Silver and Bones

By Megan

I don't know how we figured out the ticket situation at the bus station in Prague, but we ended up on the right bus towards Kutná Hora... without seats.  So my new friend and I sat on the floor and talked like old friends about music, travel and food.  Feet numb from the two hour ride, we made our way to the Sedlec Ossuary, ie. the bone church, after grabbing a quick lunch.
I knew that it would be interesting to visit the church where an estimated 40,000 to 70,000 human remains had been artistically arranged in piles, chandeliers and wall decorations, but I honestly thought it would be more creepy than it was.  To be honest, it was devoid of any energy or emotion.  The Ossuary was creepy because of the sterility of the space and besides, it was really difficult to believe that 40,000+ human remains were stacked around us.
We hiked back into the city center to visit with St. Barbara's gothic church; St. Barbara is the patron saint of miners, apt for this town established on the discovery of silver.  Construction began in 1388, but was not complete until the 1905 (reminds me a bit of a certain Catalan structure, cough Gaudi, cough Sagrada Familia).  The double arched flying buttresses were stunning (flash backs to that middle school architecture class, thank you Mrs. Crumm).
We had a few more hours to kill before the bus picked us up, and as it just so happened, an English language tour of the silver mine was just picking up.  So we joined a group of students traveling with their college professor and donned a plastic helmet and cloth coat.  Playing with our head lamps, we listened hard to decipher our wonderful guide.  She told us that the mine was of 14th century origin and that we would only be on level 1 of 10-12 stories of the mine.  I could hardly keep from laughing when our guide warned us that the tunnel would begin to get much smaller and then we nearly had to crouch through the tiny tunnel- the helmet came in very handy.  She also had all of us turn off our headlamps to simulate what light would have looked like for a minor in the 14-16th century and it was barely enough to see your hand in front of your face.  Yikes!
We casually caught the bus back to the city after the tour to find my travel partner waiting for me at Sir Toby's.  The day ended with a good meal and lots of conversation about our day.  The last leg of our trip, Vienna, loomed just in front of us and we were starting to miss Barcelona.

Culturally Illiterate

By Beth

I set my notebook down on the table in front of the teachers. Today is our day to review the computer program that we have developed, to look at basic computer troubleshooting, and to think about the classes that will pick up after Christmas break. It is Friday, which is when we usually meet up and plan our lessons. It is also my last week in São Tomé e Príncipe and I am trying to leave my teachers self-sufficient, so that they don't need me during the eight months that I will be gone. It is a difficult task and certainly not the best situation- I wish I could stay and lend a hand. But this program is theirs to develop. On their own. If they can do that, I know the future of the One Laptop per Child program here in São Tomé will be in good hands.

“Now,” I say, looking at the five of them. “Before we talk about tomorrow's class, I wanted to go over this guidebook I made for you that will help you troubleshoot any computer problems that you may come across.”

“What class tomorrow?????” The teachers ask me, all five of them. “Don't you remember? We're going on a field trip!”

After about ten minutes of back-and-forth, I realize that we have, once again, hit a cultural speedbump. Last week the teachers and I agreed to take the kids to the beach the following Saturday to celebrate our last day together. I stood beside Miguel as we told the students to bring their computers to class Saturday morning, as we would be leaving for the field trip shortly after.

However, it seems as though my words did not resonate in Miguel. And what I didn't realize is that, it just doesn't work like that here. You either have class, or you go on a class trip. You don't- you can't- do both. So no matter how much you may tell someone otherwise, it's so different to them that it's not even remotely possible that it's true.

Years of culture were acting against me on this Friday in São Tomé. I see some of the teachers getting frustrated with me. Language has bitten me in the butt once again.

Here in São Tomé, I am very happy and have some great friends, but at the same time, I tend to get frustrated and/or offend other people regularly. My Portuguese is solid enough that I really get to know people for their personalities and not as much as a visitor or a foreigner. Yet it's a different world when you're nearly fluent in a language but completely illiterate in the culture. I wonder if it's a double-edged sword to be like this- able to relate to another person perfectly on a linguistic level without knowing their culture. Because when you are able to communicate easily with another person, it is also that much easier to assume they are just like you, culturally. It makes it easier to bicker and fight or to get frustrated.

