Curls in the Capital

Happy Leap Day

2012-02-29T14:10:00.002-05:00

Happy Extra Day of the Year!

The last time we had a Leap Year, I was gallivanting through South Africa. Today, I'm sneaking time away at my desk to publish this epic Leap Day Voucher, courtesy of The Washington Post. (What a difference four years can make!)

If you know me well, you also know that this Leap Year is also a very exciting day.

Don't let your extra time go to waste.

(click here for easy reading)

Stay tuned for a new blog with my very own thoughts, coming soon.

Photo from http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/2012/02/28/gIQAbAmAhR_graphic.html

Four Years Ago

2012-02-05T21:42:00.000-05:00

Last week marked the fourth anniversary of my arrival in Cape Town for my semester abroad. Like every monumental event, sometimes it seems like yesterday, and sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago. I couldn't resist marking this life milestone on this blog because Cape Town is the reason this blog and my subsequent passion for blogging came about in the first place.

Those six months were full of adventure, challenge, and eye-opening, mind-blowing realizations about the world we orbit and myself. I was, for the first time in my life, a racial minority, and living in a country that was learning how to be a democracy. For the first time in my life I lived in a place that was unsafe, and learned how to live a fulfilling life with some limitations. I planned my study schedule around power outages. I befriended people it would have been impossible for me to meet had I stayed in Walnut Creek or the walls of American University’s campus. Most importantly, I landed in Cape Town on the morning of January 30th as a mature but scared kid. I left as a young adult.

There are few periods in my life that I would choose to repeat. Not because they were bad, but just because life seems to keep getting better. But, if given the chance, I would always redo that experience; complete with the opera-signing roommate who informed me she didn’t like Americans to the moments of immense loneliness. Even those days, where I felt so unhappy, I would keep because they made me especially appreciative of the highs.

When most people go to a new place, they bring home souvenirs in the form of postcards or magnets as reminders of where they’ve been. And I would be a liar to say I didn’t shop, but my prized collections are the memory and influence of people I met along the way. South Africa is a place that will never leave me because of the people I laughed with and fought with and cried with and who made me feel like I was at home.

While I do know that it isn’t possible for me to relive that experience (even when I visited last year it was a completely different wonderful experience), I have been fortunate to keep relationships from there growing. One of my current roommates and my former roommate, as well as some of my other best friends are Americans I met in Cape Town. We talk regularly and they are the people I go to when I need someone to celebrate with or to carry me forward. In the past, I’ve written about Sunday dinners, and this group is made entirely up of friends from Cape Town.

This week I thought about what it meant to be four years away from a life-changing experience and place. I remember feeling so lost upon returning home; going to South Africa had been a goal of mine for my entire life and at age 21, my goal was done. So, I have spent the last four years searching for places that could move me in the same way. I have found them in India’s holy cities, the music halls of New Orleans, the markets of Jerusalem, and even in the dimmed cafes of Washington, D.C. But no place has ever touched me like the vulnerability and openness of Africa’s southern-most tip. It’s hard to articulate why, it’s just a feeling of connectedness, I guess. I know some people search their entire lives for that feeling, and I’m eternally grateful to have found it, and know that it’s always there waiting for me, whenever I'm ready to go back.

Forward and Down, Back and Up

2012-01-08T23:47:00.004-05:00

The blog has been quiet...big changes have happened, including a new job. I don't want to post where on here, because I don't want my opinions to be confused as their's, but if you want to know, all you have to do is ask.

It's also been quiet because I've been exploring the world with the parentals...keeping up with my love of alliteration, the Idelsons went to Israel and Italy. Incredible (the trip, and the alliteration).

But now I'm back, and back to blogging we go...

Today is one year since I said goodbye to one of my heros and best friends.

There's not really a way to show that you miss someone everyday, but you can try.

In yoga, the Triangle Pose contorts your body into six directions of forward and down, back, and up. When I think about the last year, I think the visual would be a triangle pose: it begins by moving down, but ends looking up. After all, she would not have had it any other way.

May 2012 bring you many directions, but may you always be looking up.

PS: My grandmother always taught me to celebrate life over death. In that spirit, I would like to publicly wish my little brother a happy 21st birthday one day late.

Can't wait for you to buy me drinks!! :)

A Letter to the Students at Penn State

2011-11-10T15:48:00.001-05:00

To the Students at Penn State:

Really?! Your assistant football coach sexually abused fifteen boys over a period of decades, and you take to the streets to protest the firing of his superior?

Something is really wrong here.

While I did not attend a university with a football team, I respect that football is what makes your school tick, and that Mr. Paterno’s exceptional skills are necessary for the team’s success. You have every right to be angry that he will no longer be guiding your team to victory, or that your team may no longer have victory. But why aren’t you angrier about the fact that, under his watch, Mr. Sandusky was able to continue his actions of sexual assault?

I’m not blaming Mr. Paterno for Mr. Sandusky’s behavior. Mr. Sandusky is obviously a sick man who needs intense rehabilitation, jail time, and should not be allowed near children. But your anger is misdirected and you have shown the world that students at Penn State value a football team’s success more than the livelihood and safety of children in your community.

You have a right to be outraged. Your tuition was going to pay someone who had a pattern of sexual abuse and a slew of administrators who neglected to do anything about it to stop him. If that happened where I went to school, I’d, too, be pissed.

But why don’t you see the bigger picture? This isn’t about football. It’s about the fact that Mr. Paterno knew Mr. Sandusky was a danger to society, and only did the bare minimum to stop him. Mr. Paterno should have broken down the doors of the university president’s office and the police until someone put Mr. Sandusky behind bars. The board of the university recognizes this, and took measures to preserve the legacy and standing of the university. Why don’t you?

According to the New York Times, students were quoted as being embarrassed by this mess, but not embarrassed by the compliance with assault. “’It’s not fair…The board is an embarrassment to our school and a disservice to the student population,”’ one student said.

Interesting analysis, Future-Penn-State-Graduate-and –Leader-of-America (hopefully not). I always thought that a “disservice to the student population” might be more like allowing someone who assaults children to roam campus and host camps for kids on university grounds.

Penn State: I know, or have to believe to be able to sleep at night, that your entire student body doesn’t think this way, but, rather, this is just the image that is being conveyed on airwaves across the world. However, I have spent my entire life advocating the fact that our generation, today’s young people (ie you) are “the generation the world has been waiting for.” Your actions last night, exhibiting your backwards values, show that the world can stand to wait longer for you. Your misdirected anger and your failure to show compassion for those whose lives were ruined from Mr. Sanduksy’s actions are a sure-sign that sexual assault will continue in our society until people like you care more about the safety and livelihood of women and children than success at a football game.

Sincerely,

Curls in the Capital

PS: The Onion, as always, says it best.

The Silence is Deafening

2011-10-30T18:47:00.001-04:00

The blog has been quiet lately, but the curls have been keeping busy. Big changes are coming, and this curly-girlie has been busy making them happen. You'll be updated when there is something definite to share!

In the meantime, since this post won't be sharing any of my personal thoughts, here are thoughts from someone else that I like. It's an interesting commentary on pop culture:

And so you know I'm still happy and well, here is a glimpse of what I've been up to:

Happy Halloween from the family at 1012. Can you guess which one I carved?

As You Would Wish It

2011-09-29T00:03:00.002-04:00

Last year, my friend wished me a Shana Tovah, a Happy New Year, by saying, “Wishing you A YEAR, as you would wish it.”

When I made my wishes for this year, the year we’ve just completed, I couldn’t have imagined that nearly anything that has happened would happen. This year, like any year, has been filled with roller-coaster rides, with lessons learned about self and love and friendships. Some of the lessons learned were fun and in moments of spontaneity. Many more were learned a harder way.

Last year, I came across this website called 10Q which sends a reflective question every day during the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. At the end of the ten days, your answers are sealed in an electronic vault, and are emailed to you right before the next Rosh Hashanah. This year, my roommate and I sat on the floor and shared our answers and the stories that prompted them. It’s amazing to see where my head was last year at this time, what I was hoping for, who was on my mind, and what I predicted for 2011. A YEAR feels short, but its weight and overall impact can be life changing.

The first question for this season’s 10Q came tonight. It asked about a significant experience from the past year and how I felt about it (if you’re interested in participating, regardless of your religion, it’s not too late to sign up! You can do so here). In my typical fashion I was indecisive and couldn’t choose just one, but the main experience I focused on was an experience I consider to be, overall, negative. Why is it that, when we look back, we too often focus on the moments in which we ache?

Everyone wishes for a year filled with success and love and pure, uninhibited joy. But, during her sermon, the rabbi tonight pointed out something interesting. When Jews greet each other around Rosh Hashanah, we wish each other a “good and sweet new year.” Why do we say good and sweet? She explained that not everything that is right and good feels good; not everything that is good is sweet. So we wish for each other good moments, filled with growing pains, and sweet moments, where our bodies can just smile. We wish to face these experiences with humility and grace, landing us a chance to try again next year.

Whether your new year is based on the lunar calendar, the secular calendar, or some funky combination of the both, may your next chapter be good and sweet, easy and hard, and filled with just the slightest amount of darkness, so you remember how to appreciate the light.

May your year be as you would wish it, with room for life to happen along the way.

L’shana Tovah.

----

A little more rockin' Rosh Hashanah wish:

(please note the blonde boy's kippah never falls, despite the flips. this video is absurd yet hilarious)

Remembering Katrina

2011-08-30T00:08:00.000-04:00

On August 29, 2005, my first week of college, Hurricane Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast.

Six months later, through Hillel International, I traveled to the coast with hundreds of college students. We worked on fixing a family's roof in Biloxi. The following year, I went on a similar trip to New Orleans.

The trip moved me. As a freshman, I wrote about my experience and it was published in a few places. More importantly, I haven't really been able to forget what a disaster like that looks like, even when you see it six months later. I remember the stench of the water, the miles of what used to be homes but what was instead devastation. But what inspired me the most was the commitment of the people to rebuild and the incredible love they felt for their home, despite the region's problems. During my orientation in South Africa, we were told not to judge the South Africans, because America showed we weren't much better off during Hurricane Katrina. "We saw who was stranded on rooftops," my country director said.

Of all the places I have been, the Gulf Coast touched me in a very special way.

Cutting shingles for a roof in Biloxi, Mississippi. Later, as the "little one" in the group, I nailed in nearly every shingle. March 2006.

Floorboards to the house we gutted in New Orleans. This house had 5 feet of water in the house post-Katrina that sat for weeks. We had to rip family photos off the floorboards to try to salvage them for the family. March 2007

Pulling off shingles to start anew. Biloxi, March 2006.

In June, when a friend and I traveled to New Orleans for a weekend getaway, I couldn't believe how normal the city looked. Human resilience is an incredible thing, but as a country we must not forget the lessons learned from this tragedy, nor the people who bore the brunt of the consequences.

*Thanks to Becca K and Sarah B for posting these on facebook back in the day.

Earthquake-ocalypse

2011-08-23T22:34:00.000-04:00

If you haven't heard by this point that there was an earthquake in DC today, let me tell you: There was an earthquake in DC, a 5.8, lasting about 45 seconds, to be exact!

My office is located on the grounds of the National Cathedral and when the earth started shaking I absolutely couldn't believe an earthquake was possible. But there weren't many other options, and given the fact my office is in a very old stone building with already crumbly walls, I turned to my office-mate and told her we needed to get out of the building. We ran outside to hear a giant crash! Pieces of the cathedral were breaking off.

The actual quake was scary as I didn't even know a quake of that magnitude or length was possible in DC, I knew the building I was in probably wasn't safe, and walking outside to see falling concrete from the sky was not really my idea of an awesome afternoon. Afterward, however, people's reactions were a bit extreme.

Not only the National Cathedral suffered damage. Many neighborhoods sustained damage as well. And friends from the west couldn't help but to remind us all, that a 5.8 is just another event over breakfast.

Just another exciting day in the district!

You Are Not Alone In This

2011-08-14T22:13:00.000-04:00

I have not blogged in forever and a day, and every day I kind of hate myself for it. So I'm here to say I'm back and ready to continue keeping my new year's resolution of blogging more!

This year I applied for a fellowship to work overseas. My work was supportive, my family was supportive, and my friends were supportive even though they were sad at the idea of me leaving. My application was stellar, all my mentors said I’d get in, and the fellowship people even said so in not as many words. I wanted this program more than almost anything I’ve ever wanted: for my career, for my future, for my soul. After making it to the final 100 out of 2500 applicants, I was rejected. And I was crushed.

Yesterday, I got an email from the program announcing their new class of fellows. Despite my curiosity, I deleted the email, and after a few moments of fury-induced contemplation of throwing my computer out the window, I decided to spend the day concentrating on why my life in DC is great rather than reminding myself of this loss (I like to think, anyway, that they’re losing out more than me):

I have a great new house, with roommates who will sit on the front porch with me until 1am talking about what it means to be in a healthy relationship while laughing as our dog barks at people passing by.

I met someone who looks exactly like Jude Law.

I went up to a roof that looks out onto the entire city and was, for one of the first times in my life, speechless. Speechless at the beauty of DC and at how much you can see if you have the right view.

Having the right view, I’m learning, is really important. It’s amazing what you can see about your past, and how you want your future to go, when you look at it from a new perspective.

The new perspective is key. I realized when I was purposefully thinking positively that while I would have loved to be working in East Africa right now, my time here has allowed me to foster beautiful relationships with beautiful people and places that I would have missed out on had I left, and I’m reminded that I have a lot going for me.

According to this great article recently shared with me, “What We Have Going for Us,” I’m right, I do have a lot going for me. This article is a beautiful tribute to your 20s, and there's a lot in it that I love.

The way she describes growing up:
“Something happens between the ages of 20 and 25. This is your first go-round as an adult. Your brain shifts and closes and hardens like the soft spot on an infant’s skull. You try harder. You begin to stand up on those baby deer legs and learn how to carry yourself in challenging situations.”

The way she describes the people you relate to:
“We are attracted to people who were loved in the ways we were loved as children. We are attracted to people who are lacking in ways we understand.”

But mostly, I love the way she describes the best friends in the world:
“There are the friends you meet for the occasional happy hour, and there are friends with whom you have longstanding Taco Tuesdays. Taco Tuesday means a bottle of wine for each person and peeling back the business-casual mask of the weekday while relaying mortifying tales of performed adulthood to one another. You hit reply all. You cried at your desk. You said “I love you” when you were unprepared or drunk or sober. Any day can be Taco Tuesday. These are the people who fill in your blanks. These are the right people.”

Every Sunday, three friends and I have dinner together, where we cry and laugh and yell. We take turns hosting and cooking and cleaning. This tradition is my “Taco Tuesday,” and I think life in DC would be a lot harder without these, and other comparable, rituals and friends.

When I got rejected from my fellowship, I took a day off of work. My friends from Sunday Night Dinner, plus one other, met me for lunch. We sat around the food trucks talking, not really about my rejection, but just talking to be together. They hugged me, and one gave me a card, and dubbed the day “Laiah Day.” She hoped I wouldn’t forget why she thinks I’m great.

In a city of transplants, being able to make your own family is essential. Whether it’s “Taco Tuesdays” or Sunday Night Dinners or anything and everything in between, I am lucky to have my family of choice by my side when my real family is far away. From heartbreaking rejections to celebrating love, it’s nice to remember I’m not alone in all of this, because, after all, as the article says, “There is no IRL [in real life]. This is everything.”

After one of the biggest let-downs, I was carried onwards and upwards by my biggest fans. I am not alone, will not be knocked down by another's decision, and I will continue to live to the point of exhaustion in my 20s. Because this is what everything is all about.

Indian Women

2011-07-19T23:13:00.000-04:00

Hello, Fair Readers!

My next piece on Fem2pt0 was posted today. You can see the article here.

The article discusses a recent report which ranked India as the 4th out of 5 most dangerous countries for women. The other are: Afghanistan, Democratic Republic of Congo, Pakistan, and Somalia. You can see info-graphics summarizing the report here.

As many of you know, an issue important to me while I was in India was discussing the status of women. Every time I think about my students, I remember how lucky I am, and why I do the work that I do.

I'm excited by the opportunity to write for Fem2pt0 about international women's issues. I think I add a missing voice to their blog, and takes me one step closer to my goal of being a real development writer.

If you have comments on the blog, positive or negative, please feel free to leave them as public comments on the article.

Thanks to all for your support, and stay tuned for a new blog post. Topic TBD by whatever life throws at me!

African Highlights

2011-07-13T22:41:00.000-04:00

Here are some photo highlights from my trip to Nigeria and Ghana:

In Nigeria, my organization works to train religious leaders of all faiths how to speak to their communities about malaria prevention. We partner with the Nigerian government, who is currently distributing millions of bednets, at least one per family, nationwide. When receiving a net, one is supposed to air it out in the shade, as they are treated with insecticide. In the apartment building right next to our office, this family aired their net in direct, 90 degree sunlight. Irony at its finest.


Two colleagues took me to a park with live music and food for dinner one night. I ate traditional Nigerian Pepper Soup with fish. The name is accurate; it's incredibly spicy! But as we know, I have burnt off all my tastebuds and thought it was delicious. Also, you will notice there is a can of Smirnoff Ice next to me. I was informed that, in Nigeria, classy women do not drink beer. Therefore, when in Rome...because I obviously radiate class.

I had my 24th birthday in Nigeria. The office bought me a cake that read "HBD LEAH." Apparently, the research assistants tried to find out how to spell my name but every time they went to ask someone I was in the room. It was very sweet. They also each signed a card. The best message read "May you live to be so old your teeth fall off." After work, two of my coworkers and I went to see a movie and then to eat street food for dinner. Yum. Definitely a birthday I will always remember!


In Nigeria, we traveled outside of the capital and went to Kaduna, a northern state recently ravaged by post-election violence. One of my colleagues lives there, and we spent a lot of time at his home. One evening while we were there watching a movie, his neighbor came in with her daughter, Aisha. Aisha's mother saw me, dropped her daughter on my lap, and walked away. Aisha and I hung out for about twenty minutes before she cried out for her mom. What a beautiful baby!

After working in Nigeria for 10 days, I went to visit my friend in Ghana. This is a church in her neighborhood. The capital of Ghana, Accra, was much more exciting than the capital of Nigeria, Abuja. The best things we did in Ghana were going to reggae parties on the beach and a local soccer game.

Making friends in Ghana's craft market.

More photos can be found here.

Also, I encourage all of you who subscribe via email or reader to go to the actual blog, and check out the new look! Comments welcome.

"Don't throw me bad juju"

2011-06-24T19:06:00.001-04:00

Abuja, Nigeria:

It’s hard to believe my time in Nigeria is already halfway over. Ten days seems a lot longer on paper and in the mind than in actual living.

