - be married/have kids/house/career
old enough to get drunk with South African miners...
smart enough to leave before things get rowdy
young enough to remember child-like joy, only now over a delicious cup of coffee
young enough not to have been anywhere when Kennedy was shot
old enough to realize the new Kennedy question is where you were on 9/11
old enough to remember when the most sophisticated thing on a computer was "Word Munchers" and "Oregon Trail"
young enough that my mom expects me to know how HTML
old enough to suspect that everything I'm going through is only new to me
realizing the universe will more me forward anyway, just like it has everyone else
having time only for really superb people
forgetting about people who aren't
wearing sunscreen
eating lucky charms and watching cartoons on Saturday morning
while simultaneously rebalancing my retirement portfolio online
remembering to check the air pressure in my tires
worrying about my parents age
being able to dance until dawn but realizing, There Will Be Consequences
paying my own way
having "my drink"
fielding embarassing, inappropriate questions. All the time.
really, really, really empathizing with Bridget Jones
laughing continously, mercifully and un-, at myself
having people wonder what is wrong with me
half-heartedly wondering myself
wise enough to value time sitting still
while still itching to keep moving, growing, learning and conquering

Failure

2011-01-20T20:26:00.002-05:00

My friend Julia gave me a one-a-day desk calendar for Christmas. It has inspirational quotes. She has the same one; the idea being that when we would read the daily quote, we'd not only feel inspired, but also think of each other. Nice, huh? She's like that.

Anyway, so far it's worked. However, something happened on Tuesday morning which made me pause for more than thought. Tuesday's quote was:

"Failure is Impossible" ~Susan B. Anthony.

No offense to Ms. Anthony, but I was not inspired. In fact, I immediately thought of cases where failure itself was not only possible, but giant, flame-loads of it had come shooting out of my ears. Some work assignments I've had this past year. That time I moved to Japan. My last relationship.

In fact, sometimes, I'm pretty sure I'm walking around with a big FAIL on my forehead.

Then I thought about it awhile longer: perhaps that failure was only IN my head, not on it. When I reflected on my percieved failures, I see upsides. I _love_ Japanese food. Because of my year, I have earned an ease with chopsticks and sushi houses that amazes (or intimidates?) a string of terrible dates. I've learned a slew of things that, without failure, would've never known.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the times I've truly failed, were actually, kind of, WINS. I guess I can see what Ms. B is driving at - failure IS impossible depending on your perception.

So, while I still disagree, perhaps her quote just needs to be tweaked a little bit:

"Failure is necessary". ~Mtanga.

////Tomorrow I'm hoping for a less thoughtful, more instructive quote, such as "Don't eat that entire jar of pickled asparagus." In which case, though, it might be too late.

Stickin' It To The Scale

2010-12-27T21:04:00.002-05:00

Returning from Zambia/Washington DC, I vowed to get my life back on more of a "regular" schedule. It may be just my personal outlook, but spending a month sipping (draining?) g&t's and inhaling carbohydrates is more therapeutic than healthy. So, upon returning home, I made a conscious effort to eat better, take some more challenges classes at the gym (spin, zumba, etc) and hopefully, lose a little weight.

Initially, I was pretty excited. I arrived home energized, loving my new classes. I felt strong, capable, empowered. It didn't matter that I didn't know the steps. I danced in between a barefoot pregnant woman and an octogenarian. They didn't care; I didn't care. My butt didn't look as good as the guy in the spandex pants during spin class, but what did it matter? I was sweating too much. And I had a stupid grin on my face the whole time.

I thought for SURE that my new found joy would find its translation on the scale.

Ahem.

So, what did it matter? Why was I so upset by this? I still had access to the sauna. That dude in the spandex pants' butt still looked pretty good.

But I began noticing (re-realizing?) that I am a terrible dancer. The spin instructor plays Coldplay - for everything, even the uphill parts (seriously? who gets energized by "Yellow"?) Then it snowed. I got a blister. Who can haul themselves to the gym when the couch is such an appealing option?

"What is the point?" I groused to a friend, "If I watch what I eat, I stay the same. If I eat whatever I want, I stay the same. I'm staying on the couch."

My friend replied not unsympathetically: "What are you doing trying to lose weight during the Holidays anyways? Do you like being set up for disappointment?"

During one particularly snowy weekend on the couch, I rented a documentary entitled "America: The Beautiful". It was about the extreme lengths that American women go to - from plastic surgery to injecting ourselves with known poisons. The lose storyline followed a young girl, a super-model at 12 who by 14 was CONVINCED she was ugly. At six feet tall, pug-nosed, blue eyed, dark skinned, she is the closest thing to 'gazelle-like' I can imagine. It was absolutely heartbreaking to watch.

As I put two-and-two together, I realize that its not the scale's fault that I've begun a long-term relationship with my couch. We all start out so blissfully unaware - of our beauty, our capability, even our joy. Then someone or something comes along and we let it tell us otherwise.

And I don't like being told what to do. Even (especially?) by inanimate objects.

Reverse self-psychologizing? You bet.

I'm not about to run out and replace my diet with candy and fried chicken (fried chicken candy? am I onto something here?) but I'm through beating myself up over an inanimate object. I enjoyed Christmas and all its offerings, guilt-free. I am not in danger of becoming morbidly obese from some Dove chocolates. Especially in the "post-Christmas" season when every commercial makes it sound like you're one step away from the Biggest Loser, I think its important to keep reminding ourselves of this.

Do what you love. At the risk of riffing from Michael Pollan's tagline brevity; "eat some, move some more, mostly cardio."

Tonight I went to the gym and ignored the scale like all the cat hair in my car. Tomorrow, I will be back dancing next to that barefoot pregnant woman.

Then I will have chex-mix for dinner.

///and be allllllright.

The Meaning of Christmas

2010-12-24T09:57:00.002-05:00

Last night, after all the toddlers and babies and grandparents and sisters and brothers-in-law went to bed, I sat as I normally do: by myself, in the dark, quietly soaking in the lights of the Christmas tree. I was tired - it's been a long year - but got to thinking about the Meaning of Christmas.

The Meaning of Christmas is:

listening to kids at the mall
paying $9.99 to see Santa (??)
watching any and everything being turned into That "Perfect" Gift (a roadside sign on the way home: Give the only gift with taste - a Subway Gift card!....) (sheeesh)
an enormous. exhausting emotional investment
wondering why you and your sister can get along perfectly in your own houses, but the moment you're back at your parents, everything she does is annoying.
seeing old friends and laughing until soup comes out your nose
being hopeful for the new year
Feeling guilty, fat and/or alone - atleast once, however briefly. Perhaps all three. Hopefully not on Christmas eve.
Dealing with it, as a matter of course. Just because it's Christmas, doesn't mean life isn't happening.
witnessing your family growing and changing
taking crazy photobooth photos at the mall with your dad
finally having an occasion to wear those tacky socks
Andy Williams
expecting to relax
being surprisingly irritated - at bad drivers (do they get worse at Christmas, or is it just me?) or at everybody
finding room to forgive yourself for real or imagined flaws
giving that same grace to everyone else (including those wicked drivers..)
letting it ride
Bailey's
seeing everyone around the beautifully decorated Christmas table for one more year, the same way we've done it for the past 31 years, and wondering what the next year will be like.

Motivation. Aka - Get Out of the Pajamas.

2010-12-19T13:04:00.003-05:00

In a (literal) flurry 17" of snow, Winter arrived last week - and its here to Stay. Like an unruly houseguest, winter has muscled its way into our communities and households, sucking up street space, eating all the best food and refusing to replace the toilet paper. In its wake, it will leave chapped lips, cracked cuticles, static-y hair and runny noses.

Worst of all, Winter takes away all my motivation. Aside from my need to consume thick calorie-laden carbohydrates and sleeping in/then wearing my long johns to work, there's not much I can get excited about. In fact, the only thing that is productive in the wintertime is my cough.

Christmas distractsfor a little while by "requiring" me to purchase shiny things and shiny wrapping paper and create more gooey carbohydrates to eat, but that -at best- is only a temporary fix. There should be an interim holiday in January - like "You're Not Even Close to Being Done but Here's a Mandatory Visit to Jamaica Anyway" holiday. Yeah, I like that.

Two weeks ago, I was coming off a terrific trip to Washington DC (where there was no snow, by the way). I came back re-energized, ready to move into 2011 with new ideas and hope. Was it the sunshine? All the walking? Or was it just not feeling like a crusty, chapped, white blob ...? In DC, one can wear cute winter hats and leather gloves - not the enormous, sexless Russell pants with sweater mittens and fleece-lined bras. Perhaps its simply the wardrobe, or perhaps it was residule Vitamin D from my November trip to Zambia.

Perhaps I should make peace with Winter - play with it a little. But playing with winter is a little like playing with a fuzzy kitten who needs its claws cut. Sure, you may get a few nice cuddles and laughs out of it, but eventually your couch will be shredded, there will be hair everywhere and you'll both feel bad.

It's time for winter to go back to the pound. For now, I'll settle on getting out of my pajamas and making a cup of hot cocoa. Now THAT'S a winter tradition that I can wrap my hands around.

Fabulous October

2010-11-14T14:14:00.002-05:00

I've falled lax on the blog lately, mostly over issues of privacy, but also because it's been a whirlwind. I got back from Malawi, thrown back into work facefirst, was offered a fantastic job.... and turned it down.

In lieu of working my butt off, I enjoyed every second outside I could - and ended up having a wonderful two months in a fabulous Minnesota fall. I hit my mileage goal on my bike, so in 6 months time I'll (hopfeully) have a fab new road bike. I caught up with old friends. I fell off a horse (twice!) and got back up (twice!)

There's nothing like doing all the things you normally can't, to make you truly truly appreciate them.

Calculated Risks

2010-09-27T21:32:00.007-04:00

Lately, I've been thinking about calculated risks. Twice in the last week I've found myself walking down a dark street escorted by a perfect stranger. Both were dates, and both distances quite short. However, it has gotten me thinking.

The first incident was through an area of town where a friend of mine had been held up at gun point (twice!). We were walking from a cultural center to well-known diverse street with alot of fun and ethnic restaurants. The distance was about six blocks. I expressed my reservations to said date, mentioning my friend and feeling silly the whole time, and he didn't think it was a big deal.

Quickly, I weighed the alternatives - get into car with said stranger (um, that's a big NO) or both get in our cars and drive the six blocks (seemed silly; wasteful). I did this so quickly, in fact, that I didn't even realize it. So, I caved and we walked. Strangely enough, I wasn't worried about said date (he was, as I would later describe to Dave and Susan, 'kind of a marshmallow"), I was more worried about the neighborhood and who we may encounter.

I don't know if said date thought I was being petulant and spoiled by not wanting to walk through a diverse (and also poorly lit - and did I mention it was RAINING?) neighborhood looking for a cute little hole in the wall. I also don't know why I didn't further elucidate on my discomfort about walking in the neighborhood with a perfect stranger. Looking back on it now, I realize that I didn't want him to think that just because the neighborhood was diverse (ie we were the only white people around) that I felt unsafe. Which is, of course, a stupid and dangerous assumption.

The fact of the matter is that I felt unsafe because I felt unsafe. Full stop.

I'm not going to go much deeper in the socio-economic disparity and race gap, because what I've been thinking about the past few days hasn't centered so much on that, but on realizing something very important:

Men do not appear to think very much about situational safety.

I find this not only unfair, but also sad.

When the second guy led me through a parking garage (which give me the heebies anyway) and acrossed a parking lot, it dawned on me again:

Men just clearly don't think about the situations in the same way that women do. That is, as potential danger zones.

(Also, I need to stop letting men lead me down dark alleyways....)

But I digress. It's not like I freak out and head home immediately after sundown (and one friend put to me - "You've shot guns in Rwanda, I think you can handle THIS"). But rather, as a woman, I take calculated risks all the time. I think about where I park in a parking lot (under a lamppost). I check the backseat of my car before I get into it. I hate it when people walk close behind me (this amuses my boss to no end, who often walks in behind me at work in the mornings.) I stop, pretend to fiddle with something in my bag, and let whomever it is pass me.

I think that smart women, who don't want to be easy targets, think about these things. It doesn't have to rule your life, but you don't have to be a sitting duck either. It takes but a second to park under a lamppost or decide to take a well-lit route rather than ignore that little voice in the back of your head.

But I can still begrudge my male counterparts who don't need - and don't appear - to take these few moments out of their day. And when their unobservance puts me in an awkward situation, I get irritated. I'm irritated that they don't have to think about it and that because of this, they don't really think of it at all. In the end, this leaves me with having to be my own safety advocate, and live with what they may or may not think of me because of it.

And to me, its just maddening that we live in a world where one group of people have to take a few moments to ensure safety, and another group can walk blithely along thinking that a dark alley looks like a good shortcut to dinner, wondering: What the heck is wrong with her?

The Art of Learning New Places

2010-08-07T05:08:00.005-04:00

I woke up this morning and couldn't believe that I was still in Malawi. I can't believe that I've been here this long (and this short) and how much I've learned (and still have left to learn). Much of this learning is work related, but some of it is just the plain old every day knowledge needed to be comfortable - to live- while I'm here.

This apartment wouldn't be so bad if I were staying here for say, three months, and could make an investment in making in "homey". It has four walls and a roof, doors that lock, and is dry. It has a flush toilet. Linens, a bathtowel. It has a kitchen, with some pots and utensils. It has a refrigerator. There is also a woman that comes in a cleans my dishes, makes my bed and sweeps every day.

Because it's an apartment, I'm assuming there is some sort of automous living that should be happening. I'm down with autonomous living, but I'm unsure of what the expectations are. In a hotel, it's easy - everything is taken care of, and that's what you pay for. If it was as true apartment, I'd do everything myself. But in this pseudo-aparto/hotel complex, I'm confused as to what this cleaning lady provides and what I'm supposed to take on myself. For example, toilet paper. It's been getting dangerously low, and, not one to wait around for someone to rescue me, have taken it upon myself to keep my privates clean. But then I find myself thinking, it is really strange to be sent half way around the world and still have to buy your own (may I say substandard) toilet paper.

The longer I stay there the more I find missing, and the more I'm not sure what I need to provide and what is provided. Not major stuff, but little things that make a difference -like dishtowels, or handsoap. Soap is cheap and easy to buy, but should I have to invest in a dishtowel? In fact, I looked into it, but it seemed dumb to invest $5 in a set of dishtowels that I didn't need longer than three weeks, and wouldn't take back with me. So I used the curtains. Then I got the bright idea to steal a dishtowel from the kitchen at work. Not so bad, but I'm not certain it has been washed in the last month. (I figure it's better than the curtains).

While I'm on the subject of towels - I'm not sure if I'm an especially dirty person, but after one week of using the bathtowel it has started to SMELL. I mean, like body odor and dirt and mold and nastiness. I used it on my face last night and smelled myself for the next three hours. GROSS. I'm confused by this, because as I said before there is a woman that comes in every day. She has changed the sheets on my bed - so what about the towel? Last night I resorted to using my kanga (beach wrap) and left the cleaning lady a note this morning that I think I saw a mushroom patch growing out of the towel and can she please provide a clean one thank you very much. What that out of line? I'm not sure, but I took the toilet paper, she can take the towel.

And the apartment itself comes with its own interesting kinks to work out as well. I get that in most countries outside the US that you need to flip a switch to get the hot water heater running - but it would be _helpful_ if that switch had a label (and was in the bathroom, as opposed to say, the living area). There is also a switch to the stove, which took me a long time to figure out (and almost aborted a friday night cooking marathon). Most interestingly, there is a card slot for the cable box, which sometimes trips, leaving you with only one all Malawian television station. Although I only get four viable channels on cable (the rest being 40 channels devoted to ESPN's Cricket coverage in Sri Lanka), this made my heart palpatate until I figured it out. (You have to remove the card, which has as SIM like device embedded into it and insert it back into the cable box).

It's similar for the wireless connection - everything is done by top up cards. I spent a frustrating evening trying to set up a login/password online when what I really needed to do was go by a top-op card. Which is also difficult to do, by the way, because the apartment is not within walking distance to any marketplace, nor the office. I went to buy a top up card, and was charged the price of units plus a surcharge. I thought I was getting ripped off until someone explained to me that the price doesn't equal the units you buy (as it does it most places).

There's also various amounts of "wildlife" around my apartment. The first night, it was the dog(s). I've written before about the feral dogs in Malawi and, in fact, my old coworker was bit by a dog when in Malawi (as well as one of my friends - Hi Kim!) so I am very careful around them. Most places keep them as guard dogs; my place being no different. Except the dog is tied up RIGHT behind my back door. He's been pretty good ever since (if you like having a feral dog outside your door), but last night I was actually awoken by a dog FIGHT outside my street. It sounded like Cujo and his buddies were taking on a pack of wolves. Strangely, I wasn't really concerned about it, but man. Welcome to Malawi.

There are also huge blackbirds. I thought nothing of them until I woke up one morning hearing what I thought were rats or wild cats on the roof. With most rooves in nice places made of aluminum (you see grass out in the bush), sound travels easily. I heard a very heavy large claws scratching their way across the ceiling. Not being able to fathom how cats could get up there (I've seen few of them) and unwilling to contemplate the rats, I've decided it must be the blackbirds. They are enormous, and have ready access to the roof. From time to time (both at the apartment and the office) I hear them land and scrape their way across the roof. I wish I was a braver person, and had a bb gun, or a broom. Mostly I just hope they don't take my lunch.

Most times, I take these things in stride. A dispassionate traveler, I realize that this is all temporary. As an employee though, I find three and a half weeks is a long time to be inconvenienced - harder still to focus on work when you smell like a rotten towel. I'm reticent to share my troubles with the staff, as they are so solicitous towards my overall comfort, and I've relied on them (I hope) sparingly to explain the mysteries I couldn't figure out on my own.

Mostly, I laugh and shake my head. I've got so much more than most people here, it's shameful to even compare. If the electricity goes out (which it does), I've got two hours of laptop battery for movies and a flashlight for books. If I get sick (which I have), I've got medecine. Keeping things in perspective, this too shall pass. And the perks, while I sit in my spare apartment, is that it makes me desire my new townhouse even more, and dream about all the decorating possibilities.

Inclusive of matching dishtowels :)

Back to Malawi

2010-07-31T07:31:00.004-04:00

I am currently in Malawi. It's winter here, which means it's chilly, but not freezing. The sunshine (when it's shining) reminds me of early fall in Minnesota, and I half expect to see the leaves changing. I'm taking this as practice, for when I return to Minnesota, "real fall" will be upon me very quickly. Today was cloudy in Lilongwe, but sunny and warm by the lake.

I'm here for work, which is unsurprising to the careful reader by now. It's a promotion of sorts, but feels like an exile. Either way, it's different from the last time I was here, (2006), as a graduate student. That was for three months, this trip is for three weeks. I find that I've come back just a little too late to find my old friends here, although our public haunts still exist (Chez Ntemba, Buchanan's, Harry's bar (although it's moved...)

There are some new buildings (namely, the new Parliament built by the Chinese) and old favorites (Four Season's). There are more advertisements, more cell phone kiosks, and more banks than I remember. The people are still friendly, warm and laugh when they don't understand you, laugh when they do, and well, laugh in general. There is still so much need, but this time I feel more mature, more equipped to handle it.

This time I come back alone, but with more courage. Today I rented a car and drove out to Lake Malawi, weaving between goats and bicyclists, avoiding the steep drop off where the pavement has eroded. I sat in the exact spot I was four years ago, contemplating nearly the same things: life, love, change and kids playing in the waves. Everything feels different, but exactly the same.

Which leaves me wondering - did I ever really leave this place at all? Do we ever, I mean, leave the places we once inhabited? I might have to get another G&T to contemplate that.

Paying for It

2010-07-25T11:13:00.002-04:00

I recently came across this article from the Foreign Policy blog. Apparently, the French parliament is currently debating a bill that would hold French tourists financially responsible for their own rescues should they run into trouble. It seems as though tourists continue to go to places where they are repeatedly warned is dangerous. The article hints that this may have something to do with a spat between French yachter's and Somali pirates off the horn of Africa.

I have a few opinions about this.

First, the pirate issue. Somalia has been without a functioning goverment for NEARLY 20 YEARS. And, last time I checked, if you are sailing around Africa, you have to go by the Somali coast. Geographically, your options are to continue on or turn around. (You may also go out into deeper waters where the pirates can't get you, but not being a sailor I'm not sure if this was an option for the yachter's). A person can be warned all they want, but if you need to get around Africa, a simple warning isn't going to magically rearrange the Somali coast for you. (Please don't get me started on those ridiculous travel warnings. I think Kansas is probably on there by now. I mean, they might gain more traction if they weren't so busy peddling fear.)

