Dresden Surprise

By Megan
The train ride from Berlin to Dresden was a snap; we arrived at the station and followed our hand drawn map to a hostel that we thought would have plenty of space.  I remember that it was early evening (the train was a tad late) and we walked down a street that ran parallel to the tracks and gave both of us the creeps.  Needless to say, we high tailed it, pretending to understand the German street signs.
Just our luck, the hostel was packed.  A large group had descended upon the building, and my travel bud and I started to formulate another plan.  Suddenly, as if out of some weird dream (or a horror movie) the hostel owner offered us a room in a recently renovated two-bedroom apartment down the street.  THE CATCH: We would have to share a bed as, the other room was occupied by two very quiet chaps from down under.  It was cheap enough, and since it was late, we took his offer.  He handed me the key and gave us directions.
We came upon the building, and alarm one went off; the front door was propped up against the wall and a cat came flying through the hall as if escaping from some hidden evil.  Alarm two might have been the general abandoned nature of the complex, but I shrugged it off, ignored the cobwebs and hit the stairs.  We came to the door and tried the key.  The door opened up an IKEA wonderland of brand new everything sat directly before our eyes.  It was such a stark contrast to the building that the Kiwi and Aussie might have actually said something (but I don't think they actually did).
We put our bags down and headed out for a good meal paired with a Riesling.  The next day was filled with sight seeing; all we really knew about Dresden was that it had been destroyed by the Allies in WWII (I knew more about Dresden, Ohio, "Basket Village USA") .  Everything that we were about to see had been reconstructed.  We paid to take the stairs to the top of the Lutheran Dresdner Frauenkirche, the Church of Our Lady, which had only  been rebuilt, in the past ten years or so, as an exact replica of the structure that was destroyed during WWII.

The view was gorgeous.  The church was impressive, and yet odd to sit inside of a structure that was a replica of something lost.  In fact, most of Dresden seemed haunted by the past.
A visit to the Grünes Gewölbe (the Green Vault) was sparkly and enchanting- it is a museum of with the largest collection of gold, silver, jeweled and other ridiculously expensive looking treasures in Europe.
(For a good article with pictures and an overview of the sparkly treasures, head here --> http://www.theepochtimes.com/n2/content/view/25312/). Who knew that such intricacy and detail was possible?  I've never been so scared of breaking anything so sparkly in my entire life.
On our final day, we visited the VW plant and enjoyed soggy weather before catching a train into Prague.  Dresden was a city filled with surprises- the hostel, the view from the church, and the Green Vault.  I may never be back for a second visit, but I surely enjoyed my time there more than I ever expected.  More stories on Prague coming next year!  Don't worry- 2010 is almost here.  You won't have to wait that long.

Your Boyfriend's Calling

By Beth

It's 10pm on a Saturday night in São Tomé and I get a phone call. I don't recognize the number but I think it might be my boyfriend, Kilson. We were supposed to have plans today but he never called me, and after calling him a number of times with no answer, I figured he must have lost his phone (which has gotten very good at). I think maybe this is a friend's phone that he's calling me from now.
I answer in Portuguese. “Hello?”

“Hey!!! How are you!!” The voice is not Kilson's. I could pick out his characteristically husky, energetic voice anywhere, and this definitely isn't it.
“I'm good, how are you?”
“Good! Do you know who this is??”
I don't, and I tell him so.
“It's your boyfriend!!”
At this point I am just over 100% sure that this is not my boyfriend, but I know I've heard this voice somewhere. I just can't remember where. “Um...no it isn't...who is this?” I ask him.
“You still don't know who this is?”
“No.”

The man on the other end of the phone laughs. He's playing with me. “It's the Ambassador!” he says, a smile in his voice.

It really is the Ambassador too. The Ambassador of São Tomé to the United States. And, curiously enough, I know him well.

Official flag of São Tomé and Príncipe

Back in September, I was pretty hung up about getting my visa to travel to São Tomé. After calling the São Tomé Representative to the United Nations, the only way to get a visa in the USA, and reaching a disconnected number, I was pretty out of luck. I contacted a for-profit visa organization and gave them my information. I had just gotten a call that day from someone at the org, saying that he is extremely sorry, but São Tomé is the one country in the world that they cannot grant a visa for. My luck! Since the UN office recently shut down, there's no representative of the country in the United States, and therefore no way they can get me a visa. They suggested I get in touch with the Embassy of Gabon, as there is no US Embassy in São Tomé, but the one in Gabon represents both countries. If I go to Gabon first, I can get a visa there to go to São Tomé. The absolute only way to get a visa to São Tomé is to go to an entirely different country first.

Thus began the wild goose chase. Lucky for me, I live in Washington, D.C., where an embassy is just a few short miles or a local call away.

I call the Embassy of Gabon and they laugh at the suggestion of going to Gabon to get a visa. I'd have to get a visa to go to Gabon first, and change my flight plans on top of that. Do I really want to go through all of that trouble? They suggest I call the US State Department, and the person I talk to knows less than I do about the visa application process. She works from old records, giving me numbers that I have already tried and that no longer work. I am stumped.

I thank my lucky stars that I had been working at the Embassy of Portugal during this time. The consular section was kind enough to do a lot of the dirty work, and found out, lo and behold, that there IS an embassy of São Tomé here in Washington, but it's not open all the time. They left numerous messages and emails on my behalf. A few days later, I got a call from the São Tomé Ambassador himself. He has an office in New York and in Washington so he's constantly traveling back and forth. He told me to come by the office two days from now when he would be back in town and we could clear things up.

I arrived at a small, three-room embassy that looks more like my old investment firm, Danforth Associates. The embassy is on the third floor of an office building on Connecticut Ave, next to lawyers and doctors. I walk in and the secretary and I talk in Portuguese. He takes my information and asks me about why I'm going to São Tomé. We talk for quite a bit and, as I'm about to leave, he tells me to take his card with him.

His card says, “Ambassador Ovídio Pequeno”. “I'm the Ambassador and the secretary,” he says with a laugh. The island- and the office- is just that small. Then he asks me to come with him back to his office because he wants to hire me due to my knowledge of Portuguese and his extreme need for help. Then two hours later, he gave me my visa.

I was laughing as I left the building. The Ambassador is the secretary. I came in for a visa and came out with a job offer. Can life get crazier?

So that brings me to now, December, when I get this phone call from my boyfriend, the Ambassador. He's in town and wants to meet up at some point so we can talk about this potential job when I come back.

It's such a small country that there is no room for formality. We are all family here. And it's funny and it takes a little bit of getting used to. But I like it.

Get Yourself a Girlfriend, or Two!