It’s late in the evening, and I look in the mirror as I’m about to wash my face, and I stop for a minute, and I realize, I’m looking at the best version of myself. I don’t remember the last time I had five days where I was working and actually felt like I was working on something, where I was asking questions about a place because I needed to know, or the last time I tasted a bowl of soup so spicy my nose wouldn’t stop running for two hours.

My face is tired. My hair is frizzy. My eyeliner has run a little too far from my lower eyelid. I feel all the kinds of full I usually can’t stand: too much food, too much feeling. But it’s one of the first times in a while where I look at myself in the mirror and actually think I look beautiful.

I thrive in places where I am lost. When I don’t understand half of what is being said around me, I laugh at the tone and the body language. When eyes bore into my white skin because it’s the only kind like it for miles, I focus on the beautiful colors around me: in the clothes, in the market, in the flowers on the street, in the surprising shades of green throughout the city. When I don’t know what food to order, I defer to those who do, and discover that I have found a new favorite dish. Someone once told me while I was in India that the country made me glow. The look in the mirror tonight is a similar glow; the glow of being somewhere new.

Abuja is a strange city for a developing country, or for anywhere for that matter. It’s full of cars, not pedestrians. It’s incredibly expensive. There doesn’t seem to be a lot to do in terms of a social life. I can’t figure out if the city was planned this way, or just haphazardly thrown together. And on the surface, everything seems completely functional, until you realize the hotel guard dogs are not on a leash, and those giant German Shepherds really want your and your friend’s pepper chicken.

Yet, Abuja fascinates me like all other new places I’ve been to. I am struck by the small similarities that still exist between the African American population and what I’ve seen of the West African (read: food). I like noticing how the earth can be so red and the bushes so incredibly bright green. And I love looking at the National Mosque at night, watching its beautiful gold dome against the setting sun.

Nevertheless, I wouldn’t call Abuja a physically beautiful city. What I would say though, is the people I have been sent here to work with are lovely, expressed by their generous surprise of a cake and a song on Thursday for my 24th birthday (unfortunately I can’t upload a photo here).

After five more days in Nigeria, I head to Ghana for a little fun, and then back to DC to the 4th of July (my favorite DC holiday) and unpacking my new house and to work. I will try to write again while I’m here, but if I cannot—due to failed internet or the words just won’t come—know that even though some days are hard, I am glad to have my feet planted back on African soil, and I am glowing.

Announcement for Washingtonians!

2011-06-13T07:57:00.001-04:00

On Wednesday, June 15, I will be swabbing the inside of my cheek to enter myself into the national bone marrow donor database:

June 15, 2011

6-8pm

at the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism (2027 Massachusetts Avenue, NW 20036, just off Dupont Circle).

If you're not in DC or can't come on Wednesday and want to learn about future screenings, please click here. (There are also many other organizations who swab, and you can also mail in your swabbing to Gift of Life).

This drive is sponsored by the organization, Gift of Life, one of the nation's public bone marrow, stem cell, and umbilical cord registries. What makes Gift of Life unique, is it focuses on adding Jewish people to the national registry. This is important because the best way to find a match for your bone marrow donor is to look within your ethnic group, and Jews are vastly underrepresented in the national registry. But you don't have to be Jewish to attend the drive! All can, and should, enter.

In October, my friend Amanda was found as a stem cell match for a young man with leukemia, and underwent the process to donate (she, a non-Jew, put herself in the national database through Gift of Life). Today, this man is on his way to living a healthy life.

This issue is close to my heart as I watched a close family friend as a child struggle to find a donor as an Ashkenazi Jew. Also, for 5 years I watched my grandmother battle cancer, and while her cancer did not require a donor, if it had, I know I would have discovered the importance of Gift of Life years earlier.

Let me know if you'd like to join me in this effort, and please pass this post and/or the information within, to your friends in and around the district.
L'chaim!

I'm a real blogger!

2011-06-06T19:42:00.000-04:00

I am happy to share with you my first post on Fem2pt0, a site I will now be an occasional blogger for:
http://www.fem2pt0.com/2011/06/06/what-do-armenian-women-want/

Read, share, comment, and enjoy!

"nothing you could ever do could make me love you less than i do now"

2011-05-31T23:32:00.000-04:00

Congratulations to Sarah and Randy

who remind me true love is worth working for.

Thank you for including me in your special day.

"connection is why we're here"

2011-05-18T22:52:00.001-04:00

"So where I started was with connection. Because, by the time you're a social worker for 10 years, what you realize is that connection is why we're here. It's what gives purpose and meaning to our lives. This is what it's all about. It doesn't matter whether you talk to people who work in social justice and mental health and abuse and neglect, what we know is that connection, the ability to feel connected, is -- neurobiologically that's how we're wired -- it's why we're here. So I thought, you know what, I'm going to start with connection. Well you know that situation where you get an evaluation from your boss, and she tells you 37 things you do really awesome, and one thing -- an opportunity for growth? (Laughter) And all you can think about is that opportunity for growth, right. Well apparently this is the way my work went as well, because, when you ask people about love, they tell you about heartbreak. When you ask people about belonging, they'll tell you their most excruciating experiences of being excluded. And when you ask people about connection, the stories they told me were about disconnection."

the video is long-ish, but worth the watch. If the video doesn't load in your email, click here.

Another point about connection, from David Brooks' May 16 NYT column:

"In “Born to Be Good,” Dacher Keltner describes the work he and others are doing on the mechanisms of empathy and connection, involving things like smiles, blushes, laughter and touch. When friends laugh together, their laughs start out as separate vocalizations, but they merge and become intertwined sounds. It now seems as though laughter evolved millions of years ago, long before vowels and consonants, as a mechanism to build cooperation. It is one of the many tools in our inborn toolbox of collaboration. "

How amazing and fascinating are humans?!

[thanks to jana for the video and merav for the article]

Thoughts on a Year

2011-05-15T23:59:00.002-04:00

Recently, I was asked what community means to me, and how I integrate myself into a community.

I spoke about Midrasha and Free the Children, my first real communities and about, how, I have been gifted this extraordinary skill to collect people, really strong, beautiful humans, wherever I go, and then, if/when I leave their physical space, I have the ability to keep them in my life.

That being said, when I will look back on this year, my second full year of living in DC, community is what I will remember. I have felt like I belong here, and that feeling is a direct result of these moments:

A Rosh Hashanah dinner for 30....

My apartment being filled to the brim with new and old friends...

Being supported through:

Stressful endeavors....

And stupid mistakes...

And silly adventures...

Having a surprise party thrown for a birthday falling just after a break up:

And friends from the west all transported within a few hours of each other to the east:

Knowing that, whether my heart is broken or swelling in love, people are there to prop me up when I physically cannot.

Being able to have a conversation with a friend just by a glance, being part of everyone rallying around a friend during addiction or abuse, or seeing a familiar face each time I step outside, this is what home is.

This year began with the loss of my grandmother. Such is life, but I would have given anything for life to have changed the rules in this one instance. Yet, how lucky I was when I came back to DC after the hardest goodbye, to find them:

There’s no way she would have let go if she hadn’t known I was in good hands.

So thank you, DC.

When I can’t be there

With them:

I am so glad to be here:

with you:

(note to email subscribers, this blog includes lots of photos. if they don't load in your email, please click here.)

World Malaria Day: Resource Round-up

2011-04-25T22:22:00.000-04:00

Here is a condensed version of an email I received today from my friend and colleague, Sarah, our Manager of Health Programs, in honor of World Malaria Day, April 25. World Malaria Day is a day set aside to call attention to this disease and to mobilize action to combat it. While this disease may not be an issue you are passionate about, the burden of malaria impacts us all through economics, tourism, and foreign aid. I hope the links below help convince you why malaria is a subject which should be kept on the international conversation. Let's remember how fortunate we in America are to not have to live with this constant threat of disease.

--------------------------

Please allow me to provide you with a set of background documents (below) you may find useful, including:

Selected media coverage
Global WMD observance events

As you are aware, commemorations are taking place in both endemic and donor countries around the world today. In these events, partners will highlight the considerable progress reached in the last decade, including:

In 2010 malaria prevention efforts saved 485 children’s lives in Africa every day.
The last decade has seen over one third of malaria endemic countries successfully cut malaria cases by 50% or more.
Global malaria deaths dropped by over 20% between 2000-2009.

And yet, malaria remains a serious threat to many people:

Malaria continues to kill more young children than any other single disease, claiming the life of a child every 45 seconds.
Every year, over 780,000 people die from malaria. More than 90% of these deaths are in Africa.
Yet malaria is preventable and treatable. Every life lost is needless.

Through these events, partners will also focus their advocacy on the landmark 2015 goal of near zero deaths from malaria—a goal that can only be achieved with sustained investment in proven interventions along with research and development of new tools, including:

Increased, predictable and sustained funding critical in continuing to save lives and sustain current gains – we will backslide if momentum is lost.
Improved access to malaria prevention, accurate diagnostics and appropriate treatment – saving lives and reducing the risk of drug resistance.
Further investment in research and development of new tools.

-------------------------------------

KEY POLICY DOCUMENTS

·          UN Resolution on the Decade to Roll Back Malaria

SELECTED MEDIA COVERAGE

·          Financial Times Special Report on Combating Malaria

·          Yvonne Chaka Chaka, RBM Goodwill Ambassador on the DFiD BLOG as of April 26

·          Awa Marie Coll-Seck, RBM Executive Director, on the GATES FOUNDATION BLOG as of April 22

SELECTED EVENTS

·          UNITED NATIONS, Geneva -- Global Press Conference on malaria: Awa Marie Coll-Seck joined Dr Pascal Ringwald (Medical Officer at WHO/GMP) and David Reddy (CEO Medicines for Malaria Venture) in briefing the UN press corps in Geneva about how to reach near zero malaria deaths by 2015. (April 21)

·          REPUBLIC of LIBERIA, Monrovia -- Liberia will host a World Malaria Day Regional event in West Africa in the presence of Her Excellency President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf - who has recently agreed to serve as Chair of the African Leaders Malaria Alliance ( ALMA ) for 2011 - 2012. (April 25)

·          UNITED NATIONS, New York -- Launch of a unique photo exhibition entitled Champions to End Malaria with photographs by Platon in the presence of the UN Secretary General. (April 25 - May 22)

·          FRANCE, Paris -- French Ministry of Foreign and European Affairs: Exhibition at the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris to raise awareness and inform the general public about the challenges and the progress made in the fight against malaria. (April 21 - 25)

·          SWITZERLAND, Bern -- The Swiss Agency for Development and Cooperation (SDC) is hosting a multimedia exhibition offering a fascinating insight into the complexity of malaria and its consequences. It highlights the approaches used by members of the Swiss Malaria Group to meet the challenges of this disease. (April 26 - May 7)

·          UGANDA & MADAGASCAR -- Both countries will promote their countries' roll out of the Affordable Medicines Facility-malaria (AMFm) which provides a novel approach to increasing access to ACTs on a multi-national scale.

·          FULL LIST of Partner events

Nobody Belongs Here More Than You

2011-03-31T22:39:00.000-04:00

I look around the museum and I see faces. So many faces and bodies and clothes and shoes. We look at the same art, the same painting, at the same moment in time. I am sharing this moment with someone, a stranger, but the moment is not really shared, because we will each be moved in a different way by the art. We don’t speak, but I want to thank him for sharing the moment with me. I want to shout out to him: nobody belongs here more than you.

We pass by each other on the street, in the metro: ipod in, heads down. We try not to touch or bump, even in a crowded train car at rush hour. This concept seems insane to me: touching is what makes us feel human. When someone bumps me on the train and quickly and sincerely apologizes I want to tell her that it’s okay, really; that nobody belongs here more than you.

The theatre is dark and emotion is overflowing onstage. A cell phone rings. This sound is not a part of the script. Sometimes, it can be selfish to think that nobody belongs here more than you.

To connect with another human, through an act of compassion or a bout of laughter or sharing a secret or a kiss, feels like the universe stops spinning and for that moment, it’s just you and him, you and him. And then the universe is jolted back to reality, and everything gushes forward, moving so quickly to catch up. You walk away from that moment where you were frozen, and try to piece what happened back together. Your heart races and your knees are weak. You realize that everything you said or didn’t say was right. But you forgot to say how much he matters. You forgot to tell him, “Nobody belongs here more than you.”

I think about the movie Sliding Doors. It tells the parallel stories of a young woman who misses her train and what her life looks like, versus what her life would look like if she got on the train. It makes me think about how every person we interact with is shaping our future interactions. So even if it’s only clear in hindsight, everything happens for a reason: how would I have gotten here if it weren’t for you? It adds an entirely new dimension to the true statement that nobody belongs here more than you.

A circle of good friends sits around a table filled with good food and memories had and to be made. One friend breaks down into unhappiness, a devolution of self and increase of fear. The other friends extend hands and hugs. Hearts overflow into mouths. They tell their friend to remember, nobody belongs here more than you.

Can you imagine what it must feel like, to hear those words? In a world of more than six billion people to know that you matter and your presence an exact moment is meaningful and influential must be an incredible feeling, a feeling we don’t experience enough. Isn’t that all people want in the end, anyway, to be validated and loved? Isn’t that all anyone wants to hear, that “nobody belongs here more than you?”

I'm a few days late, but we're all still a dollar short

2011-03-10T09:35:00.002-05:00

March 8 was the 100th annual International Women's Day.

(Email subscribers: there are two videos in this post that may not work in your email. Please click here if you have problems)

Here are some articles about the current status of women today. May the next 100 years tell another story:

Why Smart Girls Fail
Men are Behind but Still Ahead
This Happens Every Day
No Data on Sexual Assualt for Journalists
UN Women Gets a Mandate

But so what? (if video doesn't load in reader click here)

International Women's Day is hardly recognized in America. In fact, I didn't really know about it until my friends and I began going overseas. Perhaps that's where the problem lies...giving women even just one day a year isn't a cultural priority. What can we do to change this?

In my ideal world, women and girls would be given the attention and concern they receive on International Women's Day everyday.

Thoughts From a Budding Yogi

2011-03-06T23:53:00.000-05:00

Not to be “that girl,” but lately, I’ve been doing a lot of yoga. I really got into yoga in India, but about a year ago I found a studio I love in DC (yoga district. go there, Washingtonians) and haven’t looked back. I simply feel better, physically and mentally, when I do it.

The thing I love the most about yoga is that everything is cyclical. When you start a series of stretches, you end in the same posture you began in, and between stretches you enter tadasana, a way to reset your body.

These cycles are comforting because even if you don’t know what is going to happen during a stretching routine, even if your body is all twisted into ways you never thought it could be, you know exactly where you’re going to end up when it’s done.

If only life was that easy.

Right now, my friends and I are in a place in life where we have no.idea where we’ll end up: in the last month alone two close friends got engaged. Others are applying to graduate schools and jobs that will take us away from this city. We’re moving out of relationships that are harmful, or back into relationships that once brought us joy. We are switching jobs, friends, opinions, housing, and then reversing those decisions all over again.

We’re stretching and contorting and we have no clue what part of the mat we’ll end up on when it’s all over. It’s scary and exciting at the same time.

This process is not a good situation for me: I’m not good at not knowing what’s coming next. It stresses me out; I like being in control.

But then, I think about, at the end of a yoga routine, I may end up in the same position on the mat, with my hands and feet in the same place, but my mind and body feel different: I’m looser, focused, and more at peace.

So, basically, I’m the same, but different.

I guess this period of growing pains we’re all going through might take us off the mat, out of the studio and next door or perhaps across the world, but we’re all going to be the same at the end. Maybe just a little different.

Everything is Amazing Addendum for Email Subscribers

2011-02-28T21:41:00.002-05:00

Hi Friends!

Sometimes the videos don't work in emails. If your email didn't include a video, click here.

Everything is Amazing

2011-02-28T01:16:00.001-05:00

I promised this year I'd blog more, and it's almost March and I've only blogged once.

Epic. Fail.

To be fair, my year did get off to a kind of rough start. Nevertheless, now that I've finally completed the GRE my excuses are non-existent.

So to kick off your week, I'd like to leave you with this comical, but true, message, shared with me today by my roommate, Jess. I think it speaks for itself.

May your week be filled with small joys.

-----
my favorite quote as of late, from the play Arabian Nights:
"What is every human's inevitable destiny?"
"Happiness."

Blog For Choice

2011-01-21T00:54:00.001-05:00

Six years ago today, during my senior year of high school, my friend and I took BART into San Francisco to attend a rally that was countering an anti-Roe Vs. Wade rally (this monumental case was passed on Jan. 21, 1973). Turns out, our rally was bigger than theirs. I remember our group marching peacefully alongside their group, each mass of people chanting a catchy slogan. At the end, there were so many members of the pro-Roe V. Wade group that we sat down on the street, preventing the others from marching any further. Those against Roe v. Wade were forced to go home.

That was six years ago, before Dr. Tiller’s murder and Sarah Palin and John Boehner and other high profile politicians who would rather work to eliminate a woman’s right to choice than fix poverty in their districts and support the troops overseas. The rhetoric around a woman’s right to choose has gotten so severe in this country that for the first time, despite having a blog for many years, I have chosen to participate in NARAL Pro-Choice America’s campaign, Blog for Choice. Each year, NARAL launches this campaign on the anniversary of Roe V. Wade’s passing and asks men and women alike a question surrounding choice. (Disclaimer: I once interned for NARAL and spent the first few weeks of my internship tracking blog posts from this very campaign. So current NARAL intern reading this post…hang in there! It’s a big job!)

I know many of my friends and family may not share my views on what I recognize is such a divisive issue. So I hope you’ll continue to read and enjoy future posts, even if this one bothers you. I know from experience that my post will not change your mind, so that’s not what I’m trying to do. It's just something I can't be silent about.

This year’s question is: Given the anti-choice gains in the states and Congress, are you concerned about choice in 2011?

My answer is a resounding YES.

Here are just two reasons:

1. At the Jon Stewart rally, NARAL passed out stickers that said: “Vote Pro-Choice. Politicians Make Crappy Doctors.” While the doctor who went to Georgetown Medical School and the politician who attended Georgetown Law may have gone out drinking together on M St., chances are that’s where the similarities in their education ended. I want my politicians to protect my constitutional rights, and for my doctors to protect my life and well-being.

2. The fact that this new congress’ first act of business, during a time with record unemployment, record-high American hunger, and two wars causing an enormous deficit, was to repeal a healthcare bill which, among other things, protected a woman’s right to choose is appalling. While this repeal will almost certainly fail in the senate, the fact that the Senate is just so narrowly controlled by people who are pro-choice shows the dangerous shift American voters are making in the belief that American women are not equipped to make their own decisions when it comes to their healthcare.

