Successful Improv

Kibera: Hell on Earth

2009-11-10T00:08:00.001-05:00

(photos will be posted soon - the internet connection is really slow)

Never in my wildest dreams did I have any idea that human beings could live as they do Kibera. Nor could I ever dream up conditions as foul and inhumane as this place, which is simply hell on Earth.

Kibera is the largest slum on the African continent, choking more than a million people, mostly women and children, into a space no wider than a mile and a half. There is no running water, electricity is hijacked from outside lines, and the stench made my stomach churn, as I steeled myself into compliance, so that I wouldn’t throw up again and again.

There are more flies than people in Kibera.

We weren’t sure that we’d be able to visit Kibera at first, as there was a deadly conflict the week before, between two tribes – one of whom served as landlords, the other renters. The tension erupted, resulted in a riot, shacks and stores set ablaze, eventually leaving several dead. WFP felt that we could manage, but insisted that we bring four armed guards with us into the slum, just in case.

There are no roads, no cars, no infrastructure to provide the slightest hint that the outside world cares about this place. Rows and rows of shelters are cobbled together using sticks and mud, with corrugated tin roofs, when available. The hierarchy of dirt paths, indicates the main way, eventually narrowing down to rabbit holes causing you to bend and duck under ragged metal rooftops, sliding your way around corners, leaving you covered with dirt and mud.

As we walked deeper and deeper in Kibera, we arrived at the top of a valley providing us with a view of millions of shacks, several with plumes of smoke rising above them throughout. It was a view of The Inferno, which at any moment, could erupt into violence beyond measure, or sink into the Earth and never be seen again. Either way, nobody would care.

Climbing down into the valley, I noticed that the dirt paths had turned to deep, rich mud, covering our shoes, splattering up onto our pants. Children ran about, barefoot, women lumbered ahead with firewood on their head, wearing flip flops, caked and covered in mud. After walking onward for awhile, I had a thought… but I was sure I didn’t want the answer until we were out of there. I turned to my WFP escort, and said just that, and she said – “The answer is yes.” I gagged, having to stop for a moment to compose myself. We were walking in decade’s worth of flying toilets.

Because there is no running water in Kibera, there are no toilets. There are a few which savvy businesspeople have made available for a fee, but the people who live here, who pay between $3 - $8 in monthly rent, don’t have enough money to buy food. So one must prioritize. A long time ago, the residents invented the flying toilets. One will pee on the ground when needed, but then they will poop into little plastic bags, and then fling them up onto the rooftops, so as to disappear. Eventually, the bags slide down, covering the ground with (so far) about 8 inches of human excrement, made slick with wet plastic bags. I had to force my mind from thinking about this, as I realized what was all over our shoes and pants, all over these children as they scampered about, imagining the disease that festers about in this place.

The greatest fear was falling, as the ground is rough and unstable and slippery. At one point, I grabbed onto a tin roof, so as to not to lose my balance, but instead, ended up cutting my hand. Fortunately, we had a doctor in our group, who pulled out her potions, and sanitized me. The other million would never be so lucky.

We visited three program sites while we were there.

First, Lea Toto clinic. Lea Toto is a free clinic serving HIV+ orphans, who are either living with relatives or guardian, but more often than not, by themselves, in child-headed households, scratching their way through life. It became more and more apparent to me that HIV is not a disease of sexual behavior, as it’s portrayed in the USA, but a disease of victimization. Women get the disease from their husbands (who refuse to get tested, and sleep with many wives and many women), women transfer the disease to their children in utero, women (with no means to feed their children) prostitute themselves (resulting in more transmission and more children), and children are raped by bored men who are looking for something to do. And (unlike all other developing countries I’ve visited), I didn’t see one public education poster, not one flyer, preaching testing or condom usage. Here, HIV is the outcome of the deepest kind of poverty, stigma and shame, violence and abuse, which runs as deep as the shit on the streets of Kibera.

We then slopped our way though the pathways, to visit the home of Ruth. Ruth is 31 years old, and lives in a 10’x10’ shack, with her 7 year old daughter Rhoda, and eight others; her mother, her sister, and all of their children. All of those who had been tested (including the children) were HIV+. Others had not been tested yet. We were horrified to see that we were tramping human shit all over her floor, but she just waved it off and brought us in. We sat down on crates, boxes and piles of paper, cramped into her little space, to speak with Ruth. She told us that she washes clothes when she isn’t sick, in order to pay her $8/month rent. She hasn’t been working though, because it’s cold (70 degrees) and working in water when it’s cold, makes her sick. We spoke with her about her husband (dead), he father (dead), her life (she moved to Kibera from the northern rural regions), and so much more.

By this point, I was teetering on losing my mind. I was overwhelmed with nausea and sadness, hopelessness and helplessness, seeing this, knowing that every single country on the African continent is suffering from exactly the same issues – it’s the same everywhere. I asked Ruth our final question, which was “What do you hope for your daughter?” – to which she responded with tears. And as she sat there crying, I started crying, and neither one of could stop. So we just sat there weeping. Eventually, everyone left except Ruth, me and the translator. I asked the translator to explain (in Swahili) that I was so sorry – I didn’t mean to make her cry, but that it was so evident to me that she loves her daughter so much, sending her to Lea Toto for treatment, sending her to school for food and education – that I wondered what she would like for her daughter. And Ruth simply said, “I want her to live.”

We then slipped and slopped our way to the Stara School – a beacon of light in this hellhole. Stara School was started in 2000 by Josephine Momo, a lifelong resident of Kibera. She gathered her women friends together in 1996, and decided to pool whatever little money they had, to start a school – a safe haven for children – which would be positive, and safe, and clean, providing nourishment for the mind and the body.

Each day, the teachers come and sweep the dirt floors of the walled compound, which provided a stark contrast from the outside world of Kibera. Josephine has poured her heart and soul into this school, learning how to teach, how to manage resources, how to make one shilling have the purchasing power of five… in 2006, she was nominated as the UN Person of the Year. She told me about getting on a plane and flying to Rome – something so simple to me (in fact, I did it in February), but so life-changing (and probably heart-breaking) to her.

Here at the Stara School, the children were children. They weren’t workers, resources, objects for sex, or commodities – they were 10 years old, and 6 years old, and 14 years old, singing us songs, playing their drums for us, adding and subtracting, learning to read and write, learning where Kenya was on the map and understanding, with disbelieving eyes, how far away we lived here – here on the map – in the United States. We sang and danced with them, watched them in their classrooms, stirred the pots of food and served them lunch, leaving me broken and wistful, until the school day ended, and the children lined up to walk home in the mud.

Squeezing Water from a Stone

2009-11-09T10:58:00.004-05:00

Today we went to visit, what I thought was, a really innovative project, which focuses on building capacity and creating assets within the rural regions of Kilifi, just north of Mombasa.

As you’ve read, Kenya is experiencing a staggering drought, which has left more than four million people hungry, and hundreds of thousands of cattle dead. For almost 80% of the country, the earth has turned to stone and dirt. The crops have withered, and for as far as the eye can see there is just brown, charred land. The “real” rains haven’t come in almost four years (Kenya is one of the top five countries on the planet suffering from the extreme effects of climate change).

When the first harvest failed, farmers could make do. When the second harvest failed, things became tough. When the third, and then the fourth harvest failed, there was nothing left to rely on, plummeting the people into a humanitarian disaster of massive proportion. The Masai people are bringing their cattle into Nairobi from the western hinterlands, because it’s the only place in southern Kenya with grass for their cattle to eat. Imagine if the farmers brought their cattle, by the thousands, to graze in NYC Central Park, because the farms and the yards and open space had dried up into dust.

WFP organized the women of Kilifi 10 months ago, and with engineers from World Vision, trained them to construct a “waterpan” (small reservoir) to serve as a water source for the community. Week after week, the women dug, hauled, and excavated, building a bowl to catch the scarce rainwater. And in the past week, some rain has come, filling the pan with a commodity more precious than gold in this ration.

And now their job is to maintain it. They have constructed a fence to keep the animals out, and a management system to ensure that this asset remains so.

WFP has paid these women with food over the last several months, and will continue to do so until the rains allow for crops to grow again. We had the good fortune of visiting a food distribution…

We bumped down the road, until, up in the distance, we saw a crowd of women, in their colorful sarongs and headwraps, with babies slung on their backs, gathering into a line (a rare thing – I’ve noticed that Africa doesn’t really seem to embrace the idea of cueing up… instead, people just cluster around and push push). Holding their food distribution cards, they first confirmed their identity and signed their name by providing a thumbprint (illiteracy is prevalent, and thumbprints are the only way to consistently provide secure ID). Hundreds of women then walked up the hill, with their purple stained thumbs, to the fenced area to claim their sacks of maize and CSB (corn soya blend). Each bag was weighed and measured, providing the woman with a month’s ration of food for her family. The women then hauled these bags, which much of weighed 50-60 pounds, onto their heads, and started the 5-10 mile journey home, with their babies still snoozing on their backs.

It was a moving sight to see these women streaming down the road for as far as the eye could see, with bags of food on their heads, as payment for their work. This project has been such a success, as WFP will be able to withdraw their involvement soon, and allow for the local community takeover of this initiative.

Kilifi – School Feeding

2009-11-08T05:18:00.006-05:00

Picture this.

After a two hour bone-crushing drive, tossed and toppled like a buoy in rough waters, on dirt roads, never graded, gullies, boulders, gaps and holes that could swallow a water buffalo – you see, up in the distance, a cluster of small makeshift buildings in the bush, surrounded by low, brushy trees. And from that cluster, you see children in blue and yellow uniforms start pouring forth, streaming from their school, running down the road to greet you, waving their hands, teeth shining, faces open, slapping the side of the truck as you make your way toward the school.

This is how we were greeted at the rural school in Kilifi, in the region north of Mombasa, along the Indian Ocean coast. 1,200 children swarmed around us, swallowing us, yelling “Welcome! Welcome!” The most beautiful, chaotic scene…

WFP provides hundreds of thousands of children in Kenya with their one and only meal of the day – in school. Today, we visited the School Feeding program, and saw how one meal could prompt 100% attendance, relieving parents of worrying how they were going to feed their children, all the while, providing these kids with the only way out of grinding poverty – education.

We arrived just around lunchtime, as the children started to line up by age – long lines, with hundreds and hundreds of children holding red plastic cups and bowls – waiting to receive their meal.

Prior to eating, each child washed their hands, using a makeshift system, involving plastic vegetable oil jugs filled with water from the river. The jugs hung from a wooden structure, over the dirt, each plugged with a small stick at the bottom. The children would pull the stick out, wash their hands, and then replug the jug with the stick to avoid wasting the water.

The kitchen was an open-air structure, bearing two 3-stone firepits, on top of which sat huge metal pots, bearing porridge made of maize. I took a scoop and joined in on the serving – two scoops per child, to get them through lunchtime the next day.

It was over 100 degrees, with suffocating humidity – leaning over and into those steaming pots, scooping out the porridge, I was dripping from head to toe, humbled by the faces and thanks I received with each serving of food.

After lunch, all 1200 children and us gathered under a tree, so the children could sing, and dance, and recite poems for us. A group of 14 year old girls, heads shaved, long skirts, had written and performed a poem about how much they want to stay in school, learn and be healthy – typically girls are the first to pulled out of school in times of hardship, to help with the farming and raising of children. Then the crowds parted to a group of drummers and dancers – the parents had arrived, bearing instruments and brightly colored headcloth, stomping and swaying, singing and dancing, causing the children to clap and sing along. These were the parents of the schoolchildren, who assisted at the school, building gardens, making porridge, fixing tin roofs and fetching water. They came to express their gratitude for the school lunch program, which freed them of worry, and allowed them to spend more time earning money for their families.

I was asked to give a speech to schoolchildren. What could I possibly offer to these beautiful children, since I was what I participated in that day left my speechless…? So I explained that we came from America, the land of Barack Obama – and the crowd roared with pleasure (every road here is Barack Obama Road, and every baby is named Barack or Michelle), and we were here learn about the School Feeding program – and it filled out hearts with joy and happiness to see how healthy and smart all of these students are – more cheers and shouts of “Welcome! Welcome!” I explained that I used to be a teacher, a teacher of music – and would the children please sing us the Kenyan National Anthem? To see 1,200 kids jump to their feet, and start clapping in unison, nearly knocked me off my feet.

And there, under a tree, in the bush of southeastern Kenya, the air became full of drumming, stomping, and clapping, with the voices of 1,200 schoolchildren singing their song in Swahili as their final welcome to us, during this incredible visit.

Mombasa

2009-11-08T02:19:00.009-05:00

Flying to Mombasa was a welcome change, particularly after our security briefing at WFP on Monday morning, where the Security Officers ordered us to program their numbers into our phone and call us 24 hours a day, in case of emergency. He then proceeded to educate us on how to avoid being the target of a kidnapping, assassination attempt, and general mayhem. Later than afternoon, we heard terrified screams outside of our hotel, and a woman was bludgeoned by an attacker.

I don’t have a sense if this attack was coincidental, or typical – but nevertheless, we realized that we needed to shore up our behavior in Nairobi.

Mombasa, on the other hand, is much more mellow and laid back. About an hour’s flight from Nairobi, Mombasa lies on the southeastern coast of Kenya, about 50 miles north of the Tanzanian border. The neighboring Middle Eastern countries of Oman and Yemen across the sea have played a strong influence in Mombasa’s development and culture. Women wore full chador, men in skull caps and the call to prayer drifted through the air – I have always loved this sound, and have found it stirring and beautiful.

Unlike Nairobi, which was 70 degrees and cloudy, Mombasa was hot, humid, with some occasional relief from the ocean breezes. Each day topped out in the high 90s, and left us covered with a slick sweat and a fine layer of dust.

We were greeted at the airport by David Kamau, the Director of WFPs subdistrict office in Mombasa. I was quite surprised that David was assigned to us, as he invariably has his hands full overseeing the programs throughout this region, most notably the desiccating droughts leaving animals collapsed on the side of the road, and the earth petrified and cracked. Over the next few days, I came to see that David perfectly represents the incredibly passionate and dedicated staff that WFP employees in their field offices around the world. Trained as a social worker, David explained why he does what he does by saying, “it’s my job to give a voice to the voiceless, and to lift up the downtrodden.” So many of WFP’s field staff are just a special kind of person – innate humanitarians, who would do this kind of work no matter what.

At the end of our first evening in Mombasa, we asked David to take us to the best local restaurant in Mombasa – a place that a tourist would never discover on her own. David and the WFP drivers looked at each other, smiled, and took us to a place, which, quite frankly, didn’t seem to have a name. A roadside, makeshift restaurant, lit by bare neon bulbs, sheltered by corrugated tin; we sat on simple wooden benches lining a long wood table. There, over an open fire, the cook made us all of his specialties; chicken biryani, charbroiled goat, greens that I had never seen before, each dish more flavorful and spicy than the next.