Secondly, did you catch the part about Somalia being without a government for nearly 20 years? It seems to me that the French yachters, by being forced to pay their own rescue costs, are being penalized for a failed state, which to me, should be dealt with on a state level. Why are citizens paying for the lack of action on the part of their state? Isn't that a breach in one of the clauses of the social contract?

On the flip side, there will _always_ be stupid tourists that think that the host government's rules don't apply to them. They will wander whereever they want, smoke/drink whatever they want, fornicate with whatever they want, and think they'll somehow get off the hook. (Case in point: I went to a salon/massage place in Lilongwe this weekend and there was very prominent signage that said "Massages requested to become sexual in nature will not be tolerated and the police will be called." Ew. Could you imagine having to put up a sign like that in a salon in the US? Never.) Even though it pains me to say this, however, I still believe that even they are not exempt from the social protection (they should stay away from me, however).

It sounds as though that, if passed, there will be concessions made for folks like me, who "have to" travel to weird and wicked places for work. But even if this law is meant to "discourage" adventure tourists from taking off to do crazy shit (did you hear about the guy on a tourist visa in Pakistan hunting down Osama Bin Laden?), I have two comments: 1) realistically, what percentage of the population are we talking about and 2) if they are already crazy enough to hunt down Osama bin Laden on their own, and a travel warning didn't stop them, do you really think a fine will impede them?

You might want to invest in a Craze-O-Meter instead.

I Know You Read This

2010-07-25T10:49:00.005-04:00

I successfully completed the MS 150, although it rained and was cold the entire time. I'm still a bit shocked that I was able to do it, but also proud. In the end, I raised over my goal, so thanks!

I also received a donation from an old friend, which unearthed a myriad of complicated feelings. I see it forthe nice gesture that it is (thanks) and wish you well, but I want you to know I'm not ready. I'm ok - happy, even - but I'm not ready to forgive.

PS does your pregnant wife know you that you read my blog?

Italia!

2010-07-17T00:14:00.003-04:00

Adventures in Training

2010-05-26T16:04:00.004-04:00

I've recently decided to participate in the MS 150 bike ride, a two-day event to raise money for multiple sclerosis. That's right, over 75 miles a day. I'm not exactly sure why I decided this was a good idea, as my previous daily record is 66 and that was only by the grace of god and a very nice HMF.

So here I am.

Realizing that I may have bitten off more thant I could chew, I decided to actually try trainining for it. Not heavy duty, mind you, but follow a mileage schedule, and atleast get out on a bike every few days.

This would've worked out perfectly, had this little trip to Rwanda not come up.

It being Africa, bikes are plentiful here, but not the type you'd want to spend a long time training on. One gear. No pedals. Shoddily made. Break pads made out of used up tires. I had emailed our country manager before coming, asking if there were spin bikes available at the hotel gym. He didn't know, but he did offer to put me on a specially designed milk bike (to carry up to 40 liters of liquid milk to market) and let me ride around the hills of Kigali.

Um...maybe not.

When I arrived, it turned out the hotel fitness center was closed for renovation.

Me: "Where's all the equipment?" I asked.
Hotel clerk: "Storage,"
Me: "Could you pull out a bike..?"
Clerk: "No madam, it's in storage."
Me: "Are there any other hotels nearby with fitness centers?"
Clerk: "Yes."
Me: "How far?"
Clerk: "You could jog there in 5 minutes."
Me: .......
Me: "Can I use it for free?"
Clerk: "No madam, you'll have to pay $5"
Me: "Could I just jog there and back for free?"
Clerk: .....

I did manage to sneak in to the neighboring gym, under my co-worker's name, using his room number (he took pains to tell me that I couldn't actually stay there with him. That was one weird conversation).

Unfortunately, for all that effort, those bikes were crap. I managed a few piddly workouts, but overall, nothing good.

This week, my female coworker introduced me to her local gym. It has torn up carpet on the floor and no airconditioning, but the spin bikes atleast spin (although their seats leave something to be desired). On Sunday I managed to get in a whopping awesome ride, but I nearly did myself in.

I am a woman of the prairie. Kigali is 5,000 feet above sea-level. My first week, it felt like my wisdom teeth were trying to gnaw their way out my ear drums every morning. It's just one of those things I've noticed when in higher elevations. My body literally DOES NOT COMPUTE. But still, I completely forgot that I wouldn't be nearly as efficient with my oxygen as I normally am, and proceeded to wind myself into stars (and a few stripes). I managed to continue, but received no sympathy from my colleagues at the pool, who pointed out that I hadn't eaten much that day, either.

Ok, so I'm clearly not a training expert.

And then there's the clothing. Bikers aren't exactly known for their loose clothing. Knowing I'd put long hours in, I brought my spandex shorts with the padded crotch but covered myself with an appropriately loose tshirt, thinking this would hide me from prying eyes.

Ha!

Tonight, I wandered into the same gym to meet up with my coworker, who was running late. Unwittingly, I walked into a gym full of African men, who were very pleased to see me (and my spandex shorts!) Not to be deterred, I pretended it was perfectly normal for a mazungu women to be wearing next to nothing in a room of men, marched directly over to the bike, and let it kick my ass. My co-worker arrived a bit later and laughed at me, the lone piece of dough in a sea of delicious chocolate chips. "That guy next to you is staring at your butt", she whispered.

"That's not all they're staring at!" I told her.

So, please, support my pitiful efforts and donate to fight MS on my webpage. I'll keep updating you on my adventures in training - my idiocy has got to be worth something, right?

Genocide Museum

2010-05-25T16:58:00.004-04:00

Today I made time to go to the Kigali Genocide Memorial. It's tastefully done. I feel like I've visited all the awful museum's in the world : Aushwitz, the Holocaust Museums' in DC and Israel; the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg. We humans do a good job of documenting our hatred of each other. I understand that it is so that we never forget our cruelty, so as we're not bound to repeat it again, but that doesn't seem to be working. Couldn't we start making museums to fluffy bunnies and kitten kisses? The world might be a better place.

Interestingly enough, I was patted down for firearms and made to go through a metal detector before entering. I asked the security guard if that was a problem and he just shrugged "You'd be surprised." Sadly, I'm not really surprised. From what I hear and read, there is still much healing going on within the government and among civilians. Few individuals have been convicted of perpetrating the mass slaughter of 800,000; most live in the same area, same region as those they tried or supported killing. There's still alot of work to do.

The museum itself walks through the history of the region, of Rwandan colonialisation and the activities leading up to, during and after the genocide (including the inaction of the UN). Done in three languages, it was informative without being overtly graphic, and factual without inciting futher debate.

The most difficult room for me was the children's memorial. Here they had chosen to larger poster size photos of beautiful children affected by the genocide, under which was listed:

Name: Claude
Age: 10
Likes: chocolate milk
Personality: Outgoing, smiley
Last words: UNAMIR will come for us
Died: Tortured to death

(PS UNAMIR came too late)

Name: Odette
Age: 5
Likes: butterflies
Personality: shy, kind
Best friend: her sister, Antoinette
Died: machete to head

Imagine a whole room of that, accompanied by smiling faces, shy smiles and chubby cheeks. I was in despair. I went outside to the surrounding gardens to catch a breath of fresh air. Each gardne has their own meaning. A rose garden stands to commemorate the victims, three gardens outlined Rwandan Unity, Discord and Reconciliation, respectively.

Further on, below the main hall, are large slabs of concrete and a wall of every growing names. These are the mass graves. Over 250,000 people are buried at this museum. As they are exhumed from other places, they are brought here. Some are identified, some not. The museum is a tribute to educate, but also to honor those who were so disquietingly dishonored.

I left with a heavy heart, needing a hug, but glad I came to pay my respects.

The Story of Sebastien

2010-05-25T15:44:00.004-04:00

These days, mention Rwanda, and the most common reference that springs to people's mind is the Genocide. In 1994, after the mysterious plane crash President Habyarimana on April 6, Hutu radicals began a country-wide massacre of Tutsi's and Hutu moderates which ultimately wiped out or displaced over two-third's of the country's population. Famous after the fact, like so many things, the Rwandan genocide has become the stuff of hellish nightmares - an African Holocaust that quite horrifically, occured right under the nose of the UN.

In the years following, while the memory has faded for us in the west into the stuff of great heart-wrenching hollywood films, its aftermath remains very real, and very painful, for everyday Rwandans. Today, one is not allowed to identify themselves by ethnicity, and it is not allowed to deny that the genocide exist. However, it's not something you bring up over coffee either. Its certainly awkward for an outsider like me to ask around the office "How was your life affected?" but little dribs and drabs come out.

I discovered from one of our expat staff that in one way or another, everyone has been affected. A few staff take the entire Memorial week off, to spend with what family they have left, or just to mourn. Our country manager had lived in Rwanda during the 1980's, returning home before the genocide, and shared with me his frustration on being unable to help his Tutsi friends escape.

But the story that gave me goosebumps was that of Sebastien.

Our country manager met Sebastien's father in the 80's, they kept in touch, and became close friends. During the genocide, he called every single day to find out if his friend was still alive, and what was happening. Some day's, he couldn't get through. Other times, they described their increasingly alarming situation. As interhame stormed the streets of Kigali, they had to find food wherever they could, often going hungry. They lived in the shadows, in fear. One day, he stopped answering his phone. Our country manger feared the worst.

Year's later, back in Rwanda, our country manager began looking for his friend. The ICRC and other international agencies had set up registration processes and photo boards to help individual's reconnect (think about it - without a cell phone or a photo, or a home to return to, how would you find your family?). Eventually, he found a friend of his friend, who confirmed the worst - he had killed on April 28th, his body most likely dumped in one of the many shallow mass graves around Kigali, or left to rot in the sun. (Interesting side bar: there are few dogs in Rwanda. After feasting on the dead bodies, dogs were systematically hunted to prevent the spread of disease).

However, a son - Sebastien - survived. He was found, and convinced to come and work for our company. It's not clear to me how he survived, but he is a delicate fellow. He's bright, but there's a shadow behind his eyes. I'm told he only made it through because everyone thought he was crazy. Our country manager happened to have photos of his parents from when they were friends in the 80's and Sebastien broke down. He didn't have a thing left to remember them. The interhamwe had destroyed - obliterated - everything.

A visit to Nyagatare

2010-05-22T17:15:00.006-04:00

Today, the first day after the conference, we drove up to Nyagatare, two hours north of Kigali, to visit our project sites. Rwanda is breathtaking, achingly serene. The graceful, gentle hilltops slope delicately, nobly, like the cheekbones of a Tutsi woman. Even Kigali, with its overpopulated smog-filled roadways, twinkle invitingly around the valley in the evening.

Like most of our projects, we help dairy farmers collectively bulk and sell their products through training, cooperative development, and small grants. We spent the day visiting bits and bobs of whom we've helped in the past two years. First,we visited a milk collection center, whose compressor struggles to cool all 5,000 liters of milk when it arrived at once (apparently, they are made to take it a little at a time).

Next, we visited a group of entrepreneurs - small grants recipients - who sell molasses to farmers, which they sprinkle on their fodder, making it more nutritious to the dairy cattle. Their shop was a tiny, windowless storage until at the corner of the open market in Matimba. A group of predominantly wazungu walking through any African market draws attention, and this was no different. Talking with the shop keepers, we were instantly surrounded in a fishbowl of curious onlookers. Nonetheless, I was able to break away and walk around the marketplace, which sold everything from tiny anchovies fresh from Lake Muhazi to women's undergarments (no packaging).

On the outskirts of town was Elias, a Muslim farmer who lived on a large plot of land and had a thriving family. Our project gave him an inkind grant of napier grass, and he choose to invest some of his own money (besides land and labor) to purchase more. As we walked through his impressive banana grove, we could glimpse the scrubby Ugandan countryside across the valley. We had just missed meeting his cow, who had gone into heat that morning and was rushed to find the nearest bull. I shook his hand and offered my congratulations. He laughed. A successful calf would double his dairy production, and was good news indeed!

We stopped for a simple lunch at the Savannah cafe in Nyagatare. Our choices were starchy - rice, mutoki (banana), chips (french fries), mashed cassava or sweet potato (the white kind, not what you'd find in the US). For protein, there were eggs, beef, beans or mashed up ground nuts (peanuts). I got the rice and groundnuts, and was surprised only for a moment when a bowl of purple mush showed up, until I realized that they'd blended the nuts without the shell, but with the skin on. So basiclaly, I had purple peanutbutter rice for lunch.

(My colleague got so much rice that the waitress actually came back and "reposessed" some of it for another lunch order when she wasn't looking. No explanation, she just plopped her spoon right in the rice when Gretchen wasn't looking and took it away... kept a firm hand on my peanut butter mush after that...)

After lunch, we visited a very friendly lady and her neighbor, both living with HIV/AIDs. She had used our small grant to create silage to feed their only cow. Although there was a language barrier, we sat and chatted in the shade of her house for several minutes. She was embarassed that we were sitting on (essentially) her stoop, and it wasn't very clean. I liked this woman the best, because she took our hands and laughed with us. Plus, she asked alot of questions, and was clearly excited to have us see her cross bred cow, which provided nutrition and income for her family. Cows in Rwanda (and Uganda) tend to be either Ankole (local), Freisan (Holstein) or a mix.

We walked up the road to a small milk shop, where this woman sells her milk every day. Betty (the milk shop owner) buys 15 liters of milk a day, and sells it to other neighbors after boiling it. There doesn't seem much incentive to sell to Betty, but community members do it, rather than sell directly to their own neighbors. (I didn't quite understand that, but there must be a reason). Next door is a women's sewing cooperative, which decided to buy a cow and collectively care for it. I enjoyed watching them work on the old fashioned Singer sewing machines (pedal pump) circa 1890 (and in good condition!)

We stopped for a sunset beer on Lake Muhazi on the way home, but it was clear we were all knackered. Overall, it was a great way to spend a day, but I was happy to hit the bed when I arrived 'home'.

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

2010-05-22T16:38:00.003-04:00

I've arrived in Rwanda, land of a thousand hills, and been immediately thrown into stress. There's usually a certain amount of smudge around - being from headquarters, one is often see as a "spy", not really understanding the "realities" of the field, and treated with some circumspect. This is normal, and can usually be overcome by the first or second beer, and some disarming humor.

However, this time around, the weirdness was also doubly stuffed with dynamics brought in by an important conference, and some surprising staff changes back home. Add dusting off some underutilized French skills while worrying about an ill mother and a newly purchased home (what if it burns down while I'm away?) and you've got a week that not even a gin and tonic can fix.

Ugh.

The conference ended yesterday, and I celebrated by crawling into my hotel bed and pulling the sheets up over my head.

There are things about Rwanda, though, that have not escaped my stressful orbit. One, there is very little garbage. Smog, yes; garbage, not so much. Paul Kagame apparently runs a very tight ship around here, and it's appreciated. It is also very hilly - they weren't kidding. Watching the cloud shadows play through the numerous valley's in the early morning sunshine is a pleasure worth taking.

Two, any mention of ethnicities is completely forbidden. In the wake of the Belgian's requiring culutural identification on national identity cards in the early 1900's, contributing to the bifurcation that precipitated the 1994 genocide, it is now illegal to openly discuss one's ethnic background, for better or worse.

Three, Rwandan French is much, much easier to understand than West African French.

Four, I am three degrees below the equator and should've packed more sunscreen.

Five, the universe still conspires to find goodness, even amongst stress.

Random Country Number 582: Rwanda

2010-05-13T23:02:00.002-04:00

I leave tomorrow, for two weeks. I haven't had much time to do any research, but that's what planes are for, right? I'll be hanging out here: www.dairyafrica.com . So far, the only thing I know is that for the first week, I'll be staying at Hotel Rwanda. Yes, THE Hotel Rwanda, aka the Mille Collines.

As usual, from our friends over at Wiki:

The Republic of Rwanda, known as the Land of a Thousand Hills, is a landlocked country located in the Great Lakes region of eastern-central Africa, bordered by Uganda, Burundi, the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Tanzania. Although close to the equator, the country has a cool temperate climate due to its high elevation. The terrain consists mostly of grassy uplands and gently rolling hills. Abundant wildlife, including rare mountain gorillas, have resulted in tourism becoming one of the biggest sectors of the country's economy.

Rwanda has received considerable international attention due to its 1994 genocide, in which an estimated 800,000 people were killed.[4] Since then the country has made a recovery and is now considered as a model for developing countries. In 2009 a CNN report labeled Rwanda as Africa's biggest success story, having achieved stability, economic growth (average income has tripled in the past ten years) and international integration.[5] The government is widely seen as one of the more efficient and honest ones in Africa. In 2007 Fortune magazine published an article titled "Why CEOs Love Rwanda." [6]

The capital, Kigali, is the first city in Africa to be awarded the Habitat Scroll of Honor Award in the recognition of its "cleanliness, security and urban conservation model." [7] In 2008, Rwanda became the first country to elect a national legislature in which a majority of members were women.[8] Rwanda joined the Commonwealth of Nations on 29 November 2009 as its fifty-fourth member,[9] making the country one of only two in the Commonwealth without a British colonial past

Sometimes

2010-05-03T23:20:00.002-04:00

I found this poem last year...and liked it. Author Sheenagh Pugh.

Sometimes

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

This Literally Cracks My Shit Up

2010-04-23T19:17:00.003-04:00

I saw this a couple of weeks ago and I'm still hovering between marvel, admiration, disbelief and laughter. I'm sure people laughed when Alexander Graham Bell told them to talk into one end of a cone, but still. I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around the logistics of crapping in plastic bag.

For Pennies, a Disposable Toilet That Could Help Grow Crops

As one of my coworkers said " At some point the developing world is going to tell us to stop bothering them….learn this, do that, poop in this…"

Love in the Time of the Biological Clock and In the Face of an International Job

2010-04-11T11:11:00.005-04:00

My second speaking engagement this week was to the Leaders of Today and Tomorrow (LOTT) leadership conference. I was actually really looking forward to this, as I was one of a panel, and we were basically just asked to talk about ourselves (see how that fits into the raging narcissist bit?), how we got into international work, and what advice we would give to women interested in the same fields.

I was lucky enough to be on a panel with two other smart, much more experienced women, so I learned alot just by being there. Echoing my experience earlier in the week, the women asked alot about money (how did you manage to follow your dreams when the bills are knocking at the door?), juggling family and dreams, and what I've come to acknowledge as the Baby Issue.

Ah yes, the Baby Issue. One that every woman must contemplate (some longer than others), or maddeningly, is contemplated for her. My my uncle said the other day that he and our hometown pastor had talked and both agreed: I'd better "hurry up. The clock is ticking." My uncle is one thing - he actually understands these issues - but I find it more than a little creepy that my pastor is thinking - and has an opinion on - my babymaking junk!

Admittedly, this gets even trickier when you throw an international trip (or three) in there. How does one even begin to date, let alone start a family, when you have to leave for Pakistan in a week? My male (and also perpetually single) colleague and I contemplate this often. One, it's very hard to find someone who can locate Pakistan on the map and two, is cool with you running off there (where you might not come back).

The answer: it all comes down to choices. I personally don't see this as just a male/female issue, as both genders have to make -and are beholden to the consequences of - their choices. It will mean my partner and I (or just me, who knows?) making the choice to stay home and enjoy toddler hugs rather than work on a grant that brings fresh water to Iraqi widows. At some point, that flexibility of being able to stay in Sri Lanka for six weeks is gonna have to give (which is why I'm enjoying the crap out of it now). It also means supporting my female colleague who have to leave at 2:30 because their children are sick, even though you had an important meeting with them at 3. (In this case, I hope the flexibility I'm paying in comes back to me...)

One of the panelists mentioned that she had many professional female friends who were workaholics really struggled with dating, marriage and the Baby Issue. "And some of these women," she warned, "Have decided to go it alone, either biologically or through adoption, thus becoming single mothers on top of everything else!"

To which I thought to myself: Since when did becoming a (gasp) "single mother" become a pejorative term? But that's another story for another blogpost.

What I wanted to tell these women is what I mentioned at the end of my previous post: be comfortable with the grey areas. Make friends with not getting everything you want and not pleasing everyone all the time. I don't know what the answers are, only that I know much like the earlier non-baby part of my life, choices will have to be made - and lived with.

The strange - and frustrating - thing about the Baby Issue, is that everyone seems to have an opinion about it, when in actuality, I'm the only one who has to be comfortable with it.