Whether you would ever get an abortion or even whether you think people should, being pro-choice goes beyond the actual act of abortion. Being pro-choice is about not putting medical decisions in the hands of politicians; it’s about male politicians in power deeming women capable enough of being in control of their own bodies and female anti-choice politicians recognizing they are able to do so, too; it’s about keeping the government in the realm of politics; it’s about preventing unsafe pregnancies; it’s about protecting those who will have the procedure, illegally or legally, who deserve a sterile operation rather than a metal hanger; it’s about giving a rape or incest survivor another option; it’s about being open to comprehensive sexual education for our pre-teens and teens in order to prevent unintended pregnancies resulting in abortion, because abstinence education leads to abortion; it’s about, if this choice is taken from me, what will go next?

I am pro-choice. I am not anti-life.

Learn more about a woman's right to choose.

A Resolution

2011-01-02T16:36:00.000-05:00

I think about things our bodies can do:

Smile
Scream
Blink
Create
Cry

Our eyes can light up when our soul is inspired, or they can cloud over when we have been hurt.

Without utilizing our brains, our legs can carry us to familiar places. Our hands can create art, food, and design.

This year I saw my heart on an echocardiogram screen. I watched it beat and heard the blood rush through the chambers. It was extraordinary to look at the little muscle that keeps me feeling and walking. In all honesty it was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.

Yet, I think the most incredible thing our bodies can do is laugh. How beautiful is it that we are given a visceral reaction to joy?

I laugh at everything. My mom always says I am a comedian’s dream audience member. My friends don’t believe me when I tell them they’re funny because everything makes me laugh.

But isn’t it better to laugh at everything rather than to smile at nothing?

The other day I saw a commercial, what the product was for I don’t remember. The message though, was lovely:

What if we celebrated each new day like we do each new year?

Each Dec. 31, we talk about highlights and lowlights of the year, and resolve to do certain things differently. Why don’t we view each new day with the same value? Some days are good, and some are bad, but each night the sun falls and we have a chance to try again the next day. This is a blessing, an opportunity that we should not waste.

Tomorrow I resolve to exercise my spirit and laugh more: I’ll laugh about laughing at everything.

---

I hope in 2011 to blog more often. What kinds of things are you interested in reading about?

All the Lights of My Life

2010-12-14T00:07:00.000-05:00

Winter often makes me a little depressed: the sun is hardly out, and if it is it goes away early, and the cold just makes me want to curl up in bed and stay until April.

Yet, each winter, people all over the world celebrate holidays with themes of light, and last week Chanukah, the Jewish festival of lights, came to a close.   Chanukah celebrates the miracle of light, when a tiny army defeated the massive Greek army in order to have the ability to practice Judaism without oppression, and the oil left in the temple lasted for eight days while it was only enough for one when they went to rebuild.

In today’s world, this miracle seems kind of silly, considering the other major December miracle is the birth of the son of Gd to a virgin, but without Chanukah, the history of the Jewish people, and much of the world, would be drastically different.

And while I’m grateful for the Maccabee’s victory, this Chanukah I celebrated the miracles that I can see, the miracles that are bringing light to my winter months. Here are just some of the miracles in my life, one for each night, not counting the miracles my incredible family and friends bring to my life daily by simply always loving me:

1.    My grandmother: For someone who has just turned 90 (sorry Grandma, I know you don’t like sharing your age) and who has twice overcome cancer, there is no fight that is too big for her. Like the mighty Maccabee army, she has come out victorious when all odds have been against her. She has taught me what it means to never give up or in, and it is a miracle to me that she is with me to read this today. May we all be blessed with such determination.

2.    The gift of continuous life: This fall, my friend was found as a stem-cell match for a 26 year old young man. She endured the prodding and poking and steroids, and then five hours of a tube through her throat to siphon the stem cells out of her blood. Recently, we received word that her recipient is 80% better, a miracle for so soon after the donation.   Apparently, much of what makes us who we are is written in the stem cells: for example, he now has her allergies and blood type. We are all bound together, and this story can remind us of how humans are truly dependent on one another, and the fact her blood could save a stranger reminds us we are so much more similar than different.

3.    The gift of rebirth: Friends and family had babies this year. It’s a miracle on so many levels. I think about South African baby Laiah daily, and am so grateful at having had the chance to hold her.

4.    Courage: This fall, my roommate finally had enough of her unsafe and unsustainable work environment. After a 14-year-old student was gang raped by 6 peers in the stairwell of the school during the middle of the school day, eliciting no response from the administration, she could not return and condone an administration who would stand by such a disgusting act. Not only did she resign, she is speaking out about her story and people are listening.

5.    For sitting still: This is my first calendar year in one city since high school. I have been given an incredible opportunity to learn how to just be. It's a miracle I've made it.

6.    A small world: For all 6-something billion of us global inhabitants, we are truly connected. A close friend and co-worker, Amanda, was in Mozambique last weekend for work, and was alone in the hotel bar with a glass of wine and a book on a Saturday night when a young man approached her and invited her out dancing with him and his friends. After chatting with them for a bit, my friend was on her way to a club when one member of the group asked about her work. When she finished explaining our organization, one girl said, that sounds like my friend’s work. Amanda asked who, even though she figured she wouldn’t know, and was absolutely shocked when the girl answered, “Laiah Idelson.” Turns out, my coworker met a good friend of mine who is based in Cape Town and was in Mozambique on vacation. I am grateful that Amanda was not alone in a strange place, and for the reminder of how beautiful and small our world really is.

7.    For finding my voice: For being able to stand up for what I believe in and for what I deserve, in work and love, in friendships and family.

8.    For challenges: This year I formed relationships with people who made me question everything I have ever believed. I went to important doctor’s appointments alone. I struggled to maintain sanity during a time when my world was exploding at work and at home. But I came out of all more confidant in who I am, healthy, and put-together, reminding me, there is always a light at the end of a difficult tunnel.

Despite all the miracles, the winter is still often associated with darkness. As I watched the last Chanukah candles dwindling, I was a little sad. I was always joyful watching their small flames, and until tonight I wondered where my next batch of brightness would come from.   But tonight I noticed how the snow flurries dance in the beams of the streetlights like they were performing, only to melt before hitting the ground. I know, though, soon they will stick, coating Washington in a sea of pure white, hopefully like last winter’s fairy tale.

This California girl couldn’t help but to grin, and that's a miracle.

Perhaps this winter won’t be so dark after-all.

May your winter holiday and new year be filled with light, and may you always recognize the smallest of miracles.

All the moments

2010-10-29T09:03:00.000-04:00

Don't forget to appreciate each moment we're given:

Moments from Everynone on Vimeo.

Our lives are short.

But extraordinary.

I am thankful for you.

(thanks to elizabeth for the video)

My Return

2010-09-05T09:40:00.002-04:00

The last few weeks have been filled with me asking, what does it mean to return?

On the flight that never seemed to end from Washington to Johannesburg, I kept asking myself, “What am I doing?! Why, if I really needed an international vacation, I couldn’t go to Paris? Or, if I really needed an African vacation why I didn’t get off in Dakar, Senegal, the plane’s first stop. What was I expecting to find? Why did I need to do this?

I couldn’t really answer any of those questions, except it was just something I needed to do. So I took a sleeping pill. And I woke up moments before the plane descended into Johannesburg.

I was in South Africa, and I’d returned.

I saw quickly that returning to South Africa with eyes that have seen India, and more of life in general, was an exercise in growth, comfort, and change.

This time around, the plane landed in Cape Town at night...no African sunrise greeted me. I couldn’t find Table Mountain, but I did find a different kind of beauty: I did not expect to walk off the plane to a place that felt like home. Despite the new airport (A World Cup Upgrade, which will henceforth be referred to as a “WCU”), better roads (WCU), and faces and sounds like I hadn’t seen or heard in years, the feeling was of excitement, yes, but also of vast familiarity. I felt I had come home.

Like any place two years later, I found South Africa had evolved, but was still generally the same. I found I had returned to a country whose reputation, until this summer’s World Cup, was one almost entirely of crime and racial strife and poverty (and safaris). I found these things still exist, but now there are street lights and security guards in a part of town I would have never dreamed I could have walked in at night two years ago. I found there is still much racial tension, but the World Cup has brought some understanding, pride, and a common interest to a country with many incredibly divided factions: restaurants I went to two years ago where I was the only white person were filled with white South Africans, and, as the wealthy white businessman on the airplane told me, the World Cup showed South Africans what their country was capable of, and got whites genuinely interested in a traditionally black pastime. And I found there is still incredible poverty, one cannot ignore the sprawling shantytown upon leaving the Cape Town airport, but I found more innovation than ever before: I was exposed to a group of people of all ages, races, and nationalities in Durban who gather weekly to discuss issues facing South Africa as their form of social justice, a project they hope to spread to the townships; My friend Ronel is currently heading up multiple businesses such as social justice fashion and a public relations agency, while my friend Moses has put his masters on hold, as well as some other projects he was running, to begin an African-run study abroad program for Americans and Europeans.

The country is buzzing with life.

The biggest surprise to me was how easy it was to be in Cape Town. And I don’t just mean that I remembered how to get from place to place almost as though no time had passed, I mean I could breathe. Cape Town is no New Delhi. And of course I knew this fact, and anyone reading this blog who has traveled anywhere in the developing world will read this and laugh, but let me tell you, fair readers, any challenge I had in Cape Town as a student seemed hilariously simple after spending months in India. Even in Durban, a city a little more crowded and much more African than Cape Town, it was easy-breezy. One South African WCU is increased infrastructure throughout the country, something that definitely contributed to this ease, but also, my changed perspective. Even though it was a nice discovery, to feel so comfortable and safe, I struggled with this as well: is it bad to want to return to live someday, when it’s a not as challenging anymore?

Some highlights:

Seeing my former roommate’s daughter, Laiah, and feeling her look at me and knowing that we will share a bond that can never be broken.

Traveling with Jeremy, and laughing our way through a new country together

Getting to know my Ocean View family all over again.

Attending a soccer game in the World Cup stadium in Cape Town, which when I left South Africa in June 2008 was only a shell of a building to come.

Mzolis. I cannot explain this experience.


Seeing friends and picking up where we left off. All photos can be viewed here

As I hopped from friend’s house to friend’s house throughout Cape Town and its surrounding neighborhoods, I found the region alive with memories and friends who were not with me this time. The neighborhood around the university is filled with a different generation of study abroad students whose faces look so young to me, despite only a three-year age difference, and my conversations with them put me on the other end of the spectrum. I wandered the streets of Durban, soaking in a completely different South African city, one where the poor are also white, and there are no coloured people; it's a city with a lot less to offer on the surface than Cape Town, but if you search, it's also a city with a lot of life, and incredible Indian food.

The entire experience felt like a dream.

This was what returning must feel like: a blur.

Throughout the trip I asked myself why I am more attached to South Africa than so many of the thousands of others who have been here on exchange. Is it youthful innocence? I didn’t return to try to relive my study abroad experience. But being in South Africa changed me. It made me confident. Strong. Adventurous. Patient. Maybe I needed to come back to see if these things are still there.

In the last two years, so many have asked me, “What is it about South Africa?” “Why not Israel?” “Why not dedicate your passions to bettering the United States?” So throughout my trip I tried to answer these questions. And the truth might just be that it’s interesting to me, it’s a feeling that I cannot articulate. I like that it’s a place that’s emerging into itself--a country with a fascinating history, written across the people’s faces. It’s a country that is learning daily how to live together and be a democracy. It’s like watching a child grow up. I like that it’s a place where people from throughout Africa come, and with their unique cultures, settle: it’s the place to be here. I like that everyday I meet people from a place I’ve never been, people who have crossed boundaries and borders, physical and cultural, to be where they are. It’s an emerging society, like the wild west, and it’s exciting to watch and be a part of.

And I know that you may be thinking, “Yes, Laiah, but so many places are like this, and you were only there for study abroad. Your life was laid out for you.”

This may be true, I would reply. But there is no denying a feeling of comfort in a strange place. One day, when that feeling disappears, if it does, I will move on. But I’m in it now. It’s a part of who I am, who I’ve been and who I’ll become.

**Note: if you've made it this far, it probably means we really like each other. Therefore, please send me your phone number. My phone was stolen and I've lost all my contacts. Thank you!**

Back to where it all began....

2010-08-18T09:15:00.000-04:00

Hello fair readers.

Do you remember one day, long ago, receiving this email?

Some of you didn't even know me yet. But that's where the journey all began. And tonight, (pending the status of airplanes given Washington D.C.'s massive storm) I am going back to South Africa. Just for a visit, but it's something that I felt I needed to do.

I have so many thoughts about this trip: general excitement...stress about leaving work...curiosity about what I will feel being there in a different capacity...and sentimental that people who supported me and were key to shaping my time during my last journey there, both in person and from afar, will not be a part of this experience.

I had hoped to write more, about thoughts I've been having about this trip and others, but I have hardly had time to breathe in the last few weeks. I will do my best to blog at least once on my trip, but if not, you'll for sure be hearing from me once I'm back.

These curls are heading back to the cape!

Facebook: Why I left, and Why I'm Coming Back

2010-07-20T21:40:00.000-04:00

I am a social creature, and therefore, I like facebook. Everyone knows that. I like knowing what other people are up to, and living vicariously through friends’ adventures. So it came as quite a surprise to many people when I deleted my facebook account.

With all of facebook’s new lax privacy laws, I had been contemplating deleting mine, even though I had done well in hiding myself from most people who don’t know me. I was finding myself spending too much time, zoning out, flipping through photos of people I didn’t care too much about, or people I cared too much about. Facebook was becoming claustrophoic: a classmate from high school who I was not friends with and with whom I had no real friends in common with friended me. I looked through his photos, and saw people who I pretty much generally disliked in high school, and had, frankly, forgotten they existed. I contemplated what to do with his friend request, and finally rejected him. I reasoned I moved 3000 miles away for a reason, I didn’t need those people following me into my new life. But the final straw came when facebook statuses, a very public forum, were being used by someone with whom a private relationship had just ended, to try to reach me and hurt me. I could have just removed the culprit from my newsfeed, but I knew myself, and I knew I would just go to his page and find the statuses. I needed a break. So in a spontaneous, perhaps irrational, sweep of the mouse, I deleted my facebook in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. And in the few weeks since, I have learned a lot about what it means to be a twenty-something in the city without a facebook account.

Facebook has been a part of my life since I came to DC. In the summer of 2005, having just graduated from high school, my friends and I anxiously awaited one piece of mail from the universities we had chosen: a letter giving us our college email address. This email address was the key needed to unlock the world of facebook (back in the day, you see, you needed a “.edu” address to create a facebook account. Oh how times have changed!).

Soon, we had created profiles and began connecting with people we hadn’t met yet but would be attending college with. By the time I got to orientation, I already knew faces and names of students who were active in our class, even though we hadn’t gotten to college yet. I was able to learn a bit about my soon-to-be roommate, and talk to people who would be in my orientation group, and on my floor. Facebook seemed a fabulous tool to connect people at a time when we all really needed friends, or at least a familiar face.

In college, facebook was essential to finding out about events happening around campus, the cute boy in class, or your neighbor’s weekend escapades. It was also a convenient way to see glimpses into the lives of friends from home such as their friends’ and weekend hangouts. Once we began going abroad, scattering throughout the world for semesters and years, facebook was essential to keeping in touch. Needless to say, I frequented the site.

So the Night-Of-Deletion I went to yoga and dinner after work, and came home to an empty apartment. I went to check my email, and immediately began to open a tab for facebook, until I remembered that wasn’t possible.

I suddenly realized I had..a TON of free time. Later that night I had a dream involving facebook. I felt kind of pathetic.

Over the next few days I realized how much facebook infiltrated the way I think (as if the dream that first Thursday night wasn’t clear enough). When I took some pictures, I thought about what I would call the album on facebook; when I heard a catchy phrase I thought I would add it to my profile; when friends and I were talking about funny experiences (or people), I referred them to my facebook page for reference, until I realized it wasn’t there.

Just like Joni Mitchell says, “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone,” I realized some of the benefits, and downsides, of facebook when I was without it. I was bothered by how knowledgeable I was about people who weren’t a part of my life when I had facebook. I was bothered by stories I was hyper-conscious to, like a friend learning about her friend’s suicide from facebook. I felt removed from many things, such as being unaware of a good friend’s going-away-party, or of my inability to see a photo of my cousin’s newborn child. Photos of fun times I liked to look at to reminisce were suddenly out of my reach. I noticed that many companies now don’t advertise their websites, only their facebook. And the amount of times I heard myself say, “facebook it,” became absurd.

One expression often used about facebook is it “represents real life.” Yet, I realized when I was without it, that so often people misrepresent themselves, or embellish the truth, for public consumption. Many times friends and I have put up certain kinds of photos to try to make someone else jealous, or have been conscious of what we wear to a certain event, knowing photos will be online of that evening. I remembered when I studied abroad, before the program began, I chose a photo for my profile picture of a crazy night out, so people I met would think I was fun. And while it probably didn’t make a difference in who I did or did not befriend, something inside of me told me I should do it.

My generation’s entire lives are documented on this online portal. I look at pages of friends who have children, and I realize the children’s lives are documented too. Soon, the fact that President Obama claimed to have once done cocaine will be a minor issue in what dirt is available on political candidates or job seekers.

Many of my friends who I speak to on a regular basis were surprised when I deleted my account, some were even angry. This seemed silly to me, as we had other ways of communicating. But I wonder if many others even noticed I was gone. Afterall, I have something like 1100 friends on my page. It will be interesting to see what, if anything, happens when I return.

Yes, that’s right, I do plan on returning. For all the downsides of facebook, I’ve decided, at least for now, that facebook is essential to communicating with friends I have overseas (the sooner return than anticipated is I will be traveling to South Africa next month, and would like to be able to connect with old friends before I go). I like being able to see pictures in a central place my friends take with me. And sometimes, it’s nice to see what people from another part of my life are up to. Sometimes we refer to this as “facebook stalking,” but stalking has a negative connotation, and I guess it’s not negative if people have willingly put this information online for the public. This hiatus from facebook has reminded me that I do like my books and googlereader better than facebook in down time, but just like junk food, a minimalist attitude can be fun, enjoyable, and healthy. I can’t change society’s addiction to facebook, and I can’t change that, despite its lax privacy rules, it’s still the best way to remain in-the-know. But I can choose how much I decide to engage, and I’m looking forward to engaging again, but a lot less than before.

I kind of feel like I’ve been on a diet, and I’m about to eat my first slice of pizza in a while. I’m nervous, but excited, to return to the world of facebook. How will it feel?

I’ll be sure to let you know.

World Cup Round Up

2010-07-05T15:56:00.000-04:00

As Germany, Spain, the Netherlands and Uruguay advance to the World Cup finals, I thought I'd show you some of my favorite videos (in no particular order) that I've come across this last month. Let me know if you know of others you like! (For the email subscribers, if the videos don't load, click here).

Enjoy!