By AJ

When trying to think of a topic for this months column, I found myself skimming through accounts of women's travels to dig up some themes. Something that comes up again and again is outrage or at least incomprehension at how acceptable it is for men to be unfaithful to their partners in some countries.  I haven't done any kind of study, but from what I've seen and read, it seems like it's fairly common in Africa and Latin America.

Now, I'm not talking about the usual double standard; that a guy that gets around is a player whereas a woman that does the same is a slutty ho.  That still is fairly alive and well in the U.S.A.  I'm talking about an attitude that is so pervasive that, as a married man with children, your masculinity will be questioned if you do not have a few mistresses on the side.

Before I get rolling, let me be clear about what I am NOT saying.  I'm not commenting one way or the other on open relationships where all partners are in the know and agree to be open.  Purely from a public health standpoint, I will just say that great care must be taken (especially in southern Africa) because having concurrent sexual partners seems to spread HIV faster than serial monogamy (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/20/AR2007112001676_2.html). I'm also not in any way trying to excuse infidelity in a committed relationship.

What I am going to do in this column and the next, is to try to paint a picture of what this all looks like from a guys perspective.

Part I: Cherry Picking

As Beth points out in “Sexism and Candy” http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/15/sexism-and-candy/, there is sometimes a machismo that dominates male culture.  Sometimes it's strange how much resolve it takes simply to do the “right” thing when everyone around you says you aren't a man.
One day after school, Mr. Tshabang and I decided to go to the local clinic to try to build a partnership in the HIV/AIDS awareness campaign we were trying to start.  The clinic was located about 7 km from the school.  Fortunately we were able to get a ride from two other teachers, Mr. Ndlovu and Mr. Manchusi.  At the clinic, Tshabang and I brainstormed ideas with the nurses on topics such as condom distribution, testing drives, and educational talks.  After making a few plans for cooperation, we got back in the car and headed back towards the school.  After a few kilometers, we diverted off the main road and pulled up to a house.  Ndlovu got out and with a big grin said he'd be back soon. Manchusi joined him as they went inside.

Tshabang and I sat for a few minutes of awkward silence before I finally asked what exactly was going on.

“Ndlovu is visiting his 'cherry' in there.”

It took me a few seconds to make the connection and then it dawned on me.  'Cherry' is a slang term for a mistress.  I knew all of these men were married and had children, but were now far from their families because of work. Such is the nature of the South African migrant worker-based economy.  Mr. Tshabang waited for a bit before speaking again.

“You know, I really don't agree with that type of behavior.”

“I'm glad, Mr. Tshabang, because neither do I.”

In that moment of solidarity, Tshabang opened up.  Almost all the male teachers had several “cherries”, some of whom were students.  When he'd joined the school a few months ago, they had tried to pressure him into taking a few of his own.  He'd resisted and as a result had been ostracized.  He was here, in the desert, earning money to support his wife and children, over 700 km away, and the colleagues who should have been his support had pushed him away.

Mr. Tshabang is a thin guy. He is even skinnier than me.  But as I would learn over the years, his slight frame contained an incredible character.  He had a powerful voice, and would MC school events of hundreds of people without a microphone.  His legs may have been wires, but he could run like the wind.  And he had unshakable moral fiber and resolve.  He became one of my closest allies and trusted friends.

Unfortunately, he seemed to be the exception rather than the rule among the male teachers.  Even I got some of the pressure. Every month or so, somehow my conversations with Ndlovu would get to the topic of my love life. Having a girlfriend at home had not been enough to satisfy him. I had to have something going on locally.  One day I finally got him off my back.

“So tell me KB, how are you taking care of yourself?”

“Well, I exercise every day. I eat well and make sure I get a good night's sleep...”

“No no, I mean, how are you taking care of yourself?”

“I'm sorry Ndlovu, I don't follow you.” (The standard, play dumb strategy)

“You know KB. A man has needs.”

“Oh, you mean masturbation?” (The standard, make him really uncomfortable strategy)

“No! No more talk of masturbation.  You know it's only natural that a man has a woman somewhere. It's how nature works.  All the animals do it. When the lion is hungry, it must eat.”

“You know what the difference is between an animal and a man?  An animal is driven by its desires, its hungers.  A real man can make choices and be driven by principles rather than desires.” (I do realize that this statement is not entirely accurate for animals, but it served to make a point)

“Is that so?”

“Yes it is. So which one are you?”

With a laugh, Ndlovu quickly left the room and never brought up the topic again.
As I mentored the young men in my camps and classes, I could see some of them torn between what they thought was right and what the popular culture was telling them was right.  Tshabang and I tried our best to provide an example, but we were vastly outnumbered by the Ndlovu's.

I sometimes think that there needs to be a “men”ist movement.  Feminism has done a tremendous amount to raise consciousness in our society, and in particular to empower the women of today.  (There is still much to do on this front, as I'll discuss next time.)

For true equality, there must be more than feminism. There must be a substantial change in the culture of manhood that pervades most of the world today. I'm not talking about an emasculation as my male opponents might cry out. On the contrary, I'm talking about being a real man.

[Note: The incidents listed above are as accurate as I can recall.  Only the names have been changed, not because I want to protect guys like Ndlovu, but because I don't want to compromise the ability of future volunteers working at my site.]

Where are the American RTW Travelers???

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com
Because so many of the spectacular temples in Bangkok are along the river, a night boat along the Chao Phraya is a feast for the eyes... and a feast for the belly, too, if you opt for the dinner cruise. Check it out!
As you peruse these pics, let us ponder a major question for a Round the World Traveler: WHERE ARE THE AMERICANS?? A profound cultural difference is laid bare when you wander these hostels filled with Europeans, Aussies, Israelis, and Canadians. Where are OUR people??
You can throw out the theory that America is too far from Asia, because much of Canada is just as far. Throw out the whine that the dollar is weaker than the Euro when you meet those Aussies, Israelis, and again the Canadians.
Listen to a few of these stories and see how, ultimately, it comes down to a philosophical clash of values.
"That is an extremely rude question," Sinead said, glaring at me from under her wispy red hair. "I just asked you what job you have back in Ireland!" I squealed, embarrassed and confused. "In Europe," Sinead said, we work to live, not live to work. What we do doesn't define us. Sure, I spend a few hours a day teaching businessmen in Spain English grammar, but I just do it to be able to pay for my delicious nights out with friends and my trips like this!"
At the time I argued vociferously with Sinead, saying that what you do for over half your waking life SHOULD define you. Upon further reflection, however, I am starting to see how that philosophy traps Americans.
"You're a teacher," said so many people in the U.S. before I left on my eight-month trip, "How can you POSSIBLY afford to take that crazy trip?" And yet, in this Bangkok hostel I have met the following Round the World travelers:
- Canadian Conrad, who saved for his fifteen month trip though three years at his job as a grocery store assistant manager
- Pete, a Brit who got his funds through working as a firefighter for less than a year and selling his motorcycle
- Ian, who is a student in Liverpool and paid for his trip through one year working at a hotel
- Dov from Israel who saved by living at home with his parents while he worked as a bartender for a year.
I highlight these people because I think they crush the America assumption that, to travel around the world, 1) One needs a hoity-toity job, 2) It takes a lifetime to save. Looking at these examples, the ability to take a "gap year" of travel seems, rather, to be about financial priorities, and confidence that such a trip CAN be done and IS worthwhile-- perhaps from seeing other people like you doing it.
For those Americans feeling fearful of flying out into the unknown, I assure you: it is so very, very doable, and so very, very worth it.