When you don't speak a language, I think you are often extremely open to different cultures and experiences. You treat it like a game, in a sense. The voice of adventure in you says “go!” But when you speak the language, when you can connect with these people on a different level, not only do you forge deeper relationships, but you also put other relationships at risk. If someone says something that you don't agree with, it hits you square in the eyes and you react relative to your own culture. But if you don't speak the language, you smile because you don't understand anyway.

It's a funny situation when you understand a language but not a culture. I find myself defending my actions often by saying “I'm sorry, I'm just not used to the way you guys do it here because it's not like that in the States!” Sometimes the boys ask me if I want them to give me a ride into town, if I want them to go buy me gas for my motorcycle, or other little tasks. I am used to saying “Sure, but I don't want to impose, so if you don't want to, that's ok.”

And when I say that here, people get angry with me. “Do you want to or not?????” They snap. I don't mean to offend. I try to tell them that in the States, people don't necessarily mean what they say, and you always have to give them a chance to back out of it. But to São Tomeans that's the craziest idea, and something they may never fully understand.

If I didn't speak Portuguese, would there be so many mix-ups, so many misunderstandings? Probably not, because I would go with the flow, a smile on my face. But on the other hand, how well can you know someone without understanding their words? But in an age of not always saying what you mean, is body language enough?

The Cambodian Child Sex Trade

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

In Phuket, Thailand, I spent some creepy time chatting with womanizing older German men. They all had twenty-something year old Thai girlfriends already, but they had big other plans.
"Every day vee play Poker together," said Hans with a leer, "And vee put money in a pot. Vhen we have a full pot, you know vhat we do?" I didn't know. "Vacation! Cambodia!" he gave a wink. "They haff niiiice young girls there. Very young."
Cambodia is notorious for it's horrific sex trade, most notably, providing older Western tourists with very young girls, and sometimes boys. Upon entering the country, I was slapped with numerous billboards that stated "PROTECT OUR NATIONAL TREASURES," showing a photo of a young Cambodian child. "A CHILD IS ANYONE UNDER 18." said the poster. "It is illegal to sexually exploit a child." At the bottom of the poster, a telephone hotline was provided for bystanders to report sexual wrongdoing.

Today, eating spicy green mango salad in a sun-drenched cafe, I suddenly wished I had written down the hotline. Across from me sat two large, pasty Western men, lecherously feeding Sprite to two EXTREMELY young Cambodian street girls. My breath came faster and my blood churned. What should I do? I glared at the men, scheming a plan.
Then, two more young girls appeared, begging every tourist they met to buy their small trinkets. The two Western men gestured them over. They sat them down at the table with Sprite, gave them crayons and paper, paid the bill, left a stack of money for the four grinning children and walked away.
The girls enjoyed their sodas for a hour, giggling and gossiping, with huge smiles on their faces. I snapped a photo.
Maybe the men came back later to collect favors from the children, but I like to think they actually just wanted to be nice. Sometimes paranoia is necessary, but sometimes people are just sweet.

Moving Abroad? Four Things to Consider

By Erica

On New Year's Day, my brain did something along the lines of the following: "YAY! IN FOUR MONTHS WE'LL BE DONE WITH THE MASTER'S DEGREES AND WE'LL BE MOVING! FOUR MONTHS IS ONLY SIXTEEN WEEKS! THOSE WILL GO BY SO QUICKLY AND WE'LL BE DONE AND I'M SO EXCITED AND OH CRAP THAT MEANS SIXTEEN WEEKS TO WRITE THE DISSERTATION AND PACK UP THE HOUSE AND LEARN ABOUT INTERNATIONAL REGULATIONS AND GET THE CAT OVER THERE AND I NEED VALIUM!!!!!1!" Yes. Even the "1" was present in my thoughts as I began to panic over the enormity of being sixteen weeks away from moving abroad. An independent, semi-permanent move to Germany is a terrifying game of bulls in china shops, the blind leading the blind, and every mixed metaphor you can think of. So to assist all you GoGirls (and Guys and GenderQueers) out there, I've come up with a list of a few things to consider when you're prepping for a move abroad.