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

World Cup 2010: Into Africa - Goal Diggers

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tea Party

City Connections

2010-06-22T00:27:00.002-04:00

I attended a lecture last week by Francis Fukuyama, an international development expert. He spoke about urbanization, and how societies developed when they moved from villages to cities, and how with the city came a new kind of freedom. Many people did not like this freedom because the village allowed them to feel connected, and the city was anonymous.

I know that he is speaking of a city in a different time period, before snow ball fights and World Cup viewings for thousands in parks were organized via facebook, but I wish I could have shared these stories of connection to those feeling alone and anonymous:

Watch how these dancers at the weekly drum circle (my favorite DC activity) in Malcom X Park connect to the music, and to the people creating it:

In cities, people connect to strangers in curious ways:

Recently, someone sent a postcard to postsecret.com:

"I have lived in San Francisco since I was young...I am illegal...I am not wanted here...I don't belong anywhere. This summer I plan to jump off the Golden Gate."

In response, within hours, over 20,000 people joined a facebook group encouraging the writer to live, and people in the SF Bay Area joined together to write notes of encouragement, hope, and love on the sidewalk of the Golden Gate (begin at 1:00):

Jonathan Safran Foer (my favorite man to quote) wrote, “The more you love someone, he came to think, the harder it is to tell them. It surprised him that strangers didn't stop each other on the street to say I love you."

This time they did. Connection to a stranger. Hope for the future.

A non-urban but incredible connection:

Recently I was exposed to a Malian musician, Toumani Diabate. He is famous for playing the kora, an indigenous instrument to Mali. His family oral tradition says he is a part of 71 generations on his father’s side of kora players. How many years is that?? I don’t even know. The blood of 71 generations pulses through his veins, moving his fingers to create a sound that his family mastered. The Kora is his connection to the past.

I wish I knew what people in my family were doing 71 generations ago. I wonder if I could find any similarities in our lives.

Connecting with people is easy for me. It always has been. It is not uncommon for me to spend an afternoon deep in conversation with a stranger, and come out with a best friend or sometimes even a romance. This month, I witnessed someone with an enormous heart terrified of connection. I cannot imagine how lonely it must feel to lead a life so guarded. Connecting to others is what makes us human.

My connections often go something like this:

One of my life’s greatest teacher’s, Ed, traveled to Nicaragua to volunteer. He met Brazilian nuns who wore brown rings made from plants around their wedding fingers. They explained to him that it meant they were married to the poor, to the work that they do. When he asked for one because the idea overjoyed him, he was told he had to earn one, and after days of working alongside them, at the end of his volunteering trip, he was given a ring. He decided he would give these rings out to the young people he worked with when he saw they were committed, passionate, and dedicated to bettering the world.

I received my first ring when I was 16. At the time, it was one of my life’s greatest accomplishments, to be seen in such a light by Ed. It represented all I was capable of. I continue to wear it today as a symbol of where I've been, and where I'm about to go.

A few days ago, I met a Brazilian priest with a ring made from a plant around his finger. Eight years after hearing about these rings, seven years of wearing one, I have finally met someone from the origin.

This ring, among the students who Ed taught, is somewhat a badge of honor. To this priest, it’s a daily reminder of a life-long commitment. To me, it's all of those things, but finding him represents a small token of hope that brings strangers together in a world where so many choose to, or feel like they must, walk alone.

I guess connections in the city aren't so rare anymore.

Cooking Karma

2010-05-17T21:31:00.002-04:00

Sometimes in life there is beauty, and sometimes there is pain. The world spins through it all on acts of kindness.

A man who is a leader in the Jain community came to meet with my boss a few weeks ago. He arrived terribly early, and my boss could not change her schedule to meet with him, so I was tasked to entertain him for over an hour. As we all know, I am blessed (or cursed) with the ability to converse with a brick wall, so entertaining him was not difficult, especially because he was considerably more interesting than a brick wall. We walked around the Cathedral and talked about our work and naturally, the conversation turned into one about India: his home, and a place I will always love.

I told him how I had visited the largest Jain temple in India, and how my travel companion fell terribly ill in their open kitchen, but how we both found the temple to be beautiful, and the religion fascinating. I bemoaned the fact that the food in America still seems to lack flavors, and recounted the story of how on one of my first days back in America, I dumped dry red chili pepper onto my pasta, just so I could taste it.

A few days later, a package arrived with my name on it at work. When I curiously opened the envelope, strong smells of Indian spices wafted through the air, transporting me back to family-style, eating-with-your-hands, loud, delicious, and spicy Indian meals. Inside the envelope were packages of spices. “A small token of Indian hospitality, just away from home” he wrote.

For him, it was nothing, simply an extra packet of spices at a store he most likely already frequents. But it brightened my week, and now every time I open my kitchen cabinet I am greeted with smells and memories of Mother India.

How should I pay it forward?

Yesterday a friend and I went to Karma Kitchen. Karma Kitchen is housed at Polo India, a nice Indian restaurant in Dupont Circle and every Sunday for lunch, a volunteer staff takes over and does their part in bringing community to the city. Everyone who attends Karma Kitchen is served a vegetarian Indian meal, waited on by volunteers who take the time to learn your name. "Your meal was a gift from someone who came before you,” the check reads. “To keep the chain of gifts alive, we invite you to pay it forward for those dine after you."

Diners can opt to sit at private tables or at a community table, but regardless if you choose to make new friends or just foster the friendships you’ve come with, you are adding your presence to a place that is trying to change the way we view transactions: some things don’t have to be strictly purchased, rather, they can be earned through kindness.

(For my readers on the West Coast, karma kitchen originated in Berkeley. Both coasts can check out the website so you can participate here)

I wish the news talked about stories like this more often. If I wrote down every day the kind things, the giving things, that have been done for me and that I witness, I might be able to go through a journal a week. I want to try to do this, to remember the good over the everything else.

It might be naive to think that one day all restaurants and transactions in general could be like Karma Kitchen. It might be naive to think that every new face you share an aching memory with will you mail you a remedy, or that a remedy always exists in the first place. But it is not naive to remember that strangers are kind, and compassion is everywhere we go, if we choose to be compassionate first.

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The last month has been a roller coaster of laughs and tears; of letting go and of giving in; and of stress and relief. I guess that’s life, but this month felt extreme. But in the midst of it all, I was constantly reminded about how fortunate I am to have a life that is surrounded by beauty and beautiful people.

A continent bursting with incoming opportunity. A friend who posts ideas of endless possibility and beauty. Innovation and investment in the future. Imagining far away. Art for the masses. After the rain, DC summer is only a sangria pitcher away.

But the most beautiful of all:

Old friends, a new beginning:

A Life Well Spent: Dorothy Height

2010-05-03T23:57:00.003-04:00

On Thursday, I was fortunate enough to attend the funeral of Dorothy Height, a civil rights leader who passed away on April 20. The funeral was held at the Washington National Cathedral, where my office is located as well. Many famous people, from Bill Cosby, to Jesse Jackson, to Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid and many of their cohorts as well as Hilary Clinton, and most amazingly, the President and First Lady were in attendance. Many from the public also attended to pay tribute to an incredible life.

I have to admit I didn't know very much about Dorothy Height until she died. But after reading some articles about her prior to her funeral and hearing stories of her passion and fashion, I wish I had been taught more about her. To me, the most amazing stories about her described how she orchestrated (or assisted greatly in orchestrating) much of the civil rights movement, yet because she was a woman, she rarely received the credit she deserved. She was discriminated against for her gender much in the same way her and her cohorts were discriminated against due to the color of their skin.

Amazing how quickly one who has been hated can forget when it is convenient.

Dorothy Height’s death makes me think about the lessons of previous generations. As Arizona passes laws legalizing racial profiling, it is more apparent than ever that the lessons of her battles were not entirely learned, or comprehended. What more could someone like Dorothy have done to ensure the safety and respect of all people? And when does it stop being the Dorothy Heights’ responsibilities, and become ours?

The last few days I have thought about Dorothy as I have moved through the world: as I listen to a performance of young Indian men in America struggling with their identity; as I go to a bar where a young African American man introduces himself as “Frederick. Frederick Douglass” to my roommate as a way to challenge her knowledge of civil rights history; as I take in the city surrounding me and am fully aware that, in Washington, the poor are only Black and Hispanic.

I wonder what Dorothy and her community of activists would say about these things. I know none of these thoughts are particularly new or very original to the world. But the fact that at 98, Dorothy Height passed away after a life-long fight to protect equality for all in America and America is still so far from it, I wonder, how did she feel? And if she knew her work would be incomplete, which she probably did, why didn’t she give up, like so many others?

What makes a person extraordinary, instead of extra. ordinary.?

In his eulogy, President Obama credited his presidency to her work. I don’t doubt that he told her that himself while she was still alive. She paved the way for a president. Perhaps she knew that there would always be inequality, and she was just trying to do her small part, which, in the end, turned out to be very big. And I guess that kind of effort, without concern for results, is all we can really strive for in this life.

---
In other news: May 4 marks my 1 year anniversary of living in the district, uninterrupted. What a year of growth and heartbreak and laughter and mystery and new friends and joy. Hard to comprehend what 365 days in one place, in a new chapter, means. But if this is how it works, I have no complaints, and am just utterly thankful for everything.

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things to watch out for: Young performers rethinking spoken word
things to reflect for: birth control pill turns 50 allowing women ownership of their sexuality, and therefore, their bodies and lives
things to laugh for: a young traveler talks about his adventures

Washington Whispers

2010-03-07T12:44:00.002-05:00

This city runs on clockwork. Everyday I wait for the bus and the same people pass me on their walk to the metro, or to work. There's the chubby Hispanic girl, whose fly is always open; the awkward looking, most likely Jewish, boy who I feel like I've met before, or maybe just people who look like him; the man with the green golf hat. I wonder where they're going, what they're thinking about, who was the last person who broke their hearts? We're all human after all, but sometimes in this city I think people think they don't need each other; they think they don't need, or have time for, interaction. I wish they knew about ubuntu: I am because you are.

I have a family at work. I know their strengths and weaknesses in the office, and we hold each other up when we can't stand on our own. We call each other "day time roommates" and it's true. I love the atmosphere. When nobody external is in the office we are laid back but productive. When people come for meetings, we are able to put our silly friendships aside. Sometimes, we go out to bars together and introduce each other to our friends as "colleagues," because we think it's funny and grown-up sounding. I generally enjoy the work that I do in the office, and always enjoy the subject matter of the organization. Yet it is my coworkers who make going to work so enjoyable. We are growing together. They're the biggest blessing I could have been given.

I'm learning that some people who I thought would be in my life for forever won't be. It's a loss, but maybe it's supposed to work that way. We're evolving right now, and everyone doesn't evolve together. It's hard to let go sometimes, but I'm learning that letting go makes space for people to teach you things you couldn't even imagine. I wish my life was big enough to hold everyone I have ever loved. Sometimes I like to think it is, but I know it's not. Jonathan Safran Foer wrote "My life is the story of everyone I have ever known" and it is through that mindset that I can hold on even when I have let go.

My South African roommate, Lendy, had twins a few weeks ago, and named one of the girls Laiah. I was touched, but also thought it was a little bizarre. When I called to congratulate her, I heard the babies crying in the background. It almost moved me to tears. The Jewish tradition says that naming a child after someone who is already alive is bad luck. If my memory serves me correctly, it's because it will confuse the angel of death, they say, and the wrong person might be taken at the wrong time. While I don't necessarily know if this is true, when it is my turn to have children I will honor this tradition. Therefore, I never even paused to think that there might be a child named after me ever, let alone in my lifetime. I realized I will be connected to this child for the rest of my life. Perhaps I will write her a letter for her to have when she's older, of things my namesake might have told me. It's a responsibility, I've been thinking, to provide a name.

I have a hard time blogging here. When I was abroad I could write about things that were daily occurrences there but astonished outsiders. I try to find the same things here about my life, things that are normal to me but shocking to you. I'm coming to terms with the fact that that's probably not going to happen. My day-to-day isn't so different from yours anymore. But it's the little things in life that are the most fulfilling and incredible, anyway, so maybe I need to get over my desire to be grandiose and exercise some humility. After all, the world I see is different from that which you see, even if we're walking through the world together.

Recent words of wisdom: Walking home from brunch (Washington's favorite sport), I passed a man selling Street Sense, a newspaper produced by the homeless. It only costs $1, and I usually buy one, but this time I didn't have any cash. As I passed I said, "Sorry." He called after me, "Take that word out of your vocabulary, girl! You aint gotta be sorry for nothing."

After a month of gray skies and oftentimes gray moods, I noticed the first sign of spring. The snow has finally melted, and below it, there is green. If that's not a beautiful sign of what's to come, then I don't know what is.

The view from my bedroom during Washington's "Snowpocalypse"

A New Kind of Valentine

2010-02-12T00:03:00.002-05:00

This Valentine's Day, don't shower the women in your lives with roses; shower them with respect.

It's true, that compared to much of the world, women in America don't have it so bad. It's not culturally acceptable or encouraged to abort a female fetus simply because it is a female nor is it culturally acceptable or encouraged to not send a daughter to a doctor or to school, phenomenon common in the developing world. Yet every six minutes a woman is raped in this country, and every 15 seconds a woman is battered. One in four women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime. Domestic Violence is America's greatest gender injustice: we breed a culture where it is acceptable for men to release their anger on their wives and girlfriends. Until the 1990s, there were more animal shelters than womens shelters in the United States.

Women in America still have a long way to go to achieve the promise this country holds for us.

On Valentine's Day, teach your children about honoring the women in their lives.

As a recent college graduate, I cannot think of one female friend who does not have a story of unwanted attention, touching, or sex. We have been followed, grabbed on the street corners, and disrespected when we said no, to a kiss or more. Even during informational interviews during my job search I was told to be aware of the image I gave off in the workplace, and to be careful of how I behaved if I attended events with men.

Our parents taught us (and our brothers) that girls are valuable, that girls are equals, but somehow, too many men roaming our university campuses, and now, our city's bars and streets, did not heed, ore receive, the same message. We have become accustomed to expect these men, and when we meet good men, many of us are hesitant and mistrustful of people who give us no reason to not trust them, other than the fact that they're men.

The most frightening part of this is not that women are subjected to danger just because they're women. No, it's that some men are not even very aware of what their actions mean to the women they approach. I am very glad for the men in my life that they are not subjected to flirtations from cab drivers or strangers grabbing them on the metro. It must be nice to be able to walk through any neighborhood, at anytime, and to view assertive women approaching them in bars as attractive, rather than a threat.

I do not have these privileges.

An article I read recently paints a picture for men, informing them they are "Schrodinger's Rapist." (Schrodinger was a physicist who became famous for an experiment that presents a cat that might be alive or dead, depending on a previous random event). The author articulates the difference between how a woman views a strange man approaching her versus the opposite. She explains the possibility that this person will do her harm "is never 0%."

Example: A few weeks ago we were out celebrating a friend's birthday. Someone I was dancing with who I had just met handed me a drink. I did not see him get the drink. Instead of saying "thank you," I, half jokingly, asked him if he had rufied me. Because I was in a safe environment with many friends around, I took the drink (it was sans rufi). But the fact that I even thought that it could be a possibility shows women are always on their guard, and we are taught that nothing is impossible.

The Schrodinger's Rapist article calls on men to be careful of women's body language and to put themselves in women's shoes. When advising men when it is appropriate to approach women, the author encourages men to "Ask yourself, 'If I were dangerous, would this woman be safe in this space with me?' If the answer is no, then it isn't appropriate to approach her."

When has a man ever had to think about his safety like that from a woman?

Until this country accepts a stance that women are equal and deserve equal respect, Valentine's Day will merely be a national charade of honoring women amidst an atmosphere of continuous staunch inequality.

No matter how you spend your Valentine's Day this year, may your day be filled with the respect and love that you deserve.

Helping Haiti

2010-01-14T23:11:00.000-05:00

It's not news to anyone that Haiti is currently a hell on earth. Following along with the coverage is disturbing, but something about human nature makes it so you can't stop looking.

But if you're going to look, you might as well stop and help, too.

Following this tragedy reminds me of an article Nicholas Kristof wrote recently discussing the marketing of social issues. He writes how people in the global west are less inclined to help those in the developing world when the issues are presented to them in a way that makes the problem look huge; people are more likely to help when they realize they can better the life of one individual person.

I'm not sure how this theory works in disaster situations, whether the magnitude of destruction and loss in a disaster such as the recent Haitian earthquake prompts people to help or overwhelms them even more. Yet I think it's important to remember that each dollar we are able to contribute goes far. The Red Cross' campaign that allows people to text HAITI to 90999 donates $10 immediately, and is charged to your next phone bill, has already raised $3 million.

A little bit can go a long way.

If you are someone who makes a bit more money and can spare more than $10, here is another idea that will greatly touch Haitian lives. This email came across our desks today at work, and knowing that the lack of clean water is a huge cause of death for survivors of the initial disaster, this effort involves donations of water filters (for as cheap as $60) which are then matched by an outside organization.

Translation: You donate one water filter. Haiti gets two.

Single handedly, there isn't much any of us can do to better the lives of Haitians. But together, if we act in whatever small way we can, the possibilities of what can be done are unimaginable. You are only powerless if you choose not to act. Below is a small list of some blogs I read and some organizations I know of that are doing good work regarding Haiti, and development in general. Feel free to send along others that you know of.

People to follow on Twitter: http://bit.ly/4uShpS
ONE Campaign's Blog: http://www.one.org/blog/

Organizations to support with longstanding projects/relationships in Haiti:
Partners in Health: http://bit.ly/7bsUly
The organization I work for has a list of development agencies involved in Haitian relief. The list has over 20 organizations and can be found here.

------------------------------------

Another email that crossed my desk from the Department of Health and Human services suggests supporting these organizaitons:

InterAction: http://www.interaction.org/crisis-list/earthquake-haiti

Better Business Bureau-Charities Providing Haiti Earthquake Relief: www.bbb.org/us/article/charities-providing-haiti-earthquake-relief-14690

Global Giving-Haiti Earthquake Relief: http://www.globalgiving.org/haiti-earthquake/

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AND: Images of hope in a time of chaos. Images of my colleague, Dr. Sarla Chand, being pulled from the rubble. We are thankful for her rescue, and sending thoughts to those who have not had this positive of news:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8461632.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_pictures/8460599.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8459090.stm

One Year, Many Worlds

2009-12-30T15:50:00.000-05:00

On December 31, 2008, I woke up early and went to the San Francisco airport with my mom.

After placing and reclaiming all my belongings (and clothes) into and out of the bins, I turned around and waved goodbye. I was more nervous than any other time I had gone abroad since my first trip to Nicaragua when I was 12. I spent New Years asleep on the airplane. No one said "Happy New Year." When I was greeted at the airport in New Delhi, I asked the driver what day it was. Turns out, by the time I landed in India, we were already two days into 2009.