No Mentions of Thomas Wolfe

By Erica

I'm home for the holidays.

It's funny. In the past five and a half years, I've lived in two different cities in two different countries. No matter how well I've blended in- often, quite successfully- I've identified to all askers that I'm from New Hampshire. I'm a New Hampshirite, a New England girl, where when we wear flannel and hiking boots no one's sexuality gets referenced. Where we know the difference between a snowstorm and a blizzard (hint: one comes with high winds). Where losing power for a week is a part of life and where growing your own produce in the summer is pretty common. Where there's hardly a spring, just six weeks of mud and lilacs. This place is the backbone of my cultural identity.

I promised in the title of this post that I wouldn't mention a certain author, or the book he wrote that has become over-referenced. But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't on my mind. It's on my mind every time I come home- back to New Hampshire, that is- especially when I'm only home for a brief period of time. Since I finished my undergrad, most of my visits home have been brief.

As I write this, I'm sitting at a desk in my bedroom that we bought unfinished when I was fourteen and that I varnished myself. The chair is purple, with purple tuelle dangling off the seat, because when I claimed this room as MY ROOM when I was nine I decorated it in a purple ballet theme. The bed behind me is the same one I've slept in, in various arrangements, since I was three, and this house has belonged to my family since it was built in 1984. This place is more my home than any other on the planet. I say this even though I've paid rent on three different apartments and refer to my current one as "home" in many contexts. Even though believing this New Hampshire house to be my true home means that I'm never really at home in the places I'm living.

Truth be told, the area I grew up in has felt less and less home-like as the years go by and I spend less time here. Every time I go to run an errand my mom asks if I remember how to get to my destination. There are new chain stores popping up in my tiny little town, a fact which I find frustrating and inappropriate. I keep expecting amenities that are common in cities but rare in small towns- just the other night, I spent half an hour wandering around in Portsmouth trying to remember where its two ATMs are located. And most of my high school friends are only here briefly, able to meet up once or maybe twice but mostly preoccupied with family time. All the fantasies I've had about moving back here and finding it as I left it in 2004- which I know are ridiculous- are slowly eroding as time goes on. Each time, something is different, and increasingly, coming home has felt like traveling to a strange location.

At the same time, though, for these two weeks that I'm here, certain things do feel familiar and good. My sister and I will be playing flute music for the Christmas Eve Masses as usual, arranged by the same choir director as always, and the Bagelry still makes the best bagels I've ever tasted- even compared to those in New York City. The woods we live in are as thick and wild as ever, the birds in our yard competing with the squirrels for the birdseed we put out for them, and it's still silent and peaceful at night. It makes it harder to think about the fact that Nick and I have started renting a beautiful apartment in Niederkirchen, Germany, and when I move I'll start making that our new home-away-from-home. Next year, I don't know if we'll have the time or money to come home for Christmas- which would be the first Christmas I've ever had away from my family. The thought of needing to feel enough at home in Germany to celebrate Christmas- for me, a holiday about home and community and family- makes me sad and more than a little anxious about taking yet another step away from New Hampshire.

In the meantime, though, I'm home. I've braved a snowstorm and horrible travel to get here, and it's worth it because now I'm with my family, in our home, in my evolving little town. Today- these two weeks, really- all of the changes and strange-ness-es of my hometown aren't important and don't affect the fact that, everything else aside, this is where I belong for now. Readers, I hope that wherever you find yourselves for this holiday season- however you celebrate it, if you choose to do so- you're lucky enough to be with the people and/or the places that make you feel at home. And I hope that, wherever your travels take you, you're always able to find your way back to that place or those people.

Kites

By Beth

My boyfriend Kilson and I are flying kites off of Ned's dock. It is a perfect day, sunny and, natural to any ocean environment, windy. We found a few kites on Ned's desk, a big rainbow one and a butterfly, and although Ned later tells us that we broke the law flying kites so close to the airport (so sue us), for now we take them for a spin.

We race to see who can unravel their entire kite string first. There are shouts behind us but we are not to be deterred. When the race is over (the winner is debatable- depends on who you ask), we look behind us. There are maybe 10 children crowded on shore, waving their arms, hoping to get our attention. "AMIIIGAAA!!!!" They shout. This is how you get someone's attention in São Tomé. You either "pssst" them, or you yell, "friend!!!"

I motion them to come closer. Do they want to hold the kites? They look at me in disbelief, then run over, scrambling past the house dogs, jumping on tables to avoid the terrifying beasts (in actuality these dogs are smaller than beagles), others climbing up sides of the bridge by way of the ocean. They all make it to the dock in record time, either looking at the kites above or gazing at the ocean below. Their clothes are torn. Their body odor is strong. I see that they are most certainly of the poorer class here. Some hold empty jugs, en route to a water source so that they can fill the jugs and bring them home. The kids are working but they want to play.

Faia comes outside of the house to see what all the racket is. I ask him if it's okay that the kids are on the dock with me. He nods a gradual, unsure consent. I suppose what I'm doing is totally out of the ordinary, but that's okay. I'm pretty used to being out of the ordinary at this point.
After playing for a few minutes of play, the kids look over to me. They ask me where I'm from. I tell them to guess. "Gabon," they guess first. I laugh, no.

"Cape Verde."
"No."
"Angola???"

It's as if these are the only countries they can think of, the very farthest ones from reality, and they're still African, prominently black. One child guessed Portugal. That was a good guess; the only non-African country suggested.

I thought it was funny that these children could only name African countries. And then I realized that they may not even know that there are countries out there where dark skin is not the majority. It's entirely possible that they believe that my skin tone is a rarity everywhere, in the whole world. And for this reason, why would I not be African? They know I'm not from São Tomé. I don't seem like everyone else in the way I talk or dress. But who is to say that I am not from Africa, which is essentially their world?

It was an interesting reflection that made me understand these children's enviable levels of both curiosity and acceptance. Perhaps so many children stare at me from time to time because they do not realize that I come from a country where my skin color is not abnormal (which is why adults don't stare- they know otherwise). Perhaps they think I am the same, an African, but that my skin is particularly different, due to some disease, defect, perhaps simply an unusual birth, like a person with dark hair and blue eyes, for example.

