Bangkok's Grand Palace: Wow to the WowWow!

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com


There's a certain point when the thick heat and pollution of Bangkok make your head swim so hard and your clothes stick to you so wetly, that all you want is to collapse onto a shady doorstep and yield.

This is what I was doing as Adie fruitlessly pulled my arm to stand back up. "I don't wanna go in!" I whined, leaning back onto the pavement. "We've been walking around the city for six hours and I'm tiiiired! Plus, 350 Baht ($10) is too much to pay to go in there. We can see the palace just fine from out here."

Adie put his hands on his hips. "We did NOT come all the way out to the Grand Palace-- the PREMIER attraction of Bangkok-- to give up now!" he declared. "You WILL come in there with me, if I have to carry you in or pay your entrance. GET UP!"

At last I did, and I am so very, very thankful to Adie. THE GRAND PALACE. IS. AWESOME.
Spanning across one hundred buildings, the pure gold cone of the palace you can see from the highway is just the very beginning of the wonders inside the gates. I have never before seen a palace that is so fitting for ROYALTY.
Everywhere, gold, tiny mirrors, jewel-toned stones, and metallic paint glistens. Each building is a different gorgeous twist. Giant statues with individual (and often hilarious) expressions guard the doorways and hold up the columns. Elated, dejected, furious, bored-- they all look fantastic.

What most struck us was how amazingly well the entire Grand Palace is maintained. Though it was built in 1782, every single day workers toil to re-polish, re-paint, and re-build another small section... meaning that not a single tiny jewel becomes dulled. Look at the photo of the two painters refurbishing the murals of Buddha's life! There were about a hundred of these caretakers at work yesterday.
Now a word about the Emerald Buddha. This vibrant green, 26-inch tall figure is one of the holiest sites in Thailand, and was discovered in 1434. It sits atop a twenty-foot high, radiant gold throne, and is surrounded by worshipers from around the world. Signs read: "Proper dress required" and "No Shoes" and "Do NOT point your feet at the Buddha." You are also not allowed to snap photos inside, so all I have to show you is the pic of a ghostly green glow in the center of a dark room that I snagged from outside. See it?
One of Adie and my favorite details is that, according to the official palace guidebook, "The sacred image is clad with one of three seasonal costumes (summer, rainy season, and winter). The costumes are changed three times a year in a ceremony presided over by His Majesty the King." How absolutely lovely to envision these holy men delicately swapping the miniature fashions!

I truly loved the Grand Palace of Bangkok. So what's the moral of the story? There are a few. 1) Don't be a lazy bum when you've come all the way to the gates of a famous attraction. Go inside! 2) Being a cheapskate is sometimes dumb. 3) When something is titled "The Most Famous Attraction in All of __", there usually is good reason. 4) Friends are important. 5) Gulp plenty of water, snap those pics, and drink in the absolute beauty of the most gorgeous buildings you've seen in your life!

Partaking of Philadelphia

By Erica


Sometimes I forget, when I think about traveling, that small trips- local trips, even- are just as much adventures as the long, drawn-out voyages to distant locales. As I've been writing these articles, I've been racking my brains (what remains of them at the end of the semester, anyway) to think of travel stories that come from my upcoming move. This is decidedly silly. So today I'm going to share with you the lessons I learned from a much more local, mundane trip: my brief sojourn into South Philly for a Turkish "dunch"- my term for a lunch/dinner combination.

I was secretly terrified when Mason asked me to a late lunch for our grant-funded planning meeting. Not because of Mason himself, not because of any fears about grants or planning, and not because of any deep-seated anxiety about Turkish food. No, I was secretly terrified because the restaurant- a cute little place called Divan- was way outside my (tiny) comfort radius in centre city Philadelphia. In order to get there, I had to take the regional rail train (comfort zone) from my little township to Market East Station, then catch an unfamiliar bus (comfort zone gone!) for about 20 minutes, and then walk through an unfamiliar part of the city (everybody panic!) to a restaurant I'd never seen before (AAAAUGH).

Travel anxiety usually isn't my thing, and I've successfully navigated public transportation in numerous countries- some of which were countries that were wholly unfamiliar with the languages I speak.

Yeah, I feel lost just looking at it too. And this map doesn't include the bus, metro, and trolley lines.

But Philadelphia's public transit system is complex, unreliable, and occasionally hostile to those who are unfamiliar with its ins and outs. It includes buses, trolleys, metros (which they call "underground trolleys" for some reason), trains to the suburbs, and one high-speed rail line (also called a trolley). Not all of the modes stop at all their scheduled stations, and often a traveler on them must know where they want to get off in advance of arriving at said destination, in order to request the stop in time. Asking the conductor to assist you will get mixed results, no matter how polite you are. Sometimes I think they get off on watching people's dismayed faces as the train blows past their stations.

Of course, in spite of my secret fears of getting lost, riding buses in the wrong direction, and being unable to find my final destination, I made it to the restaurant on time and without any mishaps. But my anxiety about centre city Philadelphia's public transit system remains, to my chagrin, and it made me realize a few things about my life here.

First, while I've lived here for almost a year and a half, I've never really gotten to know the city. I moved directly here from Montreal, without a car,  and in the process opted for apartments close to my grad school's campus and within easy walking distance of amenities like the grocery store. I used basic transportation to get me to and from my internship sites, but beyond that, I stuck relatively close to home. For the most part, if what I wanted wasn't within a 15-minute walk of the three major transit stations in centre city, I stayed away from it. Public transit here is very expensive- it costs me $8 to get to and from centre city, from my apartment in the suburbs- and very inconvenient, as mentioned, and often it just made more sense to stay in my township area. So geographically and culturally, while I've participated in a lot of things in my comfort radius of the major transit stations, Philadelphia in general has remained a pretty foreign place to me.

Second, though, I realized during the course of my bus ride along 19th street that I've also avoided centre city because I didn't want to grow attached. I moved down here for graduate school, knowing that I would be leaving once I finished my degrees, and I couldn't bear the thought of putting down roots and becoming attached only to wrench myself away in May 2010. And there are certainly things to dislike about the city- I've been through areas with razed rowhomes, used condoms and syringes liberally scattered across the street, and menacing-looking people following me along the sidewalk. But there are things to love, too, like the obstreperous expression of life along South Street, the variety of museums along the Ben Franklin Parkway, and tiny little restaurants like Divan tucked away in a residential corner of South Philly.