The early days of 2009 were spent navigating and orbiting a world entirely foreign from anywhere I had been before. I worked harder than I ever have before to connect to and teach my students, but came away knowing that they, along with the Afghani family I befriended and tutored, and everyone else I encountered along the way, had taught me the biggest lessons. I still have not been able to fully process my lessons and experiences from India, even though I've been home for a long time. I guess they will come when it's time for them to teach me something. But some lessons were very clear:

In India, I learned I am capable of more than I knew possible.

In India, I learned despite the chaos, there is always time for chai.

In America, I learned these lessons are universal.

In America in 2009 I have seen how it is possible for one to orbit multiple worlds at a time and the distance between them is only as far as I let them be.

Yesterday I went to the post office in my DC neighborhood and mailed things to California, South Africa, and India. I have greatly enjoyed and taken advantage of opportunities before me while living in DC these last seven months. Yet many of my greatest teachers and the people I love are not here, and I have been thankful to have the opportunity to remain involved in their lives from afar: I am present even where I am not.

There is a large part of me that would love to be living abroad right now, anywhere, just for the new experience that seems to be so addicting me. But there is a larger part of me that is content to be where I am, but more importantly, this part of me knows that in order for me to have a different and meaningful experience the next time I go abroad, there is much more growing and discovery I have yet to experience here in Washington. Not like that's a bad thing.

In 2009, I went from an Indian-wannabe to part of the American Unemployed to a Working Washingtonian. I have learned hard lessons about love and beautiful lessons about friendship. During each step, my crazy but wonderful family supported me. I have taken nothing for granted.

This New Years, a big group of friends and I will dress up for a party at a hotel in Washington. Yet there is something I can guarantee: while I'm dancing the night away, I will be thinking of all my other worlds, all of those people who are not next to me but who have helped create my personality. I will be thinking of all the places I have stood this year, of all the new views I saw, and I will be thankful. I will be thankful for the places and people that have led me here.

And the next morning, I'll wake up and do it all over again.

May your new year be filled with laughter.

Happy 2010.

In Memory

2009-10-28T18:24:00.000-04:00

Before he got into the driver's seat for the ride that became his last, he spoke to a room of students about caring for one another and thinking globally. His presentation ended with a sentence that summed up the way in which he lived his life:

"Love aint dead."

After that speech, his light blue Acura slammed into an oncoming vehicle.

That's the way he left us, just like that.

For the next few months, I remembered very little, if anything. My body shut down. It hurt too much to feel. And when I started remembering, I still had trouble believing him, believing that "love aint dead."

I didn't understand how a beautiful, vibrant and powerful life could be erased, and how something so awful could be possible in the same realm of reality as love.

But with time, pain heals and maturity grows, and in the last five years I've been through and seen a lot, and he has guided me through it all. Sometimes it's weird, I swear I feel him walking with me, or I see him in a dream, and sometimes it's the voice in my head, of him challenging me to question my beliefs and actions, or of him reminding me to notice the small things:

"Quickly close your eyes. Ask yourself: what color is the carpet?"

If memory is a sign of love, then love can't be dead, because I carry him with me always. Our friendship is still evolving. He is still an influential character in my life's story, even though I've known him longer dead than alive. Most of us have. But as I struggled and soared through India and danced in Cape Town and papered away in college, I imagined him on the other end of the email exchange, always critical, yet always proud.

Friendship has no boundaries.

Love

aint dead.

Last week, almost five years later to the day, a group of us gathered for dinner. Many of us were not friends in his lifetime, but his death has brought us together. We are young, professional, independent, and inspired women. We sat over bowls of pasta and shared our struggles at work, and stories of love and laughter that occur when Outlook is closed. We are all in entirely different walks of live now than we were five years ago when we last saw him. But while I listened to these women speak, I saw him in each one of them, pushing and pulling them to their maximum potentials. An outsider would say that many of these women are already just fine the way they are. But we know better. He was never satisfied. There is always more to grow.

He has brought us together like family, and just like in a family of blood, you still feel connected to those who you don't know well. The same goes for us. Many of these women I met only recently, yet we are bonded by mutual friendships, and our goals to better both ourselves and the world.

Love aint dead.

I was 17 when I last saw him. He was 21. When I think about all the living I've done since then it's a little overwhelming. It breaks my heart to think that all of us who loved him are now older than him, and we have had experiences he wanted. But I'm also lucky, because the last time I saw him he was dancing. Wearing his standard uniform of a white t-shirt, baggy jean shorts, and no shoes, he was dancing in the street as I rode away to the airport.

That's how I hope to remember him, even though it's hard on days like today, when I'm reminded of phone calls bearing bad news and my body temporarily goes numb again. I hope to remember him dancing and singing, with a smile plastered across his face.

I hope to simply remember.

I hope to remember the details, but the sound of his voice is falling from my memory, and so I am left with the bigger picture. I am left with the knowledge that he believed in the good in every person. I am left with the knowledge that he was the only person in my generation who I've ever met that I believe was truly courageous. But mostly, I'm left with the knowledge that even though his death was awful, I know he'd want me to know that he didn't take love with him. If I could, I'd tell him that I know now, and that I owe him credit for a large part of my ability to see the good in the world and to love those around me in the way that I do.

When he died a lot of us lost so much.

But he couldn't kill love.

Love
aint
dead

(4.19.83-10.29.04)

Joe and Laiah, August 2002, Toronto
http://www.freethechildren.com/source/Toronto_Star_nov_04_2004.htm

In Search of America

2009-09-29T21:44:00.000-04:00

Sometimes the flashbacks are so powerful, they’re disorienting.

Walking through the woodsy and windy trails near my apartment in Rock Creek Park and the moldy smell of the water takes me back to Lodi Garden in Delhi, the only quiet place in the entire city. I remember acres and acres of grass with ruins and a quiet stream and wealthy mothers and fathers sipping bottled water as their children play cricket and soccer. I remember thinking it was Delhi’s Central Park. I went to read and watch. I befriended an Algerian Ambassador, and I remember I fell in love with the silence

For a moment, this memory blinded me, and I didn’t know where I was.

Is this a sign of insanity?

Maybe Nostalgia: A sentimental longing for the past.

Nostalgia for a place that was challenging, where I had to think daily about where I fit in to society. Nostalgia for a place where every day I learned something new that blew my mind and met someone new who made the challenges and frustration worthwhile.

October 4 will mark 5 months of living in Washington. Time really does fly. This date is significant because the only city I have lived in for 5 months or more in one consecutive period in the last few years was Cape Town. And while I like knowing that my time here isn’t limited so I can take my time to do the things I want to do, it’s a bit scary to be sedentary. I have no clue as to when I’ll pick up a backpack and head out again. And with $60 in my checking account it doesn’t look like it will happen anytime soon.

But sometimes I think living in America is so simple, so formulaic, that it’s hard to find the uniqueness and challenges and chaos that make me fall in love (and sometimes curse) the foreign country I might be living in. When I returned from India, a friend told me to try to view the US like I would abroad. That way, I was told, there will always be an adventure. I haven’t been perfect at it, but recently I’ve been exposed to worlds in my own city I knew, and still know, very little about.

Last week I participated in a project called the Race Monologues, a project somewhat modeled after the Vagina Monologues where people were interviewed about their experiences with racism and race in America. The monologue I performed was a white, academic woman’s story. She said:

“Blacks and whites in America are living completely different world experiences. And when we talk about race in America, we are talking about blackness.”

I read this and thought, I guess it’s easy to say living in America isn’t challenging when your world experience is one of face-value acceptance.

Example: My roommate is teaching Geometry through Teach for America in an inner-city DC high school. The only white people in the building are teachers. Every day she comes home with stories about her students and her school that are mind boggling: this is the first year her school had walls; her students passed Algebra One and cannot tell her which number is bigger: 3.0 or 3.01. Even her students’ names are foreign to me: Le-A is pronounced “le-dash-a.”

Talk about different world experiences.

This weekend I saw the film, Providence Affect, which is about an inner-city Chicago high school called Providence St. Elm where 100% of their students, for 30 years in a row, attend college, and a significant number are admitted to tier one universities. Even my public school, in a very strong school district in California, cannot boast a record like this. It’s a film that I encourage all of you to see, because it talks about a world where very few of us have ever seen, even though it’s only miles away. Education has been dubbed the new Civil Rights Movement, and it’s no question why: people wonder why America is falling behind, but every day 6,000 American high school students drop out.

One day I will leave DC for a new city. Maybe I’ll go abroad, maybe I’ll go back west, I don’t know. And I wonder, what will I be nostalgic for? Sometimes I feel I know Cape Town and Delhi better than I know DC. In those places, my American identity allowed me to bridge boundaries and be exposed to communities across the spectrum. But here, everyone I know received a college education and comes from similar family backgrounds. Most of my friends, and readers, are white. My corners of DC have become simple and formulaic, but there is a world out there, only a few minutes from my apartment, that I know nothing about. And in order to really get to know this city, perhaps its’ time I start learning about it.

I don’t want my nostalgia and flashbacks for DC to be only of happy hours in Dupont. I want to understand this city and all it has to offer. My feet are a-achin’ to move, and I feel a new adventure on the way.

A Happy (and Early) New Year

2009-09-10T19:14:00.000-04:00

As the DC air has begun to feel less humid and crisper, many have commented how fall is on the way. When I begin to think about all that fall brings, I get excited, especially when I realize, for the first time in my cognizant life, this fall will not include exams and midterms. One thing I really like about the East Coast is that fall is a real, separate season. I love the trees turning color and the pumpkin and squash and sweet potato flavors infused in everything.

Additionally, the fall brings the Jewish High Holy Days, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the two holiest holidays in the Jewish religion, as well as a slew of other holidays, all of which require large meals with large crowds, possibly two of my favorite things in life. We Jews really like our holidays, because, let’s be honest, we love any excuse to eat and drink, especially when it’s required of us. Even though the holiday season doesn’t even begin for (at the time of writing) two more weeks, my friends have already been talking about who is hosting which meal and on what day for weeks. The anticipation of the food really gets us going.

So, because I fall in the category of planning far in advance when it comes to the Jewish holidays, and because I’m new at my job, I spoke to my boss about what the logistics would be about taking off work for Yom Kippur. She’s not Jewish, but we work with faith based development agencies of all religions, so, fortunately, I didn’t have to explain what Yom Kippur was. She assured me it wouldn’t be a problem for me to miss a day, and then asked if I would explain to the staff what Yom Kippur was and then launched into a story about another “observant Jew” she knew.

And for some reason, those words in the context of myself, “observant Jew,” made me cringe.

Because I work for an organization that works with the religious community, conversations about religion seem to come up a lot at work. I’m the only Jewish person in the office who still somewhat practices, so it’s up to me to explain the complex Jewish faith to the staff. I’m proud of my heritage and love being a part of the Jewish community, but it’s always a little uncomfortable to me to have to represent an entire population of diverse people, especially when I’m still figuring out how I fit into that world.

To me, the term “observant Jew” is someone who is Orthodox, or keeps Kosher, or who at least has gone to synagogue a few times in the last year. Despite my connections and attachments to the Jewish community, I am not Orthodox, do not keep Kosher, and have not been to synagogue since last Yom Kippur. But to an outsider, the fact that I have Jewish friends, two Jewish parents, and will be in synagogue instead of the office on Yom Kippur, means I’m observant.

Being labeled as “observant” makes me uncomfortable because while I enjoy exploring and learning about them, I have always been wary committing to many of the religious aspects of Judaism. Additionally, I’m still trying to find my place and to figure out what feels right to me when it comes to more than a cultural identity to Judaism, and while I haven’t figured out a label yet, I know “observant” isn’t one of them.

Yet, on another thought, while many Jews might disagree, I feel a fortunate thing about being a Jew in America is that, if I choose, I can find a way unique to myself or a small community to act Jewish. I remember one summer some friends and I went to the Mission Minyan in the Mission District in San Francisco. The best way to describe that service was an egalitarian traditional service in a room filled with hippies. According to the Torah, these people were not observing Judaism correctly or strictly. But, as the music filled the room, I watched as men and women closed their eyes and really felt the meanings of the familiar melodies. There were no black hats, but the energy in the room replaced what they were lacking in traditional observances. And while I didn’t ask, it’s very possible that many of these congregants define themselves as observant.

I guess labels are subjective, and people can define me how they choose. So while they’re busy defining, I’ll be busy exploring…and cooking up a storm for this Rosh Hashanah.

A heartfelt (and early) L’Shana Tova…a happy New Year to you all (or, Happy Fall for the non-Jews). May this year be one filled with laughter and exploration, on whichever road you choose to follow.

The In-Between Life

2009-08-16T12:06:00.000-04:00

Last Saturday a good friend of mine got married.

As I stood on the alter in my royal blue bridesmaid dress and watched her and her dad cry on their walk down the aisle, I wondered to myself, “am I really old enough for this?”

Being a 20-something is bizarre. One minute I am independent and secure, and the next minute I want to crawl into bed and revert back to childhood.

I look at the kids I babysit and I sometimes long for the childhood innocence they possess. To them, everything is fun and worth exploring. Their lives are carefree and a lot like mine was in elementary school.

As I’ve settled into D.C. and worried about bills and employment, my friends have been getting engaged, married, and pregnant. Not all of them, obviously, but enough to force me to notice that suddenly, I’ve grown up.

I’ve grown up, but sometimes I still feel like a big kid. I can still play kickball, sleep in on the weekends, and eat crackers and hummus for dinner and not have to worry about other peoples’ livelihoods besides my own. My friends and I still giggle like we’re in elementary school, gossip like middle schoolers, and stay up late chatting online about boys like we did in high school. Despite all the living we’ve done since those days, some things never change.

In just a few months of being a 20-something in a big US city, I’ve learned a lot about the friends I have and had; about what kind of people I want in my life. The people I know who are open minded, relaxed, and inquisitive are the most exciting to me. I’ve been learning to let go of toxic people, and to hold on to those who will forever have something to teach me.

I’ve learned to incorporate lessons from abroad into my American routine (patience and curiosity). Curiosity keeps D.C. exciting. By discovering new places and people in the city it will feel like traveling when I can’t afford to jet off somewhere. Curiosity helped me find delicious Indian food not far from where I live, a perfect place for reading, and new friends who have let me take my time getting settled into one city.

And patience is what kept me calm during (F)unemployment, which I am in no longer, I got a job and will start on Monday at a global health NGO in D.C. I’m so fortunate to have gotten something in the field I really wanted! Unemployment was one of those things that would have gotten me in a tizzy pre-India, but after living in the crazy city of Delhi, nothing seems to hard anymore.

So am I really old enough for this? Sure, but not too old just yet. In just a few months of being a 20-something in a big US city, I’ve accomplished a lot. I’ve grown up, but not too much to be unrecognizable. I think being a 20-something is a weird in-between stage of life: we’ve been thrown responsibilities resembling adulthood, but still have a lifestyle similar to college kids. Some of my friends may be married, and I may be old enough to do so, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready. Being 22 means I can go at my own pace. I’m just trying to figure it all out.

The Life and Times of the (F)unemployed

2009-07-20T15:36:00.000-04:00

I’ve been in D.C. for 2 ½ months and I’m still unemployed.

“You’re so qualified!” Everyone says.

“Have you thought about looking for a job on idealist?!”

That’s like saying, “Have you thought about sleeping if you’re tired?” It’s so obvious. I feel like I spend more time on idealist than I spend time doing anything else.

But being unemployed is sometimes really fun, hence the (f) before unemployed. I’m funemployed!

There is an art to keeping busy and entertained while you have no job, and therefore, no income. This involves sleeping in, going on many informational (and sometimes when I’m lucky, real) interviews, walking around the city, free museums and other discounted DC activities that your tax dollars so generously pay for, and reading at cafes and foregoing my favorite drinks to order $1 iced coffees.

I’ve read some good books, most recently Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. It’s an incredibly moving novel about a boy searching for clues to his father’s life after he is killed in the World Trade Center.

“Don’t you get bored?” people always ask.

I don’t get bored, I have plenty of job alerts I have to track, plenty of blogs and books to read, plenty of interviews to have, and plenty of motivation to go to the gym. But it’s nice to have a real summer vacation and the chance to take my time to feel at home somewhere.

I don’t get bored, but sometimes, I get frustrated. Our generation grew up with such a sense of entitlement. In the boom of the 1990s we had everything we wanted and more, and were told we would be whatever it was that we dreamed. But when my class accepted our diplomas this year, we were essentially told the opposite. “You won’t get what you want, but something is better than nothing, and eventually, things will get better.”

Eventually?!

I think to myself, this life is too short for eventually. But I know, whether I like it, I will take the first something that comes along because something will lead to something which will lead me to another something that hopefully will be an opportunity that I can’t even imagine.

Sometimes I think to myself, my peers and I worked hard and we shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of the consequences of older generations’ mistakes. But that’s how the world works, I guess, and maybe it’s a good experience to have to learn to compromise some goals and to be rejected and to struggle a bit.

So for now, I wait and apply and interview. I play and read and am grateful for this opportunity to relax. I am grateful that the inner-calm from India has not been totally corrupted by DC mayhem, and am especially grateful for those who have helped me through this process. While interviewing, I have met some exceptional individuals who have done some extraordinary things in their lives. It’s motivating and inspiring, and I’ve learned about opportunities I didn’t even know existed.

Some people might take their unemployment personally. But when I’m told that over 400 people applied to the same administrative job at a tiny non profit that I did, or when the temp agency I applied to doesn’t even have work to give me, I know it’s not my fault. So I look at it as funemployed, because it’s better to be positive, and if I have to be 22 with only a measly bachelors degree during one of the worst economic times in history, I’m going to make the best out of it.

To quote Jonathan Safran Foer, “I do not think that there are any limits to how excellent we could make life seem.”

So, for all of you who have a job and a paycheck, enjoy it. But for the millions of people in my situation, let’s make a toast to funemployemt. (At happy hour, where it’s cheaper.)

America: 233 and counting

2009-07-08T00:38:00.000-04:00

So you may have missed it, but America had a birthday this week. It was a big bash…fireworks on the mall, concert on the Capitol steps, and lots of parties throughout the day. Bad day for cows though, I hear all y’all like to eat those poor guys to celebrate our freedom.

While celebrating Amurica’s 233rd, I thought a lot about my journeys over the last year. While we drink beer, eat beef, and blow stuff up in the sky to celebrate our country’s independence, I couldn’t help but remember India’s Republic Day. A somber day (and QUIET) where the country reflected on what independence meant to them, the challenges it caused them, and those who were lost fighting for the majestic idea that is freedom.
Freedom.

I celebrated Freedom Day in South Africa, a day to commemorate the country’s first democratic elections after the fall of apartheid, by listening to Archbishop Desmond Tutu speak about the importance of not forgetting those who still aren’t free. He mainly focused on Tibet and Zimbabwe.