What happens when you are totally ignorant of the existence of another country, another world? These children don't shun the differences that come at them. They notice the differences, they recognize that they are different, but they still accept them as part of their own. I am not a foreigner. I am an African with a different skin color. Why would you possibly suggest otherwise?

It's a beautiful way to look at things. It's also a horrific lack of education. It makes me want to stay and do what I can to teach them about our world, which is so different than they may believe it to be.

TIGER TEMPLE

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com
Note to my sweet Mother: This article recounts another thing that SEEMS terrifying and dangerous, but is actually a very well-regulated and safe Thai tourist mecca. Don't be worried!
The woman's tiny, tan hand holds yours protectively. The dusty walls of Tiger Canyon slope down to where you stand... you, and thirty giant adult tigers.
"You hand him your camera, and we go," the woman says firmly. "You follow me close."
And you are off. The woman tugs you right up behind the first looming mountain of orange and black fur and places your hand firmly on the tiger's back. "Pat STRONG," she commands. You must show the tiger confidence, or he will whirl around. "Smile!" you hear, and look up in time for the man to snap three photos of you.
The woman's hand is on yours again, and you are pulled past a German tourist couple to a rock with TWO giant tigers. "Sit here," your guide says, patting the rock with the tigers. "Pat FIRM." You put your hands out and stare in utter shock at what you're doing. "Smile!" the man hollers. Click, click!
"Never show your back to a tiger, remember!" the woman says, and she leads you to pose with FIVE more monstrously gorgeous specimens. One flips around and snarls, and the woman leaps forward to yank you back to safety. The thick chains strain and rattle.

Much to your surprise, you WILL emerge, ten minutes later, with all limbs intact. You also will emerge with a hundred unbelievable photos on your camera, and a huge smile and handshake of gratitude to your Thai tiger handler guides.
WHAT AN EXPERIENCE. If you are anywhere in Thailand, the Tiger Temple is NOT to be missed. It is a smooth two hour drive from Bangkok, and you can get there on your own and pay the very worthwhile 500 Baht ($16) entrance fee, or book it as a package day tour, as we did.

So what in the name of all the creatures in Noah's Ark IS this Tiger Temple? The first thing to remember is that it is an ACTUAL TEMPLE, run by monks in their saffron orange robes. This means that you must dress conservatively to visit. While you're selecting your wardrobe, nix the bright colors like red, as you will be... how shall I put this... eaten.
Let us turn now to the official pamphlet for a further (utterly delightful) explanation of the Tiger Temple. "Since its opening in 1994, Wat Pa Luangta Bua gained a reputation as a wildlife sanctuary. It started with an injured jungle fowl given to the monk by the villagers. Then peacocks came, attracted by the calls of the, by then, rather large colony of jungle fowl. An injured wild boar stumbled in to the monastery and the monks cared for him until he could be released back into the forest. The next day he came back, followed by his family group of about ten animals. Now a countless number of wild boar find shelter in the monastery. Villagers also started to bring in unwanted pets. All these animals are roaming the grounds of the monastery freely."

Wait, so there are a million OTHER animals sauntering, un-caged, around the Tiger Temple? Ooh yes. It is quite the feeling to walk down the path right next to a camel, four wild boars, a cattle herd, and three deer. But what about the TIGERS? Read on in the lovely pamphlet.
"The first tiger cub arrived in the monastery in February 1999. It was a female cub of Indochinese tiger subspecies, and her condition was very poor. When she was only a few months old her mother was killed by poachers near the Thai-Burma border. The cub was sold to a wealthy Bangkok resident who ordered her stuffed. A local was hired to do the job, which fortunately he did not finish. When she arrived to the monastery she was frail and terrified of the slightest sound. Under the loving care of the monks the cub recovered, but in July 1999 she fell seriously ill and died. People who knew about the incident did not want to see another cub mistreated again. However, it was not to be."
Ahh!! So the Tiger Temple is not just a heartless tourist machine. It is a legitimate religious site and extremely important nature preserve. Keep reading.

"The monastery is situated in Kanchanaburi province-- an area lying adjacent to Burma. The Western Forest Complex that stretches along the border is the largest protected area in Asia and believed to be the home of the largest surviving tiger population in the region. Unfortunately, while this area is protected, poaching still occurs rather frequently. A Thai poacher can get up to U.S. $5,800 for killing a tiger, several years' salary for a farmer. Just a few weeks after the first cub died in the monastery, two healthy male cubs intercepted from the poachers were brought to the monks. A few weeks later the local villagers presented another two male cubs. And soon after, the border police patrol intercepted cubs held by poachers. The Abbot welcomed the animals and as he had no previous experience in looking after large carnivores, he had to learn on the job. As the years went by, the tigers grew up and to the Abbot's surprise and delight, started to reproduce."
Unbelievable. There now are hundreds of blue-uniformed Thai and Western workers helping the monks care for the animals, and several larger animal habitats are under construction thanks to the funds from the fascinated tourists pouring in each day.
A question posed in the pamphlet is perhaps on your mind, too. "Q: Why are the tigers so calm? Are they drugged? A: All our tigers have been hand-raised and imprinted to humans and therefore have no fear of people. The "fierce" behavior often associated with captive tigers is caused by placing wild animals in stressful conditions of the captive environment. Our tigers have been regularly handled from a very early age and thus become desensitized to being touched by people."

Ahem. Please note... the second half of the question is not directly answered in the pamphlet. Several times, we saw monks feeding the eager tigers some pills from a white packet, but as we cannot read Thai, these could either be opiates, vitamins, or breath freshener.
Regardless, nearly every traveler in this wonderful country has raved about how AMAZING the Tiger Temple is, and I heartily join in.
What a fantastic day!

Divine Intervention

By Ariana 

Travel journalists and bloggers spend a fair amount of time and detail describing the exotic places we’ve gone and the exciting adventures we had while we were there but we all too often overlook everything that comes between our place of origin and our final destination.  We assume that the airport, the plane, the boat, the train, and the bus are places of little or no consequence.  They are the places that should be hurried through on the way to our next adventure, an adventure which we can all be sure will occur in a place that is far more exciting than a bus terminal.  That is not to say, however, that these places of transition and modes of transportation completely lack any interest whatsoever.  In fact, one of my most formative travel experiences occurred in an airport.

Directly following graduation from college I went on a trip to visit Europe with my friend Elise and stay with her relatives in Italy and in France.  We were supposed to meet in the Washington Dulles Airport and fly to Italy together, unfortunately, all did not go according to plan.  Elise caught the flight to Italy but I got stuck in the Dulles airport because of a tornado (yes a tornado, I had previously thought that much like the rain in Spain tornados kept mainly to the plain, but I was, apparently very wrong).