THING TO CONSIDER #1: What else is going on in your life? An international move takes a LOT of work and planning, unless you're one of those mythical people who's able to just pick up and relocate without a second thought (and if you are, don't tell me because I'm insanely jealous). Since I'm clearly not one of those, I've sat down and thought about the multiple things I'm juggling in addition to the whole moving process. The three that top the list are finishing graduate school, finding my first full-time professional job, and planning our wedding. Sounds easy on paper (or on

The messiness of my room, packing to go back to Penna, is NOTHING compared to the messiness of my brain!

computer screen), but in reality it bears a strong resemblance to cooking a five-course meal, all at once, on a one-burner stove that's only partially functional. I'm reasonably sure that most people who are preparing to move abroad feel similarly overwhelmed. So look at the things that need to be done that you can do with less effort- it is, after all, the age of convenience! Look into hiring a moving company or getting a membership on an employment website. Check out storage units if you don't want to bring a lot of stuff. See where you can consolidate responsibilities-  it made my day, for example, to discover that my wedding reception venue comes complete with a caterer and vegetarian menu. Think of it like juggling Play-Doh. If you're juggling lots of little balls of dough, that's hard. But if you can squish the balls together to be two or three, it gets a lot easier.

THING TO CONSIDER #2: What are the immigration regulations that concern you? When preparing to move, it's a good idea to have a basic idea of how long you want to live abroad and what you want to be able to do there. Why? Because your rough idea of your abroad-time will affect your immigration status while you're there. Germany, for example, has an excitingly complex system of visas, permits, and residency statuses that's almost impossible to find clearly described anywhere. It ranges from a stamp on your passport, which gets you 90 days in Germany for every 180 days of the year, to the TESA- a work visa that's so highly coveted and hard to get, it must be made out of diamonds. Every country is different, even when they're part of a conglomerate (yes, European Union, I'm talking about you), and in order to be able to have enough time to see and do the things you want, it's a good idea to know what immigration statuses are available and what you need to do to get them. Very few things ruin a life abroad like the threat (or experience) of being deported!

THING TO CONSIDER #3: What's your timeline? Again, unless you're the aforementioned easy-breezy mover, international moves take months of planning. To live and work in an area you generally need a visa; to get a visa, you generally need a job; to get a job, you generally need to know the local requirements for employment and meet their expectations. Same goes for moving. To bring a household over, you need to pack and ship your stuff; to pack and ship your stuff, you need to know packing regulations, customs requirements, duties and tariffs, what's considered contraband, and acceptable box sizes and weight limits; to know these things, it helps to call a moving company. Each step can take a while to complete, and some steps- visas and moving company bookings in particular- require you to be several months ahead of the game. Consider the timeline in light of your one-burner multi-course dinner juggling act, as well: if you're going to move, you're going to have to wrap things up before you leave; if you're going to wrap things up before you leave, you need to have an idea of what needs to be done and how to do it. Think along the lines of "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie," only not nearly as delicious and with more of a mess to clean up.

THING TO CONSIDER #4: Are you really in this alone? Finally, when you start the process of getting ready to move, it can be easy (especially for a type A person like me) to feel like you're responsible for everything and have to handle everything yourself. Cut yourself some slack! Moving abroad is a stressful enough process, psychologically speaking. As with the consideration of what else you have to handle in your life, think about who you can ask for help- but don't think only in terms of hiring moving companies or paying for a slot on jobsearch.com. Can any of your friends, family, or partners help connect you to potential employers, movers, or take on any of the other things in your life? Are any of your friends also infected with the travel bug, and expressing an interest in coming with you (and carrying a bag of your stuff while they're at it)? I was raised, like many of my woman-identified friends, to believe that a strong, independent woman rarely needs t0 ask for help and can handle most anything that's thrown her way. Trust me when I say that this might be one of the situations in which asking for help doesn't make you weak or dependent. If nothing else, you get a chance to spend time with the people you won't be seeing a lot of for the next few years- and it's a great chance for all of you to get caught up in the excitement of the adventures you're going to be having soon!

A Different Kind of Gold

by Lisa

“You ready to strike it rich?” Mike asked, grinning at me from beneath his baseball cap.

“Sure!”  I hoped my tone reflected the enthusiasm I was trying to fake.

Mike had set two plastic buckets upside-down in the creek, and now he instructed me to have a seat on one of them.  I stepped into the creek and felt the chill of the knee-high mountain water rushing around my hip-wader rubber boots.  Cautiously, I sat on the bucket.  It seemed stable enough.  Mike handed me a pan filled with dirt, sat across from me, and showed me how to use the rushing creek water to get rid of most of the clay and sand, and how to swirl the remaining sediment around in the pan to separate out any gold specks.  Patiently, I listened and tried to mimic the circular motions he made with his wrists, all the while wondering how long was long enough to sit there.
Several days earlier, I had arrived at Flynn’s Hidden Hollow Hideaway Cattle & Guest Ranch in Townsend, Montana, for a week of horseback riding, hiking, and enjoying the peace that comes with being miles from the nearest cell phone signal.  The first few days were filled with wonder and magic as I rode all over the mountainside, herded cattle, and learned how to fire a rifle.  The food was good, the setting was breathtaking, and the ranchers were friendly. 