And the part that I really, really struggle with is not the Baby Issue, it's finding the grace to just smile in the face of everyone else's opinion's about my babymaking junk. That just gets harder and harder with time.

Speaking, not Talking

2010-04-11T10:22:00.002-04:00

This week I found myself with not one, but TWO, separate speaking engagements. This is strange, because while I enjoy public speaking, it's not necessarily something I get to do on a regular basis. (But my mom gets to do it for a living.)

Through various twists and turns, contacts and networking, two different folks asked me months ago if I would consider speaking on generally the same topic: my job, and being a woman working in the international arena. Being a raging narcissist, in love with her job and used to shooting her mouth off in public, who was I to say no? :)

It just so happened they both fell on the same week. For the first one, on Wednesday, I headed down to the MN arboretum in Chaska for the Minnesota Agricultural Leadership Conference. (PS the Arboretum is AMAZING). I hosted a breakout session on my job, my company and what we're doing to help women around the globe. The audience were farmwifes, FFAer's, Farm Bureau and Farm Credit employees, and a host of other women involved in agriculture.

I alternatively love the agricultural community, and am at odds with it. I grew up on a conventional small-grain farm, of mid-size. We are not organic, although I follow the organic argument closely (as evidenced by my earlier blogs). I love the smell of the soil, field full of amber waves of grain (no lie!) and combines moving slowly across the plains at dusk, in a haze of chaff. I am drawn to people with a no-nonsense, hardworking, dry-humored, self-effacing personality. I find Ole and Lena jokes hilarious.

Although I enjoy - and even love - these things - I don't think I'll ever be apart of this community. First, I am most decidedly not a Republican. I see taxes as a necessary part of our Social Contract (I've seen what happens in countries where no one pays them). I read the New Yorker. I love high heels. Hogs do not make my limbs tingle. (One woman I met told me that she'd love to travel more, but she's marrying a hog farmer. I had to suppress the urge to take her aside and tell her to RUN. RUN FAST.)

It's so strange. I was drawn in at the conference; these women are strong, educated, competent, living their passion, just like me. Aside from the politics, we're pretty much the same. Then why is it that the agricultural community gets such a bad rap for being stupid hicks? When I lived in DC, I would often get the remark that I "didn't look like I was from a farm". (WTF?) My stock answer was that I only broke out my overalls for special occasions.

My brother received a book for Christmas called Hollowing Out the Middle, about the brain drain and subsequent decline of small towns. This is a real problem, as towns get smaller, but still need city clerks, smart mayors, and a tax base to keep themselves alive. So, how do we stop people from leaving? How do we invigorate smalltown communities where memories of Lick m' Sticks at Ben Franklin's and DQ ice cream after swimming lessons still live?

How can I even contemplate this without looking at my own choice in lifestyle? It's very painful to realize you want to fix a problem, but you don't want to put forth the skin to be part of the solution. I could never, never move back to my hometown. I am often in awe of my brother, who did just that, and is now doing his part to find grant funding to keep our community alive. I am in awe of my best friend, who farms with her brother, in the adjacent community. I am in awe, and I find myself lacking. They've got the guts, and I've got...a speaking engagement.

What's even funnier is that my friends in DC look to me as the agriculture "expert". I laugh, ruefully.

So, I'm stuck. I'm stuck working for an agricultural conglomerate in the big city, visiting my dying hometown for Christmas, Easter and the occasional funeral, and speaking to the community as if I know exactly what they're going through. I thought by moving back to Minnesota that I'd finally marry my two passions, but it seems, I'm just as mixed up as before. As I grow older, I am finding that it's not enough to recognize the world is not black and white, but to be comfortable with the very large grey part in the middle.

Humane Society Walk for Animals

2010-04-05T21:19:00.002-04:00

Last January, in the bleak midwinter, I was suffering a lack of snuggles. I had just broken up with my boyfriend, and needed some cheap, disease-free lovin'.

Enter the Humane Society.

My friend Kaydi helped me pick out Ruby, aka Angus Destroyer of My Couch. She has quickly turned into my loud, complian-y, carpet-shredding, fuzz-leaving, feline mother. In the end, I swapped being in love with one hairy animal for another.

Today, she woke me up at 4am by sneezing in my face.

Despite all these drawbacks, Ruby has wiggled her way into my heart. To honor her contribution to my household, I am walking in the Animal Humane Society Walk for Animals. Our team is named the "Faux Paws". This year, we're walking for my friend Kaydi's dog Hank, who was recently diagnosed with cancer (yes, they can get it!).

Please consider making a donation on my website so that animals like Ruby will continue to find good homes.

Thanks!

The Last Great Fiefdom: Airlines

2010-02-22T22:30:00.001-05:00

I am sick to death of airlines and their arbitrary rules.

For the most part, I’m able to fly under the radar. I pack light (avoiding baggage restrictions/fees/checked luggage), grasp the concept of the 3 oz. rule, and can get in and out of security in less than one minute – shoes and laptop included - if there’s no line.

However, not only is each country different, but each airline also has different rules. Getting on the aircraft is only half the battle.

Once on, you’re in “their” territory and they way they treat you depends strictly, on classism, (and, I believe, more and more on the fickle attitudes of flight attendants).

First, if you can afford, literally, a higher class ticket, then you’ll have a better seat. You’ll get a bit more room, free alcohol (US domestic flights), actual silverware, and a private bathroom near the (gasp!) cockpit (apparently, first class passengers couldn’t possibly be terrorists, or terrorists haven’t yet scraped together enough clams for these exorbitantly priced seats).

Secondly, the flight attendants, who have got to have the worst jobs I the world, have obviously caught on. They are, for the most part, very grumpy individuals (except for those beautiful Singpore airline stewardesses, but I’m convinced that they’re fembots). It’s their job to enforce baseless, fickle rules, such as keeping your electronic devices shut off until you reach cruising altitude, lest they interfere with the plane’s operation.

Speaking as a person who has both a) accidentally left her phone on for an entire flight and b) once called her sister, who’s phone rang (and she answered!) while in flight, and I call complete and total shenanigans on this one.

Ipods pose a particularly interesting problem, as they have no on/off switch. There’s a “freeze” button, but you can certainly “freeze” it in the on position as well as off. Furthermore, overseas, they’ve mostly dropped this rule – it’s only in the hyper sensitive US that we still believe this baloney.

(Save the South African airways attendant who insisted that I take my earbuds out my ears, even though my DVD player was no only off, the battery was completely dead. I was keeping the buds in to drown out the noise of the engines. I tried explaining this to her several times but she stood fast. I was tempted to tell her I had a hearing condition, but being that my desire to get home superceded my desire to make a point, I took them out. )

But that’s just it, no matter what you do, the airlines have the trump card: they can throw you off. Not only that, they can throw you in JAIL. So you have to take out your earbuds, sit up straight, stow your tray tables, do jumping jacks – whatever they require! Somehow, I missed the forfeiture of my rights in the fine print.

In the US, if you’re leaving the country, you can take as much water/liquids with you as you want. Woe be the person returning, however, with so much as a bottle of water for a sixteen hour flight. I find this downright inhumane. The human body NEEDS water. How can the US government deny us this need? What’s next, air?

Aren’t we more secure?, you may be asking, What about the Greater Good? I agree, to some extent, an airplane ride may be tantamount to a social contract. We are all, literally, headed towards the same goal. It makes sense that we have a basic modicum of expectations and rules. When I get on a flight, I don’t expect to be able to act like I do at home; I am, in fact, in public.

However, airlines are taking this too far, all in the name of profit margin. While the US government has upped security requirements, they’ve lowered services, and the only one that gets pinched are THE PASSENGERS. They’re pinching their steady revenue source, and ultimately, shooting themselves in the foot. They’ll soon fine that this “steady” revenue source is more price sensitive than they thought. The more they push us cattle-class to the margins, families and other casual traveler’s will switch to other, more affordable, less Machiavellian forms of transport - like walking across hot stones.

With the advent of global telecommunications, more and more businesses will choose to stay at home, and hop on their WebEx instead.

I want to sympathize with the global airline industry, I really do.

But I also want to keep my earbuds in.

My Dilemma

2010-02-22T22:22:00.002-05:00

Pursuant to my previous posting, I’ve recently re-opened the situation with Michael Pollan, and his dilemma. I was home sick a few weeks ago and caught him on Oprah, where he didn’t immediately strike me as a pompous nutjob. I remembered that I still had his book.

In fact, during my trip to Italy in November, my friend had asked my opinion about it. A fan of the Slow Food revolution (which started there), she was eager to see what I thought. I sheepishly mentioned something vaguely about not being able to “get into it” and noted that she, mercifully, is not a big follower of my blog.

This, plus upcoming long flight to South Africa, lead me to slip it into my back before I left. Plus, I reasoned, it’s soft cover. My general travel M.O is to bring softcovers and leave them behind when I’m finished, thus lightening my load. (This does not apply to hardcovers, library books or anything I haven’t finished). So, if I finished, or got bored with Mr. Pollan, I could leave him behind.

Somewhere between Livingstone and Lusaka, while waiting for my internet connection to work, I pulled it out. (I find that distracting myself while things “load” lessens my desire to chuck the entire computer out the window). At any rate, I kind of got into it. He outlines the food chain for three types of meals: corn fed (industrial agriculture), grass fed (for lack of a better word, alternative (?) agriculture) and hunting/foraging.

Yes, he gets a little over philosophical - and down right weepy - in parts, especially about hunting. The chapters on industrial agriculture, where he uncovers the insidiousness of corn and how it has transformed our food chain was actually really interesting. I’d always wondered how corn was refined into High Fructose Corn Syrup, for example. Similarly, his outlining of the rise and dissonance between “Big” and “Little” Organic farming was quite revealing, and refreshing. Overall, the book was informative, if slanted under a liberal gaze. (Being a liberal myself, I didn’t so much mind this, but it was quite obvious in places, which I found annoying. I skimmed.)

My favorite passage was near the end, when he muses that it wouldn’t be possible to eat all meals like the first one (McDonald) or all meals like the last (foraged all by hand), but that there had to be some ground in the middle.

I still have criticism though – my book states it was a history of four meals: Corn-fed, grass-fed and foraged. That’s only three. Was this a printing typo, or was I supposed to make a meal of the book, too? I left it in the seat pocket of my flight from Lusaka to Johannesburg for the next person to figure that out.

Zamtastic

2010-02-16T15:00:00.003-05:00

Ok, yes. I am in Zambia.

Admittedly, I have let this trip slip.

BUT - it's technically not my fault. Technically, I've had difficulties with the internet - I've barely been able to check in with work. There's something about African wireless services that makes my slooowwwww ass computer melt down into a tiny little lump.

andfine,theremaybeateenytinyamountofusererrorinthere,too.

So, ahem, Zambia. I have known ye before.

You may remember this post about a weekend trip I took to Lusaka with some friends while I was living in Malawi for the summer. A great three days, with more than a little driving in the back of an ambulance.

It's a trip to be back here. It's been so long that my friends friends no longer live here, and there's nothing much more to see that wasn't already explored the first time around. I did, however, find myself back at the very same shopping mall.

Sigh. Sometimes I think my working life is just a series of conference halls, hotel rooms and shopping malls. (This is not a complaint; just an......observance).

At any rate, there have been some new things. The conference I was attending was in Livingstone, 8 hours south, on the border with Zimbabwe....and home to the famous Victoria Falls. I've been to Niagara, and this is no Niagara. It's simply - breathtaking (and wet). Known as Mosi-ou-Tunya, or "the smoke that thunders", it's quite deafening; so much so that you can barely hear those next to you when crossing over a few small bridges to see the Zimbabwean side.

Some other highlights of this trip have been: finding a shard of glass in my rice, eating a side-of-the-road restaurant named "Tooters" and getting reacquainted with nsima, the starchy, bland side-dish served all over Southern Africa.

I've now got a bead on a more secure internet line, so if anything more interesting happens in the next two days, I'll be sure to make note.

What are you doing at 36?

2010-01-18T21:43:00.001-05:00

Rajiv Shah for USAID administrator - Laura Rozen

Good lord, I've got some catching up to do.

///and some teeth to grow.

Slacktivism

2010-01-18T21:17:00.002-05:00

I've been meaning to write about this for awhile, but the holidays got in the way. I was shopping with my sister one afternoon early in December, and we hit a number of stores. At nearly every checkout counter, we were asked if we'd like to donate a dollar for one cause or another. Toys for Tots. Childrens Miracle Network. Habitat for Humanity. After the fifth clerk failed to ask us to donate a dollar, I turned to my sister and remarked that this must either be a heartless store, or incredibly understanding of donor fatigue.

Now, I'm not critcizing these establishments. In fact, this was a tactic that I, in my fundraising years, found terribly effective. I get it, but it smacks of "slacktivism". Let's pull out wikipedia:

Slacktivism (sometimes slactivism) is a portmanteau formed out of the words slacker and activism. The word is considered a pejorative term that describes "feel-good" measures, in support of an issue or social cause, that have little or no practical effect other than to make the person doing it feel satisfaction. The acts also tend to require little personal effort from the slacktivist. Examples of activities labeled as "slacktivist" include signing internet petitions, the wearing of wristbands ("awareness bracelets") with political messages, putting a ribbon magnet on a vehicle or joining a Facebook group.

I understand that donating does make an actual difference. But so does volunteering your time. Again, after the fifth store, I was kind of apathetic to those hungry/homeless/handicapped kids. A dollar here, a dollar there, bada-bing, bada-boom! Problem solved.

It just felt a little too...easy.

Shouldn't one take time to know and understand the issues at play? Why is childhood homeless a problem? Why isn't there enough food? What is happening in these neighborhood's that kids aren't safe to live? Who took all their toys?? Perhaps I'm just a purist. Perhaps I think about things too much (this charge has been levvyed against me before). But throwing money at a problem, signing an online petition, or becoming a "Fan" on facebook, seems - well, sad.

I realize that this may be untenable for most. For those, go ahead; give your dollar - I'm sure it will go towards good. But don't you want to get engaged in the world? Then get some skin in the game. Get active. Be curious. Find a cause and throw your weight into it.

Speaking from experience, personal investment has a higher rate of return than anything else.

The Last Day

2009-11-28T05:02:00.003-05:00

Friday, my last day, I got up early (to make up for oversleeping on Thursday) and, with Monica's help, took the bus to Ravenna.

Ravenna was once the capital of the Western Roman Empire, and home to some gorgeous mosaics from the Byzantine era. I visited four of the most famous: Battistero Neoniano, Basicial di S. Apollinare Nuovo, Basilica di S. Vitale and the Mausoleo di Galla Placidia. They were truly breathtaking!

After that, I walked around the city for awhile (ahem, ZARA) and grabbed a potato and mozarella piadina, a flatbread sandwich famous in the region. I caught the early bus back to Faenza, packed and then road Monica's bike out to the farm (6k through beautiful vineyards, in the DARK, which wasn't very smart). The days are cloudy, but even in the dank darkness of November, it's still picturesque.

As an endcap to a fabulous week and wonderful vacation, Monica and Michele, their friends and I, went out to her cousin's seafood restaurant, Titon.

Let me just say, if you can get a cousin/uncle/grandfather to own an restaurant in Italy - DO IT.
We had five different antipasti's (including fish carpaccio, a tomato/squid soup, and prawn and thistle (yes, thistle) stew). Then we had three different kinds of grilled fish, and a seafood "toss" - lightly fried squid, prawns, fish, zuchinni, etc. Plus, all the wine you could drink. (and a 'tween course palate refreshener with lemon and vodka- VODKA!)

Then, oh THEN, came the dessert, including ganache, pistacchio mousse, cannoli, something like a cointreau liquer flan and creme cartanaga (I'm not sure this is the right name but oh. my. god. gargagaahghghghg Homer Simpson noise) I literally rolled out of that restaurant at midnight.

....and was up again at 4 am to catch my flight.

But you know what? Pffft...I'll sleep when I'm dead. This has been the best vacation and worth every penny (paid in Euro and in sleep!) I am now sitting in the airport (back in Amsterdam) with a huge grin on my face, refreshed, renewed - and sober.

Yes, these are what vacations are FOR.

Thanksgiving Italian Style

2009-11-28T04:36:00.003-05:00

Thursday Monica had to work, so she left me to my own devices to explore Faenza. I ended up oversleeping, missing the town market AND the ceramic museum but the extra sleep was totally worth it. I did some laundry, had a late lunch and bummed around town.

Later that evening, I joined Monica out at the farm where she works. Several of her friends and co-workers were gathered there, cooking a 4 kilo stuffed turkey and the Thanksgiving works. In between last minute things, Monica made three squash "pumpkin" pies. We roasted sweet potatoes, someone brought homemade stuffing and Michele mashed potatoes. For my part, I snapped beans and drank wine :)

By the time the turkey was done, fifteen people had arrived. We watched Jonathan (the head chef) carve the boneless turkey and place the thick steamy slabs on a plastic platter Monica pulled from somewhere. The best part was a homemade green bean-mushroom-and-fried onion concotion Jonathan pulled from the Food Network website. No Campbells soup here! It was hands-down terrific.

As we organized ourselves buffet style, a few of the un-initiated Italians were unsure of all the food. Monica immediately gave a rundown of the basics, instructing everyone to pile their plates high. Apparently, mixing the savory items with the sweet squash and the roast sweet potatos caused the most consternation. "Plating" is a concept not yet inculcated in American households, so it was interesting to watch the Italians arrange small portions on several plates and make trips back and forth to the buffet. I'm happy to say I piled my plate high and only left the turkey skin as a remnant of my gnoshing.

During the normal course of these international holiday celebrations, talk inevitably floats towards traditions. Thinking it over, I've celebrated Thanksgiving in Switzerland, Singapore, Washington DC and now, Italy. Each time, I bring up my family tradition of going around the table saying what we're thankful for according to letters of the alphabet. In DC, since I hosted, I made everyone at the table do it. I was going to keep quiet about it, but Monica has had thanksgiving with me before and insisted that we do it.

It's a good exercise in that it reminds us what we have in our lives (my Love, was one of them; Parents were another) and also elicits laughs for the more difficult letters (Questra turque (THIS turkey, for "q"). Although hokey, it's nice to see some traditions carry over. I think my mom would be proud.

I snuck away after dinner to skype my family, but someone kindly delivered a delicious piece of squash pumpking pie (plus homemade whip cream!). More wine. Caffe's all around. Jokes. Things devolved into only Italian later on the evening, but for the most part I was able to follow the conversation. Here was a place for people to gather, laugh, care for one another and eat mightily.

Now that's home, isn't it?

Viva Italia!

2009-11-26T05:36:00.005-05:00

On Monday, we drove to the romanticized and much loved region of Tuscany, three hours from Monica's place in Faenza. It's November in Italy, and while there's no snow, overall it's cloudy, grey and foggy. However, after crossing over the Appenines, the weather immediately became sunnier and warmer. While romantics might encourage thinking this comes from the beauty of Tuscany, Monica assured me it was strictly geographical - there is simply no Po river valley in Tuscany!

We stopped first in Cortona and later, after dark, hit Montepulciano. (Side note: turns out that several scenes from the New Moon (Twilight) movie were filmed in Montepulciano. Who knew there were vampires in Italy?) We stopped at a copper smith, who made me a small bookmark while he chatted with Monica (he stamped 8 flowers on it, "One for each children" he winked) and then on to a small winery for some delicious Vino Nobile.

That night, we stayed with their friend, Pietro, who owns a small farmhouse in Gallina and had prepared wild boar stew for our visit. Being big cyclists (Monica owns a bike touring company), the next day we biked 26k through the Val d'Orcia to Montalcino. Best. ride. ever (even if I swore my undying hatred to Monica's fiance during the last 6k - an excruciatingly long 7 degree climb to the top of the hilltown. He took it in stride though - at one point, he biked and pushed me with one hand). I was rewarded at the top with a delicious meal of rabbit, polenta and Brunello wine.

That evening, the four of us headed to a small public hot spring. Having experienced the onsens of Japan, I was excited, and expecting a small hut, or place to change and wash before entering. Nope. It really was just two pools of hot water at the base of mountain, under a lamppost, next to a road, with some benches around it. It was rustic, and beautiful. A half moon and twinkling stars dangled above the valley, a few naked men lounged along the edge. I couldn't have imagined a better end to the perfect day.

After a late night of drinking Cuban rum and playing board games, we finally rolled out of bed and said goodbye to Pietro, his chickens and his lovely Tuscsan farmhouse. We found our way to Pienza and Siena, the latter being a truly gorgeous city. We crawled home, exhausted, ordered pizza from the shop round the corner. I slept for 12 hours.