I convinced myself that it was fate that I was stuck all alone overnight in Washington DC because of the flight that Elise made and I missed.  I decided that the obese middle-aged man sitting next to me on the flight to Dulles, the one who spent the entire flight edging closer to me (on the pretext that he was trying to move away from the stench emanating off of the man sitting in the window seat), might just be my soul mate.  He had, after all, offered to buy me dinner when we got off the plane, perhaps this was a sign.  But he was not my soul mate because the customer service line beckoned and, irrationally, I decided to turn down free dinner and drinks with my "soul mate" because somewhere in the masochistic region of my brain I decided that waiting in a line that spanned several terminals of the Dulles airport was, actually, preferable to a free dinner.

It was just as well, because while I was waiting in this aforementioned line I met God.  I suppose that was a very imprecise way of saying it.  Now you are probably expecting me to go into some epic conversion story along the lines of Emperor Constantine.  Or you will argue with the phrasing and try to convince me that it was not God who waited in line with me but rather one of his messengers.  Or if you are a skeptic you will try to convince me that it was merely a coincidence and that I attributed his presence to a divine power.  Or if you are particularly religious you might tell me it was nothing of the sort and that even thinking that I had met God let alone telling everybody about it is irreverent and disrespectful and I will probably rot in hell.  And you may be right and you can call it what you will but I will call it my meeting with God and it occurred at approximately 6pm on the 4th of June in the year 2008 in the United International Flights customer service line at the Washington Dulles Airport.
God was of medium build and he had a mustache (but not a beard). He was middle-aged and if you are the sort to care about

Sitting on Elise's grandmother's bed in Marina di Pisa, Italy, wearing one of her grandmother's classy 80s-style puff paint shirts

ethnicity then I will inform you that God was Sri Lankan.  God and his wife and two daughters had missed their flight to India, which meant that they also missed their flight to Sri Lanka. God was (as you would very well expect him to be) incredibly profound. He was very calm.  God was (also as you might expect) the only person in the line who wasn't bitching and moaning.

His argument was that he would get there eventually, but there wasn't anything he could do to make himself get there faster so why bother getting all worked up about it.  I felt like God definitely had a point there.  As I stood next to him in line I had this strong desire to be more like him.  I decided that from then on I wasn't going to try to fight the divine will, or luck, or fate, or whatever you may call it for control. I was just going to float and see what happened and just have faith that things would turn out all right in the end (which is not really a departure from my previous belief, but this God in the customer service line just sort of reaffirmed it.)

When I finally arrived at Elise's grandparents' house in Italy without my baggage, I heeded the lesson that I had learned fromthis travel God.  I didn’t allow my lack of luggage spoil my trip.  I merely wore Elise’s grandmother's clothes (which were frightful in a hilarious sort of way) all around Pisa.

"I'm a Jelly Donut" and Other Berlin Adventures

By Megan

Berlin was so good to me- from the funky hostel (see my previous hosteling post) to the bicycle tour, hippos at the zoo, and of course the Tiergarten.  My faithful travel bud and I organized a jaunt north starting in Berlin; the plan was to start in the famous capital, then work our way down to Vienna.

Germany was an entirely new concept to both of us.  All we could say was Gesundheit, küsse, and 'I speak English', even worse than our Italian, but we had few communication difficulties.

I was excited as a five-year-old as we headed toward the zoo, and furthermore, I was equipped with a camera and the know-how to use it.  The hippos were comical, the rhino quite serious, the giraffes awkward, and Knut the famous polar bear was in isolation (it seems that the more famous you are, the less likely you are to play well with others... just saying).  I actually didn't expect to enjoy/exhaust myself as much as I did running around the zoo.  In any case, a triumphant evening at a bier garden was in store.  They didn't have any vegetarian brats, but the baked potato was delicious and the Berliner Weisse (beer with raspberry syrup added) would have won over even the most serious of beer aficionados.

The infamous wall

With a desire for speed, we decided to take a bike tour of the city and got to the Fat Tire tour station early.  There was a Spanish tour available, but we decided to wait and see how full the English tour was- 70 or so other riders later, we went with the more intimate tour in Spanish, which included just me, my bud and our Valenciana tour guide.  She showed us all of the city's most famous sites, and via bike was a lovely way to see so much history in such a short amount of time.
Something from the tour that struck me much so was Bebelplatz; it's a memorial to a Nazi book burning that took place.  A piece of glass allows visitors to look down on empty shelves, representing the loss of understanding and knowledge.  "He who burns a book is capable of killing another."  It's a strong statement, but the idea is that by burning a book, you lose the knowledge of the book, effectively killing the right of someone who wants to learn.

Bier Garten? Yes, bitte.

After a long day of bike riding, we decided to relax in the MASSIVE Tiergarten and we weren't alone.  Our wonderful guide told us that public nudity was allowed in some parts of the gigantic park, but who would have thought that the two of us would end up smack-dab in naked central.  At least two gentleman visited the park seeking to catch some rays sunny side up.

It was time for us to move on to Dresden, but one more note- Ich bin ein Berliner- the famous quote, did not make JFK  a supporter of Berlin, but rather, a jelly-donut... and people still chuckle at the grammar mistake 40+ years later.

Sexism and Candy

By Beth

At night I sit around with the boys and drink beer. We slap at mosquitoes while we chew the basics- soccer, women, who's talking about who. Most of the time I just listen; I have nothing to add to conversations like these. But this doesn't mean that the conversations aren't adding to me; I certainly learn a lot between the guzzling and spitting.

Like, for example, I learn that my boyfriend here, Kilson, is either a CIA-trained liar, or a really uncommon- and perhaps unpopular- catch here in São Tomé. Purely because he treats me like a perfect equal-- something that is quite out of tradition here on the island, where gender roles rule. Kilson and I get looks when we beat each other up in the city. He takes me on, anywhere, anytime.

We were walking yesterday, and between throwing punches he asked me if Faia didn't like him. Faia is tall, muscular, and a killer soccer player that hangs around the house to do Ned's gardening and to help him with some rehabilitating exercises, as Ned became sick five years ago and had his legs amputated. Faia doesn't speak much sometimes and doesn't shut up at others, is extremely, perhaps overly confident with his manhood, and, above all, will not let a women boss him around. He has a girlfriend, or perhaps a wife, or I'm not really sure what she is, that lives with him, though he's never home- he's always here, chilling with us. One time we went to swim in the waterfalls and he brought her. I think one point he touched her knee. I wonder sometimes what she is, exactly- either an accessory or a chore. Or some marvelous combination of both.