We were in very good hands in Mombasa....

The Island City of Mombasa

2009-11-02T12:53:00.010-05:00

Somehow, I didn't realize that Mombasa is an island, until I arrived. I simply thought is was on the eastern coast of Kenya, facing the Indian Ocean. But alas no... it is surrounded by water, as well as covered in buzzing tuk-tuks (see right), women in full chador, Swahili cafes tumbling out onto the sidewalks bearing chicken biryani and shwarma, and a web of curving, crumbling, colorful roads and alleys, pleasantly pushing you around the city.

Joyce and Julia both said that Mombasa was much more laid back than Nairobi, and they were right. Beach towns, whether they be Venice Beach, or Catania, or Mombasa - there's something that mellows the urban energy in a beach town.

We woke in Nairobi this morning, and were picked up by the UN trucks, which drove us through the city, to the UN Gigiri Compound. Most of the UN agencies in Kenya are headquartered in this compound. It's a virtual United Nations village: UNICEF, UNDP, WFP, UNHCR, UNIFEM, Emergency Offices for Refugees and Drought, the list goes on and on... Just across the street from the UN Compound is the US Embassy, which was bombed (along with the embassy Dar es Salaam, Tanzania... I know how to pick 'em!) in 1998. The embassy has been rebuilt and ... it ... is ... just ... massive.

Anyway, during our morning security briefing, we were petrified into compliance, as we were told the realities of moving in this area at this point in time. I won't go into details, just in case my mother is reading this blog. We were ordered to put the head of WFP Kenya's Security Force's number into our cell phones, and told to call any hour of the day or night, if needed.

And then we received the program briefing, preparing us for the week's worth of field visits throughout the Mombasa region; visiting HIV/AIDS clinics, school feeding programs, the Mombasa port operations where food and materials are received and distributed for Kenya, Somalia, Sudan, Democratic Republic of Congo, Uganda and Rwanda, and much, much more...

From there, we boarded a plane headed east to Mombasa, which provided an aerial view of thousands of miles of earth charred by the sun, affording nobody anything at all...

Though we've been here only two days, it feels like a week, though in other ways, I also realize that this trip hasn't even started yet. We will be thrown down the rabbit hole into some of the most extreme poverty in the world, in some of the most remote places on earth. And yet, we get to be part of this flickering light in the darkness, bearing peace and health and training and education and self sufficiency. This is the part of my job that I love the most...

Drought.

2009-11-01T15:54:00.001-05:00

The Orphaned Elephants of Kenya

2009-11-01T12:17:00.008-05:00

Greetings from Nairobi!

I was so surprised when I came out of the airport gates - as there is always that crush of humanity, and sensory overload when you exit an airport in a developing country. Men trying to sell you taxi rides, "Where you going? Where you going?," intertwined with the smell of fire and diesel, horns blaring, music pumping, people yelling over the din in languages I don't understand... I love it! This is always my signal that I've arrived - I'm now on vacation...

But Nairobi was surprisingly calm, almost lacking in chaos completely. I must say, I was a little let down.

Anyway, we found the WFP drivers, waving their signs with UN logos, a welcome face in the crowds.

Today I went to the David Sheldrick Wildlife Preserve, followed by the Orphan Giraffe Center - both local NGOs working to nurture and rehabilitate orphaned rhinos, elephants and giraffe, who have been left to fend for themselves - some as young as four weeks - as their parents perished at the hands of increasingly violent poachers, or, more recently, succumbed to the extreme drought conditions throughout the country. The volunteers said that they've had more animals come in this year, than at any other point in their 30+ year history.

The animals often arrive battered and scarred - marks left from attacks and close escapes. One small elephant had a huge piece of his ear missing - left with a ragged edge - and no tail. I was told that he was attacked by hyenas as a baby, who literally started eating him, before some pastoralists intervened. This little elephant followed the volunteer keepers around, like they were his mother; wrapping his trunk around their arms, grabbing on to back pockets and headbutting playfully...

All along the roads outside of Nairobi, I saw farmers directing herds of emaciated cattle. Normally I wouldn't think about something like this, but my driver told me that the Masai people are bringing their herds into Nairobi from the plains because it's the only place with grass for their animals to eat. Nairobi! A city with reeling taxis, choking exhaust, skyscrapers, and dusty, dirty roads... the idea that *this* is their best option is a foreshadowing of the extreme conditions we'll be seeing when we leave the city tomorrow...

Washington DC --> Amsterdam --> Nairobi

2009-10-30T13:35:00.005-04:00

Similar to my prior post, I've embedded a short film about the challenges WFP is facing in alleviating hunger throughout Kenya.

Nearly four million people are hungry right now, because of the devastating droughts, which have dried up agricultural production, picked off the herds, and left Kenyans fighting for their lives.

The "little rains" have started to arrive, which have alleviated the most immediate fears, but it is expected that these rains will lead to devastating flooding, as the parched earth is unable to absorb the water.

I've traveled to places suffering from disasters and poverty before - most notably, working during the Tsunami reconstruction effort in Aceh, Indonesia. It never ceases to amaze and humble me, the strength and resolve of those who are suffering the most. Their faith, their community, their family - these are the priorities, which deliver life's greatest joys and provide somewhat of an antidote to disaster and hardship, which, quite frankly, would snap me in two.

We can provide food and assistance, but the gifts of perspective and humility that I receive from these experiences cannot be underscored enough. I always find myself thinking about the words "want" and "need."

I leave for the airport in an hour. This will be my first trip to East Africa.

Rains Arrive in Kenya But Food in Short Supply

2009-10-27T11:42:00.005-04:00

From the United Nations World Food Program (http://www.wfp.org/)

Rains Arrive in Kenya But Food in Short Supply

Seasonal rain has brought some relief to drought-stricken areas but it will be months before the harvest comes. Almost four million people are depending on WFP help to stave off hunger.

After months of bruising drought, rain has finally come to Kenya. The cracked earth is changing to red mud, the air filling with the smell of rain and green things, and frogs are singing again in riverbeds that have started to gradually fill with water. The much-needed rains have begun to rejuvenate pasture for those cattle and goats that have survived through the long dry period. It also provides a welcome relief to people who have had to trek up to 20 kilometers in search of water.

But although the rain has satisfied the need for water in most areas in Kenya, it has not helped the food shortages caused by the drought. Farmers have begun to plant their fields, but harvests will only come in February next year.

Nolkitemu Lelesara (see photo) is among the 3.8 million drought affected Kenyans who are receiving food assistance from the United Nations World Food Program. Lelesara is a pastoralist in the Samburu region of Kenya. Here, much of the famed wildlife has died from lack of water, and pastoralist livestock has also been similarly affected. Now, for the first in many months, the skinny goats and cattle are able to graze on emerging green grass. But Lelesara is only cautiously optimistic.

“We need this food assistance to continue,” Lelesara says, “It will take some time for us to be able to get food for ourselves, and our animals will take time to grow healthy and produce milk and cows.”

But, alongside the relief that comes with the rain, there are fears of flooding, particularly in north eastern parts of Kenya. El Nino, the periodic temperature change in surface waters that affects regional weather patterns, is the cause of these heavy rains. In 1997, the El Nino phenomenon caused severe flooding in Kenya. Water borne diseases, and more deaths amongst people and livestock followed. Climate experts estimate that there is a 70 percent chance that floods could occur in the next few months.

WFP has already pre-positioned food for its refugee and drought operations to ensure that those most in need will not go hungry, when rains make the roads impassable. In a land that has been parched by the sun, boats are now on standby to distribute emergency relief.

On the Road with WFP Kenya

2009-10-22T18:19:00.005-04:00

WFP produces a short film series about their work on the ground around the world, and the unique challenges faced in providing food assistance to the more than one billion people who are now suffering from extreme hunger every single day.

Here's what's happening in Kenya...

Next Stop: Kenya and Tanzania

2009-10-21T14:49:00.008-04:00

Next week I leave for a two-week trip to East Africa; one week to Kenya (for work) and one week to Tanzania (for holiday). The work portion of the trip will consist of bringing a delegation of seven individuals to Nairobi, Mombasa, and the villages along the Indian Ocean coast, to observe WFP programs on the ground. I've been working on this trip since August, and have worked with WFP Kenya to revise the itinerary several times, as a result of the crippling droughts the country is now facing. Hundreds of thousands of people are left with failing crops, no way to feed themselves, creating extreme humanitarian and security conditions throughout the region.

I will be conducting a "WFP Behind the Scenes" conference call, interviewing Burkard Oberle, the Country Director of WFP Kenya, and the delegation, about the trip and the food security challenges faced throughout the country, on Friday November 6, at 12:00pm (eastern time). Feel free to call in if you'd like!

WFP Behind the Scenes Info
When: Friday, November 6, 12:00 –12:45pm (eastern time)
How: Dial (888) 537 7715
Passcode: 702 307 69#

After the trip, I will continue, in my typical fashion, on a weeklong, unplanned journey to Tanzania where I will ... well, I have no idea what I will do. Current thoughts include a visit to the capital Dar es-Salaam, Zanzibar, and perhaps the Serengetti. But I figure that I'll figure that out when I get there...

Stay tuned!

La Línea de Meta

2009-03-22T16:10:00.012-04:00

La Línea de Meta.

The finish line.

Tomorrow, I pack my bags and head for home. This has been a great trip, and it´s been so nice to have been able to tack on a few days at the end in Lima, to see Hillmer, walk around, relax... Lima has developed so much since I was last here.

We arrived in Lima early on Friday morning, after some real haggling with LC Busre airlines about the weight of our luggage. They were trying to tell me that the bags were too heavy, and we´d have to leave half of the luggage behind, to arrive on another flight later that day. Yeah right. It got pretty heated, but in the end, it´s always amazing what a little money will do. In this case, $70 made the problem go away, and all of a sudden, our tiny plane was no longer at risk of crashing into a mountain because of someone´s leaden suitcase.

We went to the WFP Country Office for Peru, which is a beehive of activity; meetings, visitors, calls, crises, crises averted... We gathered in the rear courtyard of the building, under a tree, to run the ¨WFP Behind the Scenes¨call - an educational conference call series I manage, featuring WFP thought leaders from around the world, to educate our supporters about hunger and the work of WFP in the field. This time, the call would feature the group, discussing the experiences and observations of the past week, visiting remote, indigenous villages at 14,000 feet in the Andes (you can listen to the podcast of this call on about 3/30, and all other WFP Behind Scenes calls here).

The call, frankly, went beautifully. I had spent some time with our Communications rep on the trip, in coming up with some questions for the group interview, and then spent another few hours really drafting a script of the 50-minute call, leading the group through a series of questions and prompting conversations about WFP´s work, and the communities we visited, from start to finish. We were fortunate to have had the WFP Country Director, Guy Gauvreau, join us for most of the call, who was so helpful in filling in the gaps with data, to paint a full picture of what´s going on here.

And after the call... we were done!

A number of people immediately hopped on a plane to Cuszo, to visit Macchu Picchu, while the rest of us spent the afternoon, in stark to contrast to where we had been over the last week, at LarcoMar - an outdoor shopping area, built into the side of a cliff in Lima, looking over the Pacific Ocean. We had mocha frappucinos at Starbucks, drank Pisco sours at an outdoor bar, and bought Cuban cigars. I could see that for some on the trip - those who have not spent time in the developing world - it was hard to reconcile the primitive conditions we had stayed in (where people live on less than a dollar a day without running water or electricity), in contrast to a $4 coffee drink next to a crystal fountain. I understand this, and have spent a lot of time grappling with the same. To me, it´s most interesting that we were not in the USA experiencing this, but still in Peru. The discrepancy between the rich and poor (who tend to be the indigenous populations) is staggering... and I´ve seen this in almost every country I´ve visited.

And then, of course, there´s always coming home... and walking into your house, feeling a little overwhelmed at how much we have - even if we don´t have a lot.

But I´d rather struggle with that, than not be aware of that at all. Taking these trips is so humbling, and always reminds me of the clear difference between the words ¨want¨ and ¨need.¨

Climate Change in the Andean Highlands

2009-03-19T22:32:00.002-04:00

We boarded the truck at 6:30 this morning, to drive up several hundred meters to visit a reforestation program, which, over time, will literally change the climate of the Andean highlands.

The land is rocky and dry, like a desert in the sky... yet slowly, with a local NGO´s help, WFP has planted almost a quarter-million trees, tall grasses and other mountainous vegatation which catches water, prevents erosion, creates a little micro-climate and develops the water table, bringing more rain, and therefore more agricultural production, to the highlands. This allows these indigenous, mountain communities to return to their land, after being chased away by the Shining Path almost 20 years ago, and live, work and embrace their ancient cultures, together once again.

We had the chance to also visit a lake which was built at 14,000 feet, which catches rainwater, and is then distributed out to local farms through a basic, but very impressive, water irrigation system, to cultivate their crops.

It was while we were at the lake that WFP, the local NGOs and local villages gathered for a water ritual, to ask the mountain gods for more rain. We dug a hole in the earth next to the lake, and buried fruit, vegetables, flowers and cigarettes (?!), covered the hole, and sprinkled it with some local alcohol. When we were finished, we had formal remarks; the president of the community, the president of the district and me. After my comments, a woman with a round, leathery face, topped off by a bowler hat decorated with dried flowers, approached me and told me (through triple translation from Quechua to Spanish to English and back...) that her daughter´s name was also Margot.

I looked down, to see the most beautiful face of the tiniest 11 year old girl I´ve ever seen. She took my hand, led me up to a pile of rocks, climbed atop the rocks, beckoned an old man with a guitar, and proceeded to sing me a song, about the two Margots. She wrapped her arms around me, and kissed me when she was done. It was the perfect way to end a near-perfect day.

Tomorrow, we fly back to Lima, where we will meet with the Country Director for a debrief, hold an educational conference call for our supporters in the USA, and finally collapse after a long, windy week at the top of the world...

Quechua - Spanish - English - Spanish - Quechua

2009-03-18T22:24:00.003-04:00

A long, wonderful day in the villages of Condorpaccha and Liluacuccho...

This morning, we arrived in the village of Condorpaccha, where we climbed over a stone wall, walked down a long slope of green farmland surrounded by green mountains charging up from the earth, to be greeted by about 100 villagers, ambling up the hill, playing a large, indigenous harp, violin, guitar, horns led by about 15 women whose shrill drones carried throughout the mountains, all in a very warm greeting for our arrival.

We are treated like a good omen, as if our foreign strangeness would stir the gods, bringing needed blessings for the earth, the water, the fish, the crops, health, etc.