I am hard pressed to remember a vacation as satisfying and relaxing as this one. When I backpacked through Rome and Florence in college, I distincly remember not liking it very much. Too many people, too much male attention, too dirty, too touristy. I keep teasing my friends that they've singlehandedly changed my perception of an entire country.

When I arrived on Sunday, Monica took me to a truffle and oil festival. As we chatted with one of the vendors (and smelled his white truffles - wow!), he found out that I'd only be here a week. "That's just enough time to make you stay longer," he said.

He's not wrong.

Kindred Spirits

2009-11-23T03:03:00.002-05:00

I returned home from my last trip, little worse for wear (save a wicked cold). Jumped straight into work (again), and then turned around and got on a plane two weeks later to Mombasa, Kenya. There's not much to post about that trip, as I spent it mostly inside a conference room.

Now, I am in Italy - resting - and, following on the advice of Elizabeth Gilbert - eating.

I'm also visiting my good friend and her fiance, whom I love to bits. They recently got engaged and I've never been more excited to look at churches, explore reception areas and discuss life plans. Anne Shirley would call them Kindred Spirits.

Having recently hit a milestone in my life, which I feel really good about, I'm realizing that life is made up of Kindred Spirits. You need these people - the ones that understand you, sniffle with you and call internationally when need be. I would've crawled from Africa to get here.

Anyway, that's my only thought these days. Make friends, keep family close, but keep your kindred spirits closer.

Four More Days...

2009-10-25T07:47:00.001-04:00

I can’t say that I hate Bangladesh, but it’s not winning many bonus points this week. Dhaka is loud, polluted and stinks. The pollution is so bad the air smells acrid, and my throat itches all the time. By the end of the day, my eyes are dry and scratchy. There’s so much dirt and dust kicked up that my sinuses swell and my lymph nodes kick into overdrive, causing my ears to pound and my jaw to hurt. Garbage is ubiquitous, and even if I can’t see it, I can smell the sickly sweet overripe juiciness of it floating in unexpected places. Sometimes its so overpowering, I have to cover my mouth and my nose.

My hotel, although in a “nice” area of town, seems also to be in the direct flight path of every aircraft in the subcontinent, which roars past morning, noon and evening (luckily, I don’t hear them so much at night). I’ve never slept on a harder mattress for more than one night, my feet are always dirty and, as far as I can tell, I am the only person staying here. The all male staff are also, a little too attentive. Plus, I am stuck eating room-service every night (it’s either that or sit by myself in the empty restaurant below, with all the waitstaff watching me).

Sigh. I am trying to keep things in perspective. I just came from a five-star hotel in Colombo, where I’d already spent five weeks of my life. I had a certain level of autonomy – I already had the grocery store scoped out, made a few friends, access to a spa and been able to maintain my healthy with Mr. Gin and Mr. Tonic. Plus, I wasn’t the only foreigner. I was just one of a zillion hotel guests able to come and go as I pleased, with relative anonymity. It was easy to arrive there, do what I needed to do, and have a little fun.

Here, I’m at ground zero all over again. There’s no grocery store. Project staff tell me that there are no restaurants near by (and as far as I can tell, they’re right). I don’t know anyone. There’s a “spa” next door, but it’s quite scary. The first night here, I ventured out by myself, but was hassled so much I just couldn’t take it. What little sights I did see (the National Parliament, the War Memorial) took a long time to get to through awful traffic and weren’t all that exciting to see.

So, for the past five days, I’ve basically been doing the same thing: walking to work, working, eating, walking home from work, talking a walk around the park, working, watching TV, ordering room service, working and sleeping.

So yes, Bangladesh is sucking a little bit. Luckily, I’m not here forever - and tomorrow, I’m heading up-country. Months of travelling in cushy places have sheltered me, but I know I’ll get back in the swing of things. This is culture shock. The project staff are wonderful and I know there is some charm to be had around here….somewhere.

…….hopefully.

In Today's Bangladesh "Daily Star"

2009-10-22T09:23:00.002-04:00

...I just don't know what to say to this. Well, ok I have lots to say, but just read it for yourself.

36% women say 'wife beating justified'
Alpha Arzu

A large number of women who are the worst victims of spousal violence believe that husbands have the right to beat up their wives if they neglect their children, argue with husbands or disobey the elders, specially mothers-in-law and fathers-in-law, revealed a government survey recently.

A total of 36 percent women believe that a husband is justified in bashing his wife for any of the aforesaid reasons, but the most widely accepted reason for wife beating among women in the country is disobeying elders like mothers/fathers-in-law, according to the 5th and latest Bangladesh Demographic and Health Survey (BDHS) 2007.

Again, 24 percent women believe that if a husband beats up his wife for disobeying elders is justified, followed by 22 percent who believe that arguing with husbands is justified, 18 percent for going out without telling their husbands while 16 percent for neglecting children is justified. Only nine percent of women feel that denying sex is an acceptable reason for a man to beat up his wife.

On the other hand, 36 percent men aged between 15 and 49 years agree that at least one of the reasons given is sufficient justification for wife beating. Men are most likely to justify beating their wives if they argue with their husbands (25 percent), followed by showing disrespect to elders (23 percent).

Like women, men are least likely to say that refusal to have sex (4 percent) is a ground for wife beating. About 16 percent of men feel that neglecting the children or going out without telling them are justifiable reasons for wife beating.

Forty nine percent married women have ever experienced some forms of physical violence by their husbands, 53 percent have experienced some forms of physical or sexual violence while 13 percent have experienced both types of violence.

Eighteen percent women are physically forced to have sex by their husbands when they do not want to.

The study showed that the most common act of physical violence is slapping. Forty six percent married women are being slapped by their husbands. The next common act of physical violence is being pushed, shaken or having something thrown at them (30 percent).

Almost 17 percent of married women reported that their husbands punch them with their fists or with something that can hurt them. Fifteen percent of women are victims of kicking, dragging and beating. An equal percentage reported that their husbands twist their arms or pulled their hair.

The survey also stated that physical violence is directly related to the duration of the marriage. Thirty percent of women who got married less than five years ago reported having their experience of physical violence, compared with 47 percent of women married off between five and nine years and 54 percent more than 10 years' after their marriage.

Women residing in Chittagong and Sylhet experience less physical violence compared with women in other divisions.

The survey also showed that age at marriage is higher in Chittagong and Sylhet compared with other divisions. Sexual violence is lowest in Sylhet and Khulna while highest in Barisal. Twenty one percent of married women in Barisal reported sexual violence, followed by 20 percent of women in Dhaka.

Bangladesh Mahila Parishad President Ayesha Khanam told The Daily Star, “Vigorous campaign about the rights of women are the best way to stop such violence. This is really unfortunate that male partners or husbands here think that without torturing their female partners, their power is not being exercised.”

On the other hand, there is no alternative to empowering and making women aware of their rights in family. The law enforcement agencies should come forward to stopping such heinous spousal violence, said leader of the women's human rights-based organisation

2009-10-20T06:29:00.002-04:00

One of the upshots of travelling alone is that there's no one around with which to share your witty thoughts, pet peeves or general observations. Oftentimes, they're too short for blogging, and too long for Facebook (I'm not on Twitter - if I was, I'd never leave my computer).

As it is, I subsequently end up walking around composing pithy Facebook updates in my head (Mtanga...finds it hard to believe a whole planefull of people could not know about deoderant). However, not wanting to appear as socially isolated (and let's face it, lame) as I really am, most of these posts flicker through my head and then flicker on out.

But, after 24 hours of travel, I've got a buildup. I'm not going to paste them all on Facebook, but the backlog in my head is making it hard to sleep.

Mtanga....

...forgot that cell phone etiquette is a lost art in Sri Lanka. Apparently, Nokia doesn't have a "silent" option for its asian market. If her co-worker answers his phone one more time in the middle of the meeting, she might just shove it down his throat.
...finds the jewlery commercial that starts with "They arranged everything, even our marriage" creepy.
...loves having friends in all corners of the world. Hopes to see them again, soon!
...finds insecure women annoying.
...it's hard to Lose Sarah Marshall when that's the only movie on TV 24/7.
...has to stop leaving her cell phone in the backseat of taxicabs. This is just getting ridiculous.
...hates being watched.
...working at 12 am in Dubai. Either bored, extremely responsible or just lame. Voting lame.
...bought the exact same phone she lost in Sri Lanka, for four bucks cheaper. Let's hear it for global commerce!
...doesn't understand people who unbuckle their seatbelt and bumrush the front of the plane before we're even done taxing. You're not making it any easier for the rest of us!
...would like to give you a lesson in personal space.
...is not afraid to use her elbows.
...battled the world's worst baggage claim, and won.
...the smell of rotting garbage in the hot tropical sun. Yum! Haven't seen any dog-heads yet though, so that's something.
...the delivery of your fruitbasket does not supercede my need to sleep.

Numerology

2009-10-14T21:44:00.002-04:00

One of the many conversations I had on the drive between Colombo and Batticaloa involved numerology. Thus far in my life, I'd only encountered numerology in the back pages of Cosmopolitan as yet another quiz to take to tell me things I already knew about myself (Your personality is: Normal! Your skin type is: Combination! You like: Men!)

I was chatting with our accountant whose wife just gave birth to their second child a few weeks ago. He mentioned they hadn't yet chosen a name, but that is had to start with the letter "K", according to the childs numerology. I've heard of different naming conventions across the world, but this was the first time I'd come across numerology.

So what's my number? I asked. Adding the date of the day of my birth (1+7) means my number is 8. According to our Chief of Party (also a believer) this means I am a strong leader, with the potential to go far in life.

Easy for him to say, I thought, so I sought information from the interwebs. According to Spiritual Numerology.com Number 8 is the most powerful of all numbers.

You most likely have some of the following strengths and talents at your disposal if the number 8 appears in your numerology chart: You are inspiring, result-oriented, powerful, ambitious, visionary, generous, perseverant, forgiving, broad-minded, money-conscious and self-disciplined. You have the potential for enormous success and the possibility to accumulate great wealth. You are also a good judge of character a natural leader and a survivor.

Some of the following weaknesses, which are associated with the number 8, could slow down or even prevent your progress. Most probably, only one or a few of them will belong to you: You might be stubborn, intolerant, impatient, stressed, materialistic, impatient with people, arrogant and reckless. You have the power to accumulate great wealth, but you also susceptible to loosing everything. You are a gambler, you have a strong desire for luxuries and you can fall for corruption.

Woo-Hoo!

When Fish Sing

2009-10-12T10:42:00.002-04:00

I've been spending the better part of my stay in Sri Lanka in Batticaloa. Batticaloa (or Batti) is situated in the Eastern Province of Sri Lanka, about a seven hour car ride from Colombo, on a tiny island. It doesn't really feel like an island - there are bridges connecting the city center with the mainland.

Although I wasn't really impressed during my first visit back in July, it does have a certain charm. It helps that I love Sri Lanka overall, but it also seems to me to be a very laid-back city, surrounded by water and a low key attitude. I may be smelling hope, too. After years of civil war, the roads are finally being repaired and development funds are coming to the city, and the tourism industry is reigniting.

All the guidebooks tout Batticaloa as "the city with the singing fish". I asked our country manager about this, who is not from Batti, and he didn't believe me - until I pointed out the sign under the town archway announcing those very words. I'm always interested in local lore, and truth be told, more than mildly amused by the thought of singing fish.

I've begun asking around about this myth. Surprisingly, the interwebs are relatively quiet on the subject. Here's the obligatory wiki positing; as well as a posting on Batticaloa online which says pretty much the same thing. There's a facebook page, but that doesn't say much.

I've also asked around to my work colleagues and (because I'm generally obnoxious when it comes to this kind of thing) anyone (busboys, drivers, kids on the street...).

The story is more or less the same: If you stand at Lady Manning bridge on Kallady between the hours of 1-3am on a moonlight night, and stick your ear close to an oar in the water, you can hear the fish sing. Some people told me that since the civil war started in the 80's, the fish stopped singing. Others have said that a Father Miller (who recently just left to go back to America) had a recording. Strangely enough, the wiki post also claims that another father had another recording, way back in the 60's.

Coincidentally, my hotel sits on the shoreline of Kallady, right next to Lady Manning bridge. I realized that the reason one must go to the bridge between the hours of 1-3 am is that that is the only time there isn't any noisy traffic. The fish could be singing the entire day, but we'd never know it! I awoke at 11pm last night, and laid awake until 2am, wondering - daring- myself to head out the bridge. However, my desire to not get run over by a truck outweighed by intrinsic interest in all things paranormal. Plus, it wasn't a full moon anyway.

So the mystery remains. I'm going to keep digging. Such a fantastic story requires some looking into.

Back in 'Bo, Then On to Bat, Ending with a Bang(ladesh)

2009-10-10T13:01:00.002-04:00

Arrived in Colombo this evening - after two uneventful and long (13 hrs and 9 hours, respectively) legs. I just kissed three days of my life away and will spend tomorrow in a car driving to Batticaloa on the eastern part of the Island. Four days of non-stop travel is hard on the body, mind and soul.

All told though, it's fun to be back. I've arrived in much better shape than last time and I'm looking forward to connecting with some friends I made here back in July. While I'm normally a proponent of doing new things, it's nice to be in a place that's familiar. Even the much maligned (previously) Cinnamon Grand kind of feels like home.

I'm not sure if that means its time to stop travelling, or that I've finally hit my stride as a business traveller, but no matter. I'm here now and although it's 10:30 pm, I'm wide awake. Time to crack open the Advil PM.

Random Country Number I'm Not Sure.

2009-10-07T22:14:00.002-04:00

I leave tomorrow - heading back to Sri Lanka first - and then on to Bangladesh. Thanks to Dean for schooling me in all things Joan Baez... - M.

SONG OF BANGLADESH (Words and Music by Joan Baez)

Bangladesh, Bangladesh

When the sun sinks in the west

Die a million people of the Bangladesh

The story of Bangladesh

Is an ancient one again made fresh

By blind men who carry out commmands

Which flow out of the laws upon which nation stands

Which is to sacrifice a people for a land

Bangladesh, Bangladesh

When the sun sinks in the west

Die a million people of the Bangladesh

Once again we stand aside

And watch the families crucified

See a teenage mother's vacant eyes

As she watches her feeble baby try

To fight the monsoon rains and the cholera flies

And the students at the university

Asleep at night quite peacefully

The soldiers came and shot them in their beds

And terror took the dorm awakening shrieks of dread

And silent frozen forms and pillows drenched in red

Bangladesh, Bangladesh

When the sun sinks in the west

Die a million people of the Bangladesh

Did you read about the army officer's plea

For donor's blood? It was given willingly

By boys who took the needles in their veins

And from their bodies every drop of blood was drained

No time to comprehend and there was little pain

And so the story of Bangladesh

Is an ancient one again made fresh

By all who carry out commands

Which flow out of the laws upon which nations stand

Which say to sacrifice a people for a land

Bangladesh, Bangladesh

When the sun sinks in the west

Die a million people of the Bangladesh
© 1972 Chandos Music (ASCAP)

This is Why I Can't Have Nice Things

2009-10-03T15:10:00.002-04:00

Two weeks ago, I got a flyer in the mail telling me I was eligible for a phone upgrade. This surprised me, but I was just thinking how crappy my phone is, so I actually read through it. Seemed like a good idea, so I went to the Verizon Wireless store the next day and bought myself the new LG enV Touch.

FANTASTIC!

So fantastic, I should've known it wouldn't last. A mere 12 hours later, round about 2 am, one bottle of wine and one very strange party bus ride later, I left it in the backseat of a random-hailed-down taxi cab.

(facepalm).

I spent last week calling around to every random taxi cab company I could track down that might have light colored cars and a Somali taxi driver with a beard.

One guy literally laughed me right off the phone.

So. This is why I can't have nice things.

I ruin them. :(

D'oh!
M.

Beyond Our Differences

2009-09-29T22:34:00.002-04:00

Tonight, I found myself at a film screening hosted by the Minnesota International Center called "Beyond Our Differences" - a movie about the connective value of global spirtuality. Last winter, I joined MIC and got these free passes to any event (that allowed them) and I've been sitting on them all year. Being cheap, and not wanting to let a good educational opportunity go to waste, I made plans to go.

Admittedly, global spirtuality isn't really my thing. I'm not interested in prosteletyzing and I don't go to church all that much. I invited my friend Megan, who is a pastor in her grown up life, but she had to bail on me due to pastoral duties. Still, in the interest of self-improvement and stepping out, I went.

I was pleasantly surprised - the movie was uplifting, even beautiful. My favorite part was when it listed the golden rule, as spelled out in each of texts of the major religions:

"Do Unto Others as you would have them do unto you" - Christianity
"Putting oneself in the place of another, one should not kill nor cause another to kill" - Buddism
"Blessed is he who preferreth his brother before himself" - Baha'i
"Never impose on others what you would not choose for yourself." -Confucianism
"Hurt no one so that no one may hurt you." - Islam
"That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow." - Judaism

I felt validated that it had its roots across so many other faiths. It underscored my own belief that this indeed is the most important way to live your life and the most important sentiment to take away from organized religion. The director interviewed many religious leaders - and highlighted individuals (both well known and not) who were putting their faith into action, and creating new standards for compassion and understanding.

I actually stayed for the dialogue afterwards, and it was super interesting - mostly due to the self-effacing director, Peter Bisanz, at the podium. As soon as the movie closed, a tiny woman in the back row asked: "Why didn't you focus more on the genocides of the world, perpetrated by hate and religious intolerance?"

His answer (to paraphrase): I'm not in the practice of focusing on fear. Others do that too well. I'm in this line of business to create hope and look for connections, not divisions.

(I had to leave before I fell in love with this guy.)

Anyway, it was a super interesting way to spend an evening. Please, go see the movie. It might still be airing on PBS.

Eat Your Greens, Leave the Politics

2009-09-03T00:38:00.005-04:00

I've finally picked up Michael Pollan's "The Omivore's Dilemma". I'm barely 100 pages in, and I already feel my interest waning. I might be remiss in writing before actually finishing it, but since that's highly unlikely, I'm going to use my only platform to complain about why I'm probably not going to finish it.

The main reason is, while I find food politics interesting, I also find it hard not to get defensive. I understand that it's important to read things you don't necessarily agree with (or assume you won't agree with, seeing as you can't pick up the book for longer than five minutes). But, I have a major obstacle to overcome.

I and many of my friends in the upper midwest grew up on farms, or near farms, in small (getting smaller) towns. All in all, about 2% of the US population is directly involved in agricultural practice (3% if you include indirectly involved individuals such as farm credit bureaus, implement dealers, crop insurance salespeople, etc). And if you think most of these farms are in the hands of evil land-grabbing consolidated "corporate farms" - check out this interesting factsheet from the EPA. 90% are owned an operated by individuals or families.

So, understandably, I get a little irritated when the public eye is turned to agriculture because roughly 98% of the US population has any idea what US agriculture is like. They don't know what it takes to run a farm, live in a deeply rural area and try to make a living while the rest of them live in glass houses and throw stones. Forgive me if it feels a little....off. (Of course, if we were all limited to commenting only on things we knew about, politics and the blogosphere would die off rather quickly......)

Michael Pollan and Eric Schlosser (Fast Food Nation), the summer documentary "Food, Inc" and even last weeks' Time magazine (cover article: The Real Cost of Cheap Food) have all focused public debate recently on environmental negatives of the current agricultural structure (although, to it's credit, Time magazine gave a small nod to farmer's, saying that they're smart enough not to crap all over the land that gives them livelihood. Um, thanks?)

What Michael Pollan, et al have done for us is to put more emphasis on what we put in our bodies. Everyone has a say in that. Everyone has decisions to make when they go to the grocery or (shudder) the fast food joint. I'm not saying things shouldn't change. Every system can be improved. But I do have a problem with placing blame on those who have turned growing food into a business. This is America, after all, we're all driven by capitalism to make things more efficient, including (horrors!) food. Pretending that that doesn't apply to our food systems is just willful ignorance.

I got into a debate with a fellow at work a few weeks ago, who was pontificating pompously about the fabulosity of local organic food. Now, I don't have a problem with local, organic food. However, I find it very hard to have an academic conversation regarding the positives of organic food when the US population at large seems to have issues with eating just plain ol' vegetables regularly. I mean, let's not put the cart before the horse, here.