Anyway, Kilson asked me if Faia didn't like him. He was often quiet when Kilson was around. Kilson is similar to Faia in some ways and opposite in others. When Faia is quiet and judgmental, Kilson talks. He is always in search of an argument, and unafraid of confrontation. He enjoys understanding, in-depth, why people feel certain ways. He will talk to you for hours about politics, philosophy, secrets. When he enters a room, everyone knows him. He is quick to introduce himself to strangers. So when Kilson asked me if Faia liked him, it was curious. He really wanted to understand Faia.

I later brought up the subject with Faia, whose mouth fired off a mile a minute. “He asked you that without asking me??? If I were him, I would have just come up to the guy and asked him myself! What the hell is wrong with him! And FURTHERMORE, I would NEVER ask this question to a WOMAN! This is something man to man! The next time I see him I am going to ask him to tell me to my face!” It was such a needless overreaction that I am still enraged with Faia, hardly able to cool down, even weeks later. First off, I didn't want him confronting Kilson about this, who felt it was something to be asking me in private (I feel bad enough as it is revealing his words). And second off, a WOMAN???? And what the hell is wrong with a woman????

But I know what is wrong. To Faia, women are different. They have their place. Men deal with their man things in their man ways and women, among other things that do not include education, intelligence or thinking, make babies, grant sexual satisfaction and keep house. I'm not kidding when I say that this is what Faia believes. He thinks women are to be romanced for the sake of romancing...then nothing else. Otherwise they complain too much and they creep under your skin. He was raised this way; he can't help what he believes. It's a dying tradition on the island, but it's still real.

One time, Faia invited me to a party. He would never invite me as more than a friend- he's like my brother- but there is always a very low-grade tension between two heterosexuals of opposite sexes going out to a party or club together. And when he left to bring a friend home without telling me, and when I left because I was quite alone and bored at this party by myself, the next morning he was royally pissed. Apparently he had leaving rights but, as HIS guest, I did not. “Why did you leave?” He shot at me the next morning. “You came with me, you leave with me!”

The boys and I often find ourselves in quarrels because I tell them when I disapprove. They say I get angered easily. I take that for what it is. Though I find myself extremely culturally sensitive in most ways, feminism is not one of my negotiation points.

Dany is more modern and laughs at Faia's rugged lack of charm that, combined with a pretty face and nice body, dumb women put up with. But Dany still believes in what is very common here-- multiple girlfriends. Despite the boys' various attitudes about sexism in general, all three of them-- Dany, Faia and Abade-- are in equal agreement that it is entirely normal for one man to have three girlfriends at once, including, or not, the man's wife. Dany believes that if you can give all of your women love and attention, then there's nothing wrong with it. And besides, there are more women in São Tomé than men anyway. And if the women have a problem with it when they inevitably find out, they can leave. That is what their right is.

It makes me think of when Kilson takes me clubbing and leaves me for periods of time to go peel his female friends off the wall to dance. Kilson does not believe in polyamorous relationships but he does embody, in a analogous comparison, what Dany speaks of. Women line the wall of the disco with no one to dance with in a partner-dancing world. So the men have to walk around dancing with multiple women, a regular trick-or-treat, hopping from house to house to keep everyone happy.

It's the same thing really. If men don't date multiple women, well, who's going to date them? That's how the boys I live with see it, anyway. The women are sexy and beautiful, and are not to be wasted. The men, as I see their interpretations to be, are the intelligent, decisive keymasters, burdened by their inherent responsibility to make decisions for all and to ultimately keep the world spinning. And to some degree, the women believe it. That's why the girls in my English class still all failed their final exam- after getting a freebie when they skipped class on the first exam date. That's why I get mad at them and tell them to represent us right when they don't focus. And that's why on various evenings, when the beer bottles are empty and Abade is napping on the couch, I will see Dany spritz on his cologne and protectively wrap his arm around the waist of “minha jóia,” “my jewel.” And it's hardly the same girl twice.

Elephants, a Leopard Cub, and the River Kwai

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com
My mind is blown by the supreme machine that is the Thai tourist industry. For varying prices between 2000 Baht ($65) and much less, a visitor to Bangkok can construct any permutation of day excursion... and the result will be giddy happiness and 300 new photos on your camera.
Yesterday, my partner in crime and I opted for the following package, graciously coordinated by our Lub-d hostel tour rep: 1) The Bridge Over the River Kwai, 2) Lunch and bamboo raft down the river, 3) Elephant ride, 4) Waterfall, 5) Tiger Temple. Let's just say that this was one of the most amazing days of my life. Come join!

1. The minivian picks you up at your hostel, then zooms around Bangkok to pick up the other tour-goers. Each of you gets a combination of colored stickers to identify your package combination. We got purple and gold! You drive through the green hills for two hours until you reach the border with Myanmar.
2. The Bridge over the River Kwai! Perhaps you have seen the movie. Until I read the signs on the walls, however, I did not understand the tragedy of the story. During World War II, Japanese invaders forced tens of thousands of Dutch and American prisoners of war to construct a railway shortcut for war supplies. Over 13,000 POWs died during the effort. After Allied bombing destroyed the bridges, the structures were re-built, along with a museum, and an extremely well-maintained graveyard for those whose lives were stolen.
Here's a tip: Instead of paying the 40 Baht to enter the museum, read the murals along the walls, and walk all the way across the bridge and back. Careful of the gaping holes, and leap to the the side platform when the train comes whizzing past! Then-- find the man with the leopard cub and teenage tiger. Pay the 100 Baht to cuddle the most gorgeous beast in the world and take some photos worth far more than the $3 charge. WOW. (Thanks to my hostel roommate, Kathy, for this suggestion!)

Another tip: Probably best NOT to try "A kind of Chinese dish" or "Pork blood with rices" at the Kwai food stand.
3. River raft lunch! Drive for half an hour down the river, take off your shoes, then rock along on a floating bamboo restaurant whilst nibbling upon Thai curry. Then slip into benches on graceful bamboo rafts and be cradled by the current! Adie got a leech on his foot but rapidly pulled it off. Ooo-- down and dirty with the jungle.