The president of the village, the president of the district and the president of the region formally welcomed us, and invited me to speak to the village as well, introducing my delegation and WFP. We needed triple translation, from Quechua (the indigenous language) to Spanish to English to Spanish and back to Quechua. They spoke with such heartfelt passion, naming us family, and expressing such gratitude and thanks for our visit. We were the first people from outside of Peru that they had ever met.

And then they fed us. Lunch, another lunch, and yet another lunch - all to honor our visit and the good spirits that we bring to the village.

We watched the men terrace the land, using 30 pound pick axes... groups of three standing at the bottom of the field, one threw his axe into the earth, and then ¨boom boom,¨two others followed, within inches of the first, then pull... they would pull up 40-pound divets of ground, over and over, tilling row after row, of the most black, rich soil I´ve ever seen.

We spent some time in a local artisan cheese factory, watching a 12-year old girl and her father working in their family shop, which, with the help of WFP, turns 1300 liters of milk into cheese which they sell in Ayacucho, with hopes of expanding to Lima.

And the final, and most meaningful visit, was to a local house-blessing ceremony in Liluacuccho. WFP has been working with a local NGO to build village homes more resistant to the harsh conditions prevelant throughout the Andes. When a house is completed, it is often presented to a married couple, who renew their vows before moving into the home. Today we watched this ceremony, which moved me to tears, and then I was asked to present the couple with the deed to their new home.

Today was moving and humbling, touching my heart and moving my spirit.

Altitude Sickness

2009-03-18T08:15:00.003-04:00

More than half the group is suffering from fairly bad altitude sickness: dizzy and lightheaded, short of breath, pounding heart, crazy dreams, and in some cases, near fainting spells and dramatically lowered blood pressure.

WFP is traveling with oxygen tanks, which we´ve had to use on three people so far - acting as a miracle drug... when a bout hits, the color drains from their skin in such a dramatic way. And when the oxygen is administered, it´s as though the pigment is being poured back in, drop by drop.

Because the villages that we´ve been visiting are so dramatically hight, only four will be spending the night. We´ve appointed a WFP staffer, and several oxygen tanks to stay up in the villages with them. And because so many are feeling ill, I will be returning with them to Ayacucho this evening. A disappointment, but life is long...

14,000 Feet Up in Chakkicocha

2009-03-17T21:45:00.004-04:00

I have jut a few moments before the internet is shut down in my hotel, but I wanted to share some thoughts from today...

We left Ayacucho at 7am, and drove up. Up. Up. Up. The first hour was on paved roads, but the last 2-1/2 were on bone-crushing, pock-marked, gutted and gullied pathways. We first arrived in Union Portrero, to the ABA Headquarters (an NGO partner of WFP), where we were greeted by round, leather-faced women, with braids down to their waist, wearing colorful, petticoated skirts, and mini bowler hats topped off with plumes of fresh flowers. Their children were slung on their backs, wrapped in colorful, hand-woven blankets.

After learning about ABA´s work through this region of the Andes, they held a formal welcoming ceremony for us, including corn, queso and potatoes, a gathering of musicians to play some music, and all of us taking to the floor to do the Andean two-step. And finally, we were presented with handmade bowler hats, also topped with flowers, which we were invited to wear for the rest of day, as we visited the communitites.

We arrived in Chakkicocha about 2 hours later, heads spinning from the altitude. A woman approached me, and said that the mountain gods play tricks on strangers to the mountains, which is why I wasn´t feeling well. She licked her finger, scraped the earth, and then ate the dirt, inviting me to do the same, so I would become friends with the mountain gods. What´s a girl to do? Peruvian dirt is rich and quite tasty.

Upon arriving in the village, a man smoking a ciggarette, who know I wasn´t feeling well, approached me, lifted up my hat, and blew smoke on my head, before replacing the bowler. ¨He is a friend of the mountain gods,¨ a woman told me ¨and he is giving you his energy so the mountain gods will recognize you.¨

The rest of the day was spent helping farm land, hoeing the dirt, and building terraces (there was no agriculture at this high altitude until about 8 years ago, with the help of ABA and WFP) and participating in agricultural rituals, asking the mountain gods for a fruitful season.

The skies literally opened upon us, drenching us with rain, and pelting us with hail. There was a sense of magic in the air...

Nine Thousand Feet Up and Counting...

2009-03-16T19:26:00.005-04:00

Greeting from Ayacucho. I'm at about 9,000 feet in the Andes, surrounded by green, craggy mountains, topped with snow and clouds. It's like being on top of the world.

We took an early morning flight, delayed because of fog and rain in the Andes, finally arriving at about 8:30am. The plane was a two-propeller, small jet, holding about 15 people. I love flying in small aircraft. When we finally left the ground, it felt as though we were yanked up by a string, climbing higher and higher, bouncing around the clouds, weaving amidst the mountains.

Upon arrival, we were retrieved by WFP staff, who advised us that, for security reasons, we must go straight to the hotel, and stay there, until told otherwise - as there were strong protests in the center square (across from our hotel) by the transportation unions, which were expected to turn violent. So we slept...

The afternoon was spent at WFP's offices in Ayacucho, meeting the staff, and local partners, who run the programs we'll be visiting over the next few days. Most of the programs center around rebuilding communities which were displaced and/or destroyed during the civil war in the 80s; Ayacucho was the founding city for the Shining Path, who terrorized inidigenous villages throughout the region. WFP is now helping them come back to their land, combinig ancient cultural rituals with contemporary know-how, to help cultivate their land, build houses, and provide nutritional education for mothers, throughout their pregnancies and then through child-rearing.

Tomorrow we'll visit a series of tiny villages at 14,000 feet.

I've been drinking matte de coca, and have just broken down to purchase some altitude sickness meds from the local farmacia.

Onward ho!

Andes Mountains, Peru

2009-03-13T09:48:00.017-04:00

On Sunday morning, I will be leaving for a 9-day trip to Peru; 6 days of which will be for work, 3 days of which will be for fun (not that work isn't fun!).

The work part includes leading a delegation of Friends of the World Food Program staff, and a group of key volunteers, from around the United States, to observe United Nations World Food Program (WFP) operations in the field.

We will be spending most of our time at 14,000 feet in the Ayacucho region of the Andes mountains, visiting programs which build capacity and self-sufficiency, and, quite simply, feed, communities who are living on less than a dollar a day.

For me, the highlight of the trip will be spending the night in the homes of the families we serve. I believe the name of the village that I'll be staying in is Chakiccocha. Thanks to Ted for lending me his sleeping bag!

Stay tuned for postings and photos of my trip to Peru!

Math and Maize Amidst the Mountains

2008-07-24T11:35:00.009-04:00

The last two days have been spent in the Ocotal region, just south of the mountains separating Nicaragua to the south, and Honduras to the north. It is up in the mountains where we visited School Feeding and Food for Work Programs, amidst tiny villages made of sticks and mud, without electricity or running water.

The roads, needless to say, are not meant for trucks, because there are simply no cars here. All transportation is done on foot or donkey, or, if you're a prosperous landowner, perhaps a rusty bicycle. I couldn't help but wonder what these people were thinking, as 6 UN trucks came slowly crashing through their pathways in the jungle, like elephants on pogo-sticks. WFP is simply the *only* organization working in this region, in conjuction with local ministries, so the beneficiaries recognize the trucks, but because, as is the case everywhere, resources are limited, we can't serve everyone. And it was in those faces that I saw amazement, curiosity and fear. Remember, this is the area hardest hit by the civil war just two decades ago. Are we friends? Are we enemies? Are we the government? Why are we here?

The premise of a School Feeding Program is very simple: we place food in schools as a way of fighting hunger and promoting education. Students receive one meal each day, fortified with micronutrients, pumping up its nutritional and caloric value. Parents are relieved of the chronic worry of feeding their children, their kids are gettting an education, and the food is keeping acute malnutrition at bay.

In the two schools we visited, enrollment and attendance were at 100%... find me one school in the United States where that's the case. The kids, albeit shoeless and dirty, were curious, friendly, funny and eager. Kids are exactly the same everywhere in this world... ask them who is the fastest runner, or if they have a favorite song, and they rush at you with "ME! ME!" singing, jumping, showing you their muscles...

Education is provided through 6th grade in this region, with two classes generally - 1st through 3rd grade (5 to 11 year olds), and 4th through 6th grade (10 through 15 years old). What happens during their "summer break?" What happens after 6th grade? How do they eat? What do they do? They join the ranks of adulthood, working the fields, having their own children, and the cycle just continues...

We met Erickson, the president of the student council, who, at 13 (in 5th grade), was one of those people who is a natural leader. He listens, he observes, he thinks deeply and he deeply cares. He stood by my side for most of my visit, explaining (through a translator) what the kids learn, who was best at math, who wanted to be a doctor when she grew up... when asked "What do you need?" he responded with "8 baseballs, 3 baseball bats and 10 gloves." I asked, "do the girls play baseball?" to which he responded "No, they don't want to." After some negotiation, we determined that most of the girls wanted dolls and balls, and that some, to his surprise, really wanted to learn to play baseball. He formed a team, named Sabina as the co-captain, and a member of our delegation committed to sending them the baseball equipment, dolls and balls.

When asked, "What do *you* need?," Erickson said "I need $1000 to move to Ocotal so I can finish school, and go to university... I have family there, and they would keep me if I could pay for food, school fees, books and supplies." Normally, I prefer to support capacity and infrastructure, but there was no doubt in my mind that if this boy was given the opportunity to finish school, it would benfit not only himself, but many, many others down the road.

Some of the students were light-haired and light-skinned, slower and smaller, bearing the permanent marks of early malnutrition, but most were quick, fast, bearing a normal resemblance to their parents. And all were quick to get in line for their midmorning meal.

Skinny Dogs and Bloated Bellies

2008-07-22T19:47:00.005-04:00

On Monday morning, we loaded up into the trucks, and were brought to the WFP Country Office in Managua, where we received a briefing on country programs and security issues. Despite the fact that Nicaragua is the 2nd poorest country in the western hemisphere, it´s actually the safest in the region. The greatest risk is natural disasters, with hurricanes and earthquakes destablizing the country every year.

From there, we left Managua, and headed out to the field - to the Matagalpa region, where we visited Maternal-Child Health programs, implemented through a public health clinic funded in partnership through WFP and the Nicaraguan government.

We drove north on the Pan-American Highway and then turned right. Right off the highway, right off everyone´s consciousness and right off the grid. The roads turned to dirt, then they turned to mud, then they became paths, and then they headed straight up, as we bumped and crashed our way up steep slopes overlooking grand sweeping valleys of jungle, on what, on a good day, could be classified as extreme hiking paths. The UN trucks are virtual elephants, outfitted with special tires that can manage rocks, rivers, fallen trees and gullies.

After 2 hours of being tossed around, guts crushed and brains knocked off their axes, we arrived in a village to meet local WFP workers administering vaccines, delivering babies, and distributing food to fight extreme, acute malnutrition, amid dirt floors, stick walls, and corregated tin roofs.

Beneficiaries were lined up, waiting for treatment, mothers holding their tiny babies, girls holding jugs to be filled with fortified vegetable oil, men holding sacks to be filled with food rations for their families. It was there that we noticed that, despite their Nicaraguan parents, so many of these children were blonde, with fine, wispy hair, light skin and light eyes. Why? This is a classic sign of chronic, acute malnutrition, as though hunger has drained them of their color, as well as their health.

From there, we went to the home of one of the beneficiaries - Olivia, who lives in a 3 room hut with her mother, and 7 children. When we entered, we noticed a hammock to the right, swinging limply in the breeze. Olivia greeted us, opened up the hammock, and introduced us to her 15-month old daughter, who weighs just 14 pounds. She laid there, looking at us, not registering our presence, nor responding in any way. Chronically malnourished children seem not to cry. Hunger robs them of their development - stunting their growth (an 11 year old was the size of a 5 year old), and mental capacity, looking past you with a 100-mile stare.

When one thinks of the UN, they think, understandably, of sophisticated operations and (hopefully) an organization facilitating impact and change. Monday´s trip highlighted two things for me. First, that merely accessing these places - the least developed, remote areas of the least developed, remote countries - is a huge challenge, and somehow, with just 65 staff in-country, WFP feeds nearly 500,000 people every single day. And second, that the needs are simply so basic. Develop infrastructure to catch fresh rainwater for drinking, build efficient stoves so you won´t breathe in smoke from the fire burning openly inside your kitchen, fortify every drop of food with micronutrients so your little cup of porridge meets most of your nutritional and caloric needs for the day.

Brick by brick, inch by inch.

A Slow Sunday Evening in Managua

2008-07-21T01:00:00.004-04:00

Hot summer days in DC don´t hold a candle to Managua. It´s about 11pm, close to 90 degrees, dripping with humidity, urban pollution and exhaust. I flew from DC to Houston with Derry, a colleague, where with met up with Mike, Marti and Abby - leaders of WFP Committees from around the country. We all lazed around on the sticky airport seats, waiting to board our plane to Managua...

We arrived here about an hour late, to be picked up by two UN trucks at the airport, to lead us through the streets with their proud, prominent antennae and ¨no weapons¨ stickers plastered along the sides. By the time we arrived, most had pooped out for the night, leaving a group of about six of us to forage through the local neighborhood for margaritas and enchiladas. Success.

Tomorrow we meet with the WFP country office, to receive a security briefing and some background information on the programs we´ll be visiting, as we wind our way through Matagalpa, up to Ocotal near the Honduran border.

There are about 15 of us total, many of whom have never traveled in the developing world. It will be an intense experience for these folks, observing extreme poverty, meeting with beneficiaries who are living on less than a dollar a day, whose children are permanently stunted both physically and intellectually by a chronic lack of food.

I´m drenched in sweat, covered in a light coating of dirt and dust... and it´s one of the days, in one of those places, where, quite frankly, taking a shower really won´t make a difference.

UN Delegation to Nicaragua

2008-07-18T13:26:00.005-04:00

On Sunday, I fly to Managua, Nicaragua, where I will meet up with 16 WFP Committee Coordinators (volunteer leaders for a national outreach program that I run) for a 5-day trip to visit WFP operations in Managua, Matagalpa and Ocotal.

I've never been to Nicaragua before, though I've visited its neighbors: living in El Salvador briefly in 2005, where I literally sneezed over the border into Honduras, and personal travels to Belize, Guatemala, and Costa Rica.

So, what do I know about Nicaragua? It's the second poorest country in Latin America, with nearly half the country living on $1/day. WFP feeds nearly a half-million people every single day in this country alone, despite a total staff of just 65 people (all of them Nicaraguan citizens, with the exception of the Country Director who is from Canada), and a budget which has increased by 40% since January thanks to rising costs of food and fuel.