All of this was driven home today, when I was blithely munching away on my home-made asian chicken breast spring green salad. The director of finance, sitting across from me, blurts out:

Why are YOU eating so healthily?

I blinked at her, trying to measure my retort.
'Why wouldn't I?" I responded.

I may finish the book, who knows.

Negotiating Life

2009-08-27T21:18:00.000-04:00

I met up with my friend A., in DC this week. We kept missing each other on my previous trips, as she’s spent the past few months in Kenya. She’s leaving her gig at the World Bank and striking out at Yale this fall on a not-too-definite work future.

“Something happened in Kenya,” she said, “Where I realized that ‘no’ doesn’t always mean ‘No.’” I pointed out that sometimes ‘yes’ doesn’t really mean ‘Yes” either and we chuckled together, knowingly (she has Midwestern roots, like me). But it got me thinking.

I recently read a book called “Women Don’t Ask”, about gender and negotiating. The book was so depressing I could only skim most of it (hence my previous disgusted flame post below), but it raised a good point. Women don’t make demands, even if they are reasonable. And, if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

One of the things that stuck me from the book was that men see themselves negotiating in every day life and women don’t really think about it. Women were hard pressed to come up with a solid example (besides negotiating with kids, which is no small feat) of using these skills often enough to warrant even a memory. Simply put, men see everything as a potential negotiation whereas it doesn’t really occur to us women that we could be negotiating! (Aside: This lead me to ask for a discount in my tires last week, and I got it!)

A.and I talked about the double standard between women being treated like a doormat or being labeled a bitch (or, my personal favorite, “emotional”). Personally, I fight between standing up for myself and being liked at work all the time. It’s a tough line. We both decided that as we get older, we get more confident in ourselves, and much bolder.

“I just finally realized that if something that will mean THIS MUCH (arms out for emphasis) to me, means someone might have to give thismuch (fingers pinched) for me, it was worth asking. Not only in gratitude, but also in the ways I could pay it forward.” A. said.

I couldn’t agree more. I also think that if we don’t ask for the moon either, we won’t get it. I met a women in Sri Lanka who had taken five months of unpaid leave from her job to finish up field research for her master’s degree. When I asked her how she’d finagled that, she said she’d been emboldened by a book on women and negotiation and decided to ask for more. In the end, her company even helped her secure a visa into the country!

Turns out, that we women so undervalue ourselves that we’re happier with less. Even when we ask for something, we don’t go far enough. After reading this book, it occurred to me that I’d fallen into this trap on my last salary negotiation (which is about the time I put down the book…). Also, as a sidebar, I don’t necessarily agree that this is a bad thing - the concept of “enough” seems to be lost on the general America public.

But the fact remains, that we’re getting short-changed and double-standarded all over the place. If we play hardball, women are seen as ‘difficult’. If we try to get along, we do twice the work with less compensation.

There is a fellow at my work who claims that because he has a Master’s degree, he shouldn’t be photocopying thing all the time. His statement made me angry, but it made me even angrier that I have a Master’s degree and this thought didn’t even occur to me (perhaps because I'm not a pompous ass).

Anyway, I congratulated A. I admire her. She’s taking some big risks, hoping that this ‘no’ can eventually be turned into something she wants. When we stretch ourselves beyond what we think is possible, that’s when we find true happiness.

Sexism - Not Just For Your Mama's Generation

2009-08-20T22:12:00.004-04:00

These are actual quotes that have been said to me over the past week:

"What did you think of that married guy we interviewed. Did you think he was cute?" (Um....I didn't even notice).

"Don't worry, you'll eventually want babies."

"Don't buy a home now; soon you'll meet a man and you'll want to move in with him and then you'll have to sell it!"

(I fell off the sidewalk recently, and scraped my knee.) My aunt's response: "Did a handsome man come and sweep you up and carry you away?" (Um, no. Magically, I somehow I managed to pick my own self up...)

"What do your parents think of you going to XXX country?" (seriously? I'm nearly 30 years old!)

An article today on CNN about South African runner, Caster Semenya, who is so good, officials think she's a boy.

While some of these comments are made in jest, the message is clear: Society just doesn't know what to do with women who are competitive, independent and fearless. Also, I am obviously defective because I am neither in a relationship or married. (When I told a friend about my aunt's comment, she said the same thing happened to her, only her grandma told her to "stay down there a little while" until someone came to help). (!)

You know, I totally get why Hillary reacted the way she did in Congo. Women who show any ounce of brain, ambition or drive get harassed, harangued, teased, tormented and "best-intentioned" by all sides. There's no escaping it. It doesn't matter if you're gay, straight, single, married or in a committed relationship. If you're married, you should "hurry up and have kids" before your uterus goes bad. If you've had kids, you're not a good mother if you don't stay home and raise them (or, you're unambitious and lazy if you choose to stay home).

This is a no-win situation. It's unsupportable.

Yes, I AM angry. Mainly because, if you're not angry, you're not paying attention. Women in the US still earn 75 cents for every dollar that men do. A census survey from 2004, showed that this gap is actually getting WORSE. I understand that this is leaps and bounds over what women used to get. I thank my lucky stars that women like Victoria Woodhull and Margaret Sanger came before me. And, my recent travels to Pakistan make me feel even more lucky that I can rent my own apartment, buy my own car and have a job without seeking the permission of anyone but myself.

.......but sweet jeesus. I still can't pick myself up off the sidewalk??

Sri Lanka Photos, part three

2009-08-17T23:21:00.002-04:00

Sunset on Lake Bogoda Mt. Lavinia Hotel - beachfront view

Something...prawn-y

Galle Face hotel

Traditional Kandyian Dancers

More Sri Lanka Photos

2009-08-17T22:28:00.002-04:00

Polunaruwa Buddha

Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage

At Long Last: Sri Lanka Photos

2009-08-17T22:19:00.005-04:00

Gangaramaya Temple, downtown Colombo, at night!

The Beach at Trincomalee

Mind Your Please and Thank You’s

2009-07-21T12:06:00.004-04:00

Last year, when I was in East Timor, I was asked by a former consultant to fix a passport problem. He had overstayed his visa and they had banned him from every coming back.

“How stupid do you have to be to overstay your visa?” I thought.

Today, I found out.

After extending my stay last week and moving hotels, I completely forgot. I only had a thirty day visa and my new flight had me leaving on the 32nd day. Of course, I didn’t realize this until today; the day before I leave.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

I called Susan. Her reaction was classically forthright: “What do we do now, Madam?”

We collectively freaked out and then hung up on each other. I called my friend at the US Embassy, who told me to contact American Civilian Services, who as it turns out, are only open from 1-4 on Mondays and Wednesdays. D’oh. Dead end.

Susan called a friend of a friend who said that US Citizens have a seven day grace period. I refused to believe that unless it was in writing. Our comptroller called a friend who worked in the Immigration office. Susan called another contact who said that it was only a 24 hour grace period and we’d have to pay a $50 fine to extend it. We decided to gather all the paperwork and go down to the Immigration office ourselves.

I tried not to think of the what-if’s. What if they don’t issue it; what if I have to stay, what if...Susan kept patting my hand, laughing nervously and saying she’d make it right. We both shook our heads at each other, hardly believing what an adventure we’d gotten ourselves into. Susan is like me, in that she realizes the futility of her situation when its out of her hands, and keeps her sense of humor.

I think this is what saved us. The Immigration office was a crush of people, whom I towered above. We climbed four flights of stairs (and stares) in and out of air conditioning until we came to a semi-filled room in the Visa section. We were directed to station number #2, where Susan pleaded my case. The woman there stated it would cost $100. I didn’t care; I was determined to get out of the country! Better plead my case here in the visa section and pay my dues, than at midnight tomorrow night with some ornery passport control agent.

We were directed to fill out a form, go get a passport photo, and bring it back. Luckily, there was an entrepreneurial photographer on the floor landing (in the wicked heat). The result, of course, were three very sweaty photos of me looking terrified. Dutifully filled out, we went back to station #2. Then passed to station #1, then the guy next to station #1. I had written that I only needed an extension for one day. “One day, Madam?” he queried. “Yes!” Susan and I replied together. “Just enough to catch my flight…” I explained. I thanked him in Singhalese, and gave him a wan smile.

He shook his head, disbelievingly, glanced from Susan's eager face to mine, and changed my request to three days. “Just in case,” he stated. Then he signed the papers and directed us to station #3.

A long line was forming in front of Station #3, a glass room with a large man behind a desk. Apparently, extensions are only processed before lunch and it was a little before noon. We had only thirty minutes – tops – to get this done. The line crawled. We laughed at my photos. I chewed my hangnails. Susan assured me I could live in her basement, if need be.

Station #3 hardly looked at us before signing the paper, shooing us away. We went back to station #2 ( by this time, I was feeling a bit like a ping-pong ball). They directed us to Payments, who directed us back to Station #2, who wouldn’t take our money. A woman there said she liked my necklace. Another man behind the desk just wiggled his head from side to side in that charming Sri Lankan way, which I understand now to mean “Not a problem.”

"Boham Estuti" I said to them again, "Thank you."

We submitted the final all-signed paperwork to a man behind yet another desk, next to five signs labeled: NGO, Student, Private, Clergy and Resident Indian. I wondered if they had a lot of visiting clergy… However, I didn’t have much time to ponder this, as within twenty minutes the last man came back with a load of passports, including my own. Then they shut down for lunch.

Whew! Under the wire. Susan commented that it was probably a) my saying so many thank you's and b) the innocent, urgent look on my face. "Your charm wins again, Madam," Susan said. I'm not sure, but I think I'm running short on how much I can rely on my charm. I told Susan as much and she just laughed at me.

As repayment for their help, I took Susan and the rest of the office out to lunch to celebrate my freedom. Needless to say, productivity was not very high for the rest of the day.

Police Checkpoints

2009-07-21T12:06:00.001-04:00

Although the war is officially over, police checkpoints around the country and city of Colombo still remain. My first hotel was located within spitting distance of the President’s compound, which meant roadblocks, check points, traffic stops and lots of machine guns. I don’t feel threatened; after awhile they just seem to blend in to everything else on the street. Just one more hoop to getting home.

Mostly, the police checkpoints are just annoying. They wave over your car, check your national identity card, ask where you’re going and wave you on. No one bothers to ask me for my papers; I’ve already blogged about how un-Sri Lankan I look. However, Susan and I seem to get pulled over a lot more when we’re together, but they don’t hassle us too much. I flash a smile, meet their eyes and test out my three Singhalese phrases. Susan teases me that I use my charm on them; I think they just panic when they see my pale face.

Saturday night I was out with some non-Sri Lankan friends. All five of us piled in the backseat of a taxi to Gallery Café. I don’t know if we were conspicuously crammed, or if something was going on in the city, but our little car got stopped not once – but twice – by police checkpoints. Much to our surprise, they demanded our papers.

Three of my friends are diplomats, but only two of them had copies of their passports. Us Americans are told to leave them at home, so Anu and I were out of luck. The diplomats produced their copies, and argued their immunity to the men with the machine guns. It devolved quite quickly into heated discussions. I slunked in my seat. I thought the poor driver was going to drop dead with terror. Finally, they let us go.

The second checkpoint wasn’t much better, as everyone was exasperated, hungry and a bit shaken. More demands, more paperwork. I slunk further. The policemen didn’t seem to know what the word “diplomat” meant; nor do I think it did much good to be shouting it at them. I was thinking of Susan, and my subtle flirting, but was too nervous to even look up, let alone smile. I was tucked too far back in the backseat; and trying very very hard to be invisible.

I don’t know if anything was going on in the city last night, or if it was just plain over-vigilance by the police, but it definitely put a damper on the evening. Luckily, on the way back, we didn’t get stopped, but I no longer consider them “just an annoyance.”

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2009-07-20T13:13:00.006-04:00

...but if you try sometimes, you get what you need.

I certainly haven't gotten what I thought I wanted lately. I came to Sri Lanka content to distract myself with work, lick my wounds and order room service.

But, as always, the universe had other plans.

I am so grateful to have met and made wonderful friends in my short time here. I didn't learn much about local culture, or Sri Lanka, but I had someone to hold my hand, laugh with, and remind myself that there is still a whole world of wonderful people out there who want me in their lives.

I am truly blessed.

The Perfect Sri Lankan Sunday

2009-07-19T11:50:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago, I opened up a book I'd brought with me and out drops my Minnesota fishing license. "Huh, that's random," I thought, "Hope I don't lose this!"

I didn't lose it; and in fact, I brought it up at a Nepali supper last Sunday with a group of friends.

"You fish?" Yacoub said.
"Sure...why not?" I replied.

...and that was the start of a lovely weekend. Yacoub ended up inviting myself, Anu, Barbara, Jill and others out to his and his uncles place on Lake Bogoda, just outside Colombo, this Sunday (today). Turns out, he's a huge fisherman. He wanted us there at 6am, but we ended up rolling in around 9, some of us hungover.....and some just really, really tired.

Still, that was enough time for a four hour troll up and down the lake, (which eventually turns into the sea). The fish they go for are much bigger than my usual widemouth bass. Unfortunately, I didn't figure this out until AFTER I got a hit, and didn't set the hook properly. So, as usual, The Big One Got Away. We trolled for a few more hours, seeing monkeys, a sea monitor (Sri Lanka's komodo dragon :) and cooking ourselves on the prow. (We literally watched Stefan turn from raw to well-done in front of us!)

At one point, Stefan knocked my flip-flop off the prow and we had to turn around to get it (once we realized it was missing; about 20 minutes later..) Yacoub announced that I'd make out with whoever found it, I think as an incentive for Stefan, but lucky for me, it was Jill that eagle-eyed it out of the weeds, and she wasn't interested in cashing in. Although little alcohol was involved, we kept ourselves diverted by the amazing number of double entendre's that come from fishing. Yacoub's friend even read all of our palm's. (I apparently, am in for two kids and I don't keep in touch with my family well..)

We got back in to the boathouse around 1pm; more friends showed up and the beer started flowing. Yacoub's house is set on a hill, with a large wrap around veranda. His mom made two large bowls of biryani, sambol and spicey chicken. After we ate our fill, the jaggery came out (sri lankan creme caramel), as did the hammock. Some unsuccessful waterskiing was pursued by the Germans, another fishing tour went out and a motorboat ride at sunset rounded out the day.

I am crispy, exhausted and I have tiny niggling ache at the back of my head - but - what a wonderful day. I don't feel I've missed the Minnesota summer at all; in fact, the Minnesota summer has come to me.

It Matters What Road You're On

2009-07-17T13:33:00.000-04:00

After extending my stay in Sri Lanka, I was forced to move hotels. Apparently, I’d overstayed my welcome at the Cinnamon Grand (also, I was getting a little sick of hotel staff opening my door without knocking, but that’s another story). Given that, and all the maddening weddings (I stopped counting at 15) I am happy to leave.

Today I moved to my new digs, the Taru Villas in Colombo 3. Off a busy street, this unassuming gate opens up to a finely clipped fresh front lawn, and refreshingly empty grand hall, done up in Dutch and British Colonial style. There are ten rooms, and only three people staying here. After the hustle and bustle of the Grand, I am happy to find a quiet, contemplative space.

After unpacking and doing a bit more work, I headed out to meet some friends for dinner at the Mango Tree, a local Indian restaurant known for its excellent food. Seeing as I hadn’t gotten my bearings yet, I took a cab. Many streets are one way in Colombo, punctuated by occasional police check points and at times out and out road closings (for Ministers driving by), which results in some very frustrating and circuitous routes to get to a destination not so far away, actually. If you were only a bird.

This was exactly what happened to me tonight, on my way to Mango Tree. I teased the driver that he was taking me in circles, just for an extra fare (you pay by the km). He complained about the one-ways, which was indeed what had happened. I arrived at the Mango Tree, paid him the $1.50 fare and joined my gal pals for a fun evening. At the end of it, I thought about walking back, but as I didn’t really fancy a walk in the dark by myself to a place I wasn’t quite sure I could find again, so I called a cab.

I had looked up the hotel address online, and was confident it was #20 Park Road. The cab takes off in the direction of cab road; only it’s the complete opposite direction of where I think we should be going. At first I thought it was just the one-ways again, but after years of travel, I’ve learned to follow my inner compass (which is pretty darned good, if I must say). After a few zooming kilometers, I KNEW we were going the wrong way. Knowing my new place is near a local landmark hotel, I said that hotel’s name and the cab driver perked up. Ma’am, that’s in the complete opposite direction, he said.

Yes, I realize that, I said, sorry, sorry. I am new. Please just turn around. The big chain hotel was the only place I could tell him to go to that I knew was remotely close to my new place. And, thinking quickly, in a worst case scenario, I knew that the concierge there could look up the number and address of the Taru Villa and explain it to the cabbie.

This is indeed what happened. Except the concierge didn’t know, either, and he ended up walking up and down the street, asking the tuk-tuk driver’s if THEY knew.

The cabbie was mystified.

“Don’t you know the address, madam?”
Shamefacedly, I had to admit I had no idea what the address was. Apparently it was NOT Park Road. Damn.

“Do you have the hotel number?”

Um…well….

“Do you know the NAME?”

“Yes, it’s Taru Villa. It’s near here. I know it. It’s not far from the Gangarama Temple.” (we’d just passed it, but the roads are so winding behind it, I quickly got lost trying to direct him.) In that second, the concierge comes back from his night walk up and down the street, and says to the cabby, essentially, in Singhala:

“This idiot girl is staying at the Taru Villas. It’s on 20 Park Street, about thirty meters behind you.”

The cabby then turns to me and says in English, “OHHHH. The Taru VillaSSS. (extra emphasis on the SSSSss).

“Yes,” I say, “Taru Villa.”

“VillaSSS,” he says. “On Park STREET.”

“Right. Not Park Road,” I say.

“No, STREET. It’s different madam,” he says, by way of explaining.

When I finally arrived safely home, I paid him $10 for his trouble - and my embarrassment. I laughed with the hotel owner, asking him if they’d moved hotels from Park Road to Street and he gasped, “But that’s on the other side of town, madam.”

Sigh.

National Museum Saturday

2009-07-12T00:08:00.003-04:00

Saturday afternoon, I decided to go check out the National Museum of Colombo. I'm slowly learning my way around the city, through taxis and various rides from friends, so I'm feeling more and more comfortable venturing out on my own. Although my taxi driver didn't really seem to understand me, I ended up in the right place.

My guidebook had mentioned that it was 65 rupees (about 50 cents) to get in, so imagine my surprise when the ticketman asked me for 500 (about $4.50)!

"Why so expensive?" I asked him.
"You are not from Sri Lanka, madam?" He replied
"Well, no," I protested, "but I could be a Burgher. How do you know I'm not Burgher?"
Without missing a beat, the man said, "Then, where's your national identity card?"

...nuts. He had me there. I laughed and paid him the exorbitant amount.

Flat out, I'd say the best part of the National Museum is the beautiful colonial building in which it's housed. A large, white monolith, with ionic columns set back in a large field, I felt like I was walking into old school Washington DC architecture again. The walkway terraces between each exhibit room were wide and open, letting the tiniest of breezes flow through. I could've settled in right there on a rocking chair, a tonic and a good book.

However, that was only when I could get away from the millions of schoolchildren charging about. My guess was that they were middle schoolers, judging from their size, gangliness and rusty hygiene measures. For the most part, I was able to walk unmolested among them, peering at pottery, jewlery pieces and a pair of Buddha's golden shoes. But in one particularly boring room (photos of one of the founders in pre-independence Ceylon), a group of boys began following, surrounding me, giggling and asking for the time. In fact, I turned around so fast that I almost ran one over. They're just kids, but not wanting to play "goofy foreigner" for them, I quickly left the room.

Aside from the architecture and the overall wilted beauty of the building, I thought the jewlery, stone statues of hindu gods through Sri Lanka's history and the returned crown jewels of the King of Kandy (the place, not the food) were the most interesting. I couldn't determine if it was real or not, but in one room a giant skeleton of blue whale hangs ominously from the ceiling - that was pretty cool, too.

Despite all that, it was extremely hot and humid in the building. I was ready to leave after an hour. I haggled for a tuk-tuk, and tootled back to the hotel enjoying all the exhaust fumes that Colombo has to offer. That evening, I ended up participating in the Hash and then out for dinner with Matt (another company employee here) and some of his friends. Overall, it was an extremely pleasant Saturday. Sure beats cleaning my apartment! (Although I am starting to miss my cat...)