I guess the lesson I'm learning, as I gear up to finish off my second-to-last semester here, is that even as I've protected myself from saying goodbye to a place I love, I've put myself in the position of having to say goodbye to a home I don't really know. There will be things I'll miss- like the "admission by donation" policy of the art museum on Sundays, the crazy exhibits at the Franklin Institute, and the Magic Garden on South Street- but when I tell people that I lived in Philadelphia for a couple of years, it won't feel right to say. It seems to me as though my discomfort with many of SEPTA's branches is a measure of my discomfort with Philadelphia in general. I can't help but think that if I had bothered to become accustomed to the unreliable cluster-you-know-what that SEPTA often represents, I would have expanded my horizons far beyond the narrow cross-section of the city that I permitted myself to get to know.

So here's a hint to all those girls (and guys and genderqueer folk) on the go: hellish transit systems be damned. You'll cry, you'll lose money, you'll miss your stop, and you'll swear your guts out at the conductors. You'll ask random strangers for information that may or may not be accurate and be unable to tell the difference. But you'll get to see the area and get to know it a lot more intimately. And as frustrating as that can be, it's infinitely better than leaving an area and knowing that you've wasted two years of opportunity.

Thursday Thanks

by Lisa

Here in the United States it is Thanksgiving Day.  I thought about not posting this week, since I wasn’t sure if folks would be too stuffed full of turkey and…well, stuffing…to read.  And then I thought, “perhaps a post that challenges the readers to engage, think and respond, will snap them out of tryptophan stupor.”  I hope the list and questions below get you thinking about those things, organizations and people in your lives who make your travel possible, enjoyable, and unforgettable.

So without further ado, I am thankful for:

My freshman roommate, Simone.  She fueled my wanderlust, and convinced me to take a trip to Ireland with her after our freshman year.  It was my first trip that required a passport, and my first significant trip unaccompanied by a chaperone.  Who inspired or inspires you to travel?

My parents, who, to their credit, when informed of my various travel plans have never asked me if something will be dangerous.  Instead, they ask if there’s anything I’ll need.  Sometimes, they ask if they can come along, and every so often I say yes.  Their tacit encouragement and confidence in me makes all the seemingly impossible so much more possible.  Who boosts your confidence and makes your adventures possible?

My cars.  I love to road trip.  I love to travel by automobile, because it allows you to really see the country you’re driving through, and provides the most freedom for detour (oh, how I love unexpected detours).  My current car, a 2007 Honda CR-V, has yet to be tested on a significant road trip; it has only taken me as far as New York city and back to Boston.  I have no doubts, however, that many adventures await us.  After all, it has heated seats and lots of cargo space.  What is your favorite mode of transportation while traveling?  Why?


The American Automobile Association.  Ah, the times we have had, the scrapes you have gotten me out of, the free maps, guidebooks and passport photo service.  What service has saved your life/cash/trip?

National Park rangers.  Every single ranger I have ever taken the time to speak with has seemed to love their job.  Their enthusiasm is contagious.  Whenever I go to National Parks, I seek out the rangers and ask for advice, or I find the ranger-led hikes and science talks.  I’ve never been sorry I did.  Who are the strangers you seek out to brighten/enrich your day while traveling?

The National Civil Rights Museum, Memphis, TN.  This museum changed my life.  I was there alone, walking through at my own pace with an audio tour.  The emotional impact of this museum cannot be described.  I’m glad I was there on my own, because not having anyone to talk to forced me to reflect within myself about the civil rights movement, its meaning for my life, and how I needed to be an active participant in the continuing quest for lasting, meaningful equality for all.  What sight/place has had the most unforgettable impact on you emotionally, intellectually, or physically?

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Midwest Adventures- Milwaukee

By Megan

Milwaukee- land of Solomon Juneau, the self-proclaimed first white guy spotted in the area; Leif the Discoverer of Iceland, and of course, a town synonymous with beer.  It seemed ever-so-close to Chicago (my current stomping grounds) and therefore warranted a visit on an early-fall Saturday.  So, my travel bud  and I hopped on a Megabus and drifted our way up to the state up north with dreams of strong brews and delicious cheese.

The first stop was the Milwaukee Public Market located in the posh Third Ward.  It seemed to call out to picnic provisioners and lost souls alike, so we crossed over the bridge and landed smack dab in what my version of shoppers heaven might look like.  I grabbed first for some nutmeg nuts to grind fresh, feeding a recent baking addiction.  And while paying for my delicious treasure, I quickly realized that it was the cleanest market I had ever visited.  Unlike Barcelona's Boqueria, the floor was spotless.  There were few, if any, identifiable tourists and I didn't fear for the life of my purse.

It didn't even smell like a market, but I was soon distracted by a quiet gentleman who helped us pick out a cheddar (a test of the five-year cheddar taught me that I wasn't ready for that degree of sharpness) and a local muenster, known as the world's best sandwich cheese (pretty damn good when eaten with raisins too, just so you know).  A fresh loaf of bread and some award winning fire-brewed (whatever that means) root beer later, and our indoor picnic was set.

We stowed the leftovers for later and set out to explore the city on foot.  Neither of us were too interested in seeing the Warhol exhibit at the museum, but I heard the museum structure itself was worth the hike.  It was one of the most literal translations of a boat onto an architectural structure that I have ever seen, except the 'hull' was made up of windows over looking Lake Michigan.

It was early afternoon at this point, and the sun called for a nap in the park next to the art museum, so we obeyed. Finally, it was time to get down to business and grab a brewsky.  I paired a Rocky's Revenge (Nut Brown Ale) with mac' n' cheese, and my bud had a famous Spotted Cow.  At the brat eating contest, I lamented the absence of my camera while teams of four scarfed down bun and dogs as fast as possible.  Quote from a contestant, "Yeah baby!  That's how you eat a brat!"- insert loud frat boy voice here, please.

Brewsky number two was a Furthermore's Fatty Bombalatty which I enjoyed with even more cheese, which I knew was a lot of cheese, but was seemed worth it- especially since I don't know when I'll be back next .  The bus ride back to Chicago was uneventful, except for the stomach ache.  All-in-all, Milwaukee made for the perfect escape form the city, which I would highly recommend, especially the cheese over indulgence.

The Blessing and Curse of Light

By Beth

Miguel motions me over to him, just steps into the school's courtyard. I look behind me into the classroom. It is rustling with the activity of maybe 60 kids today, finding their seats, opening up their computers, blessed with energy for at least a solid hour and a half (though its existence is perhaps more jeering than helpful, as we have forgotten to get the power strips out of the Director's locked office, but no matter).

I leave the classroom for a moment. One of my students is outside. She is one of the most beautiful little girls I have ever known; long eyelashes and a really peaceful, friendly demeanor. Braided hair that stops at the top of her neck, bouncing with her steps as she walks or runs. When I see her outside of class I often wave to her. I love watching her face light up in recognition.