I'll be staying in Nicaragua through next weekend, taking a few days to travel solo. I don't know where I'll go, or what I'll do yet... I'll figure that out when I'm down there.

Onward ho!

White-hot, Pure, Blinding Fear

2007-07-06T03:09:00.000-04:00

This trip is starting to feel *almost* too indulgent. Every day I wake up, and some new, great adventure is about to unfold in front of us…

On Wednesday, we went up to Kruger Park, the largest game reserve in South Africa, lying just west of the Mozambique border. It is here that the wild animals roam free on the savannah. Our hope was to spot the “Big 5” – the most elusive of all the game animals… the rhino, elephant, lion, leopard and buffalo.

We first flew into Choedspruit, a tiny village with a dirt-path airport, where we were greeted by a driver who drove us 30 minutes out into the bush, to our lodge. From there we met A.K. and Esther, the folks who would be taking care of us. Esther briefed us on getting back and forth from the lodge to our bungalow; we were allowed to walk the path freely during the day, but at nighttime, we were to be escorted by an armed guard. You see, they have a sparsely stringed electrical fence to keep the large animals out (elephants and giraffe), but it’s at nighttime that the “cats” come out, which are extremely dangerous - and they, obviously, can hop through any fence they want.

Upon entering the bungalow, I looked out the window and saw a herd of antelope peering back at me. At first, I couldn’t really wrap my head around the reality that we are cocooning ourselves in the animals’ natural habitat, and they simply roam wherever they like… and it is us that must take precaution (have I somehow, very simply summarized what it really means to be an American?).

Anywhoo, we scuttled back to the lodge, where we were directed outside to meet A.K., our guide. A.K., originally from the bush, reminded me of Crocodile Dundee, with a leather hat, safari wear, a rough and tumble, slightly abrasive affectionate way about him, topped off by a large wooden rifle, which he showed us was loaded with 4-inch long golden bullets, “just in case.” Great! I jumped into the can-opener-convertible Land Rover, and we were off. A.K. was at the wheel, and our tracker, Foster, was hanging off the front of truck, perched atop a small platform… his job was to track the animals nearby by the marks of recently snapped branches, animal prints, and freshly deposited dung.

Riding in this truck was no different than sitting on top of a charging elephant. You’re bumped around from side to side, as the truck lurches through gullies and trenches, up steep grades, and across the plains…

The animals found us fairly quickly. We were greeted by a herd (I’m sorry, I don’t remember all of the names for groups of animals: “school,” “pride,” “mob” … so I’m just going to call everything a herd) of zebra and giraffe, roaming the savannah, nibbling on plants and leaves. The giraffe and zebra are so omnipresent, along with the various brands of antelope who are hopping around everywhere, that you get used to them quickly. We had our sights set on finding a leopard which A.K. and Foster knew was in the area…

For hours, we drove along the plain, careening and lurching about, as the sun set, and the nighttime sounds emerged of screaming eagles, crickets, and the slow, subtle chomping of peaceful herbivores around you. The tall grasses of the savannah sounded like water slapping on the sides of the truck, as we drove through field after field, in search of the spotted cat. A.K. was determined, calling other trackers and guides on his short-wave radio, trying to find the invisible leopard.

Exasperated, A.K. cursed the animal, and promised us a more auspicious morning drive, turning us back in the direction of the lodge… at which point, we almost drove smack into the side of a lone elephant, snapping off braches from a tree for a midnight snack. We just sat there in the darkness, as Foster held a spotlight on the animal, silently watching this massive animal chomp away, our mouths agape.

I decided to sit in front of the fire at the lodge, while Jane was escorted back to the bungalow – where she and the guard promptly came face to face with the elusive leopard, who, apparently, just sat there at the base of a tree, licking his paws hungrily, glancing at the two of them only occasionally. It sounded as though he was mocking us, as we spent hours bumping and crashing through the bush, and he was sitting here all along…

We awoke at 6am the next morning to the screams of about 70 angry baboons running through the surrounding trees, and tumbled back into the truck. The hours presented us more gracefully galloping giraffe (giraffes?), antelope, wildebeest, and ostrich… but nothing prepared me for the amazing finale of our short stay in Kruger Park…

After 4 hours in the truck, A.K. got word on his radio of a group of lions who had just finished feasting on a fresh kill. He promptly turned us around, and, as if searching in the dark (turn left at the ditch, continue about 400 meters through the grass until you come to the large podded mahogany tree), brought us to the digesting ground of two lionesses and one massive, proud, regal lion, sitting there, lazing in the sun, their bellies full of antelope. He slowly drove us up within 20 feet of the lions, causing one of the lionesses to start flicking her tail and narrow her eyes.

(I would like to take a deep breath at this moment, and try to convey to you just how BIG these animals are. I think the bars at the zoo somehow make them look smaller, which left me wide-eyed and incredulous of the size of these cats… they are easily the size a minivan.)

But I digress. It was right about then that I tasted my breakfast prior, as the lioness began to grumble at us. I am not ashamed to say that I panicked. I completely panicked. I believe I grabbed hold of A.K. and started whisper-screaming like a little girl, as the lioness, well, she roared at us, and promptly lunged at our truck, shooting my body with the most white-hot, pure, blinding fear I have ever felt in my life. I get dizzy just thinking about it.

A.K., being the experienced guide, started speaking very slowly and monotone (To me? The lioness? I have no idea…) and backed the truck up very slowly, retreating into the bush.

And now, I’d like to talk to you about fear. When we returned to the lodge, I literally felt so doped up on adrenaline and endorphins, that my legs were wobbly and my head was spinning. It was staggering. I’ve never experienced a runner’s high, but I imagine that this is kind of what it must feel like. I laughed to myself, as I walked back to the bungalow to gather my things, realizing that I’ve never really experienced fear before. People have asked “What are you most afraid of?” and I would respond with things like “Being alone” or “Losing my job” … and that day, I realized what I was afraid of.

Lions.

Madam, There's a Lemur on Your Femur.

2007-07-04T03:48:00.001-04:00

Where to begin?

The AIDS and TB clinic in Tana was exactly what one would expect in such a poor country. It was set back, off the street, tucked away in a back alley, so as to hide the faces of those who come in to get tested or receive treatment. The understanding of HIV is so primitive, primarily because, up until now, the disease has not decimated the population the way it has in sub-Saharan Africa. Why? For starters, because it is an isolated island, and hasn’t been exposed (yet) to the factors that cause for the rapid spread. First, there are few roads, providing access across the country. Few roads have discouraged easy development. This means fewer truck drivers, which has been one of the major players of the spread of the disease in Africa – drivers traveling across the continent, having relations along the way, leaving a trail which can literally be tracked. So many more factors, but unfortunately, I don’t have much time here, so I’ll just say that Madagascar is standing at the precipice, about the explode, joining the pandemic. All the signs point in this direction, unless education, prevention and intervention are implemented now. This is a major part of the clinic’s mission.

After Tana, Luc, Jane and I piled into Luc’s truck and drove three hours to the coast, passing through spectacular mountains, rainforests, and started to see the bleak truth of Madagascar’s environmental challenges. More than 80% of the island has been deforested, leaving their rich, indigenous ecosystem out-of-balance. The areas that have been left are simply dripping with natural luxury – trees, birds, animals, waterfalls, rainforest… but they are struggling to exist in the small patches of lushness that have been protected.

Andasibe is one of the best rainforests to view the lemurs – they’re simply everywhere. We took a short canoe ride across a river, to an island serving as a preserve. We took only about 10 steps where we were greeted by huge, black and white lemurs, looking like a cross between a monkey and a panda bear. You can get so close to them, as they peer into your face, wondering “What the heck are YOU doing here?”

I must digress for a moment, to tell the story of Ramus, a Malagasy/Indian/Canadian man we met along the way, who invited us to his house for breakfast in Tana. His father came from India – was brought, is more like it – to work as a servant (slave) as a small child. His youth was spent serving the Malagasy and French aristocracy. Eventually, he had his son, Ramus, who, like all non-pureblood Malagasy, was denied Malagasy citizenship. In effect, he was without citizenship, denied a passport, stuck in a life and an identity in-between. He eventually realized that his life would be limited, so he sought exile in Canada, where he was given citizenship. He now works for CIDA, the Canadian International Development Agency, focusing on child labor in Madagascar.

Over breakfast, Ramus said to me, “You don’t want to get sick in Madagascar. If you do, you might as well forget about it.” The services are slim to nonexistent.

So this was the voice that was ringing in my ear, as I stepped onto the island and greeted the lemurs. And this was the voice that was ringing in my ear, as, not one, not two, but three lemurs jumped onto my head and shoulders, leaning over, peering into my eyes and picking through my hair. They pulled my ponytail out, held my hand and patted my face with the utmost curiosity, as I stood there silently screaming on the inside, begging, pleading, praying that they wouldn’t bite me. Our guide merely laughed, and told me to relax - they’re completely harmless. The acute anxiety eventually dissipated, but I spent the rest of the afternoon, wandering around the island, battling minor panic attacks (though with a smile on my face), as lemurs jumped from the trees onto my head, shimmying up and down my leg.

The next day, Luc dropped us off at the airport, where we caught a flight back to Johannesburg, where we were greeted by Tumelo – a dear friend from graduate school, who has agreed to host us for the rest of our time here in Africa. Tumelo grew up in Soweto, and has quite a story to tell…

United Nations World Food Program - Feeding the Hungry in Madagascar

2007-06-29T07:14:00.000-04:00

I have just a few minutes, before the UN World Food Program (WFP) truck is coming to pick me up and bring me to their field site...

I spent the morning at WFP Madagascar country HQ, speaking with the Country Director, Deputy Country Director, Public Information Officer and Program Manager, learning more about their programs, successes, failures and challenges of working in this country.

Where do I begin? Mada is one of the most natural-disaster-prone areas of the world, and has suffered from seven debilitating cyclones in just the last six months alone, wiping out coastlines, crops, infrastructure, and villages, leaving entire communities displaced and in need. Most of these communities are tribal, and very disconnected from anything having to do with the hustle and bustle of Tana. Unfortunately, Mada's history has reflected much of the same, with 40+ cyclones, typhoons, etc. in the last few decades - and climatological research seems to indicate that these natural disasters are only on the increase.

So, much of WFP's work focuses on EMOPs (emergency operations), coming in to simply stabilize and support the immediate needs of the people. They work primarily in the south and southeast, but fly all over island, here and there, whenever a disaster strikes, prepositioning food in secure warehouses, which allows for quick and easy distribution when needed. Shockingly, the Mada government seems to have no emergency disaster plan whatsoever, so the most vulnerable people are left to depend on international organizations, who basically run around, putting out fires. With the sheer volume of disasters, I don't know how they have the resources or capacity to get ahead of anything, and focus on other development issues. But they do...

WFP also administers several school feeding operations, providing meals to students in 200+ schools around the country. This is often the only meal that these kids are getting in a day, which serves as an incentive for parents to send their children to school. These programs are supported by capacity building in the local communities, to develop more aggressive and successful agricultural practices, infrastructure building, etc. so the communities will eventually be able to take over their own programs independently (assuming they aren't wiped out by a cyclone)...

And next, Food for Work programs, where families contribute one family member to help on development and infrastructure programs (building roads , terracing farmland for cultivation, etc.), and receive rations large enough to feed their entire family.

This afternoon they are bringing me to a public health clinic in one of the poorest slums of Tana, working with AIDS and TB patients. WFP runs this clinic in cooperation with the World Health Organization, and UN-AIDS. WFP's primary function in this clinic is to provide adequate nutrition to patients taking anti-retrovirals and other strong, lifesaving medications. Remember, our meds indicate "take with food or milk" and even if we don't, it's safe to assume that we've eaten in the last 12 hours. So many of people simply don't have enough to eat, and are suffering from such acute malnutrition, that when they take these medications, their bodies can't metabolize them properly and the meds literally kill them. A lot of WFP's work in sub-Saharan Africa and other areas ravaged by the AIDS pandemic, focuses on the role of nutrition in the treatement of HIV/AIDS.

Ah, I love a relaxing vacation.
More later, when I return from the clinic...

Antananarivo, Madagascar

2007-06-28T07:19:00.001-04:00

Greetings from Madagascar. I'm at a clunky, old computer, which, for some reason will not allow me to post photos, so I'll have to ask you to use your imagination...

We flew through Johannesburg, where, for the first time in 16 years, it snowed. It was shocking to wake up and see a thin veil of white powder covering everything in sight...

From Joburg, we flew into Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar. We're staying with my friend Luc while we're here, and his driver, Jean-Baptiste, came to the airport to gather us and our luggage.

Madagascar is a surprising country, in so many ways. First, the people here don't consider themselves part of Africa, or African in any way - and seeing this place, it makes perfect sense. It's an island nation, with its own culture, traditions and ancestry, which is very disconnected to the continent just to the west. So much of Madagascar is simply Malagasy - the closest comparison would be to Indonesia, both literally and figuratively. The Malagasy people are direct descendants from Indonesia and Malaysia, and look so, though their skin is much darker. The city of Antananarivo (called "Tana") is among the least developed I've ever seen. It looks like a Crusader village from the middle ages, with handfuls of living quarters slapped on the sides here and there, as families grow, business expands, creating a patchwork of ramshackle huts, stone quarters and shacks sliding up and down the hills that make this colorful, loud, packed city.

Most of the streets are dirt, and most of the people are barefoot, wearing tattered clothes, carrying baskets of live chickens, or piles of food on their head. Families here live on less than a dollar a day.

The people speak French, and I must say, they speak French beautifully - with a perfect Parisian accent.

Luc has a very special and unusual position here, working on a team of three people, serving as the leadership advisors to the President of Madagascar. The other two are Australian (one being Dean Williams, my professor from graduate school), and all are fervently, delicately and passionately working day and night to help this eager President increase the leadership capacity of his country, which is just starting to tiptoe its way toward the global arena. Not only do they work directly with the President, but also with the full administration, including an upcoming training for 17,500 village chiefs from all around the island.

He is also in an interesting position, which requires acute diplomacy, as he is a frenchman, working in a country colonialized by France. He equates his position to an Israeli consulting to the leaders of Palestine in 20 years.

Last night he took us into the grounds of the Presidential Palace, where we stepped over sleeping guards, so he could show us his office...

Luc is renting a house (if you can call it that - it's more of a villa) from a Kenyan woman who works for UNICEF, who is at home in Nairobi. He has two full-time guards, a driver and a maid, who maintain the house and property. These are very common conditions for an expat working for the UN or similar organization, as they are paid their national salary, which obviously, goes a very long way here. Female workers are required to have three guards, whereas men are required to have only two.