While many in India and South Africa are no freer than they were under the colonialist regimes, there is a deep love for the country in all people. On the 4th of July, our papers informed us nothing new about Michael Jackson. There was little mention (I can’t say no mention as I didn’t read every publication, obviously) of paying the favor of independence forward to those who are still struggling, who are still “huddled masses yearning to be free,” both in our country and abroad.

And we are so free in this country. So free in fact, that at the National Mall, where I went to see fireworks beside the most phallic symbol of American strength and pride (the Washington Monument) there were HOARDS of people passing out free bibles, and a prayer booth in the middle of the mall, preaching Jesus’ message.

Really, Amurica? On the most federal holiday around you gotta bring JC into it? Talk about separation of church and state…

This country is so free, that we can break our nation’s supposedly most valued and central tenant on her birthday.

We are so independent in this country that nobody bothered to even check my purse as I, and thousands others, walked onto the mall on Saturday night, only footsteps from the Capitol building, to watch the fireworks.

Some of these things are totally backwards. Some of these things may come back to bite us in the behind eventually. But right now I’m choosing to focus on the fact that we are so lucky to be here. Perhaps the most backwards part about that is most people don’t even know that much: they don’t even know how good they have it.

I know I do my fair share of griping about America. Isn’t it patriotic to challenge something to try to make it better? Nevertheless I was glad, am glad, to be in America right now. I’m having fun with my friends, fun in the city, and fun not having to worry about what I wear, who I talk to, or what I eat.

We have it so easy here. Everything is done for us, everything is clean, tested, protected, and insured. Our lives are worriless, and maybe that’s why I’m having so much fun. Life here is easy, and maybe eventually that will get boring, but right now, I’m having a great time.
So Happy Birthday, Amurica. Here’s to another year of ass kickin and trail blazin and terrorist huntin and Big Macs. Oh, and rights for women and social services and free elections, and clean drinking water and vaccines…..

Home Sweet Home

2009-06-16T01:17:00.001-04:00

I boarded a jetblue flight Wednesday morning from Dulles to Oakland. As I got settled in the window seat, my favorite seat, feeling grateful that the middle seat was empty, the woman in the aisle seat turned to me.

“Are you going home?” she asked me.

For the first time, I found that answer complicated.

“Well I live here now, but I’m from the Bay Area, so, yes,” I said.
The answer seemed to satisfy her, but it left me thinking, where is my home? Is home where you live, or is home where you’re from? Or is home where you’re around the people who make you feel complete?

If home is where one lives, then D.C. would be my home right now…I’m a rent-paying, job-hunting urban crawler of the district. If home is where one is from, then no matter how many places I live, home will always be in California; after-all, you can’t change where you’re from. But if home is with people who make you feel complete, then I have homes all over the world.

I look at my friends’ lives and homes, and I realize I’m lucky to struggle to answer the question, “where is home?” The struggle means I have it good in so many places I can’t decide which is better, more comfortable, and full of more love. If the trite expression is true, “home is where the heart is,” then my home is in the bay, in my new apartment here in D.C. with Jess, but my home is also with the people who hold a piece my heart: a few close friends I still talk to in Cape Town, in the cozy apartment inhabited by my Afghani family in Delhi, and with those who I have met in my life who have touched me who are currently scattered throughout the US, Canada, Europe, Africa, and Asia. If the expression is true, I am always home when I am around people I love.
And if I think of home that way, as a feeling rather than a place, I don’t have to worry about how to answer my seatmate’s question next time. “Yes, I’m going home,” I’ll confidently say, knowing, secretly, that I’m really just going from one home to another.

I am one lucky girl.

Moment of Zen, D.C. style:
What happens when Laiah, 2 friends from California, and Anoop, an American Idol contestant, are in a bar? Sounds like a bad joke, but in fact, it’s reality. The answer? The friends laugh when Laiah gets excited, Laiah defies them, goes to talk to him, telling him he’s on the front page of Indian newspapers every week, he gets excited, and Anoop and Laiah chat it up. It’s sad when the most exciting non-political celebrity I’ve spotted in D.C. is from a reality TV show…here’s to an exciting (?) year in D.C. Also, speaking of reality shows, the fated MTV Real World is coming to Dupont Circle. I will be staying as far away from those cameras as possible.

showing where the living room ends and my bedroom will begin. more apt pictures to come as we continue to get settled

Curls in the Capitol!

2009-05-27T01:39:00.000-04:00

Coming to the capitol means commitment.

I’m generally a committed person. I follow through and I’m there for my friends and family. But in the last year I have lived in Cape Town, California, DC, and Delhi; committing to one city is something I haven’t done in a long time.

But today I committed to living in Washington, D.C. for at least the next 365 days by signing a lease in the Cleveland Park neighborhood of the city.

Everyone tells me one year isn’t that long, but when you’re 21, every year of your life has held a monumental occasion. I know it’ll go by fast, but after being a nomad for so long, it’s a little daunting to think about spending a year in one place. I’m definitely ready to not live out of a suitcase and to put down some roots, but I already feel the itch to explore again. I figure if I’m unemployed…why not? (just kidding mom and dad.)

The job hunt is daunting and all-consuming, and maybe should be stressful, but after crossing the street in Delhi, I can apply for a few jobs. I’ve committed many days to sending out resumes, and lately I haven’t been doing as many as I should, but I’m confident that, eventually, something that I like will come along.

I’m both excited and nervous about staying in DC for a year, and it will be interesting to see if I’m able to make this city feel like home after so much back and forth around the world. I feel up to the challenge, but when I find myself running into sari clad women everywhere and hearing African accents on every block, I wonder if DC will ever even come close to the adventures of living abroad.

It might sound bizarre and overdue, but a few days ago it really hit me that I am not anywhere near India. Walking through D.C., I notice how everyone is in his own world. Ipod in, blackberry on, and in a rush, everyone passes everyone on the street and doesn’t acknowledge each other’s humanity. If I wanted to, I could go days without touching another human being. Our society is so sterile, so compartmentalized, that we don’t take the time to connect with one another. This element of our culture surprised me when I came home from Cape Town, and again from Delhi, because in those places, the culture is much more physical. In India, Joyti would touch my hand or leg as we spoke, and in Cape Town Lendy was always playing with my hair or poking my sunburned skin.

India was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but the longer I’m away from it, the more I miss it, and the more willing I am to go back someday. Everyday I learn more about the gifts India gave me, and everyday my experience in India becomes more valuable. I felt I could not have survived Cape Town without previous FTC travel, I could not have survived India without Cape Town, and now, I’m thinking it would be much more challenging for me calmly to start my new life here without India. So I’m committing to trying to view DC like I did these exotic places: like an adventure with so many stories to be told.

Now that sounds like a commitment I can stick to.

Also, now that I'm in the capitol I'm supposed to be political. So go here: http://www.gavinnewsom.com/actions/petition and participate in the civil rights battle of our generation.

(keeping the curlsonthecape url because that's where the journey began, and so all of you can continue to follow along.)

Global Colo(u)rs

2009-04-27T04:55:00.001-04:00

When I look back on everything, it is colour I remember.

Red for their uniforms

Bright orange saris

Green and yellow auto rickshaws zooming past me on the street

I remember the rainbow of fruit at the market, and my excitement for finally finding an avocado, even though I didn’t buy it, because I could hear the pit in it as I picked it up, and I was so close to America.

America.

I thought coming home would be harder than it was, maybe because in many ways I was ready to leave India. But there are things about America that are overwhelming.
Like walking into Target, with the overwhelming selection…
Or realizing that everything I need to do here (except get a job) can be done nearly effortlessly, and if I wish, in solitude…
Or the day I cut off so much of my hair in a spontaneous decision that I definitely do not regret.

But because I was ready to come home, I see beauty in America that I did not see when I came home from South Africa.

Like the overwhelming variety of shades of green as I walk the Lafayette reservoir or the clear blue of the San Francisco Bay as I sit with new and old friends at a table right next to the water. I notice the purple flowers in my driveway and the rainbows everywhere in the Haight…on the café’s wall menu, or the flags flying from old Victorian windows.

I guess when I look around here, I see color, too.

I notice the pink in my face returning as my friendly Indian parasite, Herman (Hermie), leaves my body and the pink spots on my legs that haven’t disappeared from the Indian bugs that nibbled at my legs as I slept. I notice the bright pink on my toes from my American pedicure, and the pink awning on Telegraph Avenue on the shop that sells everything I bought for you in India, but at a price even the gutsiest market vendor wouldn’t dream of asking me for.

That is irony.

I see family and old friends and, naturally, everyone asks me about India. Some people ask questions that are incredibly insightful and challenge me to be succinct and articulate, and others sadden me, because all they ask about is how dirty India is and how sick I got.

I’ve traveled enough to expect these questions, but I’m waiting for a question that I can’t answer. India isn’t as easy to talk about as other places I’ve been. I don’t have as many crowd-pleasing stories…no lion adventures. But I could tell you about inspiration. Like Jassi, the sewing teacher at my school, who always made me laugh when she told me my hair “is like noodles.” One day on her way to school she fell out of the bus and her entire left side of her body was swollen. I won’t write her age (she’d be so mad if she found out), but she was getting close to being too old to be married when an army man from Punjab briefly met her (through a family arrangement) and proposed. I can only imagine her happiness and her nerves. She inspires me because of the dedication she exhibited towards the women in her class, even when she would cry “You have no brain!” when they’d make a sewing mistake. She made me promise that I’d never forget her, and so I’m writing this to prove to the world that she is always in my memory, stored away in the compartment I reserve for people around the globe who remind me what it feels like to be human.

I could also tell you about the grand party my Afghani family and I had when they finished school. We popped balloons with confetti and fed each other cake. When the conversation came to the fact that in a matter of days I would be leaving India, the entire family, from the father to the youngest child, wept. I think about them every single day because they want to come to America so badly, and here I am, back in my old routine, in the land of their dreams.

I’m back to my old routine, albeit a few minor changes. My days at home have been consumed with apartment and job searches, and lots of sleep (although it’s late now) because Hermie make me tired. Not too interesting, so I won’t continue. But I’ve discovered some gems, like the New York Times columns by Maira Kalman, which keep me glued to my computer rather than a book as I dig further and further into her archives. Maybe I’m late in discovering her, but her columns are so beautiful, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shamelessly modeling this blog after hers. Lately the question of my days is, what do I want to do when I grow up? And if I could do anything, I’d be a combination of her, and Nicholas Kristof. My favorite one of hers so far is here, if you’re interested: http://kalman.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/01/02/completely/

Maira (we’re on a first-name basis. If only she knew.) sums up part my new stress-free mentality from India that so far, I’ve had a 94% success rate at keeping up in America: “Everyone is going forward, and everyone is behind everyone, and everyone is looking ahead to the future.”

But I’d also like to look at where I am now, because right now, it’s all beginning. And it could be stressful, but mostly, it’s pretty exciting. Perhaps the biggest gift India’s given me that I’ve noticed so far is the gift of extraordinary peace. I’m not angry, but I’m not apathetic, but I recognize that life’s story is illustrated without much of my control, but I’ve been presented with a beautiful piece of art. So I’ll take the colo(u)rs and peace-within-the-chaos from India and the music and laughter from South Africa that I have shared with you here, and weave it into a new story…Curls in the Capitol.

I hope you’ll join me on my next crazy adventure.

Sweet Surrender

2009-04-09T11:52:00.000-04:00

When my time in India was nearly complete, I heard a quote in reference to India which might have helped me during my first few weeks:

“Sometimes, you have to surrender before you win.” (this quote is from the book “Shantaram” which you all should read)

Even though I didn’t have those words of wisdom as I struggled to find my place in New Delhi’s masses in January, it seems I followed the advice anyway. When I stopped trying to make Delhi something it wasn’t, when I put away some of my expectations of India and tried to love her for what she is, I began to see her beauty. When I let India take her course, I saw something unlike I’d ever seen, and I know I’ll never see again.

India takes getting used to. In the beginning, the intensity of the weather, dirt, noise, and smells makes many travelers wonder what’s so special about India. They see scams on every corner, they get sick, and desperately want to return home. But with time, and plenty of determination, the sari colors overpower the sights of trash piles in the street, the nose begins to find the wafting scents of masala chai on every corner rather than the strong smells of urine against the walls, and the scams become a daily challenge to beat. Something about the chaos and dysfunction becomes so special, you can’t imagine what your life was like before it. å When this happens, you’ve won.

But India is a country of massive contradictions: nothing is clear, even winning and losing. For a country with a growing number of billionaires, the economic recession has also pushed a growing number of people onto the streets. For a country that offers America’s wealthy a lucrative medical tourism industry, the infant mortality rate is worse than some of Africa’s poorest nations. And for every utterance of love for India’s beauty that comes out of my mouth, an expletive of frustration follows. It can’t be helped: every day is a process, a cycle of surrendering for the daily small gains.

All of my feelings towards India are filled with contradictions; I don’t think I have one opinion about India where I don’t also think the exact opposite about the same issue. She has made me both optimistic and cynical about her, and the world’s, future. She has made me bolder than I ever knew possible, yet fearful. She toughened my skin, and made me cry. She made me sicker than I’ve ever been, gave me more bug bites than I knew I had space on my legs for, and more stomach rumbles than any other country, yet she made me feel healthy and strong for overcoming these obstacles. Each day in the street I exhibited immense patience, and also wanted to send all of India back to kindergarten in the USA to teach them how to make a single file line (among other frustrations involved with leaving the flat)…

After overcoming the initial shock of the chaotic Indian life, each moment was a challenge and brought different feelings for India. Yet at the end of the day, I would fall asleep content with India and all of her beauty and all of her disarray. And now, in a clean hotel room in Hong Kong with hot running water and free internet (luxuries reserved only for the Taj Mahal in India) I miss it. I miss the chaos and I miss the rickshaws and I miss the smells and I miss the food and I miss the colors and I miss my little boys’ smiles. But at the same time, I was relieved to see the Hong Kong metro so orderly, happy to walk on the sidewalk and not the middle of the street, and guiltily pleased by a Starbucks iced soy latte.

I guess that means I surrendered. I surrendered to the contradiction.

This concept of surrendering however became even more apparent to me when I said goodbye to my students.

I spent much of the first few weeks teaching frustrated with their work ethic, and frustrated with the Indian education system as a whole. But when I finally accepted I could only do so much, things got easier for me, and for the boys also. On the last day of class when it came time for me to say goodbye to them, I wept. I told them: “I have had fun being your teacher. I think you are all very smart. I hope you study hard and dream big. I will never forget you.” When I finished speaking, almost all of my class was in tears, some of them were even bawling harder than I was. But the next morning when I came to school to say goodbye to the teachers, the boys came to hear their exam results, and presented me with a surprise gift. They each pitched in a few rupees and bought me a present. I was amazed at their initiative and incredibly flattered.

The Indian contradiction transcended onto my feelings for my boys also…for every day I left so swearing I would never set another foot back in that classroom, there were just as many days when I was hopelessly in love with them. Those boys, all 12 of them, with their lightning smiles and innocent laughs, invested their trust in me, and in doing so, gave me their hearts. Each day I came to school wearing a new piece of Indian clothing they’d point and cry “Shopping!” When I was sick they worried for me. They always made sure I had a chair to sit on and a clean cup of chai. At first I was resistant to their hearts, but by the end, I learned that their love and trust was what made India all of the conflicting things it was: bearable and challenging and easy and beautiful.

The book, “Shantaram,” says “Without love, India would be impossible.” I cannot agree more. My India would have been impossible without the unconditional love of my students and fellow teachers. When I surrendered to them, to India, I let in the purest, rawest, most imperfect love I believe there is: the love from Mother India.

saying goodbye...
back row: suraj, ramnath, shiv shankar
middle row: arun, me, ganesh, rahul, himanshu
front row: prahbath, anad, chandan (manish and aman are absent!)

they all did this...without me asking

Holi Moli!

2009-03-12T01:01:00.000-04:00

When I woke up sick on Sunday morning, I knew it was bad news. Holi was just around the corner, and I knew in my gut I'd only get maximum one celebration out of the week if I was sick. So, possibly (actually definitely) making myself sicker, I went to school on Monday to celebrate Holi with my students. While I would have loved to celebrate Holi with my fellow volunteers and CCS staff, it was more important to me to see my students' colourful smiles.

You can read about the significance of Holi here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holi (don't hate me for citing wikipedia).

Wednesday was the real Holi celebration, and I slept through the entire thing. Oh well, as you'll see below, it was well worth celebrating with my students:
Himanshu, the boy I wrote about in an earlier blog (in the green), with some of my other students (the three in the back, Anad, Ramnath, and Aman), and friends.

Me and Shanta after my students attacked me with colour

Holi chaos!

Happy Holi from Okhla!

AND YOUR INDIAN MOMENT OF ZEN:

my yogies trying hard to be calm pre-Holi partying

We Are Family

2009-03-06T11:07:00.000-05:00

It took a while, but I’ve fallen in love with Mother India. It happened a while ago, probably at the end of January but it is solidified and strengthened each day, and I figured I should officially let you all know that India and I have found each other.

It’s not the love where I will go kicking and screaming to the plane like my love for South Africa, but like Quinton’s content “third apple” love, where I recognize the faults and problems, yet love it still (The apple metaphor is Quinton’s, my country director from South Africa’s, analogy of adjustment to culture shock, where one goes from euphoric, to depressed to content: the first time one discovers an apple he loves it and only eats apples, but then he discovers one that’s rotten, but finally comes around to realize that apples are delicious but in moderation).
Time goes by quickly, and it’s hard to believe my days here are numbered. But there is still much more living to do before I say goodbye. I’m continuing to pick up some Hindi (don’t even think that means a lot though), I have collected an entire new wardrobe of beautiful Indian clothes (at time of writing my entire outfit from head to toe was purchased here), and there are still a few trips left in store. I’ve adopted the Indian head-bob, where tilting my head to the side means “Yes” when at home it means “No,” and the small flick of the wrist to say “OK.” I have perfected the science of weaving between cars and bikes and cows to cross the street, rickshaw drivers and market vendors don’t stand a chance of ripping me off, and I can even sleep through the night despite the whistling and honking and banging and cat-screaming that is Delhi’s lullaby. If being Indian was an attitude, I’m on my way to cultural assimilation. The downside of only being here 3 months is I will not become as integrated as I was in Cape Town, but the benefit of being here for only 3 months is that I will not sweat to death…the temperature already reached 90 degrees a few weeks ago: Happy Snow Day, AU!