Today her mother accompanies her. She carries a baby in her arm. They are both dressed in clothing that is old. It falls off their shoulders; it doesn't really fit. It's dirty. It's not rags, per se, but it's not Armani. My student's clothing is always clean and fits her well. I had no idea that it was perhaps for a special occasion that she dressed like that. Her mother's face is young but worn. There is abundant poverty in São Tomé but there is still a difference between poor and really, really poor. And this family is somewhere in the middle.

When I come to this level of consciousness I then look at my student's face. There is some sort of white pus between her nose and mouth today. I hadn't noticed it because I had just assumed it was dirty little kid snot. But then I realize that it's an infection. An infection that can they can only hope will just go away on its own.

Her mother is here today to show us her computer. She was walking home from school and other kids started to rough around with her. They struck the screen of her computer, rendering it completely out of use. You turn the computer on and the screen lights up in what looks like a virtual bullet hole with shrapnel in streaming bits of color. It is unable to display anything else but these bright lights. The mother apologizes profusely, and the way Miguel looks at her I know that their story is true. They ask me what we should do.

I tell the girl to go inside; she can share a computer with her friend today. Miguel says that we will find the student that did this and deal him his consequences. But my heart still breaks. Our program is already short on computers, and there is no one on this island even vaguely able to fix the few that are broken. Which means, if a computer breaks, so does that child's chance to learn.

It's such a sick system. It's like telling starving children that break their plastic forks at a banquet that they can no longer eat. It's a cruel punishment for a child that had nothing to begin with. So close to Thanksgiving, I am thankful and also slightly embarrassed for all that I have. All that I wish I could give.

I think about my student, her long eyelashes absorbed in the haze of her small computer screen while sitting in some noisy shantyhouse in a still, energy-less night in the city. And then I think about how from now on all she can do is sit in the dark with everyone else.

DRAMA at the Hostel

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com

The woman's unconscious body dangled between the tiny Thai receptionists' arms as they dragged her into the hostel lobby. What had happened??? We all rushed from the couches towards her sprawled form. Her dyed blond hair and white dress fluttered around the table where she lay. "Go back inside," said the hostel receptionist with a polite but firm wave. Outside we could hear another rumble brewing.
An hour earlier, the receptionist had grabbed a green-shirted hostel guest as he staggered downstairs into the main lobby. "You bring a prostitute in here tonight," she growled. "Against rules of the hostel. You both need to leave, NOW."

Within ten minutes, a woman in a white flowered dress was hurtling down the stairs, screaming at the man in green: "You give me my cell phone charger before I leave! Upstairs! You get it for me!" Scuffles, shouts, a retrieved charger, and green and white flowers both lurched out the door, trying to keep their heads as high as possible in front of the thirty stares from the lobby restaurant. The man walked into the glass door so hard the "CONK" was heard across the street. He shook himself and kept walking out.

Some guests were giggling; some had their hands over their mouths in shock. Granted, this lovely hostel is only four blocks from Patpong Road, home of the infamous girlie bars and "ping pong" shows ("*pop *pop *pop" smack the hawkers' lips to entice potential customers), but across every wall of the hostel, signs read: Paying Guests ONLY in Upstairs Rooms!

But now the woman was lying unconscious on the lobby table. We realized that, after leaving our lobby, she had been punched senseless by the man in green.
Suddenly, her eyes fluttered and she sprung to her feet. With purposeful strides she grabbed her purse, marched to the door and screamed toward the green shape by the curb: "Five hundred!" She raised her purse to hit him and suddenly he was hurling forward into the lobby, fists smashing forward towards the beautiful woman. "NO!" yelled the Thai staff running into the explosion.
My friend Adie and four other guests sprinted towards the lobby. "Adie!" I yelled, "You have two broken ribs already! Watch yourself!" A four foot tall Thai receptionist blocked the way. "Go to sleep. We call the police. We handle it."

Sure enough, by then sirens were blaring.
Now, this morning, the hostel is clean, calm, and lovely as ever. The Superman staff are at their posts as if nothing occurred, and all around the glistening lobby lounge, the guests play board games and plan day trips around Bangkok. Drama will always happen (as we Boston Public teachers know so well), but poise and heart in the face of a storm is forever impressive. I've extended my stay four more nights. :)
(Note: All photos are detail from the Grand Palace, Bangkok. Larger photos from this AMAZING complex are in the next post.)

What Comes Around from Door to Door

By Ariana


Door to door salesmanship, once a thriving commercial enterprise in the United States, but now mainly left to fundraising schoolchildren, overzealous girl scouts, and ex-convicts, is alive and well in Mexico.  Everyday a knife salesman walks up and down our street playing a little flute hoping that the music will put you in the mood to purchase a knife.  As I was walking home the other day I practically crashed into a cart full of brooms that a man was trying to sell to a neighbor.  There is also a woman who pushes a cart with a pot of steaming tamales up and down the street and yells "tamales" at the top of her lungs during the early hours of the morning.  Her tamales never tempt me, but her pre-dawn sales pitch is almost enough to make me want to buy a knife from the flute player.
These are just the salesmen on my relatively quiet neighborhood street.  As I venture out of the neighborhood and towards the city square, or the zócalo, as it is called here, the number of vendors noticeably increases.  The area surrounding the zócalo is prime real estate, turf here is highly sought after and well guarded once attained.  Having a corner in the center of town makes pushing a cart unnecessary, there’s no need to go looking for potential customers when you can get the people to come to you instead.

Hippie street, photo taken by Leslie Ruster

It is most common to see a solitary vendor on a corner but occasionally a whole street will be taken over by carts and tarps covered with brightly colored wares.  There is one street that has been completely taken over by hippie vendors.  While most of the vendors around town are elderly women and men whose long days pushing a cart around in the sun have taken a toll on them, the hippies are different.  The hippies are all under the age of thirty and they refuse to push a cart.  They may lay down a tarp, but usually they don’t bother, they’ll set their goods right on the street.  The hippies also refuse to sell neither things that are functional nor things that are made in China. The former because they are more concerned with ethereal, spiritual things than with material, functional things, the latter simply on matter of principle.  There is one other key difference between the hippies and any other vendor that you might meet and that is their refusal to barter.  It is a near impossible feat to strike a deal with a hippie.  One time, I did get a hippie to give me a discount because he thought I had a pretty smile, but I don’t think I would have gotten the same treatment had I actually tried to haggle with him.

Getting a "trensa gitana" (gypsy braid) from a hippie vendor. Note the winning smile that got me a discount (Photo by Leslie Ruster).