The homes here, as in South Africa, have no central heat, so they are warmed by wood-burning fireplaces - a welcomed amenity, as the winter (as it is now) is cool and misty. The smell is so inviting - it reminds of me of my childhood.

Last night, Luc drove us through the winding backalley-streets of Tana, to his favorite restaurant, where we sat among expat development workers, eating foie gras, french bread, and zebu (buffalo meat), washing it all down with red wine and coffee.

The contrast, obviously, between the lives of the local people and the expats working here, is quite dramatic. I felt much more uncomfortable with this contrast, and the luxuries afforded by international workers, when I was working in Aceh and Jakarta, Indonesia in 2005 during the tsunami reconstruction. This was my first experience in international development, and I wasn't prepared for the discrepancy between expat and local. I don't know what to think, and I don't know what to say about it, except that the work is hard, the conditions are rough, and perhaps a glass of wine and a hot shower rejuvenates one for the next day (the counter-arguments are aplenty, I know that... so I will just leave it at that).

Today, we wandered through the city streets, through alleyways, up stairs, down hills, rounding steep corners where we would find crowds of children, or old men playing board games, or an old, decrepit palace, falling into ruin. Maps are useless, streets are unmarked, which just leaves you with your feet and a sense of adventure.

Tomorrow I'm spending the day with the Country Office of the UN World Food Program, where I will meet with the Country Director and Assistant Country Director, learn about their programs in Madagascar and visit a school-feeding operation in Tana. I've brought briefing materials from my office in Washington DC, which I will read as homework tonight, preparing me for the day tomorrow.

And fortunately, we have convinced Luc to come to coast of Madagascar this weekend, where we will visit the Parc National d'Andasibe-Mantadia, and see the indigenous marvels of this country - the indiri (the largest lemur found in Madagascar, described as looking like a four-year old child in a panda suit), the giant jumping rat, and thousands of birds and plants, which are found only on this island.

I love this country so far. I'm intrigued, curious, and eager to see what the next few days hold for us...

Bumbling Along in Blaauwklippen

2007-06-25T15:20:00.000-04:00

This day has lasted 42 hours... or at least so it seems!

After an evening of homemade soup, apple crumble and hours of sifting through Hilda's old photo albums documenting my friend Cath's radiant adolescence (oh, the haircuts!) in Johannesburg and Simon's Town, we bid the lovely seaside village adieu, and headed north along the coast with one goal in mind: Wine Country.

Driving along the coast was a magnificent ride, though admittedly, I seem to be battling a low grade, constant queasiness, as a passenger-on-the-left, feeling as though we are about to crash into light poles and sideswipe buses. Somehow, I don't think I've ever been in a car where people drive on the other side of the road.

Again, the weather. One moment it's sunny and gorgeous, with light streaming over the sea, turning the water brilliant shades of azure and emerald. The next, violent gangs of clouds come roaring over the peaks hugging the shore, and there is torrential downpour with winds threatening to flick our tin-can-car into the ocean. These rains are the kind of rains where you just don't even bother trying to keep dry - there's simply no point.

And onward we drove, along the coast, and then inland, up the hills to Stellenbosch, regarded as one of the great wine regions of South Africa, home to hundreds upon hundreds of wineries.

I'd like to start with a story. My friend Dimitri lives on the north shore of Long Island, also home to many vineyards... One weekend, Dimitri deposited me into his car, and took me wine tasting along the North Fork. He explained his theory to me: "After the first vineyard and first round of tastings, you say 'Ah, this is good.' After the second, you exclaim 'This is wonderful wine!' And after the third vineyard and round of tasting, which invariably is the best so far, you cheerfully embrace the sommelier who is so friendly, and end up buying a bottle of wine, or two, or three..."

So far, I've proven Dimitri theory to be true twice; once on the North Fork, and again today in Stellenbosch. We started off at Blaauwklippen, a gorgeous old estate dating back to the 17th century. We started off with a delicious lunch - I skipped the salad, and immediately ordered the ostrich (no offense to the lovely bird I saw roaming around the Cape of Good Hope yesterday!), paired with a wonderful house red. From there, we tore ourselves away from the braai (fireplace) and dashed across the grounds, through wind and sleet, into the tasting room, where we chatted with Wayne, the sommelier, for a quite some time. He liked us, so he discarded the standard tasting menu, and shared his personal recommendations with us - for over an hour. About 6 or 7 tastings later, we wound our way through the countryside, up and down hills (or at least it felt that way) to this vineyard, and that vineyard, singing songs, speaking in South African accents (or our bastardized versions, that is), laughing so hard our sides were splitting (this was all in the privacy of our car - we tried hard not to sully the stellar reputation of the American traveler!), finally ending up at the Spiers (again, Cath, thanks for the recommendation), and Saxenburg Wineries, where we drank a Cab and Shiraz, both of which won "Best in Country" awards in 2003. Good stuff.

And don't worry, Jane was the designated driver. And I was the designated chatter.

We both did very well in our respective responsibilities.

At the end of the day, we tumbled into our lawnmower-car, and sped along country and mountain roads, meandering our way back to Cape Town.

We passed a township along the way, which served as a startling and sobering (literally) reminder of the stark contrast and division in this country. Tin shacks, with plastic sheeting for walls, packed next to each other, as if they were bodies huddling together to keep warm, for as far as the eye could see. How do you reconcile this kind of poverty? How can you not want to work on economic development, ensuring opportunity and education and access, making good on the promises that were made fourteen years ago? How do you not get overwhelmed or heavy-hearted with the injustice? Sorry. This kind of thinking usually stays inside of my head (is anyone reading this anyhow?).

And now I'm back in Cape Town, my belly full of spaghetti and meatballs (the dish I seem to crave whenever I travel - and I still say the best exists in Guatemala). Tomorrow we'll try to get to Robben's Island, where Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years - the winds have made the sea so choppy that the boats were canceled today. Tomorrow night we leave for Johannesburg, where we'll connect to a flight to Madagascar, and see my friend Luc!

A word about security in Capetown. In addition to the weather, people seem to spend a lot of time here talking about crime. Homes, offices and private buildings are heavily walled, with razor wire and security guards. We're constantly being reminded to lock our car doors, and keep our bags on the floor to avoid "smash and grabs" which seem pervasive. Hilda told us of a neighbor who was stabbed to death in her home, by burglars looking for some loot. And never, ever, are we to walk outside at night. Normally, I'm used to these warnings, which I heed, albeit with some cynicism - simply read a tourism book advising travelers in NYC and you'll understand the hype and fear - but these advisories have a sense of urgency and gravitas, that, even though I don't *see* this possibility lurking around the corner, I definitely feel it.

The only other place I've felt that, is living in El Salvador, truly fearful of the gangs who had been deported from the USA for their growing criminal records, and sent back home, where they would terrorize their neighbors - having been slightly Americanized, and no longer totally Salvadoreno, they would create pockets of members, taking over who sections of El Salvador.

Questions answered: Yes, you can drink the water here. People speak English, though you hear Afrikaans, and dozens of other African languages all around you. The people here among the friendliest I've ever met. And everything is less expensive, though not completely cheap.

And now, sleep. Strangely, I haven't had a drop of jetlag!

I hope you're well!

From Cape Town, to the Cape of Good Hope...

2007-06-24T10:07:00.000-04:00

Greetings from Simons Town, South Africa. I’m about 45 minutes south of Cape Town, at the beginning of the cape, which eventually meets at the point of the Cape of Good Hope, the southernmost tip of Africa.

I arrived in Cape Town, a green, sophisticated and beautiful city on the western coast of South Africa, filled with colonial, Dutch architecture. Table Mountain, a huge, flat mountain, looms behind the city, grabbing the clouds as they drift by.

It’s winter here, and the people are dressed in layers of sweaters, scarves, and hats, and the weather is a constant topic of conversation. Folks are apologizing left and right for cold temperatures, asking us to return in the summer, when it is truly pleasant and welcoming.

It’s 60 degrees, and I’m wearing a t-shirt. I’m thrilled to be away from the DC summer.

Yesterday we found our way to the base of Table Mountain, where we were expecting to take a cable car to the top, promising magnificent views of the city and ocean below. Unfortunately, the winds were whipping, causing the cable cars to shut down – which seems to happen quite frequently. So, Jane and I walked down the road, seeking a trailhead, which we found about a kilometer down the road. We turned in, and started up the path. At first it was a walk, then a hike, and then an outright climb, passing waterfalls, cliffs and overhangs. We were about halfway up the mountain, when hikers starting climbing down, warning of the approaching “tablecloth” – storm clouds rolling in, promising extreme weather. We climbed up a little further, and found a trail cutting across the mountain for about 2 kilometers, eventually bringing us back down where we started. We touched back down, and the skies opened. Perfect timing.

From there, we took a cab back downtown. In chatting up the driver, we learned that he was from Rwanda. I wanted to know about him, but wanted to be respectful of what would be, undoubtedly, a sad story. He opened up after learning that I work for the World Food Program, telling us of fleeing his country, losing his family, living in a refugee camp in the Democratic Republic of Congo for over a year, and then finally moving to South Africa six years ago, where, miraculously, he was reunited with his wife and daughter. For more than a year, all of his meals came from WFP. This made up for every bad day I’ve ever had…

Last night we rented a car and drove south to Simons Town, where we are staying with Hilda Barry – a close family friend of Cath Byrne, from California, via Johannesburg (Hi Cath! We’re having a great time with Hilda! Thanks for putting us in touch!).

Today we drove… first to Boulder Beach, home to thousands and thousands of African, or “jackass,” penguins. They roam along the beaches, burrowing holes in the sand where they lay eggs, and warm their newly hatched babies. They’re smaller than I expected, about 2-1/2 feet tall, and the male penguins “bray” (hence the name “jackass”) to defend their nests. At one point, we came to a clearing, where there thousands of penguins gathered on the shore, lobbing from side to side, and diving into the water.

The rest of our day was spent driving south, to the Cape of Good Hope – the southernmost tip of Africa. All I can say is that this area is a land of big weather. Big clouds, big winds, big bursts of torrential downpours, big sunrays streaming through big cracks in the sky, and big rainbows, stretching out from the peaks of big, craggy mountains tumbling into the sea.

We encountered ostriches along the road; graceful reminders of our location. Arriving at the Cape of Good Hope was difficult for my mind to digest. A man chased baboons away with a stick, as we started our way up the hill, to a lighthouse that stood at the end point where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet. The wind was whipping and lashing, tearing away anything that wasn’t connected to my body. It was a moment to just stop and be still. Sometimes I worry that I can’t be impressed anymore – and I’m always so happy to prove myself wrong.

I’ve received a few emails with questions about post-apartheid Africa. I’m intrigued, and (I know you’ll find this surprising) am asking questions along the way – but I’m not qualified to talk about race, history and South Africa. Cape Town is a very white city, and the thoughts and opinions I’ve gathered have been from white South Africans. It has been 14 years since the end of apartheid, and in many ways it's been *only* 14 years since the end of apartheird. I expect that I will have something to say toward the end of this trip. People seem not to speak too deeply about race, yet there is a quiet “something” that is acknowledged – a tension. The radio plays tributes to Steven Biko, offering reminders to relieve yourself of the burdens of inferiority and oppression.

Tomorrow we head east of Cape Town to some of the vineyards. This should prove interesting; wine tasting, while driving on the wrong side of the road...

I hope you’re well!

Pre-Trip Flurry...

2007-06-20T20:13:00.000-04:00

"There is no moment of delight in any pilgrimage like the beginning of it."

-- Charles Dudley Warner

I always get nervous before I leave for a faraway trip. The idea of being so disconnected (though, of course, I'm really not) and inaccessible (though, of course, I'm really not) sends little pings of anxiety through my nerves. But these pings eventually join together, like freckles merging on my arm, filling me with such excitement and passion, which I've found only rarely in other areas of my life.

I arrive wherever I'm going, and I rediscover the beauty of everyday life somewhere else, with my senses heightened, absorbing everything around me like a sponge. And so much is the same - eating, drinking, laughter, work, walking, talking, learning how to approach the speed-bumps or just make do, but surrounded by different colors, spices, smells, flavors, music, language, landscapes. I get hungry just thinking about it.

The familiar pre-trip flurry has set in, of throwing things in a bag, fishing for my passport and trying to decide which books to bring. So many friends have sent me contacts for here and there, that I'll probably never be alone; having meals with new friends, sipping tea on a balcony in Simon's Town with friends' fictive kin, meeting new children for the first time, and being invited to step into strangers' everyday lives.

How did I stumble into this amazing pastime?

South Africa Shutdown as Strike Intensifies

2007-06-13T22:58:00.000-04:00

Horacio just sent me this article from Yahoo! news. Hmmmm. I wonder how I'll run into this while I'm in South Africa....

by Isaac MangenaWed Jun 13, 5:37 PM ET

The biggest strike in South Africa since the end of apartheid intensified Wednesday as hundreds of thousands more workers downed tools, bringing large parts of the country to a standstill.

Bus and train services, refuse collections and court sittings all ground to a halt as the unions staged a massive show of strength with marches through the centre of the country's main cities.

Despite optimism from President Thabo Mbeki the wage dispute could soon be resolved, the effect further paralysed a country where most public schools have been closed since the start of the month and hospitals are only able to operate a skeleton service with army medics.

As newspaper headlines proclaimed "Shutdown" "Brace Yourself, SA", the Congress of South African Trade Unions (COSATU) vowed to force the government into raising their pay offer from the current 7.25 percent. Unions are holding out for 10 percent.

COSATU spokesman Patrick Craven said there was "considerable disruption" as protesters took part in 46 marches organised across the country.

"There is not a shadow of a doubt that hundreds of thousands joined the strike one way or another," he told AFP.

"There has been considerable disruption in the government's public services. Schools were not operating, health institutions ran a little service, and buses and taxis ... were not functioning. It was major and we hope this will convince government to listen to our demands," he added.

The impact of the strike was felt by commuters, with few trains operating and many bus drivers joining the stoppage, including from private firms.

Government offices also reported major disruption to services.

Tens of thousands of union members who chose to stay away from their workplace took to the streets in cities such as Johannesburg, Pretoria and Cape Town to demand an increase in pay and better conditions.

Papa Dlamini, a male nurse at Carltonville hospital west of Johannesburg, acknowledged the strike had caused much suffering but defended the stayaway.

"It hurts us that our people are dying but the situation does not allow us to go to work," he told AFP at a march in downtown Johannesburg attended by several thousand marchers.

"We blame the government for not giving us what we want, for the death of our patients and also for our children not being in school."

Thulas Nxesi, secretary general of the South Africa Democratic Teachers Union, gave little hope the dispute would end any time soon.