I’ve learned a lot in my time here so far, and I won’t bore you all with cliché lessons or reflections, but one thing I have been proud of is my ability to find family wherever I go. I was approached by my neighbour, Mr. Jaffa, to tutor a family that lives in my apartment complex in English. They have recently come to India from Afghanistan, and some of the girls cannot attend school in India because their English is not good enough. (I will not be very specific about this family on my blog to protect their privacy and safety, that’s why my descriptions are vague.) Mr. Jaffa knows them because he tutors the boy in Hindi, but he cannot tutor the girls. The boy, has excellent English, and does not really need English tutoring because as a boy he could always attend school in Afghanistan. The first day I went to their flat I was very nervous…I knew the girls did not speak hardly any English and I had no idea where to begin. Yet when I entered their flat my fears washed away: the mother, nearly in tears, told me through her son she would never forget the day when I came to teach her daughters. She told me she prayed Gd would bless me with a long and healthy life. The next day, I met her husband, and he said similar things.

So I go to them almost everyday. They do not pay me monetarily, but shower me with Afghan tea and delicious Afghan snacks of nuts and dried peas and fruit, and so much love. Mostly we study English, and I must admit the girls are progressing very nicely, but sometimes we just laugh. We paint nails and play with hair, we look at photos, and if the brother isn’t there, struggle to communicate but always with smiles on our faces. When the call to prayer engulfs the city, we cover our heads with our scarves (or the armrest cover if one of the girls has no scarf) and continue studying. That’s when they tell me I look Afghani. Sometimes the mother sits in on the lesson, and worries if her daughters get an answer wrong and laughs when they get an answer correct. She says I am like another daughter to her.

It’s hard to describe the feeling in the flat every time I go in, but it almost feels like going home. Even though the girls insist on calling me “Ma’am,” what Indians call all female teachers (I’m trying to get them to call me either Laiah or Didi, Hindi for big sister), we are friends, and I look forward to teaching everyday. After reading books like A Thousand Splendid Suns and Kabul Beauty School, I have always been inspired and interested in the plight of Afghan women. I am glad to have the chance to befriend, and possibly even help, some of Afghanistan’s finest.

Mr. Jaffa told me that I am teaching them English, but perhaps, more importantly, I am acting as an American ambassador to a group of people who may not have always seen America’s greatest side. That may be true, but I’m not concentrating on diplomacy, I just feel I’ve found some beautiful friends in the most random circumstance. Sometimes they try to shower me with gifts, I take some , like beautiful blue Afghan bangles, and refuse others, like the earrings out of one of the girl’s ears when I complimented them. Yet I think they are unaware of the biggest gift they have given me: a family across the ocean. Oh, and an addiction to Afghan tea.

And your moment of Zen (or India’s perception of the Jews):
Mr Jaffa: Every time I see you I think you look like you should be in the movie “The 10 Commandments” or out of the book “The Red Tent.”

And another moment of Zen (literally):
Today (Friday) was pay-day for the teachers at my school, so they left early to collect their paychecks. At recess the children were told they could go home early. As they came inside to collect their bags they all began running and screaming. It was so loud that the other teachers and I who were drinking chai in a classroom ran outside to see what was wrong. Because the children were acting like animals, they were punished. Each child had to stand, knees bent, head between their legs, holding their ears. If they squirmed, a teacher hit them on the butt. If they did it wrong, they had to start over with a backpack on their back to ensure accuracy. When I left my chai to see what was happening it was quite a sight…something like 90 boys in grades 1-4 were standing like that in the school. I’d never seen the school so quiet. Then, I walked into the classroom where I teach (that’s right! They gave me a classroom! No more teaching in the lobby for me!) to check on my boys. To my actual shock, it turns out they were the only boys not screaming and running, so instead of being punished, they were inside, on the mat, cross-legged, eyes closed, doing yoga breathing. As the oldest in the school, I fully expected them to be the leaders of the screaming mob. I couldn’t have been prouder.

***Stay tuned for photos of Holi…the Hindu festival for Krishna, where everyone covers themselves in coloured powder and throws water balloons filled with coloured water. Water balloons have already started falling from a few stories up in our apartment village, so walking home from the market is always a bit risky, but thankfully, so far, the water is colour-free.

A link to my photos from Amritsar, where the Golden Temple is. The captions explain what's going on: http://picasaweb.google.com/laiah.idelson/HolyCityTourPartIIAmritsar?feat=directlink

Me @ the Golden Temple!

At the border between India and Pakistan. Guards performing the Change of the Guard ceremony

Delhi Days

2009-02-27T01:57:00.000-05:00

A peak into the daily adventure that is New Delhi:

I go to the juice man in the market to get a cup of freshly squeezed juice. These juice stands are all over every city in India, I’m just fortunate to have one just a short walk from my flat. My juice costs Rs15 (a whopping $0.30USD) but the smallest bill I have is RS100 note ($2USD). Instead of giving me RS85 in change, he hands me the money back. “Change?” he asks.
He’s asking me for change! Nobody in this city will ever break a bill.

It’s just another day in Delhi.

The kids who play outside of my flat look at me with big innocent eyes, begging me to play. So I stop and give them some needed love for a few minutes. Then, when I say “bye bye” Aman, the oldest one, pulls my scarf off and runs away. While this is annoying, I’d rather have him do that then pull on my pants…the other day I was wearing loose pants with an elastic waste and my pants almost ended up at my ankles. But this time, his dad comes out and hits him for taking my scarf.

There isn’t anything I can do about it…it’s just another day in Delhi.

I try to barter with a rickshaw driver. I want to go somewhere where the cost should be only Rs50. He asks for Rs100. I look at him like he’s crazy. He explains he needs 50 extra because he “must make a U-Turn.” I tell him there are many other rickshaw drivers and he can take me for Rs50 or not at all. Sometimes he takes me, sometimes, I get in the next rickshaw instead.
The driver assures me he knows where he is going. He isn’t totally lying…he knows when he gets out of the rickshaw at the stoplight ten minutes later to ask for directions. If he’s found he’s going the wrong way “No Problem!” he just will drive on the wrong side of the road until we get to our destination. This usually isn’t a problem, except for when his headlight is out and we’re on a road filled with big-rigs.

Sometimes he stops to get water or chewing tobacco, to call “his girlfriend,” or to pee on the side of the road. He always sings, and has pictures of half naked bollywood stars, usually a man on the left (usually Shah Rukh Khan) and a woman on the right, cut out in the shape of a heart, taped to his mirror. The mirror which he only uses to steal glances at the white girls in his rickshaw, not for the road.

If he’s ripped us off, he’ll yell at his friends “Hauz Khas Apartments! Special Price!” If he’s picked us up at a rickshaw stand, he’ll bring his friends over to meet us.

“From where you from?”
“How you find India?”
“You so beautiful!”

It’s just a normal rickshaw ride in Delhi.

My fellow volunteer, Tom, a 62 year old Scot, is on his way to work when a car catches on fire next to him. Being a normal traffic day in Delhi, there is nowhere for the CCS driver, Kewal, to go. As Tom prepares for an explosion, perhaps with him as a part of it, the light miraculously turns green and Kewal puts the pedal to the metal. Behind them, there are flames and a lot of smoke.

The traffic in Delhi makes LA, the Washington Beltway, or the Bay Bridge at rush hour seem easy breezy. A trip across the city can take over two hours. Traffic lanes mean nothing here, and in a rickshaw, I can reach out and touch the person in the rickshaw next to me. Sometimes I fear a loss of limbs from the big-rig that barrels past us.

It’s just a normal day in Delhi.

Some volunteers and new-found friends and I venture out to a new part of the city in search of a bar. No bars there, drinking isn’t so big in India. Oh well. We find a fun and hip café with good food and hookah. On our way home we see a tent set up in a park in our apartment complex. The girls and I linger outside of the tent long enough for someone to notice us.

“Come in!” he says. We politely protest, but he asks again and so we enter the tent. It’s wedding season, and colourful tents are set up around the city. We hadn’t found a wedding, but rather a “mehindi night” or one of the parties leading up to a wedding for the women to celebrate. Mehindi is henna, and the guests generously allowed us to get henna on our hands.

Wedding season is in full force, and at night, the fireworks announcing a groom’s arrival are so close I can feel it in my chest in the flat. At the wedding I attended (not the one I crashed) the fireworks were so close (and poorly made) that one small falling flame just barely missed my hair.

It’s just another normal day, another crazy adventure in Delhi.

Happy Valentine's Day. You're Under Arrest

2009-02-16T12:42:00.000-05:00

In India, nothing goes off without a hitch.

While all of you were sporting red and pink on Saturday, exchanging roses and cardboard cut out valentines, having dinner with friends, or drinking a bottle of wine to yourself (you know who you are), a young, unmarried couple was pulled out of their friend’s house and beaten in the streets.

It was actually Friday night, and they’d gone over to a friend’s house. The friend left to get some food, leaving the couple alone in the flat when a snoopy neighbour called the police when she noticed there was an unmarried couple alone inside. Instead of enforcing written law (of which there is none that says unmarried couples can’t be inside together), they enforced their own moral code, turning the rule of law into a rule of ideals.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

“If we find you with somebody of the opposite sex on Valentine’s Day we will hand you over to the police or shave your head,” signs read throughout one region of India.

Who knew Valentine’s Day could be a day for terrorism? Not like suicide bomb terrorists, but terrorism from the “moral police,” those in uniform, and those not, but men who find it their duty to “protect” Indian women from the harms of the influence of western culture.

The signs were posted by the same group of men who raided a pub in Mangalore in late January, attacking women for being there because it was not appropriate for women to be engaging in “such behavior.” As a result, the country was on high alert on Saturday, with cities like Delhi putting extra police on the streets to ensure safety. At nice restaurants and bars, there seemed to be an extra amount of security enforced.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Even though these crazies wreaking havoc are in the minority, unfortunately their voices are the loudest. Nevertheless many share their views but express them more moderately, and therefore, India, the largest democracy in the world, has a long way to go before truly granting its women equal status; it’s hard to be a woman in India. Even in the wealthiest, most educated families, having a daughter is still seen has a bourdon and about what her dowry, not her intelligence, will be worth. And while my girlfriends in the US are having fun meeting and dating, and some of them even marrying men they’ve fallen in love with, only a small population of Indian women are free to make similar choices. While much of India has been pushed forward with the tech and intelligence boom, India’s women are still living under social rules dating back decades. That means, even if you’re in love, you may not be able to marry if your castes do not match.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

In India, every 6 hours a married woman is beaten or burned to death by her husband. Indians boast of their low divorce rate as a tribute to the success of arranged marriage, and yet while the western way is far from perfect, Indians often leave out the incredibly high rate of women’s “kitchen accidents.”

That means suicide.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

When a woman marries, she leaves her family and moves into her husband’s family. This is why the caste system, although technically illegal, still prevails in India: you don’t want to marry someone with ways different from your own because you will be living with his family, and your marriage is really a way of keeping your ways alive, rather than starting your own path together. Because daughters do not have the responsibility of caring for her parents after she marries (usually between the age of 18-15), many Indian families do not view their daughters as their own: she’s an investment with no return. Many families end up in “Dowry Debt” after taking out a loan to invest money for a newborn girl’s dowry, only to find their second child to, unfortunately, also be a girl. Dowries are also illegal in India, but really, who’s telling? Almost everyone has a dowry, even if it’s under a different name. Sometimes it’s logical, a family wants to buy their daughter things she will need to move into her new home: a bed, a refrigerator, a kitchen set etc. But sometimes, it gets out of control: recently, a case was in the news where a young woman was kicked out of her home after six years of marriage because her dowry was not sufficient, and her in-laws were not pleased.

As a result, finding out the sex of a fetus is illegal because the rate of female infanticide is so high. Yet corruption overrules the law, and people find ways to get around the law. Recently, a well was found behind a nursing home in the state of Punjab that was ¼ full of female fetuses. Today, there is a marriage squeeze throughout India. Too many men. Not enough women.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

An image I will never forget is the mother of a bride sobbing at her daughter’s wedding. Not the joyful tears I imagine my parents to cry one day when I marry, but tears of utmost sorrow. The next day, her daughter was to move to the south of India with her new family, and while the mother of the groom danced into the night to celebrate the marriage of her son and the expansion of her family, the bride’s mother was losing her only daughter.

This Valentine’s Day, I didn’t gripe about being single or about being surrounded by pink and red consumer-driven madness for a fake holiday. Rather, I counted my blessings to be born an American woman. The United States still has so ridiculously far to go to achieve true gender equality. Yet, I know that next Valentine’s Day, somewhere in the USA, whether I’m on a date or celebrating with my girlfriends, we won’t have to worry about who is watching.

And that’s a gift that’s irreplaceable.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

And your Indian Moment of Zen:
(Again, from my student, Manish)
Me: Ok give me a sentence with "I have"
Boys: I have one nose! I have two eyes!
Me: Good. Give me a sentence with "You have"
Manish: You...have....one hair. No no. You have ALL (makes a motion to mean HUGE) hair!

The Ganges River in Haridwar, a holy city at the foot of the Himalayas. For more pictures of the start of the Holy City Tour, visit: http://picasaweb.google.com/laiah.idelson/HolyCityTourPartOneHaridwarAndRishikesh?authkey=BY4PRFhlVfc&feat=directlink

School Days

2009-02-04T12:34:00.000-05:00

Sitting barefoot on the dirty mats with red uniforms that are too big, they cried out:

“I love India!”

“India is the best!”

“I am proud of my India!”

Flies rested on their gelled back dark hair. Mice scurried in the corners of the class. Yet they still exclaimed their love for India.

My students can’t ever forget the fact they are from the slums. Everywhere they look is garbage and poverty. The writing above the doorway to the school says “Learning Centre for Slum Children.” In a country with a constitution that grants equal rights and privileges to all, my students have been ignored by the government, and denied basic services like adequate healthcare and access to a decent education.

Yet they still cry, in an almost robotic tone of an English learner,
“I am proud of my India!”
Their India.

While they pushed and shoved each other on the mat to be the first to get the chalk to write their love for India, in English, on the board (clearly not heeding my “one by one” directions), I fought back tears. These children have been so obviously ignored by India, yet they love it still.
My students are really smart. They all really want to learn, and while they all could use a heavy does of Ritalin, I know they try. I took a step back and listened to them talk the other day and realized how far I’ve been able to bring them, just in a month. I am proud of myself, but I know that I still have a lot to learn from them, and that in two months I’ll be able to teach them more, but still not nearly enough for them to be able to be at the level they should be at in Grade 5. You see, in India, beginning in Grade 6, most of the classes are in English. At this rate, all of my students would fail in a class like that.

Sometimes they don’t try hard enough I feel like. They want it to come easy to them, so they don’t listen to the question and just shout out any word in English they know to answer a question. My day is spent teaching nouns and verbs and TO BE in the present and past tense, but also watching them slap and kick and punch each other, knowing I’m powerless to stop them, because in India, that behavior is reinforced at home.

But there is one student who is always ready to learn, who doesn’t hit or get hit. The youngest in the class, Himanshu is also the smartest: after reading a story written for preschoolers that most of my class didn’t understand on the first day, Himanshu came to class the next day with 10 sentences written down summarizing the story. While every sentence was grammatically incorrect, he had understood the story, and that’s what I thought mattered. He always feels the work is too easy, but what am I supposed to do when everyone else finds it too hard? I know I’m not supposed to have a favourite, but Himanshu is my favourite student. He translates for me, gives the other students pens when they don’t have one, he tells the students when they’re right or wrong to my question. But I worry about him. His English is better than his peers’, but not good enough to sit in a History class where the only language spoken is English. He has the potential to go so far, even the teacher, Joyti, admits that he has a better IQ than she does. But without the proper education, he’ll be no more successful than his family and friends in the slum. On days when I don’t really want to teach or when I feel that my efforts have gone to waste, it is Himanshu who brings me to class. His face is always so serious, but when he smiles, it melts my heart.

I hope someday, India gives him something to be proud of. Because India should be proud of Himanshu.

And your Indian Moment of Zen:
While teaching “TO BE”
Me: Ok, who has a sentence with “You are” ?
My student, Manish: You are a bad boy!
Me: (I write the sentence on the board.) Is this sentence correct?
Class: YES!
Me: (teasing them) I’m a bad boy?
Class: NO! You are a girl! You are a teacher!
Me: Shhh. Good. I am a girl. You are a boy.
Manish: (Slouched against the wall, with a little nod of the head): You are a beautiful
Me: (I write the sentence on the board.) Is this sentence correct?
Class: YES! YES!
Me: (I cross out the “a”) The meaning is correct, but the sentence is not. There is no A.
Class: YES! YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!

learning to play Tabla, Indian drums.

The Indian Wedding I went to.

Happy Republic Day!

2009-01-26T10:43:00.001-05:00

For the first time, I woke up and it was silent.

Absolutely.

Silent.

I laid in bed with my eyes closed, and thought it was 4 am, but I felt rested, so I looked at my phone.

9 AM.

Something was wrong.

WHY WAS IT QUIET?!

There were no cars, no car horns, no hammering, and no vendors walking through the apartment village selling fruit or collecting junk. I could hear myself breathe.

I was highly confused until I remembered today was a national holiday.

Republic Day is celebrated every year on the 26th of January because it commemorates the signing of the Indian constitution granting them true independence and officially making India a sovereign nation. And because it’s one of the most important, if not the most important, public holidays, everything shuts down. Which means....early morning silence.

Beautiful. Why can’t every day be Republic Day?

I slept in (9am) because it was quiet and then woke up to watch the Republic Day Parade on TV. Even though the day celebrates India becoming a democracy, you have to get tickets to go to the parade, and they cost one hefty sum. Irony. But the TV showed every army brigade in the country marching and then some traditional dancing and floats. Despite the historic occasion, there was a somber mood about the whole thing, partially due to the recent terror attacks in Mumbai, but also partially due to how Indians view this holiday: one of utmost importance and value. Around 4pm I took a stroll through the nearby market and saw that most shops were closed and there were no cars on the street. While most people would have relished in the uncommon calm, it was eerie to me to walk through the empty market that is normally so congested even I can hardly fit between cars.

I found the timing of Barack Obama’s inauguration and Republic Day convenient to learn a bit about Indian nationalism. When I told my neighbour, Jaffa, that my roommates and I cried while watching Obama’s inauguration on TV, he was surprised. When I told him it was because Obama’s election and presidency was the first time many people in my generation felt proud of our country, he didn’t seem to understand. Despite India’s problems, of which there are many, it seems as though Indians are always proud to be Indian. Perhaps it’s partially due to the fact their problems aren’t broadcasted and internalized world wide like American problems are, or perhaps, it’s the recency of independence, maybe they feel that despite their problems, it’s better to have problems of their own than be a colony whose problems belong to someone else. I don’t really know why, but I know that they did not relate to my sentiment towards President Obama.

I feel that my last blogs have had a negative attitude towards India and New Delhi to them, and so I would like to make this blog a bit more positive. India is a challenging place, that’s for sure. But there is much about India I really like. As someone who has never really known how to sit still, to be in one place for a long time, I’m noticing how people here find peace amongst all the chaos.