Salesmen are associated just as much with their locale as they are with the goods they are hawking.  There is the woman who sells elote by the church, the woman who sells elote by the university, and the woman who sells elote on the corner where the bars let out.  I could visit any of these women to get my fix of corn covered in mayonnaise, cheese, lemon juice, and chili, but I really only ever patronize the cart in front of the church.  This is mainly because she stands right in front of where my bus stops but I like to think that it is also because I have a connection with her.  While my conversations with her are limited to the few words necessary to order an elote and make sure that the mayonnaise is used sparingly, I still feel an affinity for her and a loyalty to her.  If something were to ever happen to her, I don’t know if I’d be able to bear going to any of the other eloteros in town.  It just wouldn’t taste the same.  I hate to admit it, but I have similar feelings towards the woman who sells tamales on my street.  As much as I dislike being woken up at six am on a Saturday to a gravelly screech of “Tamales!  Tamales!” I can’t imagine what I’d do without that all too familiar wake-up call.

The Go Girl's Guide to Hosteling Europe

By Megan

Who to Expect:
When hosteling (the act of choosing to stay in hostels) in Europe, one might expect to meet a selection of the following characters:

• The guy that's been solo packbacking for 5 months
• The chick in work boots ready to pierce your ear and kickass
• A father with his kids on holiday
• A Cali-girl ready romance novels on her bunk

Many have been traveling for months, or are just on a weekend vacation.  All of them have a story to tell and a secret of the city that you might miss without their help.  Because of tips (good and umm, interesting) from new friends in hostels, I have experienced cities in totally interesting ways.

You shouldn't expect to find many hosteling hippos...

How to find the style of hostel that suits you:
There are several types of hostel ready to serve each traveler and her every whim:

• The Party Hostel- bar in the basement, beer chugging contests abound; not the best place to stay if you want to sleep, but fun for some
• Granola Hostel- sometimes difficult to find, they make their own granola ie. best breakfast ever, might have a composting potty, and are generally green folk friendly
• Multi-generational hostel- you might hear a baby crying in the room over, or meet a grandmother on holiday with her daughters; these hostels are often older establishments with little frills, but they sure do the job
• Really cheap and super basic- don't expect a towel, breakfast or a locker; but they might offer 24-hour check in or a great location in the center of the city

You might even meet this kid (In the Ossuary of Kutná Hora)

Things one needs to know:

1. How to get there?
2. How accessible is local the transportation?
3. Do they supply sheets for the bunk (also, expect a bunk bed unless you specify otherwise and there are other accommodations available)
4. Is there a curfew?  Most hostels do not have a curfew, but it is important to check the rules so you don't get locked out on your way from the airport/club/or getting lost.
5. Is breakfast included?
6. Are there lockers with lock supplied?

Bring with you:

• Soap and a towel
• Snacks in case the breakfast is not so yummy
• Padlock/other security for your belongings
• Journal to write about the interesting roomies
• Ipod or ear plugs- there is always, 100% of the time a snorer, night terror sufferer, or the general squeaky bunk to keep you from your much deserved rest
• Eye mask if you are light sensitive
• Sense of humor- essential to maintaining patience
• Sense of awareness- it may be easy to feel comfortable, but one should always be on her guard to protect herself and her belongings

Our hostel in Vienna... okay, maybe not.

My top three favorites:

• Berlin- Jetpak Eco Lodge- So it might be a bit out of the way, but the scenic walk through the Grunewald Forest, relaxed eco-friendly environment, and big (clean) dorm rooms were such a welcome surprise.  A flashlight might be helpful on the walk through the forest if you get there in the dark.
• Prague- Sir Toby's- I don't know if it was the delicious breakfast, wonderfully interesting fellow travelers, or availability of spaces ready to fit everyone's needs (ie. a bar, kitchen, game room, computers, bbq space, etc.), but it was surely one of the most fun spaces I stayed in.  Definitely for the hostel-er who is looking for that 'true', student experience
• NYC- ZIP112- Female only, wonderfully accommodating host, back to the basics hostel.  It was simple, super clean, quiet, safe, and tiny- only ten beds.  Located in Brooklyn's Williamsburg neighborhood and ready for female travelers just looking for the basics.

The Letter of Two Years and Oh Yeah Dad

By Beth
This post is dedicated to my dad. Despite the fact that I love him dearly, I want him to know that, wherever he may be right now, his loving daughter is over in Africa waving her fist at him.

My dad is a very loving father that is wholeheartedly absentminded at times. He is good at hiding it, but he is also extremely good at forgetting the most important things. Like, oh, I'm sorry, I forgot that we changed your step-grandfather's funeral from a family kayaking trip to a traditional service. My two brothers and I showed up in bathing suits surrounded by ten other people in their Sunday best (epic fail). Or, oh yeah, I thought your stepbrother's wedding rehearsal dinner started much later, but I guess the flight tickets I advised you to get are going to make you miss it now (sigh). Might I mention that, when I was sixteen, my parents' divorce was also a surprise to me, only mentioned off-hand by my aunt while we were sitting at the kitchen table of our rented beach house:

“So your parents must be in court right around now.”
“What?”
“Oh yeah, they're getting divorced today.”
Someone had forgotten to let Beth know.

So my dad tries to video chat me when my internet is barely strong enough to load a page in under four minutes. When I talk to him, he asks if he can mail me anything.

I wish I could smile and appreciate the gesture. He really is trying to be a good dad. But the fact of the matter is, I'm on a very small island where both international snail mail and phone calling are extremely, extremely difficult and utterly not worth it. Letters can be delayed for as long as a month. And he knows this- I tell him every time I talk to him. And yet a week passes and he asks me again, as if I had never said a word – “Need anything out there, kiddo? I should've given you my water filter. Well, I can still mail it if you want.”

No, Dad, I do not want to be the crazy American that insists on filtering the water that is served to me by my American host (that is already boiled, by the way) as if I were out on one of our camping trips in the Whites. And even if I did want it, there is no way that it would arrive before I left the country. But yes, thank you for asking.

Well, Dany and I finally have supporting evidence of my frustrations. Because when we reached into Ned's mailbox the other day, we pulled out a letter mailed from Virginia with a birthday.

The infamous letter-- see mailing date stamped here

And this isn't just any birthday. This letter was mailed in December of 2007, making it officially almost two years old. It took two years to make it over to São Tomé from Virginia. I told him I could've delivered that letter on foot. He agreed. We stood for a moment in great awe.

Dad, this is why I don't want you to send me anything. Because unless you're expecting me to be back two years from now, I probably won't get it.