"We regret to inform you that what is supposed to be negotiation has so far become a joke. Instead the employer, which is our government, did not show any political will and commitment to deal with issues on table," he told the rally.

After being handed a list of the workers' demands, the premier of Gauteng province, which includes Johannesburg and Pretoria said it was in everyone's interest that a solution be found when negotiations resume on Friday.

"We are aware the negotiations have been going for far too long, that it is important that all of us ... put our heads together to find an acceptable settlement in the best interests of both workers and government," Mbhazima Shilowa said.

Church groups also added to the pressure on the government to reach a settlement, with the Southern African Catholics Bishops' Conference calling on it to "treat public servants with the dignity and respect they deserve."

In a speech before parliament on Tuesday, Mbeki expressed confidence the dispute could soon be resolved.

"I would like to reiterate our confidence that in time, government as employer and the public service unions will find one another and bring to a conclusion the current negotiations," he said.

Organisers of Wednesday's protests said members heeded a call to act within the law and there were no reports of major problems after a number of attacks on teachers and health workers who have not been taking part in the strike.

Through the Looking Glass...

2007-03-20T08:10:00.000-04:00

It looks like I'm finally going to Africa. The dates haven't been set yet, but the plan is emerging slowly - a few weeks in late June / early July in South Africa and Madagascar.

It's been a toss-up between South Africa and India for the last few years, since I have good friends in both places and would only be able to do one big trip (expensive airfare, and requires a lot of time) like this per year. Jane was up for another trip (I love it that she's become this ballsy world traveler!), and once we hammered out a tentative timeframe, we realized that it would be too hot in India this time of year - so South Africa it is.

And then Coolman stepped forward with an out-of-this-world job opportunity in Madagascar... so, of course, Madagascar was added to the itinerary (because, you know, when would you ever have the opportunity again to hang out with Coolman in his high-falutin' world in Madagascar!?).

My neice and nephew were visiting me in DC a few weeks ago... Ben and I ran away into the African Plains section of the Natural History Museum, where we looked taxedermic zebras and cheetahs. We stood in front of a map, where I pointed out my forthcoming travels to my 4 year old nephew. He looked up at me with big eyes, and said "Madagascar?!" as though I was going to step through the looking-glass and enter a cartoon world of dancing hyenas (or whatever starred in that movie). A week later, while we were talking on the phone, he said to me, "Gogo (because that's what he calls me), can I go to Africa with you?" to which I instantly responded "Yes!" One of my principal missions, as an Aunt, is to cultivate whatever curiosity about the world my neices and nephew demonstrate, and bring them out into that world whenever it seems appropriate. I would love to take him to Africa. It won't happen soon, but I'd love to have that opportunity.

In Praise of the Turkish Dish Towel

2006-09-12T23:29:00.000-04:00

I leave for the airport in about 10 minutes... back home, back home!

Yesterday I experienced the greatest Turkish pleasure of them all - the Hammami, or Turkish Bath.

Jane and I met up with Lisa, a friend from grad school who was also in Istanbul, and made arrangements to arrive at Sulemaneyi Hammami late yesterday afternoon, to wash away all of the grime and grit accumulated over the trip. The building is over 500 years old, ansd is heated by a great wood-burning fireplace several levels below.

We were led into an old, wooden changing room where we changed into cotton shorts, and a cotton sarong to wrap around our tops, in addition to these 500 year old version of Dr. Scholls. We scuffled down the corridor, and were led into a great marble hall with a domed roof, and asked to lie down on the large, heated marble slab in the center of the room. The fires below had made the hall about 100 degrees, and the surrounding baths had made it dripping with humidity. For about 20 minutes we lay there, feeling our muscles melt into the marble, and our skin soften.

Then the bathers arrived. I was quite surprised to find that they were men, wrapped in towels. They led us to individual baths, where they splashed us with hot water from silver bowls, removing, layer by layer, whatever sense of modesty we might have had. Then we lay down on smaller individual marble slabs, where we received a massage, and covered us with soap. They took these pillowcases made of terrycloth, filled them with hot water and suds, and pressed them down, covering you with soap.

This feels a little too personal... hmmm. Anyway, the end result was the three of us sitting in the "relaxing" room, sipping fresh orange juice, wrapped from head to toe in turkish dish towels. Don't ask... I just assumed that it was all part of an ancient tradition. That, or some Turks were cracking up behind the scenes at our expense.

At the end of the session, one of the employees brought us to the roof of the Hammami, climbing over domed rooftops and portal windows, revealing stunning views of the city.

All of this followed by a blowout sushi dinner.

A perfect ending to a fantastic trip.

2006-09-11T10:14:00.000-04:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELLEN!

Quakers Quake and the Dervıshes Whırl...

2006-09-11T06:58:00.000-04:00

So I have joıned the throngs of tourısts here ın Istanbul... no more poıgnant, beautıful moments. No more sılent, catch-your-breath experıences ın the mıddle of nowhere.

Dodge the tram! Haıl a cab! Where can I buy stamps?

Don't get me wrong - Istanbul ıs a cıty that has taken me by surprıse. I normally try to avoıd cıtıes when I travel (as I feel that so much cultural authentıcıty ıs to be found ın the untouched areas), but I am so thrılled to be here, and can unequıvocally recommend that everyone should vısıt Istanbul before they dıe. It's a gorgeous, magıcal cıty, wıth thıs *feelıng* that I can't quıte descrıbe. It's the feelıng of Parıs ın the Mıddle East, of sıdewalk cafes decorated wıth magıc carpets... ıt's thıs blend of east and west that defıes categorızatıon or defınıtıon.

It's been cool, wındy and off-and-on drızzly sınce we arrıved, vırtually perfect weather for days spent wanderıng around (mınus the drızzle!). Yesterday we spent hours ın Sultanahmet - the area we're stayıng ın, tryıng to fınd the Galata Brıdge crossıng the Bosphorous Rıver ınto Beyoglu, the northern part of Istanbul. Galata Brıdge was teemıng wıth actıvıty; there are two levels of the brıdge - the upper level ıs open-aır wıth hundreds of strollers and fısherman... the lower level ıs lıned wıth cafes and shops.

Beyoglu ıs full of very steep streets, wıth staırs carved ınto the sıde, wındıng theır way through young, hıp Turkısh bohemıa, provıdıng for some excellent coffee and some excellent vıews.

Our goal was to fınd the Mevlevı Monaestary, where we would watch a relıgıous sema (ceremony) ınvolvıng the Whırlıng Dervıshes. Admıttedly, I knew nothıng about the Dervıshes. I vaguely chalked them up to unıque, local culture ın my mınd... men ın skırts... kınd of lıke the Phıladelphıa Mummers. As ıt turns out, the Dervıshes are members of the Mevlevı Order, and are whırlıng to create a closer unıon wıth God. The ceremony ıncludes a small orchestra of local ınstruments, a hafız - the elder shıek who has commıtted the entıre Koran to memory - and about 16 Dervıshes. The Dervıshes and Hafız enter the room covered ın floor-length black capes, wıth tall, rounded, moss-colored, felted hats.

They cırcle the perıphery of the room, kneel down ın prayer, stand, drop theır cloaks to reveal dresses rangıng from whıte to green to pınk to red... and then one by one, they step ın front of the hafız for a blessıng, and are sent out onto the floor where they whırl ın worshıp. It's quıte ıncredıble to see, as each dervısh whırls ındıvıdually, and then the group whırls together ın sync lıke a slow movıng machıne. It's hypnotıc and dızzyıng.

We also went to vısıt the Blue Mosque yesterday, whıch I found spectacular.

Today ıs slow. We had breakfast, and then napped untıl 1pm - and here I am now. We were thınkıng of takıng a boat rıde up the Bosphorous Rıver, whıch ıs runs through Istanbul, creatıng the border between Europe and Asıa.

A lazy day ın Istanbul. Sıgh!

Gaudi's Secret Influence

2006-09-08T15:09:00.000-04:00

A quıck two day trıp to Cappodocıa ("Cap-a-DOE-key-uh") ın Central Turkey, before returnıng to the last 4 day stretch ın Istanbul... what a beautıful and strange place thıs ıs.

Cappodocıa lıes ın the regıon of Anatolya, ın central, southern Turkey. We flew ınto Kayserı at about 9pm last nıght, whıch ıs pretty much ın the mıddle of nowhere. From there, we drove an addıtıonal hour or so to Urgup, a small vıllage that somehow feels lıke 1950s Russıa.

Tryıng to guess people's ages ıs vırtually ımpossıble, mostly havıng to do wıth Jane's observatıon that so many of the people here "look lıke wıthered drıed-apple dolls." The women dress ın colorful gypsy headscarves and long skırts, the men ın cotton tunıcs and large moustaches. We have seen countless tractors drıve by, steered by weathered men, and the women sıttıng on top of large pıles of vegetables ın the rear.

We came here to see the famous rock formatıons. There are three volcanoes ın the area, all now dormant, whıch, over the course of mıllıons of years, have spewed out ash and lava, settlıng ınto these tall, slım rock formatıons, called "the faıry chımnıes" whıch I am now convınced were the ınspıratıon of the Spanısh archıtect, Gaudı. Volcanıc ash has petrıfıed over the mıllenıa, drıppıng and pourıng onto ıtself, lookıng lıke tufts of merengue, capped wıth volcanıc stone.

Over the last few thousand years, dıfferent cıvılızatıons sought out the safety of the Cappadocıa area, slowly carvıng rooms, homes and eventually cıtıes ınto the stone columns. We clımbed up ladders, and shımmıed over rock ledges to explore these nooks and crannıes, dıscoverıng nearly thousand-year old frescoes paınted on a plaster made of eggwhıtes, sand and whıte clay, wıth paınts made from vegetable dyes.

Tonıght, Jane bought Turkısh rugs, whıch I'm sure you can ımagıne; a long ordeal ınvolvıng endless conversatıon and pleasantrıes, many glasses of hot, apple tea, storıes of relatıves' vısıts to Amerıca, more tea, and then hard negotatıons, done wıth smıles on our faces, because, after all my frıend, he gıves us, hıs best cutomers, such a specıal prıce. Of course, of course...

I almost fell asleep on a pıle of prayer rugs ın the corner, but eventually, we left wıth a suıtcase full of thıngs, both partıes very pleased at the end result.

What else to say? The food here ıs flavorless. Every meal has had the same, curıous flavor of... absolutely nothıng. Somehow, the vortex of blandness seems to absorb any salt, pepper or crushed red pepper that I've been shovelıng onto my food, leavıng me wıth a meal absent of taste. It's really quıte amazıng. I've wondered why they don't just stıck wıth one dısh - let's call ıt the "Natıonal Dısh of Turkey" - and leave ıt at that. I mean, ıf ıt all tastes the same, why not? It certaınly would make shoppıng a lot easıer.

Turkısh ıs a language that ıs well beyond my reach. There are 29 letters ın theır alphabet, yet no word seems to have any vowels. Merely sayıng thank you consumes, what feels lıke, about 14 syllables. It's ınfluenced by Russıan, Arabıc and Greek, and ıs one of those rare languages unlıke any other, sımılar to Hungarıan and Fınnısh. It's truly the fırst country I've ever vısıted where I'm sımply unable to make myself known. Thank goodness I'm good at charades, and don't suffer from too much prıde.

Tomorrow we had back to Istanbul. I'm really lookıng forward to our fınal four days ın thıs magnıfıcent cıty. I've contacted my frıend Seref, from Ankara, who wıll be vısıtıng Istanbul thıs week for work... we hope to meet up for a meal at some poınt whıle he's ın town...

Turkish Delight

2006-09-07T04:35:00.000-04:00

Last night we arrived in Istanbul. Let me pause for a moment to scrape my jaw off the ground... this is one of the most GORGEOUS cities I've ever seen in my life. I don't even know where to begin.

Well, first I should say that we're leaving Istanbul today (but will be back!) for a two-day trip to Cappodocia, an ancient city carved into, and under, a series of the most beautiful rock formations and caves, in central Turkey. I don't really know what to expect, as I can't really get finger on what this place is exactly. Tune in later for details...

Istanbul truly is the meeting place between Europe and the Arab world... it has the look of a European city, with its narrow, windy cobblestone streets and old stone buildings covered in brilliant flowers, but it has the sounds, smells, and feel of the Middle East, with dozens of mosques and minarets dotting the cityscape, women in head coverings, and the scent of turkish coffee, almonds and cinnamon.

On the west, Turkey is bordered by Bulgaria and Greece. To the east, is Syria, Iraq, Iran, Armenia and Georgia. Turkey basically serves as a bridge between these two worlds, with the Black Sea on the north, and the Mediterranean on the south. Istanbul itself, is surrounded by water, with the Sea of Marmara forcing its way through the city, literally creating the border between Europe and Asia.

I am so happy that we spent some time in Jordan before coming here. I've spent much time in Europe over the course of my 20s, and am familiar with the feel of its culture. Being in Jordan reintroduced me to the Arab world... and coming here is a weird, beautiful, lush and exotic combination of the two. It gives me the sense of having my feet in two different countries.

We are staying in an old, rickety, charming hotel, covered in tapestries and textiles, with sprial staircases taking you up and down like a maze, just below the famous Blue Mosque. When we arrived last night, the hotel clerk said to me, in broken English, "...write about my country on your blog." - - I had e-mailed him from the Dead Sea to see about arranging a room, and he clicked on the blog link at the bottom of the signature box, and read the whole thing! He said that it seems like we've had a great adventure. So funny! I hardly expect anyone to really read this thing anyway, and receiving comments from a Turkish hotel clerk makes me smile...

We have a few hours before we fly to Cappodocia, which I hope to spend in the Grand Bazaar... we passed through a smaller bazaar this morning as we were wandering, which was overflowing with beautiful rugs, hookahs, carpet bags, ceramics and textiles, spices and tapestries... I can only imagine that the Grand Bazaar, which has served as Istanbul's primary trading place for more than 8 centuries, will be an overwhelming delight for all the senses...

I hope you're well...

King Abdullah, (not-so-secret) Trekkie?

2006-09-05T14:48:00.000-04:00

I just received a message from my cousin Jenni, an unabashed Trekkie, who shared with me the most fascinating bit of information about Abdullah, King of Jordan:

"...The one bizarre thing that I know about Jordan is that the current King, when he was still the Crown Prince, appeared in an episode of Star Trek Voyager once because he liked the show so much. That kind of trivia stays with you."

Now if only we could get Rumsfeld, Cheney and Bush into the transporter and sent to a galaxy far, far away...