Poya at Kelaniya Raja Maha Vihara

2009-07-07T09:34:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, July 6th, was Esala Full Moon Poya Day in Sri Lanka. The full moon period of the month is an auspicious time for Buddhists, and it's a holy day (holiday) every month. So, the entire city of Colombo emptied out over the weekend, as folks headed home to attend their local Buddhist shrines or just spend time with family. Also worth noting, no alcohol is sold on this day.

Luckily, earlier that weekend, my co-worker and I went to the Marines Annual 4th of July picnic at the State Department Recreation House (basically, a pool). We ended up meeting some fun Australian diplomats (I know, right? Party diplomacy!) and spending the rest of the weekend hanging out with them.

On Poya, two Australians, myself and another American on TDY here for a short time went to Kelaniya Raja Maha Vihara, a little outside of Colombo. It is supposedly the spot where Buddha taught on the last of his three visits to Sri lanka and home to some beautiful friezes in the image house. We wanted to watch people celebrate poya and generally see what it was all about.

Like all Buddhist shrines, you must remove your shoes before stepping on the hallowed ground. The compound itself was large and covered in gritty sand, which snuck in between every toe and creeped up my leg. There were scores of people there, all dressed in white. Some squatted on the ground, others had brought newspapers or sheets of plastic to sit and pray on. Still others had brought mats and were curled up to sleep in the many porticos along various outbuildings.

We viewed the reclining Buddha inside the great image hall. There was a push of people going inside, all with their hands clasped to their faces, cupping frangipangi petals. We had no idea to buy flowers (although after we left, we noticed tons and tons of vendors along the walkway to the shrine), but a kind woman silently slipped me some petals from her bag, which I shared with the others. I laid them at the feet of the reclining Buddha, along with piles and piles of others. We also gazed at a frieze that depicted a woman bringing over Buddha's tooth in her hair.

Later, when we were circling the large white dagoba where its said that Buddha preached, a woman went up to my friend Jill and offered her some incense to burn. She helped Jill light the punks and stick them in the sand pot before one of the many Buddha statues.

While we obviously stood out, what with our white legs and constant cameras, people were kind to us, offering smiles and nods as we mingled among the crowd. We left after an hour and headed for a Thai restaurant, remarking how much fun it was to be out of the city, out of the hotels and part of local customs.

Hey, Buddha! Wake up!

2009-07-02T13:23:00.002-04:00

There are tons of beautiful Buddha's around Sri Lanka (on nearly every street corner, actually) and some very, very large ones. The funny part is that whenever I take photos of his large serene face, this flashes on my camera:

"Warning! One or more subjects may have closed their eyes."

Someone should tell him to stop meditating and start mugging for the camera...

Pinnewala Elephants

2009-07-02T13:04:00.002-04:00

On Tuesday, on our way to Batticaloa, we stopped a bit out of our way to the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage (and more here). We (Susan, Kanak and I) arrived right as the 2pm bath was to begin; and right as an enormous downpour started. We stood in the middle of the forest, under the canopy of the public washroom, as a herd of 89 elephants were driven towards the river (about 1 km away).

One elephant in particular, stopped near where we were waiting and wrapped his trunk around lovingly around the fence near us. It was really neat to see such a powerful animal be so darn cute, but when I went to take a picture he of course turned away.

Susan and I stole an umbrella from one of the staff and made our way to the river for an overpriced lunch, overlooking the frolicking animals. It was really touristy (and if you've ever seen African Elephants on Safari, it's hard to be impressed by the tiny size of the Asian elephant (although they are still magnificant)). The other downside was that it took us about 1.5 hours out of our way, meaning that it was late in the evening by the time we arrived at our hotel. Ugh.

Self Validation via some survey done by the Daily Telegraph

2009-06-28T11:49:00.004-04:00

Women Happiest at 28

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthnews/5645800/Women-happiest-at-28.html

The title is a bit misleading, as the rest of the article goes on to say that women have the best SEX at 28, but "women are happiest in their career at 29 and most content with their relationships one year later at 30"...

However, "all is not lost for the over 30s, as women feel most content with their financial situation at 33 and at ease with their home and family life at 32."

Soooooo basically, I'm on track.

Whew!

Does is say anywhere in here when I get to take over the world?

A Day Off

2009-06-27T12:13:00.002-04:00

Today I was finally able to squeeze in a full night's sleep, a jog, and some pool-time. I actually find I get more done when I'm relaxed poolside, sipping a double gin-tonic under a bao tree than when I'm frazzled, hunched over my computer in grey cubicle. I'm sure most people feel that way, which leads me to wonder why more offices aren't under bao trees, but I digress. Probably lack of bao trees. Anyway, I was able to finish off one report and get a good start on another and still have an hour to swim before fun time.

Susan, my Sri Lankan colleague, had agreed to take me around Colombo for some shopping and sightseeing. We started out at a craft shop, then a gem store, then to a shopping center where I scored some seriously cheap clothes. Like many developing nations, Sri Lanka is heavily into the textile industry, sewing some of the top brands for the US markets. So, I was able to score a GAP skirt and a few Ann Taylor Loft blouses for less than fifteen USD - total.

After that, Susan surprised me by taking me to the Gangaramaya Buddhist Temple. There are several spread out parts of this compound, including the Seema Malaka (shrine) situated in nearby Beira Lake. The best part about the shrine were the signs up all over saying "Do Not Make Love Here" in Singalese. Apparently, it's a happening night spot!

Incidentally, we did go at night, when everything was lit up by torches and tea lights (we didn't see any amorous couples, though). According to my out-dated guidebook, the temple itself is a "strange hotch-potch of Buddhist arts and architecture from Sri Lanka, Thailand, China...with an unusually strong dash of Hindu influence thrown in." I'm not a religious scholar, but I can recognize my favorite Hindu god, Ganesh, when I see him (he's the one with the elephant head); and I saw him in the entryway. Beautiful, but strangely out of place, I thought.

Asking Susan about this, she succinctly stated, "Buddhism is open to all thoughts. It is a philosophy; not a religion."

The entryway opened up into a cavernous room with an enormous (thirty feet tall) orange Buddha. The walls were covered in elaborate paintings, carvings and mini-Buddha's. It was breathtaking. People were lighting incense, chanting and listening the loudspeakers, which were piping in a live "sermon" from another area of the temple.

From there, we walked into a courtyard dominating by a huge white dagoba, which basically looks like a white bell (click link for picture). Off to one side, stood a large boa tree tied low with strips of colored cloths. Susan mentioned that people believed that if they circled the tree, watering it, their prayers would be answered. I've had a few prayers of my own lately, so I grabbed a silver chalice and watered my heart out. Answers or not, I certainly felt better afterwards.

Lastly, in the back, behind the museum, the most breathtaking sight of the evening was the slope of rows upon rows of smiling buddhas, casting peaceful shadows far into the night. It was calming just to be there.

After sneaking a few more pictures in, Susan and I hopped back in the car where Raja (the driver) had purchased egg hoppers for all of us. Basically a crispy pancake with fried egg in the middle, it was super-delish (see previous post about me and fried food) and an excellent end to an excellent afternoon.

Tomorrow - the spa!

A Week's Worth

2009-06-26T12:29:00.002-04:00

I haven't felt very verbose lately, so here's a quick week's worth of updates:

- eleven interviews = one very long day
- hot showers are only as available as your ability (and lucidity) to know which way the knob should turn;
- two eight hour car rides in as many days
- one of those hours locating an office space that ends up being a bombed out farmhouse
- repeat performance with another bombed out farmhouse, this one with squatters
- the "good" road is the one under construction
- hot is feeling the backs of your knees sweat
- cows are a) pedestrians b) decoration c) family members d) all of the above
- whoops? should I be taking malarial pills?
- deep fried and carbs = me likey (fried manioc is delish!)
- observed pujah at a hindu shrine on a mountain top
- watched a monkey throw up in his mouth
- visited Lover's Leap, but stood firm
- swam in the Indian Ocean at dusk;
- tried to read emails at the beach, ended up picking sand from my laptop;
- watched my underwear being fondled at a military checkpoint;
- denied access to "marble beach"
- got photo with cute military guy instead
- promised I wasn't going to post it on a website
-...but can still talk about it!

Oh Caffeine, I'll Never Forsake You Again

2009-06-21T22:20:00.004-04:00

It's taken me three days, but I've finally arrived in Sri Lanka. While I still maintain that East Timor is as close to the end of the earth as you can get (and pretty hard to get to), Sri Lanka gives it a run for its money. One 13 hour flight to Tokyo (2 hours sitting at the gate, trying to get the cargo door to close); then, upon arrival 15 minutes to run to the bathroom and board my 6 hour flight to Bangkok.

My Bangkok hotel was nice, but my internal clock was so screwed up by that point, when I finally got there at 2am, I couldn't wind down to sleep and had to resort to tylenol pm, which leaves me sluggish and sleepy. Effectively, I didn't have enough energy to go explore the city during my 12 hour layover and subsequently was forced just to hit the spa, gym and pool (in that order). One more three hour flight that evening, landed me in Colombo around 10:30 pm.

In an effort to be "healthy", I had shunned caffeine during this time, so my internal clock could reset on its own (barring the tylenol pm, which I maintain was an emergency). I thought this was a smart idea, except by Sunday evening, an achy feeling had crept into the back of my skull. What began as a dull pain, soon turned into a shooting, blinding, hammering, by the time I had made it through customs in Colombo.

The swine flu is a big deal in Asia, especially since Sri Lanka just got its first case last week. They're screening everyone from "swine flu" countries, including the US, so I had to pass a health inspection wherein they make you fill out a little form regarding how you're feeling. How would you feel after 2 days of travelling? Luckily "like shit" wasn't one of the options, otherwise, I might have ended up in Sri Lankan quarantine. Also, thankfully, "hammering migraine" wasn't one of the symptoms listed either.

After an excruciating hour long car ride, I arrived at the hotel, made myself the strongest "breakfast tea" (ie with caffeine!) and promptly fell asleep.

I've learned my lesson. Next global pandemic, I might not be so lucky. "Screaming headache" might actually be on the list.

Caffeine, I'll never try to break up with you again. It's dangerous!

Burmused.

2009-06-09T22:44:00.006-04:00

I've not covered this much here, but I've been following the news of Burma's Aung San Suu Kyi recent detention due to the ridiculous actions of American tourist John William Yettaw. Aung San Suu Kyi, a Nobel peace price winner and democracy advocate, has been under house arrest for the past several years for opposing the military junta. Op-Ed's in Washington Post and this article by Voice of America do a good job of summarizing the democracy activist, and her current trial for "violating house arrest" when Mr. Yettaw decided it would be a good idea to swim the moat for a visit (Suu Kyi does not know him). But she faces an additional 5 years of jail time because he felt he urgently needed to talk with her.

I have alot of opinions about the thoughtlessness of this man, but that's not the point of this post.

I am in DC this week, attending a seminar for work on aid, development and conflict. I had lunch with a Burmese gentleman today, and I asked him about the trial. He was not optimistic. He explained that the miltary junta keeps such tight controls over everything that if one wants to have a meeting of over five people, they must get government approval (verified by google). Can you imagine that? This extends to work, play, school, religious gatherings, as well as political rally's (if they have such a thing). This would even extend to such professional seminars similar to what we are both currently attending.

Wow.

Because this was his first trip to the US, I asked him what his first impression was. His response was "Everything is very green here. In Burma, there are few trees. People cut them down to sell."

DC is a beautifully green place, with many public spaces, so I couldn't deny him that. But it wasn't what I expected. I expected something along the lines of free press, being able to say whatever he wanted, read what he wanted, gather a group of over five friends together and party til dawn without permission. Didn't he feel "free-er"?

Nope, he felt cleaner. The air smelled good.

I guess it's the small things - that which we so often take for granted - which makes the biggest difference.

Not to Pick on Zambia again but...

2009-06-06T16:42:00.005-04:00

I went to the travel doctor this week for my upcoming trip to Sri Lanka. I hate travel doctors. They always tell me to wear sunscreen, drink plenty of water and wear bug spray. (Just once I'd like someone to teach me something useful, like CPR, or maybe some hand-to-hand combat moves.) I also hear alot about the scary diseases that I may or may not attract.

For those of you who know me, this does not go over well with my hypochondriac self.

This doctor was no different. While very nice, she was also big on pointing out which diseases I don't want to get (malaria) and which ones I DEFINITELY don't want (japanese encephalitis). In fact, I may go back and get the vaccine for that one.

Aaaaaanyway, what I thought was going to be a quick 30 minute appointment for malaria drugs turned into a two-hour ordeal, with me leaving certain that I was going to die of Chagas, or at the very least, had a case of worms.

I went back to the office and vented about my experience.

My coworker, a pleasantly plump conservative mid-thirties single gal guffawed. "That's nothing," she said, "when I went for my trip to Zambia, the nurse asked me if I was going to be having sexual relations."

(Note: business trips do not lend themselves to romance).

"When I told her no, she eyed me up and down again and said, "Are you sure?"

(Note: pretty sure. And by that I mean, ABSOLUTELY CONFIDENT.)

"When I again assured her I would not be having sexual relations, she still advised me to bring condoms."

(Note: In case any unplanned orgies breakout).

"And when I told her that I would not waste my time bringing condoms, she said, 'Well, they have AIDs in Zambia.'"

(Note: part of our project in Zambia deals with people affected with AIDs.)

I get they have a duty to warn us of what we're walking into, but they must deal with some awfully stupid or dishonest people. Also, the world is a scary enough place without my having to worry if walking barefoot on beach will give me shingles. I realize that ignorance may not be the way to go here, but it is indeed, bliss.

I miss my DC travel doctor, who stuck me with needles, gave me my drugs, slapped a lollipop in my hand and let me run back to work.

M is for malaria.
M.

Random Country : Sri Lanka

2009-06-06T16:13:00.005-04:00

A new project is starting there, so I'll be leaving in about two weeks - and gone for about a month.

From our good friends at Wiki:

Sri Lanka is an island country in South Asia, located about 31 kilometres (19.3 mi) off the southern coast of India. It is home to around twenty million people.
Because of its location in the path of major sea routes, Sri Lanka is a strategic naval link between West Asia and South East Asia, and has been a center of Buddhist religion and culture from ancient times. Today, the country is a multi-religious and multi-ethnic nation: more than a quarter of the population follows faiths other than Buddhism, notably Hinduism, Christianity and Islam.

The Sinhalese community forms the majority of the population; Tamils, who are concentrated in the north and east of the island, form the largest ethnic minority. Other communities include Moors, Burghers, Kaffirs and the Malays.

Famous for the production and export of tea, coffee, coconuts and rubber, Sri Lanka boasts a progressive and modern industrial economy and the highest per capita income in South Asia. The natural beauty of Sri Lanka's tropical forests, beaches and landscape, as well as its rich cultural heritage, make it a world famous tourist destination.

After over two thousand years of rule by local kingdoms, parts of Sri Lanka were colonized by Portugal and the Netherlands beginning in the 16th century, before control of the entire country was ceded to the British Empire in 1815. During World War II, Sri Lanka served as an important base for Allied forces in the fight against the Japanese Empire.[10] A nationalist political movement arose in the country in the early 20th century with the aim of obtaining political independence, which was eventually granted by the British after peaceful negotiations in 1948. In Sri Lanka about 15 % of the population live on less than US$ 1.25 per day. [11]

Excitingly enough, the 27 civil war between the LTTE (Tamil Tigers) and the Government ended in May, so that's a bit of good news. Of course, tensions don't just magically disappear overnight, so it's going to be interesting. I'm not sure if I'm going to post much about the conflict itself, for security reasons (both for myself and the project), but here's what wikipedia has to say:

From 1983 to 2009, there was an on-and-off civil war against the government by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), a separatist militant organization who fought to create an independent state named Tamil Eelam in the North and East of the island. This has in turn resulted in ethnic cleansing of Muslim and Shinhalese from the area which Tigers claim to be Tamil Eelam. Both the Sri Lankan government and LTTE has been accused for various human right violations. However, number of notorious atrocities committed by LTTE, including suicide bombing, forced conscription of child soldier and ethnic cleansing of non-Tamils cause many countries to classify LTTE as a terrorist organisation.[citation needed]

On May 19, 2009 the President of Sri Lanka officially claimed end of the insurgency and the defeat of the LTTE following the death of its leader and much of its senior leadership.[26]

Humph. All I get is an Advil.

2009-06-05T15:06:00.000-04:00

By nature of my strange job, sometimes I come across some unusual practices from other countries. This includes Zambian labor law, which we reviewed in a meeting on Wednesday, and includes the following:

Chapter 268: Part VII: 54.2:
In addition to the leave prescribed in subsection (1), every female employee shall be entitled to one day’s absence from work each month without having to produce a valid medical certificate.

Gee, (scratches head) once per month? I wonder what THAT’s for?

///Hello, Zambia? I wish I was working for you today.

Note to File

2009-06-02T22:36:00.005-04:00

In my early twenties, my brother warned me that someday, sooner or later, I'd find wanderlust addicting. At that point, I thought he was crazy. I'd only been out my parent's house two years, and already I'd moved four times. I craved home; I craved a place to call my own; nice things ; a job; and a community where I belonged. I was pretty sure that once I found all those awesome things, I'd find a way to hang on to them.

I wasn't wrong, exactly, but it dawned on me yesterday that finally I'd finally come full circle.

Yes, life is change; messy, inescapeable. My twenties have been a study of this. It's been exciting, heartbreaking, overwhelming and wonderful. Throughout them, I'd used change voluntarily or involuntarily as a chance to escape boredom, bad roommates, a low-paying job, see new countries, make new friends, whatever. Wait six months, I thought, and things will be different.

What I failed to grasp was that in and of itself, change is just a thing. It doesn't actually solve any problems. For example, I used to think that if I didn't like my job, there were other ones to have (still true). However, what I see now is that the things you change to escape from will more than likely follow you anyway. I could move, get married, have kids, live in Timbuctu, and still - still - there will be challenges. Stupid bosses. Ailing relatives. Crabby kids.

I'm not addicted anymore; I just am.

And for that, suddently I feel extremely tired.

///And old.

I'll Take One, Too!

2009-05-27T23:01:00.004-04:00

I don't know if I know anything about anything, but the latest proposed government assistance to General Motors irks me. From what I understand, after the dust settles on this, the US government stands to have about a 70% stake in this ailing motor company. This means my tax dollars may soon be going to a place that makes overpriced cars with low gas mileage that I'd never buy. (Psst - Why couldn't we bail out something I like?)

So, I heard this on the Marketplace (Kai Ryssdal = dreeeeamy) coming home from work today, and I found myself nodding my head in agreement. Author Barry Ritholtz was being interviewed by Kai (sigh) on the current state of government bailouts:

"You don't want to reward incompetent management, and that's pretty much what we've been doing. Oh, you guys drove this company into the ground, and you've lost $180 billion, here's a check. Come back if you need some more. It's insane."

I know this guy was on Marketplace to sell his book, but I couldn't help but agree. I hate incompetent management. I hate the fact that old white men (and I AM making a vast assumption here, but it's my blog and this is the direction I'm going...) sit in their leather armchairs, taking risks, assuming THEY'RE TOO BIG TO FAIL and then lining up to suck at the teat of government handouts.

The thing that really kills me is that half these guys are probably Libertarians, too (!)

But, on the other hand, I understand that GM employes almost a quarter of a million people. I don't mean to sound hard hearted to the very real reality that these folks will be facing in the coming weeks and months. Some of these folks are my friends. Why should they lose their jobs because management didn't know what they were doing?

The thing I struggle with (aside from my latent hatred for the Global Patriarchy) is: what stops us from bailing out EVERYONE? We've all got (or most of us have) jobs. Why not my company? I realize I may be late in chiming in here, but WHAT THE HELL? WHO'S NEXT?

As Barry Ritholtz outlines,

"Once you reward people for their worst behavior, for speculative, irresponsible investing and punish the prudent and the people who are careful with that money. Everybody seems to think it's a free for all. Hey, you've got yours. How do I get mine?"

So yeah, where IS mine?

///Crap.

////.......It's with GM.

Old School Flashback

2009-05-15T19:26:00.003-04:00

Last night I laughed and smiled so hard my face hurt.

My co-worker George had invited me and twenty of his closest friends out to celebrate his birthday. First, we hit Granite City Brewery in Saint Louis Park, where I was tricked into taking a shot of Patron (and literally paying for it!). I didn't know many of George's friends, but everyone warms up after a shot of tequila, so it turned out alright.

The dinner was fairly uneventful, but what came after was AWESOME. George (and the two other May birthday's he and his group of friends were celebrating, organized a roller skating party.