One of the ranchers was Mike, an older man who strode around in full waders (with suspenders) and an ever-present grin.  Mike helped out on the ranch when needed and spent the rest of his time looking for gold on the ranch property.  Throughout the week, Mike had asked me if I wanted him to teach me how to pan for gold.  It seemed a silly endeavor, a tourist trap, and every time I simply shrugged.  The owner of the ranch had mentioned that they didn’t salt the cache, meaning that if I did find any gold it came from the mountains.  The unspoken caution, of course, was that I shouldn’t expect to find anything at all.  Mike was persistent, however, and his grin was so enthusiastic that I finally agreed, in part because I thought it was a small thing I could do to make his day.  I went in thinking that I would be polite for an hour, and then move on to pursuits that were more interesting.

Once I got the hang of the panning, Mike started to ask me questions.  What did I do for a living?  Where was I from?  Did I like the big city?  And so forth.  When I said I was a lawyer, he started asking me questions about famous Supreme Court cases.  I was a little surprised at first, but lulled by the warm sun on my back, the cool water rushing around my boots, and the repetitive, circular motions of my gold pan, I relaxed and we began to talk in earnest.

We talked about the law, mostly.  Mike knew a lot about the law, because he was a gold miner, didn’t want to pay a lawyer very much, and so spent a lot of time researching, asserting, and lobbying for miners’ rights in Montana.  He read cases – new and old – and had taught himself how to analyze statutes, regulations and court decisions.  His interests were broader than mining, however, which is how he knew about many Supreme Court cases that I had never heard of until law school.  He read them for fun.

“If my life had gone differently, I probably would have gone to law school,” Mike said, adjusting his hat and squinting in the sunlight.  He shrugged.  “But it didn’t, so I had to figure it out for myself.”
We talked about life in general.  Mike was a Vietnam vet, and, like so many others, had difficulty readjusting to normal life once he returned to the states.  Despite the difficulties he faced, however, Mike adopted a practical, cheerful outlook and found a life that he enjoyed living: nominally indulging gold fever, but in reality using the gold mining as a way to spend time in the outdoors and dig into the intellectual pursuit – law – for which he was clearly well suited.

As we talked, I forgot about my initial reservations, and the time passed too quickly.  After a couple of hours, I had discovered several tiny flecks of gold from my many pans.  Mike helped me put them into a little vial, which I dutifully pocketed to bring home as a souvenir. 

I thanked Mike for teaching me to pan for gold.  He apologized that I hadn't struck it rich.  He didn’t realize that, in fact, I had.

City Crush- Prague

By Megan

We were in the middle of our 'northern' European trip, enjoying a white peony tea in a shop near Wenceslas Square when I knew- I was in love.  It was as if I had fallen into an Audrey Tautou movie, except my hair was convinced on growing dreadlocks and looking quite wild.  I braided my hair and opened my arms wide ready for an adventure.
Our hostel was adorable (SIR TOBY'S; see my favorites at http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/a-go-girls-guide-to-hosteling/) and filled with several interesting characters.  There was a father introducing his two young sons to hosteling and the charms of Prague, a boy from Singapore who had been backpacking for several weeks, and of course, my new friend Anton from Sweden.  The lady at the DELICIOUS homemade granola breakfast bar giggled when I informed her that the jug of agua was empty.  A helpful guy making pancakes translated my vocabulary slip-up for me with a thumbs up, as a refilled my cup of water.
Prague itself was warm and the tank tops finally started to pull their weight, especially on a walk across Charles Bridge towards the Prague Castle.  I still remember the torture chamber and tiny shop doors of the castle ground, but walking up the stairs to the castle was half of the fun.
The next evening, I went back to the castle with my new friends at night and hiked the stairs with the city lights in the background.  Prague had me swooning in the palm of its hand; romantic vistas, a bohemian style that didn't feel forced, and a music/arts scene so diverse that admirers still enjoy Mucha's art nouveau advertisements.  Speaking to the diversity of the city's arts, my friend and I enjoyed a concert through the Fringe Festival, in a small basement bar, by a Scottish singer/songwriter before walking through the historic Jewish quarters in search of dinner.
Later that night, with a so-so gelato in hand, I watched as the famous astronomical clock let 'death' chime in nine o'clock.  It wasn't too exciting to see, until I learned that it was built in the 1400s and nearly destroyed in WWII.  (Quite the commentary that 'death', represented by a skeleton, ticks away the time especially considering the new year...)