I arrived at the Dead Sea yesterday. What a weird place! It's the lowest spot on Earth, famous for the healing properties of its sea mud and the buoyancy of its water. Well, it's true... large or small, you're tossed about like a cork, bobbing from side to side on the surface of the water- it's the strangest sensation! I was quite careful not to get the water into my eyes, because apparently it's incredibly painful, sending you, blind, to the shore, flailing about in search of a towel.

The beach is covered with people slathered from head to toe in black mud, baking themselves in the sun. Being the lemming that I am, I scooped up handfuls and layered it on, eager for the mud to change my life, and transform me according to the will of mystical sea gods.

The result? Pretty much a funny photo op.

And now I need a haircut because the salt dried out my hair.

Move over, Lawrence of Arabia...

2006-09-04T13:19:00.000-04:00

A hokey title to an entry which will undoubtedly fail to give justice to what has felt like a wonderful, profound adventure into the desert... the desert of Wadi Rum.

Wadi Rum ("Rum Valley") is a desolate, bleak, shockingly beautiful desert, lying just north of the Saudi Arabian border. The area was made famous by T.E. Lawrence ("Lawrence of Arabia"), who who was based here during the Great Arab Revolt of 1917-18 and wrote "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom." Wadi Rum is also the site of the reknowned film "Lawrence of Arabia" - which I haven't seen, but I figure having visited the desert site must give me some credibility.

We first drove into the village of Wadi Rum; a cluster of small, one-story, adobe-like houses, surrounded by low walls. The Jordanian government has been making an effort to bring the desert nomads into these type of villages, so their children can receive an education, and to provide medical care and other services.

The village of Wadi Rum is inhabited by the Bedouins - a nomadic tribe that has roamed the deserts of Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and places east, for centuries. After visiting the village, I quickly noticed that there were no women to be seen. After asking after the women, I was told that they are kept inside - it is generally disrespectful to "them" and their family, to be seen in public. Therefore, the only people I saw were the men, in their long, white thobe and red, checked keffiyeh, who greeted us with "As-salaam alaykum" ("peace be with you").

In the village, we met Eid, a tall, 30ish year old Bedouin, who had agreed to house us in his bayt char - the goat hair tents that each Bedouin family lives in, out in the desert - for the evening. We got into his very old Toyota Land Cruiser, dodging camels and goats along the way, and drove several miles out in the desert.

Wadi Rum is a palette of dramatic colors from black to white, from brown to crimson, from gold to yellow, depending on the angle of the sun. Surprising cliffs dot the terrain, pushing their way straight up from the ground, falling over onto themselves, forming strange, moonlike peaks, crevasses, and craters... it's hard to remember that you're still on the same planet.

Driving through the dunes was like driving through fresh snow. The truck was rocking back and forth, jumping hills, skidding around, requiring a great deal of expert maneuvering.

On our way to the camp, we stopped to see one of the natural bridge formations of Wadi Rum. I asked for the way up, and Eid pointed out the best climbing route, so off I went. Parts of it were terrifying, but I was rewarded with a picture of me on top of the bridge, arms stretched out in triumph. (Fortunately, Eid didn't use the zoom, so you can't see my face, which was clenched in semi-disguised fear, as I thought "Oh. It turns out that I'm kind of afraid of heights!")

The rest of the day was spent visiting various stretches of dunes and desert, formations, and climbing cliffs with Eid. And finally, we arrived at his tent.

The tent lay at the base of a tall cliff, sheltering it from the wind. Inside, there were numerous rugs covering the red sand, and a long, low table, around which people sat on pillows and tapestry-covered mattresses. Lanterns were hung around the periphery of the tent to provide a dim light.

Dinner was prepared by Eid's cousin, including very strong, sweet tea, rice, vegetables and beef, eaten with pita, scooped up with our fingers.

Evening melted into night, as we lay around on the mattresses outside of the tent, watching the sun set, the moon rise, and the stars emerge. It was a spectacular show, and even though I was exhausted, I couldn't bear to close my eyes. I now know what it means when one says "the silence is deafening." I have never heard such silence in my life... and to have this silence, surrounded by thousands of miles of dunes, desert and cliffs, drinking tea with Bedouins, makes one forget about time and place, and want to just lie there forever.

I ended up dragging a mattress out into the dunes and sleeping in the sand. I had to sleep on my side, with my back facing the moon, because it was so bright. In the morning, I saw that there were fox tracks circling my mattress...

How do I say this, without sounding trite? It's easy to understand the profound faith of the people in this area of the world. They are surrounded by such natural beauty, that it's easy to believe in God...

And today, we drove to the Dead Sea. We have said good-bye to Minh, and will be staying here for a few days.

I hope you're well...

Shootings in Amman

2006-09-04T12:51:00.000-04:00

Many of you have written, asking about the shootings today in Amman, at the Roman Amphitheater. Yes, I was there just last week by myself, climbing the steps to the top to take in beautiful views of Amman. And no, I was not there today. I heard of the shootings during lunch in Karak - a Crusader castle between Wadi Rum and the Dead Sea - while overhearing a conversation from some British tourists at the next table.

It is sobering, and made my stomach plummet. The rest of the day has been spent in kind of a disjointed silence, sorting out my feelings about this kind of extremism. I know that the Jordanian economy will suffer greatly from this attack, as so many depend on the flow of tourist money... things have been stop-start here since 9/11, then with the hotel bombings last year, and now with today's shooting. I remember the NYC tourist shootings this summer, and so many others incidents over the years - I, myself, have been carjacked - and I am reminded of how quickly we forget these things, and are lulled back into a sense of security.

I still say that Jordan is a safe country. It was regular passerby on the street who swarmed the shooter, and forced him to the ground...

However, I have sadly decided that I will not go to Syria on this trip. Life is long, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'll fly to Istanbul on Wednesday.

2006-09-03T05:48:00.000-04:00

9/3 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!!

PETRA

2006-09-03T05:25:00.000-04:00

And now I am on the road. Jane and I shared a ride with Minh, a friend from school, through the desert, to southern Jordan, with the goal of visiting Petra.

About half-way into our three-hour drive, we pulled over to buy some water, and saw several dozen people who were returning from the Haaj - their trip to Mecca in Saudi Arabia. Ramadan is approaching, at the end of September, and thousands of people will come from all over the world, completing one of the seven pillars of Islam - to make a pilgrimmage to Mecca before they die.

Petra is an ancient city, carved into the clustered cliffs of southern Jordan, dating back to 7000 B.C. The exterior of the cliffs had rooms carved into them, like little caves, while the interior of the cliffs, which create a series of pathways and arches, features tombs, columned streets, monaesteries, treasury buildings, and spaces used by the hundreds of ancient inhabitants (FYI, "Raiders of the Lost Ark" was filmed in Petra).

The most breathaking building was The Treasury, which stood several stories high (and several stories below the earth, still in excavation), carved in the most detailed Hellenic style, with columns, and (all of those other Greek architectural features that I've forgotten). It is unbelievable to see this, knowing that it was built, from relatively crude tools, nearly 9000 years ago. The most spectacular aspect was the color of the stone, which ranged from white, to pink, to rose, to deep red. Petra is referred to as the "Rose City."

Petra just goes on and on. At one point, Jane, suffering from jetlag, turned back, and Minh and I committed ourselves to hiking the 5+ miles to the monaestary ... a feat that was much more challenging than we expected. For hours, we climbed, shimmied and hiked up rocks and steps, arriving at the most spectacular view overlooking Jordan and Palestine, over the desert, as far as the eye could see. Being rather ambitious in our adventure, we hadn't fully considered how much time it would really take us to get to this summit... the sun was starting to set, and light was dwindling, with miles still in front of us...

So what does one do in such a situation? You ask for a camel ride of course. The remaining miles were spent up high in a camel saddle, tied to a Bedouin, who wound our way through the dark caves and stone pathways, singing strange, beautiful songs Arabic the entire way...

Today I am driving to Wadi Rum, further south, just north of the Saudi border, to explore the desert and sleep in a Bedouin camp.

I hope you're well...

The "Wedding"

2006-09-03T04:38:00.000-04:00

Friday night was the "wedding." Well, acutally it wasn't really the wedding... it was a series of rituals and traditions, leading up to the most grand reception...

At about 5:00 we all piled into taxis and wound our way through the streets of Amman in a caravan, arriving at Salma's house in a tumble. We were all priviliged to be invited to attend the "asking of the hand" ceremony, which is normally reserved for family and the closest friends.

Salma lives in an apartment building, occupied by her aunt and uncle, and other family. We were ushered into her aunt's home, presented with tea, and stood around chatting (and checking out the unbelievable dresses and hair and jewelry and makeup of the Jordanian beauty queens... we didn't hold a candle to them... I think it must be genetic).

Finally, we heard the crash of drums, and the shrieking, throaty songs of singers approaching the home. The groom's family was arriving in a procession, to formally ask for Salma's hand in marriage. People crushed to see, as a half-dozen traditional singers and musicians from Northern Palestine approached, announcing the groom's arrival. The noise and energy was rising with every second, as the women started ululating (a high warbling, trill sound, rolling your toungue back and forth over your teeth, ending with a "HIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!").

Basel and his family arrived, asked for Salma's hand, which was approved (I mean, they were already married!), at which point Salma's entered the room, and the room simply exploded. People were dancing and singing, the musicians were pounding, flashbulbs were popping, and smiles were cutting everyone's faces in two.

Then the procession began... we were all to follow each other in cars, honking and singing and clapping, to the Amman Grand Hyatt (yes, this where the bomb exploded last November) for the reception. "How do we find a ride? Should we call a cab?," we were asking among the din. Cars would reel by, and if there was space, they would throw open their door, and you'd do a running leap... all in keeping with the celebratory spirit!

The Grand Hyatt had extremely tight security. Our bags were x-rayed, we walked through a metal detector, and everyone was frisked and patted down (the women behind a wooden screen). When we arrived, it turned out that we were actually sending Salma and Basel upstairs to rest, and we had about 2-1/2 to ourselves before the reception.

I sat down, to relieve my feet, when all of a sudden I was whisked away by Basel's sister, uncle and aunt, brought to their home, fed tea and cranberry juice, and made to feel like one of their family. The people here are so wonderfully gracious and generous.

At one point, the conversation turned to politics, which turned to George Bush, which turned to 9/11. This was so pointed and heated, and I had to remind myself to just listen and ask prompting questions, that I wanted to understand their perspective and narrative. The long and the short of it was that if Al-Qaeda sliced open such a superpower, doesn't that in fact make them a super-superpower? They feel sorry for us because our rights are being taken away one by one, and we don't seem to realize or care. The reason why Bin Laden had not been caught was because it was actually the American government who orchestrated the attacks... Rumsfeld actually, and Bush was too dumb to know. This sort of attack requires so much information, and so much expertise, that it was obvious to them that the American pilots' machinery was jammed, and the planes were directed remotely by the American military. An interesting point was that they were certain that there was no plane that actually crashed into the Pentagon.

It was heated, but fascinating.

At the end, we stood up, embraced each other as people, and left for the reception. The division here between people and politics is unlike anything I've ever experienced.

After another search and frisk, we entered the ballroom, which was decorated to befit royalty. There were hundreds of guests, sitting at tables with centerpieces of several-foot high white branches, dripping with strings of crystals and orchids. Napkins were wrapped in crystal prayer beads...

In an effort to make a very long story, only slightly long, the highlights were - Salma and Basel descended the staircase amid clusters of Northern Palestinian musicians, hundreds of dancing, singing, clapping and warbling guests. The wedding cake was at least 5 feet high, and cut with a sword. The food was laid out in a separate courtyard, under the stars, with more than a dozen tables serving every Middle Eastern delicacy and treat you could ever imagine... But the most noticable thing, to me, was that after a week of festivities, events, and celebrations, lasting all day and night, each one attended by more guests and becoming more elaborate, Salma and Basel had nothing but joy in their faces the whole time. It was contagious, making my face ache from smiling, and my eyes brim with tears.

This morning, Sunday, I believe they are leaving for their honeymoon - two weeks in Malaysia. I would imagine that they'll fall into a deep sleep for the first week...

And now my dusty, dirty travels begin...

Disco Dancing in Amman

2006-09-03T04:09:00.000-04:00

Thursday night was the night before the wedding, and everyone gathered for a party at Lana's home - a friend of Salma's, who works with the Bedouins in an effort to preserve and promote their culture. This evening was particularly special, because this was the night that everyone from school had finally arrived from near and far, to celebrate Salma and Basel. Khaled had arrived from Palestine, Sergey had arrived from Russia... it was a wonderful reunion.

We were sad to learn that Sepideh from Iran, and Aminu from Nigeria were unable to come, as they were not able to obtain visas from their countries to come to Jordan. We were all thinking of them, and talking about them all night long though...

Walking in to the party was like walking into a dream. We were led through her palatial home, into the back terrace. There were round tables with chairs all throughout the garden, sheltered by arbors dripping with vines and flowers. In the middle of the terrace was a white, frosted glass dancefloor, which was lit from underneath. To the side of the dancefloor were several clusters of white couches, placed around low tables. I realized that the white, frosted glass floor was actually a series of panes which were laid over a wooden lattice frame, over a very large pool... it was quite dramatic to realize that we dancing and sitting over water...

Arabic dance music was playing throughout the evening, encouraging the nearly 100 guests to sway and bellydance. Dancing here reminds me of Greek dancing (thinking of you Dimitri!), as people form a circle around a dancer, clap their hands, and hit the floor, while the dancer twirls and weaves back and forth.

Salma and Basel were actually married in a small, private ceremony this evening, and for the first time, we saw them being physically affectionate with each other. Both of them were beaming throughout the whole evening.

Around 10:30pm, dinner was announced, so we climbed the small, stone steps to the second terrace, where there was a 50-foot-long buffet presenting hundreds of traditional Iranian dishes, served in oversized inscribed and carved silver bowls. Grains, vegetables, sauces, shwarma sliced from a spit, salads... things I recognized, things I didn't... taking a small spoonful of only half the dishes would leave you with an overflowing plate.

At about midnight, there was a smattering English-language songs, and all of the KSGers swarmed on to the dancefloor, leaving all inhibition behind, dancing, jumping, shaking and reviving a comraderie that had been deeply established from 2004-2005. I saw some of the older guests watching us with intrigued curiosity, but the night just went on and on...

Pizza Delivery to the Israeli Embassy?

2006-08-31T09:58:00.000-04:00

I would be a terrible spy (and not because there are only about 3 countries on this planet where I can walk down the street and not stand out like a sore thumb).