4. ELEPHANT RIDE. HOLY HEAVEN. Elephants are HUGE. Stand on its prickly back to get on and watch how its leathery, freckled ear flips and flops! There is a hilariously sassy Thai teenager sitting sloppily on the giant's head; how he stays perfectly balanced is a wonder. Tromp through the electric green jungle and see the purple mountains in the distance. There are yellow and purple and black butterflies! Watch the elephant in front of you stop to pee for ten minutes ("too much Chang beer," says your driver), and then watch the animal eat half a tree. Your sassy driver may or may not start sassing the other drivers, calling them "Ladyboys". Hand your camera to an assistant who will take your photo. Want another fantastic photo op? 20 Baht (75 cents) buys you bananas and mangos to feed that snout. AMAZING.
5. Saiyok Noi Waterfall. It's just you and the gleeful Thai second graders in their collared purple uniforms, frolicking around the cascading waterfall and blazingly green park! It's really lovely; walk up to the top of the outlook.
The absolute best part, however, is the sign that says "DON'T CLAMBING UP"... in front of a million wee Thai boys climbing right up that slick waterfall. :) Want a snack? Rows and rows of vendors sell freshly fried banana chips. Your tour guide says: "Meet back here in forty minutes", and points right to the center of the highway. Opt to wait at the side of the road instead, when the time comes, and get shuffled (coordinated by your sticker color) into a third van with rather abrasive middle-aged Australian ladies who are talking smack about America. Keep your mouth shut so they don't hear your accent.
Tired? No, actually you're not, because you are SO EXCITED AND HAPPY. Everything is coordinated and timed so smoothly, and the short drives between stops afford delicious nap breaks.
Now hold on to your hats, kiddies, and make sure you aren't wearing red, because you know what's next? That's right...
6. TIGER TEMPLE!!! You'll have to see the next post for this one. My heart is racing with joy again just thinking about it...

The Wilds of Denali

By Erica
 
6.22.2008

It's the end of June and I'm wearing jeans, a sweater, and a pseudo-down vest, and have a windbreaker strapped to my backpack. My family- my mom, dad, and sister- have all foregone the illusion of warmth and have their jackets on already. Mom's even wearing a hat. And we haven't stepped off the bus yet.

Bluebells in bloom against the odds.

The four of us are part of a tour group in Denali National Park and Preserve, catching gulping eyefuls of a 6.2 million acre wilderness that most people only get to see in photographs. All around us are the scrubby trees of the boreal forest and the wide plains of the tundra, ringed by the Alaskan Range, with the sky cupping everything overhead. Especially when we get off the bus, standing in the

Our caribou guide.

intermittent sunlight and blinking tears away in the strong wind, it is difficult to feel the line between our bodies and the landscape. It feels touchable, tangible, like we're safely contained by the mountains and the sky, even when we grasp that it would take us days to walk to the mountains on the other side of the tundra. It's 40 degrees Fahrenheit in June; in two or three months the first snows will come and the road we're on will be accessible only by sled dog or snowshoe. Many animals will hibernate to survive, and the park's rangers will rely on dried foods and supplies in the ranger cabins to do the same. It's difficult to imagine this area turning into a death trap, but that's one of its claims to fame. Even for the wildlife, this is a dangerous life: according to our guide, the entire population of caribou, wolves, sheep, moose, and bears in Denali is smaller than the population of moose in Yosemite.
Our guide brings us back on the bus and rumbles the engine to life. He has many things to show us, things that are even more intoxicating than the first few miles of the Denali road. A mere fifteen minutes later, he pulls the bus over and starts whispering over the microphone. "Everyone, look to your nine-o-clock side. Be very very quiet!" Eagerly, we turn to the left and press up against the windows, wondering what he's spotted. There, not more than fifty yards from the bus, a lone male caribou is grazing in a gravelly riverbed, apparently undisturbed by the approach of our bus. He nonchalantly nibbles at a shrub, surreptitiously showing off his summer antlers, and the guide explains that most of the herd has migrated north for the warm season. What we're looking at is very rare and very very special.

The Savage River, called a "braided" river because of the way the shallow waters flow.

As our journey continues, and we learn about the difficulty of surviving the long, brutal winters this close to the Arctic Circle, we start appreciating the tiny ways in which life continues to thrive. There are bluebells growing in abundance around one of the ranger cabins, and forget-me-nots thriving in the grassy scrub alongside the road. The taiga- the boreal forest- has produced thousands upon thousands of needles on its coniferous trees, and the grasses of the tundra are ripe with seeds. A few plants have even grown small green leaves in honour of the season, though those will soon be

The view from Primrose Point, where words are not enough.

devoured by the hungry snowshoe hares inhabiting the taiga and tundra; the hares are so numerous that Mom almost steps on one by accident.
The bus pulls up at the end of the vehicle road in Denali and we climb off into the most punishing wind we've experienced yet. Our eyes stream and we angle our bodies as best we can to see the man waiting for us there. He tells us he is Athabaskan, and starts giving us an Athabaskan account of life in the Denali region- especially the challenges of balancing traditional lifestyles with majority American demands. The impact of park laws on their ability to subsistence hunt, the impact of tourism on the same, and their voice in the politics of Denali. He finishes speaking and we mill around in the dirt drive, peering closely at the flowers and gazing at the sky, where a thunderstorm is brewing over the Polychromatic Mountains to the north. I'm again captivated by that feeling of abundance and containment, the enormous geography safely cupped by the sky, when I hear the man who has been speaking to us come up behind me. In a voice loud enough to carry to the rest of the group, he tells me a story about a man and his son walking along the tundra in this area. They come to a lookout point like the one we're at, where they can see for miles upon miles, and the son begins exclaiming. How magnificent are the mountains! How impressive is the expanse of the tundra! How brilliant is the sky! The father lets him speak for a moment, and then hushes him. He looks at his son, and turning back to the landscape, he says, "Your words are not enough."
I know exactly what he means.

Concerts, Confidence and Courage

by Lisa
I have a confession to make.

I love solo travel.  (That's not the confession...stick around a minute, I'm getting to it.)  When I'm traveling alone, I feel fearless about being alone.  I have no qualms about wandering museums, hiking trails, restaurants, and pubs by myself.  I am content with my own company, not shy about striking up conversations with others or tacking myself onto tour groups.

When I'm in my hometown, however, it's a different story.  (This is the confession part, for those playing along.)  I get nervous and self conscious when I eat alone in my hometown, or see a play, or a movie, or a museum, without having a friend or two along.  Why?  Maybe because, when I'm traveling solo, I'm the daring one, the interesting one, the trailblazer, who is grabbing life by the horns and enjoying the ride.  In my hometown, in contrast, I know a lot of people.  I should be able to find a companion, and if I don't have one -- even if I intended to be solo -- I feel self-conscious and judged by others.

I admit this is silly.  No one knows if I'm traveling or not.  I'm the only one who knows the difference.  And so, last Friday, I decided to try something new: act like a traveler in my own hometown.
It all started innocently enough.  I found out, a little late, that two of my current favorite bands were coming to town and performing in the same concert (Spoon and Phoenix, if anyone's interested).  Since I nearly missed this, the event was sold out.  The after-market brokers did have some pairs of tickets available, but at an astronomical price, and since most of my friends don't share my music taste, a pair of tickets wasn't really an option.  On the other hand, the single tickets were much cheaper.  And so I faced a dilemma.