Our next day, we climbed the 'Eiffel' tower, which gave us fantastic views of the city and has very cool double helix stairs.  Then, we went across the city to view a most confusing t.v. tower covered in giant crawling babies.  I still don't get it.  It was decided that one more night in the country was necessary, so my travel partner decided to tour a concentration camp ,while I went with my new bud to Kutná Hora for a day trip.  The next day (and next week's entry) promised to be interesting...

Sempre Fixe

By Beth

Greetings are important in São Tomé. You cannot enter a room without greeting every single person in it, whether it's a handshake, a kiss, a hello, whatever.

Sometimes to save time from having to go and kiss someone you give them a thumbs up. Thumbs up means, "Tudo fixe?" ("fixe" rhymes with "leash", for those who care about pronunciation) or "Everything cool?" And the correct response is to give the person a thumbs up back, which means "sempre fixe" or "always cool". It's like the São Tomé version of pounding it, giving knuckles.
We drive by in our truck en route to the STeP UP office, where I work. As we see people we know, we give them thumbs up. They give thumbs up back. Now they have been appropriately greeted.
I like the phrase "sempre fixe". Everything is cool. Life is good. No worries. It also makes me think of my friend Marvin.

Marvin and I dated for some time back in the States. Now we are very good friends. Marvin is an officer in the Marine Corps and life isn't easy for him. When we stopped dating, he had to move to Oklahoma for artillery training and, a few months later, I went to São Tomé. He didn't like the idea of me doing volunteer work in another country. When I told him originally that I wanted to apply for the Peace Corps (which I didn't end up doing), he would tell me to do things like keep a gun on me at all times. His family is Haitian and I find Haiti to be very much like São Tomé, tropical, in terrible need, but quite friendly, but it still didn't assuage his worry for my safety in Africa. Haiti is much more dangerous...and in that way its similarity to São Tomé makes Marvin nervous...in case it is dangerous, too.

Yet sometime in the next couple of days, he'll be going off to do his own foreign and quite dangerous traveling, to Afghanistan.

I try not to worry about him, but he is a close friend, a brother. I have been following his life from afar, coping along with the rest of America, watching every news program with a knot in my stomach and hoping for just a little more information about what the war brings. I remember the "Semper Fi" sticker he had on his SUV. "Always Faithful," as the Marine Corps says.

There is a point where lives intersect, and often again where lives fork. We have both gone off to our respective battles in different countries, seemingly different worlds. And while I live the life of "Sempre Fixe" Marvin lives the life of "Semper Fi". When I ask someone "tudo fixe?" and hear their response, I say a prayer under my breath. And somehow it comforts me that, even though I cannot give my support in person, we are still connected.

A New Years Review

By Marianne

I've gone through the New Year traditions in a lot of different places. I've seen the fireworks in London, Spain and New York. In Annapolis, Baltimore, Washington DC and Los Angeles. And most recently, in Thailand and Sydney, Australia.

I don't remember too much about my London New Years, I imagine mostly because the last time I was in the UK for January 1, I was ten years old and I don't think I ever did anything particularly noteworthy. Hopefully for January 1, 2011, I'll be back there again to really see what it's like.
I remember in Spain going to a restaurant with my parents and having to eat a grape at each of the 12 strikes of the clock. I was young then too and I have a distinct memory of painful cheeks and almost choking on grapes. Small mouth + 12 grapes = not a good time.

Countdown to 2009 in Koh Pha Ngan

My first New Years in New York City, 1997, I had moved to the country mere weeks before hand. I was still so excited to be living in a place like NYC, so the New Year was pretty great although again, as an 11 year old, I wasn't exactly drinking champagne on a roof in Times Square. This all makes me realise that despite having been in some of the biggest cities in the world, it's not often that I've managed to make it to the 'big night' show that ends up on everyone's television. I'm usually with them in the living room watching the screen.