So this is all fair and good. The days pass and one night I develop some really horrible heartburn while I'm eating chicken and rice for dinner (weird...). I go to bed and the heartburn continues all night, and in the morning I wake up and I feel like I'm going to die (heartburn that feels like rocks lodged in my chest trying to fight their way out the fast way, stomach pain, killer diarrhea, general body weakness, and, getting into the evening, low fever). I examine my bottle of Doxycycline, what I've been taking daily for malaria prevention, over and over, scanning the directions that came with it. I've been using this stuff for two weeks now and the worst thing that I have encountered was a little stomach discomfort on the first day. Could it be the Doxy with delayed side-effects?

Growing up with a nurse for a mom, I normally don't worry about little things like this and know how to handle them. I got myself a few cans of Coke (ah, delicious Coke with real sugar and not high fructose corn syrup, how I miss thee in the States) to let flatten for drinking, and they helped loads. But seeing as I'm in a very poor country with a really bad hospital care system and am thousands of miles away from any good medical care, and seeing as this little bottle of Doxy says if fever should develop, stop using medication immediately and SEEK EMERGENCY HELP, I worry. The words “emergency help” do not ring well with me.

Phones here don't work- we know this already as so gently mentioned above- so I get on the internet (one of our home's many little luxuries) and find my friend Johnson, who calls the doctor that prescribed Doxy for me. I just want to know if it's possible that my symptoms are side-effects, or if they're something else. Their advice is to go to an ER, because there is nothing they can do from there. It is not comforting.

So here I am, sitting in bed, slightly burning up, with a core that hurts like the dickens, having to either shit or feeling like I'm going to vom every five minutes (making the toilet my new bff), and debating if I should actually make the trip to this “third world” hospital. The brain does crazy things when you're far away, and I panic, maybe more than I should.  Option A: I let this blow over and the next morning I'm too sick to be flown out of here and I die without ever seeing my family again. Option B: I stop taking Doxy to prevent what I'm feeling now but then I catch malaria; see Option A. My outlook isn't good.

I slowly walk into the living room where Ned is watching the news. I tell him how I'm feeling. He laughs and says he knows it's not malaria because he's had that before (what a bamf), so why don't I take this stomach soothing chalk-tasting crap and see how I feel in the morning?

In the morning I'm weak but better; weak mainly because the only thing I've had is a can and a half of Coke and anything else that tries to go down makes my heart flare up like the Fourth of July. But I know my fever is broken (the actual “breaking” of a fever is one of the most interesting sensations, and I really love it) and I'll be okay.

As the following days pass, I get stronger. It is only now, maybe 1.5 weeks later, that food is going down normally again (knock on wood). I'm perfectly fine.

I wait to tell my parents about the fiasco until after I'm better, wanting to be sure they don't worry like parents do. I mention to my dad over IM never to take Doxy and why.

“Oh,” he says, “I never take Doxycycline. I'm allergic to it. Your grandmother was too. She used to have to go to the hospital whenever she took it.”

My life is a game sometimes.

Current report: I'm still on Doxy and haven't had another episode like that one yet. And I figure that if I have to go through that again, at least I know it's not malaria and at least it probably won't kill me. So either I just had some weird temporary reaction, or it's an allergy I'll just have to deal with. Thanks Dad!  ::Shakes fist::

She's with Me

By AJ
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Two girls and a guy walk into a bar.  The bartender proceeds to mack on the women while a crowd of inebriated, touchy men fall over themselves to introduce themselves as intimately as possible in the cramped space.  As the two girls try to make themselves as small as possible, their male friend puts his arms around both of them, and loudly orders drinks for himself and "both his women" as the crowd begins to back off.

This story is entirely made up, but it's no joke.  I could easily have encountered such a situation while I was in South Africa, out with other volunteers.  And in certain contexts, I definitely would have had the same instinct as the guy in the story.    Now, we may all agree that the situation the girls were in was definitely not a good one.  But the reaction of the guy may have left you upset.  How did his friends become "his women"?  If he's trying to help them fight the patriarchy, why is he playing into it?
If you're a regular reader of this blog, odds are you may be an independent minded woman who enjoys traveling the world.  I don't think it's controversial to say that traveling alone as a woman can be more dangerous than with companions.  And as much you may hate to admit it, traveling with male companions can make much of the world a lot safer.  (Of course, traveling with a local is probably the safest and best way to see a country, but that's another issue altogether.) As travelers, male or female, we find ourselves in unfamiliar places and often can use an ally.  How does one go about being an ally?  From my experience, it's not always black and white.  Sometimes, a person in distress just wants to get through the situation as quickly as possible and get some sympathy afterwards. Sometimes, a little humor can go a long way to diffuse a situation. Sometimes, a person can be in danger of harm unless an ally sticks their neck out.

Following are some stories from my own experiences.  Some names have been changed to preserve privacy.  I'm not claiming these were the right or wrong ways to react. But I hope that you'll read through and leave a response.

American Woman
In South Africa, Peace Corps Volunteers would often converge in our “shopping towns,” the nearest urban centers where we could get groceries and basic goods.  The usual means of transportation to and from these towns involved the public taxi system.  Mini-bus taxis, small SUVs with extra seats added in, and covered pickups with benches in the back, were all fairly common where I was.  More often than not, these do not run on any kind of schedule. They leave when they are full. This means two things for the traveler: You've got some time to kill and enjoy the circulation in your legs while you still have it. The waiting game sometimes starts earlier, as you wait for one of these taxis to fill and arrive from their first stop.  So we spent a lot of time sitting around taxi ranks.

"

An example of a taxi rank [Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

After a full day of grocery shopping and errands, Amy, Melody, Katie, and I were sitting on a bench waiting for our rides to come in.  While we chatted, two men approached.  I quickly made eye contact and we exchanged greetings.

“My brother, you have so many women. You must share some with us.”

“Trust me my friend, you don't want these women. They are American women. They are strong headed and they won't cook.”

“But why do you have so many?”

“These women are my sisters. So believe me, I know them well.”

Now, I'm pretty sure the didn't buy the claim that the Indian guy was the brother of these three white women, but they didn't push things any further. We joked for a little while longer, with Amy asserting vigorously that an American woman was definitely not what they were looking for.  Eventually, the guys left.

Strong Arming
Unfortunately, some guys skip the whole small talk bit and go straight to the groping.  In these cases, humor is less useful.