Remember these? With the advent of roller-blading, I thought that old-school, four-wheel roller skating had gone extinct. In fact, in retrospect, I guess I thought that since the roller rink had closed in Grand Forks, ND that they'd pretty much died across the US.

Oohhhhhhhh no. Oh no. They are alive and well, my friend. Turns out, there's atleast three roller rinks in the Twin Cities (not counting when they open up the Dome for roller-blading). Last night, we went to the Roller Garden, also in Saint Louis Park. It's not far from my friend Kate's house, but somehow I'd never noticed it on the side of the road, in a big, but unassuming building.

Walking in was like that part of the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy opens the door and discovers a world full of color and tiny, sparkly people. It was Technicolor - live.

First off, there were a TON of people there, in all shapes, sizes and colors....and man could they skate. Not just skate, but skate-DANCE. Skating backwards, one legged, jumping, bumping and yes, grinding. I had totally forgotten that skating could sometimes be 'porn on wheels'.

It was 25 and older night (random, right?) and also R&B evening. Lights flashed and whirled, twinkled and twisted, while skaters whizzed around the rink. The carpet was nasty, grey, worn and covered everything. There were tons of kiddy games on the side of the rink, but thankfully, no kiddys. The overall effect was completely disorienting; like eating waaaay too much cotton candy.

All of a sudden, I was a little kid again, and I couldn't wait to get on the "dance" floor. I couldn't stop grinning as I laced up my ancient rental skates (which weighed about 14 pounds, by the way). George's friends were all pretty good, so there was no judgement when my feet slipped from under me and I landed smack on my ass in front of them :)

Aside from the initial flailing, I got the hang of it again pretty quick. I was a bit unsteady, but managed to hold my own. I'd forgotten how physical it is! A few songs and I was literally, sweatin' to the Oldies. I managed not to knock anyone down (coup!) and to really, have one of the best nights of my year so far.

Who wants to go next week?
M.

Babies, Bikes and Alcohol

2009-05-09T17:04:00.000-04:00

.......All good stress relievers.

There's No Such Thing As A Free Lunch...

2009-04-26T01:38:00.003-04:00

But apparently, breakfast and dinner are not out of the question.

I met a friend for breakfast this morning at the diner near my house. As we were sitting down, in a table for two, the next door table for four suddenly had two more people (and a newborn) show up. They asked us to move down one so that they could add our table for two onto their four, thereby making space for their entire party.

We obliged, and I quipped playfully, "You're paying for breakfast then, right?" Tee hee, hardy-har, on with breakfast.

Which, it ends up, he did indeed, pay for it. I was floored. We asked the waitress if there was anyone at her tables with a comparable bill, so that we, too, could pay it forward, but there were none. (In her words: "Those women next to you might find it creepy"). So, we left her a big tip and mentally noted our debt to karma.

Spring forward to this evening. Pals Kim, Alexei and I were out at Arcadia Cafe, enjoying some neat blue-grass. The only table we could get was right behind the sound board. One of the organizer's approached us early in the evening with a large pitcher that said "Musician Tips".

"If you take this around the bar during each set," he said, "I'll buy you a round of drinks each time."

I'm on a Let's Meet New People kick, so this was perfect. I met some curmudgeony students in the back, who squeezed some turnips and handed over a few nickels (I facetiously suggested to one sour-faced girl that I'd take her hat in lieu of payment and she whined, "But I like my hat!"). I met a cute boy and girl from Indiana who lived in small town Wisconsin and had come to the "big city" for some music (she even had her fiddle!) I chatted up the banjo player of the next band (no dice) and bartered for a free demo CD with the manager of the first band. I debated Somali pirates with some Chilean dude who needed a shower, and refused an apple from a guy who got it from some Christians handing out free food up the street (he said that food from Christians "skeeved him out" and it wasn't organic anyway... (insert massive eyeroll here).

Anyway, for minimal effort and maximal fun, my friends and I managed to get two free rounds of drinks, two free shots and a basket of the best onion rings I've ever tasted. (...and an "inorganic" apple. )

I know I've been accused behind closed doors of having a Pollyanna-esque attitude toward the world, but even after all the poverty I've seen, I still firmly believe it's a fundamentally good place. People are good. Life, overall, is filled with tiny gifts. You only have to receive them.

If You've Never Stumbled Over Your Own Two Feet...

2009-04-24T08:01:00.002-04:00

Take a Step class.

........man!

Ellen Johnson Sirleaf Education

2009-04-10T22:57:00.008-04:00

Today, a colleague and I went to hear Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, current President of Liberia, speak at the University of Minnesota. Ms. Johnson Sirleaf has the distinction of being not only the first democratically elected leader of Liberia, but the first woman president in Africa.

Liberia is unique in that is was colonized by re-patriated free slaves from the US in the middle of the 19th century. They even named the capital "Monrovia" after US President James Monroe. Unfortunately, from the little that I've read, this didn't go so well. They basically treated the indigenous Africans as they had been treated in the United States, creating a bifurcated state of elitists and peasants (sound familiar?) Ironically, they named the place "Liberia" (Land of the Free) while simulatenously enslaving the local population. In a story known well throughout Africa, in 1980, the government was overthrown by a military coup, which later lead to two civil wars - one in 1989 and one most recently in 2003 (as perpetrated by Charles Taylor - who was recently captured- and is awaiting trial for war crimes in The Hague.)

President Johnson Sirleaf has had an interesting life, twice emprisoned in the 1980's for speaking out against the dictatorship. She's a smooth speaker and polished politician, giving kudos to the many Liberians in the audience who came to show their support. She outlined many of the strides her country has made since she took office - raising revenue almost threefold, reducing external debt, and investing in education. To hear it in its entirety, click here. Overall, it was as I expected - smooth, but without much revelation.

When she mentioned great strides in education, pointing to a new initiative to provide scholarships for 5000 rural girls to attend, I got to thinking. Why not provide FREE education, for all? Why mess around with scholarship money, which may or may not be used for school?

Then I remembered, Malawi has recently declared free elementary education for all. Malawi is about on par with Liberia in terms of desperation (Malawi not having been through a civil war, however, and Liberia not having as large an AIDs rate as Malawi). Both receive large amounts of development aid.

In theory, free elementary education sounds great. In practice, however, from what I understand, it hasn't turned out too well. Malawians have flocked to schools, only to find underprepared teachers (or NO teachers, as the government didn't think to incrementally fund teacher training along with its free education initiative), no supplies and no place to sit. Now, how effective is that "free" education?

Which also got me wondering, how come the US has free education? How come it works here? Certainly it's not really "free" - we do pay taxes for it - but how is it that poor students whose parents pay less in say, property taxes, get just as much chance for a good education as those who live in richer neighborhoods? (or, perhaps even this is up for debate?).

I am not a educational scholar. I am not well versed in the history and evolution of the US education system. What I do know is that the rural US was once dotted with one room schoolhouses, providing education for any that could walk there. My dad went to one, through eighth grade. He's got a B.S. in Ag Science and has been farming successfully for over 40 years.

So, in my mind, it always boils down to the same question: Why did it work here, in America, when it hasn't worked for much of Africa (or SE Asia?)

What seperates us from them?

At the end of the day, if we are honest with ourselves, I believe it is shockingly - SHOCKINGLY - little.

It's that thought that leads my life's work, and my increasingly gratefulness to have been born in America.

Puerto Rican Photos

2009-03-22T11:59:00.003-04:00

Puerto Rican Vacation : Quoted

2009-03-22T11:47:00.002-04:00

"You are an emotional, hot mess."- Emira to Meredith, crying in the airport.

"Spoon like it's your job." - Emira to Meredith after she asks how to fix it.

The Rules:
"Rule No. 1: Don't be weird." - advice from dating show, Tough Love, which is imminently funnier at 1 in the morning....

Beach Time:
"Mmm..there's a hot banana in here. Yum!" - Meredith, opening the backpack to find a snack.

"My ass. Is. On. Fire!" - Emira, after another marathon day at the beach.

"Oh, my dear. Do NOT TOUCH the body." - Emira to Meredith, who couldn't help poking her burned flesh.

The Rainforest:
"Bosque? That's a Bosnian Mosque, right?" Meredith, utilizing her spanish translation skillz. Bosque actually means forest.

On driving:
"Velocidad. Maxima. Viente!?!"

The End:
"I hate your face! [Your face here]" - t-shirt to be made up, post-vacation, each with the other's face on it.

"No Me Gusta Mi Corazon" - theme of the entire vacation.

Oh! ....oh.

2009-03-05T20:42:00.003-05:00

Is there anything more disappointing than seeing you've got a voicemail and listen to it, hoping it's from someone you love very much and miss to your very core, and it turns out to be from

.......your gynocologist?

*facepalm*

Flat Stanley

2009-02-10T21:54:00.003-05:00

My coworker's friend asked that while he was in Pakistan, he bring along a tool to teach his classroom about the world: Flat Stanley. Basically, it's a cartoon cut out of a little man. He asks that "owners" of Flat Stanley take pictures of him throughout the country, as a way to expose his students to new and different things.

My co-worker and I of course, took this task very seriously. Below are my photos of Flat Stanley.

At the port of Karachi. Flat Stanley forgot his swim trunks at home.

Flat Stanley at the Badshahi Mosque.

Flat Stanley in front of the Hazuri Bagh Baradari in Lahore.

Flat Stanley enjoys the Shish Mahal (Hall of Mirrors) in the Lahore Fort.

Flat Stanely surrepticiously enjoys roasted corn by the roadside in Islamabad.

How Not to Get Over Jet Lag

2009-02-03T23:20:00.003-05:00

1) Arrive home, clean up kitty litter/dried puke, unpack, refuse to shower.
2) Stay awake as long as possible, say, until 8pm.
3) Plan to go to work the very next day.
4) Own a cat that is hungry every morning at 4am, regardless of the state of her food bowl.
5) Attempt to placate cat with more food; end up overfeeding cat and searching for origin of vomit smell at 5am.
6) Try to go back to sleep.
7) Fail.
8) Go to work at 6am.
9) Leave work at 2pm.
10) Party with book club until 12 am.
11) 4:00 am, face wrath of hungry cat.
12) 5am = cat puke duty.
13) 10 am. Catch plane to New Mexico on 4 hours of sleep. Feel nautious.
14 ) Sleep on plane.
15) Arrive in New Mexico. Shop with friend.
16) Take 2 hour nap b/n 7-9pm
17) Party until 4am, at which point, you are wide awake and everyone else is drop dead tired.
18) Sleep until noon.
19) Go see movie, fall asleep at midnight.
20) Give up. Your body is so messed up at this point, you might as well go back to Pakistan.

Photos from Ghotki District

2009-01-29T17:04:00.004-05:00

My company's supports a school nutrtion program in over 2,000 schools in this region. Daily, we provide biscuits and milk to about 160,000 kids. Given my breakneck schedule, I only had ONE day to go out to the field office. Part of that day was spent visiting two of these schools, handing out milk, meeting and chatting with the children. This little boy was singing a song from the Qur'an to welcome me, chest puffed out and arms wrapped tightly around. He was very proud!

Girls drinking milk!

Bata, the European shoe company, donated a load of canvas shoes and sports equipment to one of our all girl's schools. I helped hand out shoes to the littlest receipients.

Part of the shoe and sports equipment ceremony in a very small courtyard.

PIA

2009-01-27T09:04:00.002-05:00

After the exciting Monday morning visiting Old Town, I went back to the office, did a little work and then took off with my chaperone to Sukkur, population 2 million, in Sindh province. It’s here we have our school feeding project and I have ONE day to see three schools, our distributor’s and everything in between.

The airplane ride was uneventful, but there were a few things that I wanted to note. Our flight was delayed by two hours – but that was pretty much expected.

No one asked for my id at the airport. Perhaps my foreign name matches my foreign looks, and I don’t look threatening, so they let it slide. Fine.

However, there were a lot of security checks. There weren’t separate lines for women – we were still asked to go through the metal detector, but then all women were pulled, one by one, into a dark, curtained room and frisked by a female. And by frisked, I mean felt up. First time, I didn’t notice so much, but the second time, there was definitely too much touching in the chestal area.

Also, personal biases aside, I notice that the communication style isn’t so straightforward here. I’ve encountered this in other places, sure, but it’s taken to new and dazzling heights here. I get detailed explanations on what I should and shouldn’t wear, but then zilch on others.

For example, my chaperone handed me some paper luggage tags when we checked in. It just so happens that I have a large orange embroidered leather luggage tag my mom gave me on my carry on, so I politely declined. He put them in my hands and walked away. I stuffed them in my bag.

We get to security and I get stopped. Where are my luggage tags? I point to my LARGE ORANGE luggage tag. That’s not good enough, says the big scary soldier, so, thinking quickly, I pull out the previously stuffed paper tags and slip them on.

It’s only then that I understand what’s going on. The scary dude hole punches my tags and let’s me go get fondled. I emerge, slightly ruffled, and collect my things. I get stopped again, trying to leave the area. A woman not only must twice stamp my boarding pass, but ALSO my luggage tags.

By this time, my chaperone is so far ahead of me, I have no idea where he’s at. And I’m a little miffed he didn’t take TWO SECONDs to explain to me why I needed these tags in the first place, instead of just handing them to me and walking away. I mean, no harm, no foul, but this is just one example of many. If it was the first time, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But after awhile, you start to seriously doubt whether they do this on purpose or not.

The only other thing of note is that, before taking off, the captain got on the speaker and sang to us. I could tell it was some kind of prayer, and this was confirmed by my chaperone as something one sings before traveling.

Huh. I wonder what would happen if airplane pilots in the US started doing this? There would probably be a lot more suspicions of drunk pilots, but other than that, it’s kind of a nice tradition.

I arrived in Sukkur, two hours late, but no worse for wear. I was greeted so warmly by our project staff, who explained that even the towels were purchsed new (and washed!) for me, already I’m regretting that I have so short a time here. I leave again tonight, on another PIA flight that has already been cancelled and delayed by 3 hours.

I am ready to arrive in Karachi for the last day of my trip. I leave Pakistan tomorrow evening. (In sha'allah!)

Old Town Lahore

2009-01-27T08:53:00.002-05:00

After my morning meeting Monday, I conned my driver and my male escort (I’ve come to think of him that way, if only to feel less like I’m being “chaperoned” and more that he must do my bidding) into taking me to see Old Town Lahore.

Of course, this being Pakistan, we couldn’t just “slip away”. I had to get the approval of our team leader, who is a reasonable Pakistani man, but it still makes me feel helpless. To his credit, he gave me only two stipulations: 1) that I wear a headscarf at all times and 2) that I wear my trenchcoat. Keep in mind, I’ve been wearing long, loose clothing the whole time I’ve been here. So, when I asked him about the reasoning for the trenchcoat issue, his embarrassed response (immediately making me feel bad) was “To protect you from prying eyes.”

Not only did this make me feel like kind of like a dirty prostitute, but I also wanted to tell him that it was completely useless. I could be wearing a paper sack and people still stare. I might as well be naked. And yet….I’m in no position to argue. (Also, in three days I’ll be back to “normal people clothes”).

So no matter, I had my freedom, if only for an hour. I must ask for permission, but at least he’s a benevolent despot.

So after the meeting, I was whisked away to the Lahore Fort, Hazuri Bagh and Badshahi Mosque. Until I get a chance to download my photos, the ones on Wiki certainly give you and idea of the scope and size. Both are enormous!

As we entered through the unassuming gate, I wasn’t sure what to expect. We don’t get a lot of details here, and asking doesn’t always help. Part of traveling, I think, is trusting those you’re with and just going with the flow. So, I was totally amazed to walk into the park. In typical Mughal fashion, everything is symmetrical. As such, the garden gives off an orderly and stately peace. It took my breath away.

On either side of the garden are these enormous gates. On the east side, there is the enormous and foreboding white gate. Across the immense lawn, to the west, was the red sandstone entrance to the Badshahi Mosque, of which you could only see the three Alladin (you know what I’m talking about) domes peaking out majestically behind.

A tour guide quickly found me, and my chaperone approved of him, so he took us around both sites. Although we only had an hour, we saw the Hall of Mirrors, the Roshani Gate and played with the acoustics within the enormous mosque. (It was once the largest in the world, before the Faisal Mosque in Islamabad was built). All too soon, the hour was up and I felt like I’d only seen a fraction of what was there.

For me, the absolute best part was visiting a gurudwara, a Sikh temple, next door. This particular temple, next door to the Mosque, is the tomb of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, one of the rulers of Pakistan before it was. Sikh’s are near and dear to my heart for a number of reasons, so I was honored to view the Guru Granith Sahib and be allowed to see inside their hallowed walls. Again, it took my breath away.

Our car arrived back at the office breathless, but safe and sound (the traffic here is like none I’ve ever seen; smoggy, dirty, filled with people AND donkeys AND horses AND motorbikes AND the kitchen sink…).

Yes, we’ve been working easily 12 hour days (we were stuck at a Pakistan Sam’s Club (called METRO) over an hour on Sunday night, when all we wanted to do was go to bed), but it’s opportunities like these that truly make it worth while. It’s hard, and been uncomfortable in a lot of ways, but I am so lucky to get to do this. I am truly grateful.

Pakistan Zindabad!

2009-01-27T08:52:00.000-05:00

While our schedule is tight, me and the team were able to convince our Pakistani counterparts to take a little time off yesterday to drive the 30 km to Wagah, better known as the border crossing between Pakistan and India. Dean and I had read about it in the Lonely Planet, and it sounded like it shouldn’t be missed.

According to the guide, every day, approx 30 minutes from sundown, guards at each crossing gather to try to out “pomp” the other side. For Rp 10 (about…well, less than 1/7th of a dollar), people are allowed into the stadium surrounding the official gates between the borders to watch the guards march up and down, and growl at each other from across country lines. The crowd claps and cheer, and chants “Pakistan Zindabad! (Long Live Pakistan!)” or “Al-LAH! Al-LAH! Al-LAH!”

It. Is. Spectacular. I got chills watching the crowd being whipped into a frenzy.

On the Pakistani side, men are separated from women, but there is a special seating arrangement for tourists, down front, where both sexes mix. After a long and dusty ride, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I’m certain it wasn’t throngs of Pakistan men chanting, throwing their hands in the air and yelling “Allah wa Akhbar!” (God is great!) In comparison, the women sitting like colorful peacocks in their sparkly salwar kameez’s could barely muster a clap. For our part, the tourists were kind of stuck in between.

We arrived to much confusion, and pushing, finally finding a spot for our group down front. A tiny old man and a middle aged fellow dressed head to foot in Pakistan green waved enormous flags down the center of the stadium, and lead the preliminary chanting. Across the floor, about 200 meters from me to my left, the double gates were closed and behind them, you could vaguely make out the roar of the Indians. To my right were the gates we’d walked in on and, well, the rest of Pakistan.

Suddenly, 15 Pakistani solders wearing dark blue garb and turbans with giant starched folded paper fans (but out of cloth) tucked in the top, rapidly marched out in square formation to the middle. Their steps were quick; and every moment or so, one would jump up, kick his toes to his head and stomp ceremoniously on the ground. It looked like bulls going out to a fight, stomping and blowing hot air. I swear one guy was like, 8 feet tall.

The crowd roared.

Much more stomping and crowd frenzy ensued. Two men marched down to the gate, kicked up their heels some more and, in perfect synchronization with the Indian side, opened the gate. One soldier from either side stomp-danced forward, they shook hands, and then the real fun began. A few more soldiers from the back came forward (again, perfectly mirroring another set of soldiers on the other side). They stompled and growled and even put their hands menacingly up in the air like tiger claws. The Indian side did something similar (but in brown costume).

Finally, after much more of this, the soldiers moved to take down the flags on either side. Atop the stadium to my right, where we entered, was an enormous portrait of Ali Jinnah, the father of Pakistan. Below him, three soldiers stood with their arms, and called out several times in a long, deep drone. I’m not sure what he was saying, but after several more minutes of this, the flags were lowered, there was more cheering and then it was over.

Our team streamed back to the car, kind of awestruck. One of our consultant’s remarked – ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if all international conflict could be solved this way?’

Judging by the recent bombings in Mumbai and the subsequent blame on Pakistan, plus the historical tenseness (they were once one country; it’s a long story!), I can’t say that this has worked in either countries favor.

However, I can enjoy the tradition.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

2009-01-24T11:10:00.004-05:00

This this this this this this this, is the best thing to hit international development in my short career. The first time I heard about this ban, I was flabbergasted. It's long be known in the public health sectors as the "ABC" method - Abstinence, Be Faithful and Condoms. You had to discuss all three, in that order, equally.