I'm staying at a Saudi-run hotel in downtown Amman, which means there is no alcohol to be found, and the women are completely shrouded in veils right up to their eyeballs. Yesterday, I went down to breakfast, to find that I was the only woman who wasn't covered... I felt totally naked. Fortunately, I had my book, a plate of hummus, pita and salted tomatoes, and several cups of muddy coffee to distract me from my exposure. Interestingly enough, nobody stared, threw me looks of contempt, or seemed to even notice... but I did. I'm used to being around the headscarves and the chador. It's the purdah (the veil that covers the face) that made me feel so vulnerable. Hmmm.

Anyway, I'd be a terrible spy because during breakfast, I became very curious about how women in purdah eat. I tried strategically raising my book and peering over, then pretending that I was staring out the window... I probably would have been less obvious if I had just gone over and asked. The answer is: they pull their veil out a little and bring the food up underneath.

Last night I went to bridal shower for Salma, hosted by a friend of her's who, despite actually living in Bangladesh, has a house in Amman across from the Israeli embassy. We tried getting to the house from about three different directions, and were stopped each time by armed soldiers, road barricades, barbed wire, and tanks. They wouldn't let us through, without official documentation stating our reasons for the visit (do you think they'd accept a frilly invitation to a bridal shower?), and becuase we were in a taxi. We finally ended up calling the hostess on a cell phone, who sent a servant out to chaperone us through security.

I guess they don't call in for pizza delivery too often.

In case you're wondering, the gifts at Jordanian bridal showers are as raunchy as the raunchiest of American bridal showers. All of this was going on while the women were getting henna-ed...

My friend Jane is arriving from Philadelphia tonight, and tomorrow is the wedding...

There are about 20 people from grad school who will be attending the wedding. KSGers: see the list below...

Some people have asked about posting photographs in my blog... I have tons of photos, believe me, but I don't know how to get them from my camera into my blog. Does anyone have any ideas? I'm writing from public computers...

On Sunday, the Amman festivities will come to an end, and the dusty, dirty travels will begin. I'm hoping to do three things before I head out of Jordan toward Syria... visit Wadi Rum (a desertscape, about 20 miles north of the Saudi border) and Petra (and sleep in the desert in a Bedouin camp), and float in the Dead Sea.

I'm doubtful the Bedouins have wireless internet, but we shall see!

KSG representation:
Me, Reed, Beth, Stephanie, Steen (Denmark), Lisa, Masuda (Afghanistan, living in Dubai), Sergey (Russia), Carrie (USA, living in the Ukraine), Inese and husband (Latvia), Minh, Kara, Joyce, Aminu (Nigeria), Sepideh (Iran), Jo, Magda (Egypt), Luc (France) ... there are others... I'll update this list as I remember them!

Reading on the Run

2006-08-29T13:59:00.000-04:00

I'm reading "Shake Hands with the Devil" by Canadian Lt. Gen. Romeo Dallaire right now; a hefty 500+ pager about Dallaire's service at the force commander to the UN Assistance Mission to Rwanda from 1993-1994.

Dalliare was a Fellow at the Kennedy School of Government while I was there, as well as the keynote speaker at our graduation. I've found his humanity and humility to be profoundly moving, as he speaks very openly of the failure in Rwanda.

Why do I always crave Spaghetti Bolognese when I travel?

2006-08-29T13:12:00.000-04:00

Hi again,

I have a bit of a headache, which I thought might be caused by hunger, since I only ate breakfast this morning - but even after a dinner of spaghetti bolognese, which I've eaten in more than a dozen countries (I think Guatemalans make it better than the Italians), and a cup of coffee which will keep up until next Monday, my headache lingers. Heat? Sun? Dehydration? All of the above? Who knows...

So, today I got completely lost, which is no big surprise. I remember telling my mother, when I was about 17, my mantra for traveling; "I can't really get lost, because I don't really know where I'm going." And so the story goes...

King Abdullah Mosque *looked* fairly close on the map! Oh well. About an hour later, I just gave up and continued wandering along the little streets of Amman, until I was so exhausted that I decided to take a cab.

In order to hail a cab, you stick your arm straight out, palm down, and wiggle your fingers. A cab pulled over, even though there was already a woman in the backseat. "Oh well," I thought, and jumped in the front. The driver indicated that he would drop off his first fare, and then me at the Mosque. The woman in the back didn't speak any English, so the driver, who spoke some, translated for her, as well as peppering me with his own questions. I've decided that, when out in public, I will tell people that I'm from Canada (and since I lived there as a kid, I think I can fake it well enough, eh?) - just in case. And so my Canadian persona emerged. It turns out that the woman in back was an Iraqi refugee who fled the country because of the war, and came to Amman (along with 500,000 others Iraqi Nationals) looking for safety and work. She asked if I knew how she could get citizenship in Canada, to which I wistfully replied, "I don't know." I don't know how she would have reacted if I had said that I was American.

The driver was from Salt, a town in central Jordan. After dropping the Iraqi woman off first, which took us all the way into western Amman (good sightseeing!), he drove me all the way back into central Amman, and dropped me off at the Mosque. He gave me a long list of things to see and do while I'm here...

It took me three tries to get into the Mosque. I kept being shooed away to the "next entrance." The final entrance was the one set up for non-Muslims. I paid my 2 dinars (about $3), and was brought into a room where there were racks and racks of chador. I had to completely cover up in order to enter the Mosque. So, I pulled one over my head, covered my hair, zipped up the front, and walked up the stairs to the main mosque. I must have looked ridiculous, because the chador ended about half-way down my shins, presenting some orange pants, and some big feet down below. Oh well. I wandered in and out of the various rooms, through an Islamic museum, and around the grounds, looking at the magnificent blue-tiled dome, minarets, and views of the city.

After the King Abdullah Mosque, I took a cab to the Roman Amphitheater, which, after climbing the steep steps to very top, provides for some unbelievable views of the city. It's just a sea of white stone buildings, riding the 7 hills that make up Amman, with the desert just beyond.

Automobile accidents are the most common cause of death here. The traffic is nothing in comparison to Jakarta, but the drivers here drive at breakneck speed, reeling around traffic circles, paying no attention to any rules of the road (do any exist?) or pedestrians. Last night I saw the most dramatic car crash on a city street... the two cars were just smashed to smithereens.

Tomorrow I'm going to call my friend Anette's friend Leni, who works here for the Norwegian Embassy. Anette, whom I've known since I was 22 and met a random Superbowl party in Los Angeles (neither one of us were particularly moved by American football, and bonded instantly), works for the Swedish Embassy in DC, and has a great track record, in my mind, of introducing me to interesting people during my travels, including Christina, also from Sweden, who was working for the Embassy while I was living in Jakarta.

That's quite a run-on sentence. Oh well.

The women in Amman look like beauty queens. They have perfectly-styled, dramatic, big hair, flawless makeup (how do they not sweat?), and are always dressed impeccably with lots of glitz and glamor. I'm sure that they are silently wondering "What the hell is with these Americans, with their t-shirts, flip flops and chapstick?" The wedding will provide for an incredible showcasing opportunity, perhaps, in some ways, like a parade. I suggested to my fellow comrades-in-casual, that maybe we should go all-out and visit a salon on Friday, before the wedding, to have our hair and make-up done in the local fashion. All have agreed. I'm sure we'll feel like transvestites, but what the hay! Do transvestites wear pearls?

Scandalous.

I hope all is well with you...

Amman - City of Stone

2006-08-29T03:40:00.000-04:00

Greetings from Jordan!

I flew from Washington DC to Paris, where I met 2 friends who were on the same flight from Paris to Amman. The whole trip was flawless. On my way to Amman, I sat next to an American man who was working at a school in the desert, educating Iraqi refugee girls... his whole family moved to Jordan about 3 years ago for humanitarian work.

Flying into Amman was absolutely stunning. Only about 4.5% of Jordan's land has been cultivated, most of it being desert and scraggly brush. We flew in over the Arabian Desert which was foreboding and intimidating, landing in Amman - a congested, urban oasis overflowing with construction and humanity.

The first thing I noticed upon landing was the men wearing their keffiyeh - the red and white cloth indicates that they are Bedouin, and black and white checked cloth indicates that they are Palestinian. Many men also wear a simple white fabric, but I don't know what that implies. The cloth is held in place by a black rope, or agal. Female garb ranges from a simple headscarf, to a hejab, to a full chador worn with or without the purdah - the veil that covers the face. I should note that Amman seems to be a very modern city, and that many people dress in the western style as well.

The next thing I noticed, when leaving the airport, was the air quality. I've grown so accustomed to that familiar smell when leaving the airport in a developing country - the smell of fire and diesel - and the air here is noticably cleaner. Things are dusty, simply because the wind is always blowing sand in from the desert, but I've discovered that Jordan takes great pride in keeping their country clean, right down to maintaining strict emissions on their cars.

In the last few years, Amman has been flooded with refugees from Palestine and Iraq, creating a crossroads of many cultures and traditions from all over the Middle East.

In the last 36 hours all activities have showcased the bride and groom. Nearly 25 people came together for a 4-hour lunch yesterday, where we ate and talked and met people from all over the world. The days here are very long in that we get up early, and everything simply takes a long time - traffic is omnipresent, meals take hours, people move slowly, all peppered with the call to prayer 5 times each day. It's this slow, long pace that I love sinking into when I travel. At 10pm, I took a cab to outside of the city, where 60 or 70 people came together for a huge party, on the roof of a club, overlooking the desert with Amman in the distance. We danced to Arabic songs, ate hummus and cheese, drank wine and talked until the early morning, as Salma and Basel, the bride and groom, were lifted onto chairs, hoisted onto shoulders and celebrated through music and dance.

I've been asking many Arabs their thoughts of me traveling to Syria on this trip. Almost unanimously, their response has been to look at me strangely and say "Of course. Why not?" I've been reminded of my time in Indonesia, a country I was warned about endlessly, which caused so much concern from people at home... when I arrived, however, I saw that the American media blew so much of their social strife out of proportion, and for 3 months I traveled throughout the country with no problems at all. In many ways, it's the same here. Arabs get shafted in the American media, and we are veiled with a subtle, intangible fear of Arabs and Islam at home. The reality is that people here welcome Americans and make a very clear distinction between Americans (whom they like) and the American government (which they don't). I haven't experienced even the slightest anti-American sentiment, and I must say, people here stare less than virtually any other country I've ever visited. You can move through the streets smoothly, without any hassle. --- Don't get me wrong: the recent bombings in Turkey are a somber reminder that there is hatred of the West, but these attacks are relatively rare. These terrorists are to Islam, as the KKK is to Christianity.

I am now in Amman alone, as all of our friends have left for a 2-day trip to Petra in the south. I've decided to wait until Jane arrives on Thursday to visit all of the sites outside of Amman, so today I will wander the streets of Amman, in search of the local bazaar, the Citadel and the King Abdullah Mosque. I'm happy to be solo, as I find traveling in large groups to be quite taxing.

So there are my thoughts for the day.

I hope you're well....

Whirling Dervish

2006-08-26T09:53:00.000-04:00

So, I'm leaving today, and that familiar panic has set in. I looked at my itinerary, and realized that I'm leaving at 6:45pm, not 10:00pm. Whoops.

I also haven't started packing, but that's normal for me. I travel light (Perhaps because I pack at the last minute. Hmmm. I've never thought of that before.), so I'm not terribly concerned. I do need to figure out *how* I'm going to pack. Meaning, I have a week of formal events surrounding Salma's wedding, 2 weeks of dusty, dirty traveling in who-knows-where, and I just saw yesterday that the temperature drops about 35 degrees at night - so I need to bring some warm things. How to pack all of that in something that will be convenient to carry during the dusty, dirty travels? I guess I'll just throw it all into a backpack, and then send the gowns and heels home when I'm through with them (leaving room to be filled with interesting trinkets found along the way....!).

I just found out that "blog" is synonymous with "procrastination." I'm out of here.

Demoting Pluto

2006-08-24T15:44:00.000-04:00

I'm kind of disappointed that Pluto has been demoted from a planet to a... to a... to a what? A rest-stop? This has wreaked havoc with all of those 3rd grade mnemonic tricks-of-the-trade that have helped me remember the planets all these years.

I'm starting a petition.

Pluto will always have a special place in my heart.

Prologue

2006-08-23T15:58:00.000-04:00

On Saturday I leave for Amman, Jordan for a three week trip through two, possibly three, countries. For those of you who know me, you know that I love to travel - many of you have probably received my long wandering e-mails over the years, as I meandered through Southeast Asia (see photo), Central and South America - all solo adventures.

The last time I was in the Middle East was nearly 20 years ago, when I was 18, living and working in Cairo, and traveling through Egypt. Since that time, I've sought out and embraced travels that lead me off the beaten path, where I am completely out of my element, surrounded by the unfamiliar. It is in these environments that I repeatedly experience an important lesson that I try to carry with me throughout my life - that most people are good. Over the years, I have experienced such profound kindness from people from the far reaches of the world; generosity, curiosity, integrity, hospitality. I've been fed, housed, toured, introduced; brought to weddings, funerals, birthday parties, anniversaries, town and school meetings, soccer matches, musical performances, tribal dances, indigenous fighting matches, to secret alcoves, caves, underground pools and cliffs with never-ending views, that I would have never found otherwise.

The last year has been an unbelievable journey, from finishing graduate school (as a 36-year old "midcareer"), to moving to Indonesia and working in the tsunami relief effort, living in Belmont Massachusetts where the Swiftenhartz family served as my loving safety net, and now, the most recent chapter, living in Washington DC and working for the United Nations. It's been a bit of a rollercoaster, and I need to remind myself, from time to time, that this is what I wanted, and what I chose for myself.

So, I leave for Amman on Saturday, to attend Salma’s wedding on September 1, and the preceding week of festivities. There are about 20 of us from grad school, from about 15 different countries, who will be attending – I have no idea how many will be attending overall. I think weddings are one the best windows into a culture.

Salma is a magnet, a denmother, a connector. She is one of those unique people who builds community wherever she goes, invites people in and makes them feel at home. She, in many ways, was one of the central figures that held our class of amazing, colorful, and dynamic people together. Throughout our year at school, I met various friends of hers, from near and far, who concurred that, wherever she is, Salma brings people together. I feel so fortunate to be able to witness her marriage, and participate in the celebrations, which I think will be an exuberant and fascinating experience.

My friend Jane will be arriving from Philadelphia (the ancient name of Amman, by the way!) just before the wedding, and we will spend the following weeks traveling around Jordan and Turkey. How we will get from Jordan to Turkey has yet to be determined – will we go through Syria, or go over Syria? Not sure. I’ve received mixed messages from friends far and wide, but the American Embassy in Damascus has stated that they are not discouraging Americans from visiting Syria. Of course things could change on a dime, and anti-American sentiment is (understandably) at all-time high. We're going to play it by ear, and decide while we're there.

As usual, I have volumes more to say, but I'll cut it short for now.

I hope you're well...