Katie and I were traveling to a meeting in Pretoria and had the distinguished pleasure of sitting in the far back corner.  Between us and our two other row mates, it was a tight squeeze, but at least Katie had managed to grab the window.  Control of air-flow is something you learn not to take for granted.  As we sat while the bags were being loaded, we had the window wide open, enjoying the morning breeze.  A few yards away, a guy was definitely checking Katie out. She caught view of him out of the corner of her eye and decided to try the “ignore” strategy, staring straight ahead and pretending he didn't exist.  That didn't seem to make much of a difference to this guy, who eventually just walked over and grabbed her through the window. After some yelling and slapping, the window was closed.
Fortunately, we soon got on our way and we slid the window open again.  Within a few minutes though, we pulled into a gas station to fill up.  It was pretty hot.  I could see the conflict on Katie's face as she tried to choose between being able to breathe and being able to relax without watching every man that walked by.  Finally, she settled on the open window but gave death stares to any guy that so much as glanced over.  It's a no win situation, because some guys seem to still see this as an invitation. One started to come over.  This time, I slipped my arm around Katie's shoulder and added my own death stare.  Once he was within a yard, he tried to greet Katie and I greeted him back. (Yes, you must always greet. Even when giving death stares.)  The guy left. The window stayed open but I didn't take my arm away until we were well on the road again.

Talking Back
Shopping and meetings were not the only reasons to go to town. When one of the girls from our group got married in Vryburg, many of us were able to go to town to celebrate.  Before the wedding, we were still busy putting together a gift for our friend and were running all over the town to get different things.  I was in a group with Katie, Aaron, and Alex.  To save time, Aaron wanted to take a short cut through the taxi rank.  Katie was not so enthusiastic.  We figured, there were three guys. No one was going to mess with her and eventually she agreed.  As we went through, we got many looks because: white South Africans almost never go near a taxi rank , it's still a very odd site in smaller towns to see a mixed group of white and Indian people, and one of us was a woman.  Soon, the cat calls started and they were, of course, all directed at Katie. It's degrading and demeaning, but I figured Katie was not in any immediate danger so my strategy was to do nothing and get through as quickly as possible.  Aaron, though, had had enough, turning to one group of guys, waving his arm and yelling, “Voetsek!” Now, the word “Voetsek!” is Afrikaans command usually given to dogs and literally translated means “Foot sack!”. When directed to people, it's more like “Fuck off!”  Coming from a white guy in the middle of a taxi rank though, it was potentially a lot worse than that.  We sped up and quickly got through the rest of the rank.

Chivalry is Dead; Long Live Humanity
In all these situations, there are things all of us could have done differently. There were many situations where I saw getting involved as making things worse, so I tried to get through the situation as quickly as possible and offer a sympathetic acknowledgment that “that sucked”.  The right action is not always clear.  But one thing is clear to me. The motivation for action is not that men must protect the honor and dignity of women.  The motivation is that humans should protect the honor and dignity of humans.  Whenever this principle is followed, I don't think you run the risk of being patronizing.  Sometimes we may play off the ingrained stereotypes, but as long as the baseline respect for each other as equals exists, I don't think it's necessarily out of line.  Allies come in all shapes, forms and colors.  An ally one day will need an ally the next.  I'll always be thankful to Katie for the time where she helped diffuse a situation where I got kicked out of a hotel lobby for being Indian.
Just because the motivation to be an ally derives from a common humanity does not mean that it's ever clear what course of action will most preserve human dignity.  That's where the debate begins.

Oh, the LIES! Watch it.

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com

I had been warned of the lies, but experiencing them in person really slaps you.
"Where you try to go?" asked the Thai man on the street, seeing me and Adie discreetly pull out our Bangkok map. "Snake farm," said Adie, studying the tiny blue lines on the paper.
"Oh NO!" shrieked the man, "No good! No good! Bad! No snake farm!" You go somewhere else!"
Startled, we decided now we really HAD to see it. Especially because it was right next to the Red Cross. Suspicious. Hilarious .
As we walked the final half block, another Thai man blocked our path. "Snake farm closed today," he declared. "Oh!" We wavered in our steps. "You come with me to other place," he said. "Better. Open."

Suddenly, I remembered a warning about the lies. "We'll check it out anyway, thank you," I said, striding away with Adie in tow. The man started flailing, following, and blubbering: "Well not closed, not open, but really..."

And then we were there: Snake Farm! Guess what... t'was fully OPEN. Lies! Tuk tuk treachery: if an exhibition nearby is closed, the clueless tourist will be forced to ride clear across Bangkok for the next attraction. Awfully clever.
So into the building we went. Happily, "The Snake Farm" turned out NOT to be the name of a gay club on the male side of Patpong Road. Rather, it is a fun little farm with live and dead snakes! Adie and I ogled snakes for several hours alongside giggling schoolgirls in their black and white uniforms, and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly before moving on to the next... lie!

We took the Skytrain to the river, and eagerly pranced towards the brown water and the boats. Suddenly, a Thai man darted in front of us, looking awfully concerned. "No boats now," he panted, "water is too low in the river. No boats for many hours." He looked at his watch, terribly sorry for our plight. "You come now in my private boat though, just 500 Baht!" We paused for a moment to consider, then noticed the surging mustard-colored waves just beyond the man's shoulder. "There's LOADS of wahtah out theah!" laughed Adie, and we skipped past the chap towards the public boats. What a nice ride up and down the city to our destinations!

A final Bangkok lie of the day: The word "Sidewalk". On the way to the Grand Palace, Adie and I were innocently strolling down the sidewalk next to a highway when we heard an ominous "VROOM!!" I whipped around just in time to pull my tattooed chef friend into the bush as not one motorcycle but SEVENTEEN zoomed off the highway and right on down the sidewalk to evade the crushing traffic. Yeeek!
At the end of our lovely day, I made a mental note to my sweaty self: keep your heart and mind open and happy, but keep those ears perked for lies, and that body coiled to MOVE whenever you hear "VROOM!"

Lerner aus der Ferne

5 November 2009
Dear Diary,
It's a pause-time in my paperwork process for the impending move. There's not a whole lot I can do right now- licensure paperwork won't be available to me until January, the cat can't get her final checkup until February, and I won't be able to job-hunt until closer to March- so I've decided that it's high time to start learning about this fabulous new place I'll be moving to.
Kaiserslautern, Germany is unique for many reasons. According to Wikipedia (and we all know how accurate they can be), human settlement of the area dates back to 800 BC. It's within relatively easy access of Paris, Frankfurt, and Luxembourg, which is convenient today but has also meant that much of its history has been fraught with violence. It played home base to several key members of the Protestant Reformation, was practically obliterated during the 30 years' war, spent much of the 1th and 19th centuries under siege and occupation from the French, and was partially destroyed in Allied bombings during World War II.