While I don't necessarily disagree that discussing ALL options (including abstinence) is a good idea, how do you tell a gang-rape victim in Southern Soudan that she should "Be Faithful" to her husband?

No, my main beef is that it's kept women-centric organizations, like Planned Parenthood, unble to access funding so that they can provide SIMPLE assistance to those who need it (we're talking something as basic as access to condoms and pre-natal care, not world wide abortions).

This is an important distinction. It's not that the US government is now giving organizations money to perform abortions overseas. NO. It's that ANY organization that even breathed the possibility of perhaps offering an abortion or abortion counseling or any mention of the "A" word (that wasn't Abstinence) either internationally or domestically was immediately rejected out of hand from receiving government funding to do any assistance overseas.

So, thank you Mr. Obama for having the heart to understand the need for comprehensive reproductive healthcare for women the world over. This dogmatic legislation has left underprivileged without access to so many of the freedoms we take for granted in the United States.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Obama, for not mixing "standing up for your ideals" with blind entrapment in ideology.

As a uterine-fitted citizen, I am proud to call you my President.

(As a side note - last night I was shopping in the Liberty Market of downtown Lahore, and chatting with a shopkeeper about some of his clothing. When he found out I was an American, he gave me a discount for being a part of "Obama Nation"! (I wonder if before I was being charged a Bush tax?))

Keep Your Arms, Feet and Clothing Inside the Vehicle

2009-01-23T13:41:00.004-05:00

Driving to Lahore today, we stopped at a roadside pitstop for refreshments and to stretch our legs.

I've been wearing long scarves wrapped loosely around my neck, but I'm unaccoustomed to having them draped about me and not tied tight against the wind, so they're constantly falling down and getting caught on things. Conversely, I like having it on hand for a) it's warmth and b) to cover my head when needed.

Little did I know it would garner more attention that necessary today.

As we pulled back onto the roadway, the Pakistani motor police happened to pass us by. They cut in front of our car and motioned that we should follow.

Heart beating, we all wondered what on earth they could want from us.

Sitting in the back, I immediately reached over to pull on my seatbelt (yes yes I know). At that point, I realized that I'd inadvertantly slammed a majority portion of my dupatta (about 4 feet long) in the car door!

As I hastily pulled it in, the policeman, who had gotten out of his card, shouted something in Urdu (something that sounded like : Hey! Your crazy American infidel is waving her clothing around for the entire countryside to see! We are all inappropriately aroused!) and started laughing.

Relieved, we dissolved into fits of cackling laughter.

Needless to say, I retired the dupatta for the rest of the trip......

Yes, that's less conspicuous

2009-01-23T13:33:00.003-05:00

Every once and a while, I'll see an older person with spots of red on his beard, or near his temple. The other day, in the bakery, I saw an elderly man with his entire head dyed fire engine red.

In Africa, red tinged hair is a marker of advanced malnutrition. I asked one of my Pakistani work colleagues what that was all about. He laughed and said, "Oh that's just men trying to hide their grey hair with henna."

Fire engine red?

Yes, he said, they think it's more sophisticated.

It's alot of things, but sophisticated is not one that springs to mind.

Sigh

2009-01-23T13:04:00.003-05:00

While I've warmed up considerably to Pakistan - especially during the long beautiful drive between Islamabad and Lahore today - there have been challenges this week.

One of the dimensions I'm struggling with over here is both an age and cultural gap between myself and one of our staff members. He's 30 years older than I, and was once in the Pakistani army. As such, although extremely accomodating and solicitious, every once and while he says something that has me stewing.

We're eating alot of greasy food, with limited healty options, and we're all starting to feel the bloat. One evening, he gave me hard time about becoming so fat that when I returned no one in the office would recognize me.

Last night, I was a "good little girl" for having a salad at Subway (yes - he made us go to Subway in the land of biryani, kabab and chicken jalfrazi). He thought I might not get so fat now.

Then, he went on to disparage post-partum women, declaring that "so many of them let themselves go and become fat"(I wanted to ask him if he'd ever tried carrying around a 7lb baby without gaining any weight, but I judiciously held my tongue).

This morning I was "too young" to represent our company in a meeting with a large bank. Well, more accurately, he made a wide generalization about how young our group is to be going to this Bank (one is 40, one is 35 and I am 29. Spring chickens we're not) and then, so that we all got it, pointed at me and said "I'm talking about you."

Honestly, at this point, I've been frustrated so many times that I can't do anything now than just hold my tongue and laugh at the next crazy thing he says. Tonight he grilled me on how I was going to wear my dupatta (head scarf). Tomorrow it will probably be about how fat I am again.

On the other hand, he has done some wonderful things (negotiating with a trade for me on a beautiful piece of Afghani jewlery) and is genuinely concerned that I enjoy my time here.

Thing is, I can't enjoy myself if I'm constantly being grilled.

*sigh*

Notes on.....Everything

2009-01-22T11:02:00.004-05:00

People keep telling me that Islamabad is like the "Disney Land" of Pakistan - ie not real. There is a long wide boulevard and the streets are pretty clean. It's January, so everything is stubbly and brown, but judging by the amount of pruned rose bushes I see, it's probably a beautiful city in the summer time. The first day we were here, it was dark and cold, but subsequent days have been sunny and downright cheerful.

There are people around, but not throngs. There is traffic, but not gridlock. I was telling a friend over skype tonight that thus far, Islamabad to me has been a series of conference rooms, guesthouses, one extremely nice hotel (the Serena), and several concrete strip malls. Needless to say, I don't see that I've gotten a very good "feel" for the country.

Tomorrow, we leave for Lahore, the capital of Punjab and the second largest city. Punjab is considered the breadbasket of Pakistan, but mostly what it makes me thing of is the guy from Little Orphan Annie.

(Yes, I am culturally sensitive, thankyouverymuch)

And for all the hype about how dangerous it is here, I don't feel like a Threatened Woman. I haven't had much more than the random photograph taken, or stared at. I'm not cowering in my bed at night, waiting to be taken by mullahs. I haven't been groped, or even leered at.

I know that most women have it tough here. I don't want to down play acid throwing, honor killings (known as karo kari) and the treatment of women as commodities. There are real and undeniable inequalities, even among so called "upper class". I'm currently reading "My Feudal Lord" by Tehemina Durrani, who describes her destructive marriage to Mustafa Khar, influential Punjabi politician in the late 70's and early 80's. For lack of a longer description, he basically beats the tar out of her for 10 years - and she takes it because she feels she has no other choice.

I'm of two minds reading this book - at once fascinated at stupidity of her thinking (through my western lense, I find her reasons for staying just....heartbreaking) and revulsed by the cruelness of Paksitani men and patriarchal underpinnings of their society.

Isn't this the image that we're all used to seeing? The scary, dominant, Middle Eastern, tyrant man? It was sitting in a row of similar titles like "Behind the Veil" or "Honeymoon in Purdah" or "My Kurdish Tyrant" or "A Summer's Eve in Kabul" or.....you get the point. There's not so much good press about Middle Eastern/Subcontinent men.

So I have to wonder, are there any good men in Pakistan? Judging by the press, I'd say not. But, I can't believe this is true.

I don't know where I'm going with this except - don't believe everything you read, about Pakistan or otherwise. Go there, experience it and draw conclusions for yourself.

Tomorrow - Lahore!

Houssain? I am!

2009-01-20T12:40:00.002-05:00

It was interesting watching Obama's inauguration from my Islamabad hotel tonight. It's no suprise that Obama is popular the world over - especially in the in the Muslim world. In fact, the media claims that Obama has ties to Pakistan (if you count having Pakistani friends as "ties". .....Whatever that means.)

Anyway, although this trip is more than a little awkward, it's made less so by the fact that now the world doesn't hate our President.

Woo hoo!

Pakistan, Day Two: Sophmoric and Uneventful.

2009-01-19T11:47:00.004-05:00

Today was completely uneventful.

I got up at 5:15, and had breakfast in the hotel cafe. Then, I sat in a conference room until 2pm. Went back to the cafe and had lunch. Then, sat in the conference room.

Somewhere around 5:00, I went upstairs and had a twenty-minute nap.

Then, it was back to the conference room.

We finished around 7:30.

Luckily, I was able to talk Rashid into taking us out for dinner at a BBQ place. We passed one called "Butt BBQ" and I couldn't stop giggling. Perhaps they only serve rump roast...?

That is, until Rashid explained that Butt is a common Kashmiri name.

And that was pretty much the highlight of my day.

The end.

I'm In.

2009-01-18T11:16:00.001-05:00

This morning at 3am, Dean, Brad and I arrived in Islamabad. Although it’s considerably warmer than Minnesota right now (about 50 degrees), it’s also damp, rainy and chilly. Glad I packed my long johns! Am looking forward to moving southward, to Lahore and Karachi later on next week.

Having slept until noon, I woke up to find Dean and our Pakistan Country Manager, Rashid, on their way out the door for a walk. We were scheduled to drive to Murree today, about 1 ½ hours away, to see the British hill stations. It was a chance to see some of Pakistan before starting work tomorrow. I got them to wait five minutes, and soon Brad and the other consultant, Greg, joined us as well. Unfortunately, the late start, pouring down rain/hail and general inclemency had us abandoning that trip before even the first stop.

Instead, Rashid and the drivers took us to two scenic overlooks of the city, which, by the time we got there, had cleared up enough for a nice view. We had chai at a beautiful restaurant set high in the hills above the city, along with the rest of Islamabad’s population. After that, we wound our way back down the slick and winding roads to a local market, where Dean bought a Kashmir coverlet for his bed and Brad bought a sweater.

At every stop, I am stared at. Not impolitely, but casually and with interest. I’ve been covering my head, more to keep my head dry and warm, than to keep the stares away. (They stare anyway). A little girl came up to me, not more than 12 at one of the overlooks and wanted a photo with me. We chatted for a little bit – she is studying in Islamabad, but from Lahore. She wanted to know my name, and its meaning. I wanted to ask her why me, but I didn’t.

Dean is conducting a project for one of his friends, who is an elementary school teacher. They have this cartoon character, Flat Stanley, which is basically a cardboard cutout of a little man about a foot high. We’re supposed to take photos of him in all these exciting places. Dean asked the girl to hold him and took one (of many) photos today.

Last stop was the National Monument of Pakistan, which looks like a big ½ of a lotus flower. Four enormous petals rise off a platform, with etchings of former leaders (Iqbal, Jinnah) and other famous Pakistani monuments (Faisal Mosque). Rashid’s driver, Nawaz, broke out some more chai for us from the boot of his car, which we drank in the rain. We also had some cold samosas and gulab jamun (my favorite!).

Currently, I am waiting for my internet to start working and the electricity to come back on in my hotel room (in that order). There have been intermittent power outages all day, I assume because of the weather and in part rolling blackouts that are hitting the country (although I hear this is mostly in Lahore).

One day down and nine more to go. So far, so good.

Now THAT's a cold shoulder...

2009-01-15T22:50:00.004-05:00

I am not immune to the risks of traveling to Pakistan. I've been involved in no less than five security briefings this week. While I understand the risks, my commitment to living a life free of fear and embracing adventure far outweighs any trepidation I may have. I mean, what white-bred chick off the farm gets the opportunity to get to Pakistan in their lifetimes?

Also, I remembered my friend Jean-Marc was in Pakistan this September, when the government had pretty much shut down the entire country (it's true; even British Airways wouldn't fly there) I was in East Timor at the time, skyping him. He was very much ok; and enjoyed his time there.

So, while I don't mean to be harsh or flip about the very real security risks, I do really wish people would stop acting like I'm going to die.

No less than five people came into my cube this afternoon to wish me well, remind me to be safe and, the more morbid ones, to say a final goodbye. While this is nice, being reminded over and over again that I might die is not.

I was trying to finish a ton of things, so by the time G. came by, I was at my wit's end with this lunacy.

G, marches into my cube, into my personal space without a warning: "Ok, give me a hug."

Me, eyeball deep in year end performance review crap that needed to be done for me to get my raise: "Mmmmmmmmm, huh?"

G, "Give me a hug. You're leaving."

Me, thinking quickly about how to get out of this: "Yeeeeeeeeah, how about I give you a hi-five? I don't really hug co-workers."

G, seeming hurt, "But, what if you don't come back? This could be our last hug."

(PS. G likes to hug. I don't).

Me, turning back to my spreadsheet, mumbling: "Well then, you'll just have to hug my corpse."

///////Morbid, yes. But I am still kind of laughing about it.

What Do I WEAR?

2009-01-15T22:36:00.002-05:00

This may sound trite, but I found myself honestly struggling with this question while preparing for my trip to Pakistan this week.

Not that I received mixed messages. Everyone I talked to cautioned me to dress modestly, and bring many scarves.

As my colleague Michael eloquently put it: "This is a good opportunity to use those silk scarves you have collected over your travels and/or off sales racks at Daytons."

Rashid, our Country Manager, requested that I bring no less than "Four formal dresses" (??? My only guess on this one was that he doesn't understand that "formal" translates into "prom" here in the US. Regardless of his suggestion, I am NOT bringing my green orgazana ballgown to Pakistan..)

Smartly, my friend Farida recommended the salwar kameez, a tunic and pants outfit worn commonly throughout southeast Asia. I agreed with her, but where to find any? This isn't something TJ Maxx normally carries...

Honestly, I've never been so frantic over wardrobe before. Usually, one gets the "western" card when traveling overseas (as in "Oh well, she's a westerner, she doesn't know better). But I already expect to stick out quite a bit, so if it's in my control to dress like the locals, why wouldn't I want to do that?

Hence, since Saturday, me running around the Twin Cities trying to find an India/subcontinent dress shop. I'd even stooped so low as to heading to Holy Land grocery in NE Mpls and accosting customers for ideas on where to shop. (Am not proud of this).

So, imagine my relief when last night when I was cruising down Central Ave in NE and I came across a small, but glittery, sari shop. I was so excited, I pulled over my car and RAN the three blocks in sub-zero temperatures, rather than turn around and find a closer spot. I was so afraid that it would close! The second I was in the door, I knew I was in the right place. Several kameez's (tunics) hung in the front entry way and, although too big, the shop keep was helpful in pointing out one's that would fit, and offering to tailor ones that didn't.

I spent the better part of an hour weeping with joy in the back room, finally picking out two outfits. One is a very somber, and warm, rough knit orange with a deep blue linen salwar (for lack of a better description - genie pants). It doesn't show too much cleave (I think!)

Secondly, I found a beautiful blue silk kameez with jewel embroidered flowers scattered across the front, paired with jewel toned purple pants/scarf. It was way too expensive (and I knew I'd be finding nice ones in Pakistan, too), but my vanity couldn't pass it up.

These, coupled with one my co-worked loaned to me, and the tunics I bought in Banda Aceh, I hope will bring me through.

I've packed Western clothes, too; a somber black suit and sweater set that never lets me down. My suitcase is bulging, but atleast I feel like I've got something for every occasion.

Goodness, I hope.

The First Trip 2009

2009-01-11T23:10:00.005-05:00

I'll be going with a team for work for 10 days, starting this Friday. Our project is closing down there and I'll be giving some assistance to our team there. I'm 2% nervous and 98% excited!

Ruby Red

2009-01-11T12:24:00.002-05:00

Last Saturday, with the help of my friend Kaydi, I went down to the Humane Society and adopted a cat. Ruby had been cooped up for two months, after being given up due to divorce, and was waiting for a good home. I took her to the vet on Tuesday, and besides needing to lose a little weight (you try living in a cage for two months), she is in perfect health.

I'm still not sure if I'm well suited to be a good "cat mother" but so far, so good. I haven't managed to poison, kill or maim her, and she seems to like me. She's terribly affectionate and loves to be petted. After an initial fight with my handbag, she's settled down to be quite a loveable companion.

I'm still getting used to being woken up at 5am with a cat in my face, but - love takes some adjusting. Gotta run. We've got our first case of cat puke!

It's Rough, But...

2008-11-29T19:41:00.002-05:00

I won!

I've written a 50,800 word hastily hung-together no-plot travelogue/memoir!

Woot! Woot!

You Can't Win, Buddy

2008-11-26T22:51:00.002-05:00

I went to the liquor store last night to pick up some wine for Thanksgiving. I was feeling punchy. I'd had a tough day.

Liquor store clerk: Can I see some ID?

Me: Don't worry, I'm old.

LSC: You look young enough to me.

Me: Was it the enormous pimple on my face that made you think that?! (It's true; I have an enormous pimple on my face).

LSC: (rightly so) ????WTF??

Poor little dude. He never knew I was just yanking his chain, but I had a good laugh.

Quick Trip or, Notes on Terrorism

2008-11-16T19:11:00.004-05:00

With such a quick trip this week, I found it difficult to find time to do any research. As such, I kind of "showed up" in the Philippines without any context or understanding of the local culture. It wasn't really necessary, given that I spent my week sitting in a windowless conference room, but at times it would've been nice.

For example: After our meeting wrapped up Saturday morning, I took the afternoon and wandered around the many many shopping complexes interconnected via an open air skyway system through the Makati district. After a few margarita's and the world's best massage, I decided to try my chances at heading over to the Glorietta Mall.

I live in the land of the world's biggest shopping mall, so I thought I would be immune to the masses, but I was dead wrong. I have never seen crowds like that in my life, outside the Tokyo subway system at rush hour. I was crushed by tiny dark-haired Philippinos at every turn. Couple that with a very confusing skyway system and I was soon miserably lost.

On top of that, at every new shopping mall or department store, everyone had to queue through security. Sometimes there were several lines open and you walked through, opening your purse for a cursory glance by the sleepy security guard. Others were longer, like those you'd find at an airport (thankfully, I didn't have to take off my shoes) and twice as ugly.

I couldn't understand it. Shopping malls? You've got to be kidding me. Nothing I saw was worth protecting that much from theft.

When I finally joined my co-workers for supper that night, I mentioned the enormous crowds and the perplexing, ubiquitous security check points. Turns out, last year at this time, a bomb exploded, killing eleven and wounding 126. There's been no determination of whether or not it was Islamic militants, the government or just a freak accident, but it looks like no one is taking any chances.

Huh. That, along with the incident at the hotel, might have been nice to know before I arrived.

All of this got me thinking. I had a brief discussion with our VP the other day about the increased security around Manila (I've already blogged about what happend at our hotel last year). He had forwarded to me President-Elect Obama's recently issued brief regarding his administration's goals for the next four years. One of them included reducing the climate of fear in our country. Based on what we'd seen in the Philippines our question was this: does the increase in security guards, guns, night patrols, pat downs, liquid limitations and check points make you feel more, or less, safe? And secondly, how do you combat fear? Do you put more, or less, policeman on the street? Do you put more, or less, guns in private citizen's hands?

Isn't this just as difficult as waging war on "terrorism"? What do you do when the terror comes from within?

I realize that this very debate has been floating around in public discourse since 9/11, but it finally hit home for me. I was pulled over not once, but twice on my trip. The first time was random, but the second time was because I had house keys in my bag. Apparently, being able to get into your own home is ILLEGAL in some places. I mean, where is the line here? Does it make you feel more secure knowing I can't carry something as remotely pokey as my HOUSE KEYS on board? Might I be tempted to stab you in the eye and turn the knob?

More and more I feel I live in a world that Ray Bradbury would immediately recognize as twisted science fiction. As tripe as it sounds, I look with hope to the future that might return the innocence of the past. The kind of past where we looked at somone and thought, "Huh, they're different" instead of "I wonder what they're going to do with those keys..."

Do Your Research

2008-11-14T09:42:00.002-05:00

This is what I get for not googling my hotel. I found out from our divisional VP today that exactly one year ago this month, our hotel was the set for a very real coup attempt. Yes, the photo above is a tank in the hotel lobby.

From our pals at Wiki:

The Manila Peninsula rebellion occurred on November 29, 2007 at The Peninsula Manila hotel in Makati City, Philippines. Senator Antonio Trillanes IV, Brigadier General Danilo Lim, and 25 other Magdalo officers walked out of their trial and marched through the streets of Makati City. The mutineers called for the ousting of President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, and seized the second floor of the Manila Peninsula Hotel along Ayala Avenue. Former Vice-President Teofisto Guingona, Jr. joined the march to the hotel, as well as some of the soldiers from the Armed Forces of the Philippines.

After several hours, Trillanes and Lim surrendered to government forces once a military armored personnel carrier had barged into the lobby of the hotel. Trillanes and the mutineers were arrested while several journalists that covered the event were detained. The journalists were subsequently released.

Dude, what a weird world.