Should I buy the single ticket, and see these bands I have been dying to see in person, or do I let my weird hometown insecurity prevail, and chicken out about going to a concert solo?  Put that way, my choice was clear.  I bought the ticket.

Friday night arrived.  I had dinner with a friend near the venue.  She thought my nervousness was ridiculous -- after all, I'm the same person who drove around the U.S. for six weeks alone, went to a dude ranch by myself, spent a week in Paris wandering solo (where I went to my first opera -- solo).  That's when I decided to pretend I was traveling.

Suddenly, I wasn't self-conscious.  Suddenly, I was daring.  I was a mystery.  No one around me knew who I was, where I came from, or what I was doing there.  I was magically freed from any concerns about what others were thinking about me -- if they knew me, they'd be awed and inspired, naturally.  Alone, I maneuvered easily through the crowded lobby and flirted my way to the front of the beer line.  Alone, I found my seat and kicked the young girl wearing too much makeup out of it, sending her to the back of the orchestra where she belonged.  Alone, I chatted with the usher, a very nice woman who was so excited to see Phoenix I thought she was going to faint.

There was a minor down point when the young boy next to me (seriously, this guy couldn't have been older than twenty -- I'd say twenty-one, but he and his friends weren't drinking) called me ma'am, but at least he was polite.

Then the lights went down, Phoenix took the stage, and I was transported by the music.  Again, being alone was perfect; there was no one I knew watching me make an uncoordinated fool of myself, so I was free to dance and jig to my heart's content, sing along and cheer and jump up and down.
At the end of the night, I walked out, smiling, and fully intending to be a solo traveler in my own hometown as often as possible.

Midwest Adventures- A Galaxy Far, Far Away

By Megan It wasn't that long ago, or far, far away at all.  In fact, I simply took the #20 bus to the United Center this past Sunday morning in chilly Chicago.  The choir I have been singing with was invited to sing for the traveling 'Star Wars in Concert' tour that was passing through the city.
The march down the loading ramp almost felt like entering a large space vessel, except there were cello cases lining the hallway.  Twinkies seem alien enough, but were really set out as a snack for the London Royal Philharmonic.
There was a thick sense of nervousness in the ranks as we had had very little time to rehearse the piece, and were not guaranteed a sound check.  To top that all off, the Apollo Chorus is more famous for being Chicago's top volunteer chorus (and the oldest in the country!), and not quite the sort that rock out to John Williams.  Fingers clicked on folders as we stood in line waiting to be lead out to the stage.
Altos checked their lipstick and a few tenors practiced pronouncing the galactic language, as our only other lyrics where  'ah' (one member figured out that it was actually sanskrit for some Gaelic poem about a forest coming alive, or something like that).
Given our obvious celebrity status as the visiting choir, we took every opportunity to enjoy the event- one which I would have never imagined seeing myself.  It was a land where dressing in costume was encouraged; ewoks and wookies were common sites.  I considered sporting a Princess Leia hair-do-think braids and not buns- but decided against it, considering our professional role (sure, that's why... right).

I really hope he gets paid for this

The concert itself was a blast- lasers highlighted the orchestra's peak moments and the matching video calmed even the most fidgety of five-year-olds.  It made for a long day, but there was a good sense of group effort and sheer fun from the hilarity of the general situation.  I really did feel like I had visited another planet, one where practicing Handel's Messiah a cappella was encouraged and not even the Storm Troopers minded.

Fellow choir members enjoy face time with Storm Trooper

P.S.  If you are in Chicago during the holiday season, come hear the Apollo Chorus sing Chicago's Best Messiah on Dec. 12th 3pm, Orchestra Hall or on Dec. 20th 3pm at the Harris Theater.

Pills at the Bottom

By Beth

Today there are few turquoise pills in my little orange canister. My heart skips a beat. I can actually see to the bottom.

For many, the lack of pills could mean a few things. Maybe medication is over, a long rehabilitation process (yay!). Maybe it's time to buy more of your prescription (minor boo). Or maybe, as it is in my case, those pills are your daily malaria doses, and just a few left means you're leaving soon.

It is frustrating. There is still so much to do. Yet time passes and there is no stopping it. It is amazing how quickly a place that is so different from anywhere I have ever lived has come to feel like home.
I shudder at the thought of not having my homemade yogurt and papaya every morning. Not hearing the boys yell to each other

Me and the boys at the waterfalls of Bombaim

from different sides of the house about what women are the craziest, what beaches are the best, and who should stop sleeping on the damn couch and go to his own damn bedroom. The constant background murmur of Brazilian telenovelas. The fresh fish (aptly named “con con” because of the splashing sound it makes jumping out of the water and back in), breadfruit, fried banana.

Going to the little stand down the street for an enormous, cold beer after a long day. The raspy voice of my boyfriend, Kilson, yelling “Elisa!” on the other side of our gate as he waits to take me to the ocean, for a walk, for a snack. The warm ocean water as it soothes my body like an enormous bath the minute I dive in.

Having lunch on Ned's deck everyday, talking politics and current events while shooing away Fred and Jessica, dogs that could sure teach their peers a thing or two about begging.

View of the ocean from Ned's deck

Driving in Dany's car with his music pumped up, wind in my hair, bounding over potholes and dust-covered roads in our ever-powerful Toyota truck.

I'll even miss the things that drove me nuts. The lack of commitment. Ned tells me never to ask a Santomense a yes or no question, because they will always answer yes in fear of letting you down and then never go through with it (my USA friend Johnson says this is the salesman's golden rule, and something I should bring with me back to the States- never ask a yes or no question). The way Kilson and I make plans and he stands me up because he doesn't have gas or money on his phone, and the reverse way how he'll find me at work on days that I tell him I'm busy. The “pssss” sounds that come from men speckled on the street, trying to get my attention (which my friend Milton tells me only now that it is not rude or insulting like it is in the States, but just a simple way of trying to say hello to someone beautiful, and the correct response is to just smile and wave).

I'll miss the way the teachers at the São João school sometimes think I am all-powerful, full of money and able to grant their

Teaching class

every request at the blink of an eye. They know that I will do anything for them. I'll miss how teachers are allowed to show affection toward their students here. I'll miss being able to put a hand on my student's back when talking to him or her.

I'll miss the way an entire community takes unique responsibility for every single child on the island. How if you see a kid playing on a high wall, you yell at them and send them home, regardless of whether you know them or not.

And I'll miss the parties- the thick, hot Kizomba nights, swaying back and forth with the easy guidance of Kilson's hand as we take it to the dance floor, then recovering the sweat loss with Sagres, Super Bock, Sumol; meeting friends, and their friends, and their friends, and hearing the ocean crash not far away from deep Angolan beats that beckon us back into Africa's rhythm...