Well at least I did pretty well the last two years...

For the Millenium, I was 14 years old and had a big girly sleep over with all the girls in my year at school, waiting anxiously (or not so much) to see if the world would indeed end at Y2K. I've been to First Night in Annapolis and seen the US Naval Academy's midnight show, and I've been stuck in plenty of post-midnight traffic.

Last year was certainly my most tropical new year. I watched the countdown to 2009 on Koh Pha Ngan with about 30,000 other people at one of the infamous 'Full Moon' parties (New Years is just as good an excuse, if not better, than an actual full moon for a party after all.). It was the typical backpacker thing to do. Nothing glamorous about it, but certainly the best time I've ever had on a beach, and definitely the 'thing' to do if you happen to be a traveler in Thailand.

My New Years Eve in Sydney

This year, I finally got to see, live, the fireworks that I see every year on television and I spent New Years in the Southern Hemisphere for the first time. I was in one of the first countries to roll in to the new decade and it was definitely above average. Okay, it was fantastic. At about 11 in the morning on December 31, I headed out with a backpack full of good food and cheap wine to meet up with everyone at Thornton Park in Balmain East. It was the perfect spot - not too big, and apparently not too well known, so our group had plenty of room to spread out our blankets, pump up the iPod speakers and get comfortable for our last day of 2009 with a perfect view of Sydney's Harbour Bridge. The show was fantastic. The bridge lit up again and again, with waterfalls of fire, towers of fire, champagne explosions. Everything. After the fireworks, a long journey home and a good sleep what did I do for my first day in 2010? Walked in as a VIP to Space Ibiza's Sydney New Years Day party of course! I danced and partied with the likes of Sam Sparro and Pete Tong until we were kicked out and I struggled to get home without falling asleep to enjoy a nice long lie in. Happy New Year indeed.

The Trap on the Cambodian Border

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://AroundTheWorldL.com/
Part of the reason I stayed so long in Bangkok (besides the wonderful people) was I was terrified to cross the infamous Thailand-Cambodia border at Poipet.

I was right to be scared.
"This is NOT the border," said Thomas. "We asked the tuk-tuk to take us to the Cambodian border and this is NOT the border."
The man in the suit grew exasperated. "This IS the border, sir. Here-- here is my credential." He showed us a badge and a certificate. "Please just fill out these forms, and you can get your Cambodian visa." He again fluttered the official-looking documents at us.
Flo and I didn't know who to believe. The whole five hour bus ride from Bangkok to Aranyaprathet, the two Austrian brothers and I had been comparing the scary research we had done regarding border con artists. I looked at the document. It was stamped with a color seal of the Kingdom of Cambodia, and looked like every other official document I've filled out, with its careful blue and white grid. Twelve other men in suits watched us from across the office.
"This is NOT the border," said Thomas again. "You are trying to get money from us. You don't work for the government."
There was a bustle as the men in suits talked loudly in Khymer and flipped open their cellphones to make calls. The three of us began to believe that maybe we were just being paranoid foreigners. Maybe we were being plain old rude. Ignorant. Flo sat down at the table and picked up a pen. It's not a good idea to upset a government official. Had we just been reading too many horror stories?
Suddenly, the first man in the suit strode back. "Ok, you can go."

"Huh?"
"You can go."
I was aghast. Just like the internet pages had warned, the whole thing-- the official papers, the suits, the badges-- had just been a scam.
We shakily climbed back in the tuk-tuk and glared at the long-haired woman driving. "The BORDER, please," said Thomas. The motor started, and the woman said nothing.
"Consulate," she said, two minutes later, stopping the vehicle. We looked up at the Consulate of Cambodia, and could see new men in suits descending the lawn towards us. "NO!" we said in unison, "THE BORDER. THE ACTUAL BORDER!" The driver stared at us from behind her giant dark glasses, immobile. The heat was sweltering and the three of us barely fit with our backpacks on the tiny, three-wheeled tuk-tuk.
Finally, we were moving down the highway again. I couldn't believe our driver had tried to sell us to sham artists TWICE to earn her paltry commission from them-- but we had been amply warned that this is how it goes.