Kaisterslautern, as seen from one of its five Rathauses. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

Since then, the city has rebuilt itself and is now considered to be the Silicon Valley of Europe. It claims the largest swimming pool in Europe, an enormous botanical gardens, and the University of Kaiserslautern. It also has an art museum, several libraries (including one that specializes in Palatinate history), and a variety of sports complexes throughout the city. It is also in easy reach of the Rhineland's castles, wineries, and, of course, Munich's Oktoberfest. All of the websites targeting foreign nationals living in the area repeatedly stress that you will never run out of places to go, things to see, and culture to experience.
That's the other interesting thing about Kaiserslautern: its relationship with foreign nationals.
After World War II, the Allies set up permanent military bases in Germany and Japan, whose responsibilities include "deter[ing] aggression by maintaining combat ready, forward deployed ground combat forces" according to the US military website. The US bases in the Kaiserslautern region are, as a result, the home of some 50,000 US citizens, making it the largest population of Americans outside of the US. Ramstein Air Force Base and Landstuhl Medical Centre are both in this area- the former being the entry point for most of the US soldiers in Europe, the latter being the primary treatment centre for soldiers injured in the Middle East. In slang, because Americans have historically had difficulty pronouncing "Kaiserslautern" (hint: leave out the Rs), the city is also known as "K-Town." The large numbers of Americans in the area also means a direct economic relationship: Americans contribute approximately $1 billion annually to the local economy.
In the process of doing the paperwork for his work visa, Nick spent a lot of time in the Rathaus (town hall). He, like me, speaks English and French but no German, and discovered that the employees of the Rathaus, while helpful, either didn't know languages aside from German or would refuse to speak it to him. He managed to win them over after he used Google to translate a series of notecards with phrases such as "I'm sorry, my German is terrible" and "I need to find the person who can sign this form" written on them- apparently, holding up one card after another and looking apologetic made the entire administrative staff laugh and got him the help he needed.

Nanzdietschweiler, where Nick is currently living. Photo courtesy of panoramio.com

I've always believed in learning as much as possible about local language and customs before spending time in a new place, if for no other reason than the fact that I think it's respectful. But in this situation- with the military occupation, the history of destruction and combat, the economic role that the US plays in the area- it almost seems imperative. And that raises new questions about where my research should go next and what it's possible to learn without actually being in Kaiserslautern.
Nick has been helping me by passing along the words of wisdom he hears from his friends in the area, as well as his own observations. Some of what I've been able to pick up on includes such gems as his current apartment being adjacent to what he refers to as "the Scary Road of Death," which features narrow lanes, hairpin turns, and Germans going at rubber-burning speeds. Culture lesson the first: 160 km/hour- or, in American parlance, about 99 miles/hour- is a common driving speed. Culture lesson the second? Be prepared for second-hand smoke. Kaiserslautern residents apparently love their tobacco, and many restaurants feature the sort of smoking vs. non-smoking separation of the US in the late 80s (read: opposite sides of the room). Culture lesson the third: while Germans do have a word for vegetarian (vegetarische, if Google is correct), the concept hasn't translated very well to their restaurants. I, a vegetarian for thirteen years, need to get ready to drop the "dinner" part of "dinner and a movie" date nights while we're in Kaiserslautern.
So at least I've got a little warning. Limited food, lung cancer, and life-threatening road trips will be some of the cultural adjustments I'll be making in the near future, and I really should lay off the Google translate- or at least exchange it for something like Rosetta Stone products. Above all, I should be ready to spend my first few months in Germany adjusting to the fact that, no matter my intentions and desires, I'll technically be part of an occupying force and will feel the need to compensate for that. Negotiating what aspects of local culture to participate in, and which to leave out, will be determined in part by that power dynamic.
At the very least, I should invest in some notecards and practice my pathetic face.
-Erica

Into the Canyon

By Lisa
This was a bad idea.
From between clenched teeth, I muttered the same words over and over.  “Please don’t fall, Maggie.  Please, please don’t fall.”
With every plodding step, Maggie’s hooves skittered off the side of the canyon trail, sending rocks and crumbling sandstone tumbling down, down, down the cliff.  She scrambled to keep her footing as we descended into the canyon, and I was positive that, any second, we would follow those rocks and plummet to our deaths.
Why had I ever thought that taking a trail ride to the bottom of Bryce Canyon would be fun?  I had never really ridden a horse -- save for tame trail rides, and pony rides as a child.  But that morning, after an invigorating hike amidst the orange-and-white-striped hoodoos, slightly sunburned and full of desire to see more, always more, I had wandered into the Bryce Canyon Lodge to ask about their trail rides.
It had seemed like a good decision.  A little spontaneous, but that’s what my solo road trip was for: to get out of my comfort zone, have an adventure, do things I didn’t normally get to do.  So I asked, there was an opening, I paid my fee, and a little while later (after some help from the laughing trail guide) I had awkwardly climbed atop Maggie the mule and we began our four-hour trek.  The trail was steeper than it looked, and felt steeper from my vantage point on top of this large animal I had no idea how to control.
And she was going to fall.
I repeated my prayer -- “please don’t fall, Maggie” -- and heard a chuckle.  I looked up, and the guy on the horse in front of me was grinning.
“What’s so funny?”  I asked, the accusation clear.
“Sorry.”  He stifled another laugh.  “But I promise you that mule won’t fall.”
I eyed the skittering hooves, and squeezed the reins into a death grip as Maggie lurched sideways.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.  Look, I’ll give you a million dollars if the mule falls.”
Despite my pounding heart, I let out a short laugh.
“Thanks, but -- I don’t think there’s any way for me to win that bet.”
He grinned at me, still twisted in his saddle.  He was cute.  He was teasing.  I felt better.
“I’m Lisa,” I said.  “Thanks for distracting me.”
“My pleasure.  I’m Parker.  Well, Parker is my last name, but no one calls me Jeff.”
For the next couple of hours, Parker and I chatted now and then, usually when he looked over his shoulder and saw the panicked look on my face.  The way back up -- another couple of hours -- was less scary, and Parker’s smiles and encouragement were welcome distractions.  I eventually relaxed into the rhythm of the ride, trusting that Maggie knew how to keep her footing, and basked in the beauty of the canyon.
Afterwards, Parker and I chatted our way up to the parking lot, where we realized we were heading off in opposite directions.  We exchanged emails.
At the end of the trip, we were offered the opportunity to purchase photos taken of us on our mules/horses descending into the canyon.  Mine somehow looked like I was having the time of my life and not petrified of falling to my death.
That photo is now sitting on my desk, a reminder that spontaneous decisions can lead to unexpected joys, however brief they may be.  Even though I didn’t keep in touch with Parker, he was there for a reason: so that I now look back on that trail ride not as something I had to endure, but something that I accomplished.  Something I even enjoyed, eventually.  Thanks, Jeff Parker, wherever you are.
But I won't be going on another mule ride to the bottom of a canyon anytime soon.