Ten minutes later, we began to see barbed wire, looming, fence-like buildings, and dozens of men in uniforms. We also saw streams of people on foot with coconut-stacked wheelbarrows and checkered head scarves walking purposefully towards the gaps in the barbed wire. We angrily paid the tuk-tuk driver her undeserved 80 Baht and walked to the sign marked "Foreigners". We got our exit stamp from the real Thai official.
In the nether-world between the two countries, we entered the "Visa on Arrival" booth. The heat and dust were choking, and the lines of coconut wheelbarrow folks continued past us, now joined by dozens of tiny children who shrieked "Hallooo!" and tried to follow us. We filled out the ACTUAL visa application (which looked nothing like the fake one the scam artists had given us), and I walked to the official to pay. "900 Baht," ($25) he said. I handed him two five hundreds. He looked at the money, then at my visa application. "Actually," he said, "1000 Baht." I started to argue, completely paranoid and rattled from our earlier encounter, but Thomas shushed me. "This man actually IS an official," he whispered. "Just let it go. It's three dollars more."
We got on the free shuttle bus to the bus and taxi depot nearby. The bus from the depot to Siem Reap is cheap but takes five hours or more, and often sells you to guesthouses for commission. The taxi takes just two hours and, while the $48 price is exorbitant for Cambodia, most tourists pick it, as it's a worthwhile cost when split among several people.

A tout led us through a throng of loudly talking men to the shabby taxi and we got in, expecting the driver to do the same. Instead, he dove into a ten-minute argument with the throng of men, all of them gesturing wildly. "It's the tourist trade mafia," whispered Thomas. "They are negotiating who gets what share of our money. Did you notice how there is no good public transport to Siem Reap, even though a quality bus would be easy enough to create? The tourist trade mafia keeps it that way so they can charge the crazy taxi fares."
A third man came to our window. "You pay half now, half in Siem Reap," he said. "We need to pay the police." We looked over and suddenly saw a man in a police uniform silently writing on a pad, seemingly presiding over the argument. "Where's our driver?" said Thomas. At last we spotted our diminutive chauffeur, engulfed in the waving arms and loud debate. "When our driver sits down, we'll give you the money," said Thomas. At last the driver came, the money changed hands, and the policeman issued the cab an official-looking certificate for the window.

We were off! Electric green rice fields, pancake flat and laden with dully glinting brown pools... Cattle on the fields and also trotting along the road... Giant blue sky with swollen puffs of white clouds... Tiny towns with rickety shacks and wares sold on dusty platforms... "We're in Cambodia!" I whispered, awe-struck.
Suddenly a rooster crowed, and we stopped short. The rooster turned out to be the driver's cellphone. He answered and began yelling in Khymer. "He's trying to sell us to guest houses for a commission," Thomas whispered. Five minutes later, we were driving again, but throughout the two hours on the road, the rooster would crow again, the phone would ring, and the haggling would continue. Was he calling several guest houses? Tuk-tuk drivers? Touts? Just one and arguing a price? Who knows.

Sure enough, once in Siem Reap, we were greeted by another ten men in possibly-but-likely-not-official attire. An effeminate tout led us to a tuk-tuk, assuring us it would take us the the guesthouse of our desire at no extra cost. At this point, I had no idea who or what to believe, so I just shut down. "Lady!" he said to me, as the tuk-tuk swayed on the rutted road, "You look mad! You mad?" "No," I replied with a smile, "I'm so glad to be here. I'm just tired!" Indeed, I had left my Bangkok hostel at 6am, and it was now five in the evening. All I'd eaten all day was a custard bun and a taro cake at Mo Chit bus station.
We bopped between guest houses (there was confusion with Thomas's reservation), but when we finally walked into one, the tout from our tuk-tuk started yelling angrily at the man helping us with our bags. "What's wrong?" asked Flo. "He's angry at me because our guest house doesn't pay touts commission," said the man. "It's the transportation mafia versus the guesthouse mafia!" whispered Thomas. We were in the middle of a catfight.

So now I'm in a totally weird all-window room on the fourth floor of this pretty house-- and my bathroom is on the first floor. Fifty Baht says this is a former office turned into a guest room for extra cash.
And now to end with two positive notes. One: dinner was DELICIOUS and cost $2.75 for a HUGE plate of Khymer curry, rice, and drinks. Two: I just got an email from a friend of a friend explaining how much she loved working in Cambodia, and how great the people are. These two sweet things are reminders that a few rather rotten scam artists should not sour a tourist on the wonders of a deservedly famous country. Angkor Wat tomorrow!

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!