The Catalan Coincidence

By Megan

It's been 16 months since I left Barcelona.  I was pulled back into the US to finish my college degree and by a curiosity for the adventure that would be the year following graduation.  I had accomplished my goal of having dreams in Spanish and traveling to wherever my feet felt like taking me.  It was a glorious year of discovery and exploration that had to end, but there is still one connection that keeps me part of Catalunya- let's call it, "The Catalan Coincidence".  Whenever you least expect, a Catalan encounter will take place. (Below photo by Alejandro Gamboa).

For example, this past week alone, I had three people ask me if I spoke Catalan- una mica.  And in a choir rehearsal, I had to read aloud the pronunciation of a Catalan piece so that the aquesta's, nit's, and deu's were in order.  In Berlin, a bike tour I took in Spanish was lead by a Valenciana (a woman from the region of Spain where they speak a Valencian dialect of Catalan).  But the most clandestine 'Catalan Coincidence' I've ever come across was in Milan, Italy.
My travel bud and I arrived in Milan late on a Thursday evening- the plane tickets were a steal, even though it was a late arrival flight.  We soon realized that the bus we planned on taking into the city was going to drop us off in a part of town we had not researched; this meant that all of the hostels we had looked into were on the other side of town.  We didn't have a proper map, it was past midnight, and our knowledge of Italian was limited, to say the least.  A familiar, uncomfortable feeling of doom started to roll over us as the bus made it's way into the city.
Suddenly, through the waves of anxiety, came a sound familiar to any well-immersed Barcelona study-abroad student: Four catalan women gabbing loudly, while on vacation.  The strong t's and squished together ll's sounds like a lullaby, especially when they graciously lead us through the streets of Milan to a relatively inexpensive hotel where they had rooms booked.  It was a god-send at 1-am in the Italian morning to two lost travelers.  Without our Catalan guides, we would have had no idea where to go- but fear not, the Catalan Coincidence brought forth four beaming rays of light.  Bona nit's and gràcies'  later, we had been saved.
Il Duomo and gnocchi made for a fine day in Milan before we said 'adéu' to the city and our Catalan guides, and headed for Venice.  In short, Catalan will find you no matter where you are or what you are doing.  It might come in the form of petons from a friend, or a protest that throws your thoughts back to fellow students from the universitat.  Embrace it and it will ignore you with love.

Next week:  A Go-Girl Guide to Hostels

When WHITE Penetrates Mother Afrika

But perhaps I have jumped into things too quickly. I haven't really had much of a chance to explain that yes, I successfully made

Airport in São Miguel. Sort of classy for an airport, eh?

it though a wonderful week in the Azores (which I'm sure you all will hear plenty about, especially when I'm sitting in my lonesome back home in DC, whenever that is), arrived in São Tomé, learned how to type accents on my new computer, and, well, have just been having a heck of a time.
I took a plane from Ponta Delgada on the island of São Miguel in the Azores to Lisbon, then stayed with my cousins Marina and Sérgio and their adorable new bundle of baby, Santiago, for a couple of days. After getting a small preview of the awesome effects of Doxycycline if not swallowed under its very specific and rigid guidelines (I say "preview" because there was much more to come but two weeks later), I hit the airport again, bags ready to go, toting a spartan number of tank tops and shorts, a disproportionate weight of candy and books, and a really nice bottle of Azorean wine to give to my gracious host, Ned.

All this was in the forefront of my mind when we traveled from the little mini airport shuttle at nearly midnight towards our plane, an odd time for a flight and a totally disorganized system of boarding that even seemed a little out of the ordinary for Portugal, a country I once lambasted for its own lack of efficiency and charm. I couldn't help but wonder if Portugal and São Tomé were still on hesitant (if not hostile) terms.

My wondering was quickly floored by awe as we approached our plane, a once-a-week luxury of TAP Portugal, and, clear as anything else I'd ever read in my life, in letters the size of people, the name of the plane reads:

WHITE

No, this is not a joke. But you might think the following is: Below it reads:

Coloured by You

White, Coloured by You, courtesy of the White website- http://www.flywhite.eu

Good Lord, how I wish I could make this stuff up.

I could hardly keep myself from laughing. I'm sure people thought I was crazy. The plane is called WHITE? And it's colored by...what...a rainbow of singing, dumb Africans that somehow, at the right time, just showed up for the plane trip of their lives??

Well, what do you do?

You say, okay! We're getting on this huge, phallic machine called WHITE, and we're going to penetrate virgin Mother Afrika at 400 miles per hour.

My life in São Tomé has been peppered with little bits that make me laugh like this. What else CAN you do when a country's history of European control is so recent (they only became independent in the mid-1970s)? Not only this, but their whole home, their entire history began as an overflow zone for starving Cape Verdeans in an overpopulated island to contract into honest work, only to be deceived and thrown into slavery. How do you come to terms with that when it's something the Santomenses deal with every day of their life?

The STeP UP office

Among a few English classes, some translations, some great friend-making (I love standing out; I feel like people in the USA never remember my face but here everyone knows who I am) and other things, the thing that keeps me busy here (and what I originally arrived for) was to help an incredible NGO called STeP UP (São Tomé e Príncipe Union for Promotion) coordinate and work out the kinks of a very generous donation by the One Laptop Per Child Program to a local middle school in the capital. About 90 very excited twelve year olds were handed an amazingly efficient, durable, and inexpensive laptop computer that is complete with photo/video camera, microphone, a swivel frame, multiple USB ports and wireless internet access (you can buy one for yourself or any child for $250, and included in this $250 is the donation of a laptop to a child in a poor country as well- how about that!). I'm here to learn the OLPC platform and teach it to teachers and students alike, then facilitate a way for them to incorporate these computers in their everyday learning environment (both in school and at home).

Yesterday was my first day of class with the kids themselves. While we waited in hopes that the energy would turn back on

The kids wait for the energy to come back on in class. And go camera-happy while we wait :)

(something that is horribly unreliable and inconsistent, and often just doesn't work at all), the poor kids waited, say 75 of them, crowded into one classroom, for hours. I couldn't leave them there so I thought I would at least get their attention and play some games- whatever I could think of on my feet, really- 7 Up, red light green light (outside), and, my favorite, Hangman.

At least it was my favorite, until I suddenly wanted to simultaneously laugh and cry. Here I am, a white woman, of Portuguese descent nonetheless, teaching these African children a really great spelling game that incorporates lynching. I am certainly going to Hell.

Either the kids never picked up the reference, or someone Up There was on my side yesterday, because the kids actually loved the game and it occupied a solid 30 minutes of our time. But good grief, what a trip. I had played my own race card, and it was a wild card, and here I am in Africa, and, from now on, Hangman is going to be something much, much less violent.