The biggest example I can find so far of this is chai. Chai is Hindi for tea, and it’s exactly what you think of...tea infused with amazing spices and milk. Made fresh it’s best, but bagged it’s also delicious. (I’ve switched to taking it without milk most of the time, even though it’s way better with the milk because it’s easier on my stomach and the thought of drinking real milk after so long sort of grosses me out...) But no matter where or when, there is always chai. Boys carry trays through the markets with dixie cups of chai for the vendors. During the recess break at school, I drink chai every day with the teachers (I told them I was allergic to milk to not offend them to take the tea black, and they felt so bad for me! Now I always get my tea first! haha) and if I hang out in the flat my program uses as its office while I’m lesson planning, I will always find a cup of freshly made chai placed before me. I find this attitude towards chai to be so quintessentially Indian. No matter how busy the day is, no matter how many tourists are at your market stall or no matter how crazy the traffic is, there is always time to sit with friends, catch up on gossip, and drink some warm chai.

I love how everything here is spicy, even ketchup. I love how the Muslim call to prayer permeates through the air and its haunting and beautiful sound brings many in the city to a halt. I love the smell of bread and eggs on the street, and the bright orange and red flowers that decorate the outside of buildings and make the bindis for people’s foreheads. I love how no matter what time I go for a run or walk in the park near my apartment there are always people playing cricket. I love the colours of the fruit stalls and the cloths and bangles covering women’s cold bodies and the sidewalk at the craft market. There is much about India that I am growing to love, despite its challenges and problems. As I watch this country turn into a world powerhouse before my eyes, I am reminded by a simple cup of chai or a carnation vendor of the simplicity that built up this great, complicated nation. India is made up of, and dependent on, that kind of contradiction.

Happy Republic Day from Mother India.

India In Your Face

2009-01-19T05:37:00.000-05:00

I came to India to take a break between college and the “real world”: basically bills and a full-time job. But what I have found in India is more real than any of that. Many people who come here speak fondly of peace, of beauty, and of an understanding of a rich and beautiful culture. I haven’t found a lot of those things yet, and maybe I won’t at all, but what I’ve found is a picture of the world unlike anything I’ve seen before, and a whole lot of personal growth and patience I never knew I had.

The other day I met a woman who got married when she was 12. She’s 26 now and with three children. When I saw her I would have guessed she was about 10 years older. She has such sad eyes. I also met an 18 year old girl who got married 6 months ago. She’s one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen, but she also looks sad, and terrified. Many women here seem to have eyes that are crying. Because of the cold, they wrap their scarves around their bodies so only their eyes show, and it’s startling to see their small frames carrying so much emotional weight. I teach children from a slum that spans for miles. The clothes on their backs, the books in their bags, and the food in their stomachs are there because our school gives it to them. My class has 12 boys and because there aren’t enough classrooms, we sit in the lobby space of the school. Around us, there are 5 other classrooms, so we can all hear each other. There are no desks in the school, and few chairs, so my boys sit on a straw mat, and copy sentences into their books on the floor. My blackboard is propped against a wall, and I share an eraser with all of the other teachers. The teachers hit the students when they’re in trouble, and because the students have no other model, the students hit each other. The teachers told me I can hit the children if they misbehave, but I don’t have it in me to hit a child, no matter how frustrated I get. On my way to and from school, and about any other time I leave my apartment complex I am bombarded by dirty children who come up and beg for money, who try to sell me books, magazines, toys, or anything. Old men without hands, without legs, or without feet and women holding limp, filthy, and half naked babies tug on my clothes, knock on my window, begging for even just one rupee. Rickshaws follow us for a few minutes while walking outside even after saying we don’t want one. The children linger after we said we won’t pay them. Insert all of this among dust, constant car horns, puddles of urine and trash, and smells of diesel, curry, bread, and human waste.

I don’t feel like I can space all of that apart, so I put it in one paragraph. That way maybe it bombards you, like it does in real life.

Some of it’s heartbreaking, some of it’s infuriating, some of it’s annoying, and some of it is all of those and none of those at the same time. And I do my best to understand it all, but often, that’s the hardest part.

When I arrived in Cape Town, everyone I met, from our drivers to our country directors, didn’t miss a minute in telling us everything wrong with South Africa, but also about the society’s values and perceptions of Americans. When Kate and I moved into our flat, we found Lendy, our blunt and sometimes crazy roommate who didn’t hesitate in telling us what everyone was thinking about us. While some of what she said may have been exaggerated, it was based in truth, and provided us at least with a starting point on how to evaluate what was happening around us.

But in India, it’s all a secret. In India, a foreigner is respected, so one shouldn’t burden her with your problems. They ask about my family, my friends, and my life, and when I try to ask about theirs, they often do not answer, or answer very vaguely. The staff of my program says “ask us anything,” and I try to ask a lot, but there comes a point where I don’t know what to ask, because I don’t know what’s there. Indian culture is old and deep with many layers and stories. I don’t expect to feel like I belong after only three months, but it’s frustrating to not have a key into the culture. I try to read the paper and listen when others speak, but there’s a lot here I don’t really understand.

Sometimes though, someone does let me in. The main English teacher at my school, Joti, is an Indian woman who normally teaches all the grades English. One day we were talking about the students and she started crying because thinking about their lives is so sad. It breaks her heart to think about how they live. I think before that conversation I was numb to it, I didn’t want to think about it. It made it easier to go in, to teach, and then to leave. But now, I look at the kids shitting on the side of the road and wonder...could it be one of mine? I am a tough teacher, I drill these boys on the words so hard, because I want them to know English so they can make something of themselves, so they don’t become the shoe polisher or the tobacco salesman or the beggar. So when they ask to play football instead of learning the 5 Ws, I don’t blame them, but I don’t know how to explain to them that English is their ticket out of the hellhole they were born into. I never wanted to be a teacher. Ever. And I definitely did not want to teach English. I came here expecting to do something very different. But even on days like today when I could have smacked some of those suckers, I’m learning to find value in what I do.

In other news, this weekend my roommates and I went away to Jaipur, an old town in the desert state of Rajisthan. Jaipur was an interesting experience. A round trip train ticket in one of the highest classes on the train plus one night in a hostel came out to about $35 US. The train was about 5 hours long and apparently is the second fastest train in India. We were served full meals on the train, and coming back literally every hour they gave us more food. It was a pretty sweet deal for about $10. In Jaipur we did a lot of relaxing at the hostel (it was QUIET!!!!) and a lot of wandering, which caused us to apparently miss the #1 sight in Jaipur, the Amber Fort, but we saw the ancient palace, a huge observatory of sundials, and some other smaller sights. The sun dial observatory is called Jantar Mantar and there are about 20 different sundials on the sight that predict the time and the zodiac. The world’s largest sundial is there which is about 100 something meters high and is only off by 2 seconds. It’s really incredible. The old city of Jaipur is pink, a symbol of hospitality, and Jaipur recently had a kite festival so many people were still flying kites, so whenever we’d look up there would be all sorts of colourful kites dotting the sky.

I will put up pictures next time I procrastinate on lesson planning. I hope those of you in DC this week are enjoying the festivities for OBAMA, and everyone else is keeping warm and busy. Sending lots of love and veggie masala.....

Not Your Grandma's Delhi...

2009-01-10T11:03:00.000-05:00

First of all, I'd like to give Miss Perry R. Sacks for the title of this blog entry!

Pictures from New Delhi, Agra/Taj Mahal can be found here: http://picasaweb.google.com/laiah.idelson/India#

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A week in New Delhi feels like a year, and sometimes, just a moment. When I think about everywhere I’ve been in the last year and everything I’ve done: Cape Town, lion encounters, reverse culture shock, working on Capitol Hill, beginning to make big life decisions, graduating college, and so many other things, I wonder how I will conquer New Delhi. I know I will conquer it, I’m just not sure how. I try to write with the same insight as I was able to have in ZA, but I can’t, because insight comes with understanding, and understanding is something I don’t have yet.

This evening, Mama Weiss sent me an article by Stephanie Nolen, a Canadian journalist who was living in ZA who is now posted in New Delhi. Sounds familiar, eh? Her credentials help her articulate, and probably process, what she is feeling, and in this passage, exactly what I’m feeling too. Here is the beginning of the article:

“NEW DELHI — The first thing to hit me is the sheer scale of it all.

I meet an activist whose friend has a “little talk show” that's been picked up by a local Tamil-language cable channel – so that means 64 million viewers. Give or take.

A nutrition project I visit is in the pilot stage, just a small experiment – in 300 villages. I interview the owner of a start-up Internet service company, who tells me they're “still small” – with 1.5 million members.

A health expert explains that India has made poor progress in the extension of basic sanitation – which means 665 million people are “public defecators.” Six. Hundred. And sixty. Five. Million.

There are 50 per cent more people in India alone than in the 53 countries I covered in six years reporting in sub-Saharan Africa. And then there are all the other nations where I'm now meant to keep abreast of events – populous and teeming nations in their own right, including Pakistan and Bangladesh. The size of absolutely everything in this bureau is nearly paralyzing.

When I look up from the sidewalk outside my Delhi office, I can barely see the sky for the billboards and prayer flags and jumbled electrical wires and thick smog the colour of a banker's grey flannel pants. And I pine a little bit for the ever-blue skies and vast spaces I left behind: South Africa has its problems, sure, but I now think with longing of how easy it was just to breathe there.

But as I struggle to come to grips with the crowds and the pollution and the cacophony of hundreds of languages, there is one immediate and wonderful change.

I've moved from the world's violent crime capital – Johannesburg – to a city where the police struck an emergency task force last year after 17 pickpocketing incidents on the subway system, which moves hundreds of thousands of commuters each day. Seventeen! In a year! That's a good day in Jo'burg.”

If you’re interested, the rest of the article is worth reading too and also articulates my thoughts with interesting comparisons of Southern Africa and India, although I have not experienced quite the same harassment as she has: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20090109.wshockl0110/BNStory/Front?cid=al_gam_globeedge

Here are some of my words about the somewhat-functional-chaos that is New Delhi:

Common sights and sounds in Delhi:
Men peeing on the side of the road
Monkeys on chains
Cows
Goats
Traffic
Families of 3-5 on one motorcycle
slums
Cows
Honking
Curry
Beggars
Dust and dirt
Honking
Traffic
Hammering outside of my window
High pitched Hindi music
Motorbikes which only the men drive
Men holding hands
Men peeing on the side of the road
Babies peeing on the side of the road
Trash
Cows
Honking
Honking
Signs that say “no honking”
Honking
Rickshaws
Delhi metro construction
Conversations about Cricket
White people looking lost
Vegetable stands
Fruit stands
Nut stands
Junk food stands
Swastikas (the Hindu version)
The Muslim call to prayer
Scarves
Cows
Honking
Traffic

Did I mention that in Delhi, people honk a lot? Like, all day and night long? Also, there are streets that have two to three traffic lanes on them but the streets are so crowded there are usually 4-6 lanes of traffic. And the traffic is awful, especially now because the truck drivers who deliver gas in India have gone on strike. This means that most of the gas stations have closed, and the stations that still have gas have super long lines of cars waiting to get inside. For example, Friday morning it took over an hour to drive what should have taken only about twenty minutes to my placement because of the gas lines.

My placement so far is going well, although I haven’t had what will be a regular day. Tuesday I visited my placement and met some of the kids I will be working with. Wednesday I taught, but it was very difficult because I thought their English level was higher than it was, so I needed a translator for everything. Thursday was the Muslim holiday of Muharram, so my school was closed because I teach in a primarily Muslim community. The holiday is a day of mourning, but in the evening, the city was filled with parades and festivals. So Friday, I taught my class prepositions like up/down, behind/in front of/ before/after/ in/out etc. It was fun and I was proud of myself for my first lesson plan being a success and for the Hindi I used to explain what I was saying. It’s going to be a huge challenge though, especially considering I was not expecting to teach, or being alone with the children.

The school I teach at is called Vidya, and there are Vidya schools throughout Delhi and Mumbai. Vidya caters to slum children and provides them with classes to accompany their public school education. The boys come to Vidya in the morning and to public school in the afternoon, and the girls do the opposite, so I teach only boys. So far I’ve only worked with the 5th grade class. They range in ages from 10-13. I would like to get to know more about them and their families but their English is limited and my Hindi is even more so, so I’m not sure how that will happen but I hope it will eventually.

The drive to Vidya however tells a lot. It’s still in New Delhi but in the slums. There are fewer signs in English, more signs in just Hindi; there are homes on the side of the street made out of just a tarp; children playing in garbage and pooping on the side of the road. Everything is enveloped in a cloud of dust. While the rest of the city is a bit cleaner than the area Vidya is in, it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference. I wonder what people think about, when this is all they see, all day, every day. I wonder if the women’s heads hurt, from carrying the sugar cane, rice, or cement for hours a day, barefoot, to and from the factories. I wonder how the children feel when I ignore them when they come to the rickshaw, tug on my clothing, and ask me to buy anything, or give them anything, “just for a chapati.” I wonder how it all feels, what people think, because right now, feeling and comprehending require so much work.

On a more positive note, today Michelle and I went to see the Taj Mahal and the Agra Fort. Pictures to come. The Taj Mahal is breathtaking and intricate, and the road leading up to it is lined with monkeys=the perfect monument for love in my book. (Note to future husband: a huge monument depicting your love for me including monkeys would be great. Thanks) I’ve also made friends with one of my neighbours, and elderly Indian man who loves America, American politics, and the Jews. Soon I will go have chai with him and his wife.

And your Indian moment of Zen (This week you get two):

Our guide, Jamal at the Taj Mahal:
“Do you know Arnold?”
Us: Who?
Jamal: Arnold. The great American hero!
Us: Schwarzenegger?
Jamal: Yes!
Me: We know him as the Governator.

A market vendor in Agra, the town of the Taj Mahal (right before an Indian man asked me if I am from Iran):

Him: Are you Spanish?
Me: No...
Him: Oh you look like my old girlfriend with your curly hair and your big earrings.
Me: Oh, that’s nice.
Him: She’s dead.

First impressions

2009-01-04T11:34:00.000-05:00

Hello friends! Just wanted to write and say HI, I'm alive, and to let you know what I've been up to. Day 1, Day 2, and Day 3 have all been so different. Like entirely different places. Below are my impressions from the first few days. Also, my address changed and I got a phone number (it takes 24 hours to turn on to do a background check to make sure I'm not a terrorist). If you want the info let me know, I’m not posting them on my blog and I don’t want to email everyone and their mother again.

Written at the end of Day 1:

After hours of flight, from San Francisco to Hong Kong, and then a few hours in Hong Kong, and then hours more from Hong Kong to New Delhi, the plane slammed down onto the foggy Indian ground. I thought it was ironic that the pilot was South African. Maybe it’s a sort of good wish for my new journey.

The New Delhi airport has very low ceilings. And smog. This city is so polluted, that even the airport has smog in it. And at around 230 AM when I exited customs, the airport was wide awake, bustling and buzzing, despite the late hour.

This is India.

I arrived at my flat to find I was the first one to be living here, and I spent the first night trying to figure out how to place a collect call, unsuccessfully explaining what I wanted to three Indian operators who confused, hung up on me. I then tried to figure out how to turn on the computer to tell my parents that I am alive. By the time it was 4 AM, I still hadn’t figured it out, and fell into a restless sleep. Even at 4 am, the city was still wide awake outside.

And I can’t stop wondering, WHO hammers 24 hours a day?! The hammering outside of my bedroom hasn’t stopped since I arrived. And I would really like it to...

My first day was pretty intense. I felt as though I was disconnected; just going through the motions, because I was SO overstimulated by what is happening here. Early on, one of the staff members walked me through the nearby market. And while the group I will be volunteering with arrives tonight (my 2nd night as i write this, 02-jan), a group who is finishing their stay was still here today, and I spent the day with them. I really liked them, which is too bad that they’re leaving, but hopefully it’s a good sign about who will be coming. Because they were familiar with Delhi we got right in a rickshaw and went to where Gandhi was cremated. A rickshaw is a little buggy, almost like the flintstone mobile, with two wheels in back and one in front. It’s like a motorbike, but with a seat in the back that comfortably fits 3 people. We squeezed in four (obviously I was the one on their laps), and went across the city. Besides the fact that a rickshaw rivals a South African minibus taxi as far as safety standards (a rickshaw has no doors or walls, and because traffic lanes are ignored suggestions, if one wanted to, one could reach out of the rickshaw and touch people, buses, and cars that pass them by), I was in shock by what I was seeing. Not because I had never seen poverty before, but because I imagined it to be similar to Cape Town, in that it still looked like a major city but was really poor and in some parts run down. But New Delhi reminds me more of cities in countries like Botswana or Zambia (just that New Delhi is way more populated): short buildings, dusty roads, coca-cola restaurant signs, and poor people everywhere. Shops are like stalls with corrugated tin roofs that assert themselves onto the streets with advertisements stacking themselves stories high. Sidewalks are a figment of the imagination. Cows and camels roam the streets. Crossing the street is the most dangerous thing I will do here.

But as I go back and read what I just wrote, it’s absurd. I just don’t know how to describe this place, this polluted mass of people. I am also realizing I do not have warm enough clothes. I’m going to need another sweater or a warmer jacket pronto. And I probably will not be removing my leggings except to shower for the next month.

Sweet.

Today’s highlights:
Seeing an elephant and a camel chilling by the side of the road. the elephant had purple and white face paint.
Having my future read by one of the departing volunteers, and many of her predictions are what I’ve predicted for myself. (unrelated to india but still cool)
Having people at Gandhi’s memorial ask to take pictures with us, and when we say no, taking candid pictures of us anyway, even though they probably should have been taking pictures of Gandhi’s memorial. Apparently it happens to white people here all the time, and you’re supposed to say no to avoid countless more demanding pictures.

Day 2:

SO much easier than Day 1.

Lindsay, the first of the new volunteers arrived. She’s 18 and from SoCal, but much more mature than 18. Vicky (one of the staff members, a male) walked me and Lindsay through the market, and I remembered how to do it from the day before. I also went back there later without him to break bills at the bank. I was proud of not getting lost and of braving the hectic market alone. Later, the staff made us lunch. The staff makes us lunch and dinner everyday. I am going to get fat here because all they eat is starch and vegetables in lots and lots of oil. Unfortunately, it’s all pretty delicious. For lunch they conveniently made my favourite Indian dish, Aloo Glohbi--potatoes and Cauliflower in spices. I’m not well versed in Indian food so I’m sure I’ll find new favoruties but it was nice to have something familiar. After Lindsay and I went to Dillihaat, a craft market. I successfully bartered with a rickshaw and we walked around the market. I didn’t want to buy anything yet but there were so many colours, so many crafts. Mostly jewelry and scarves and shoes. I think it’s funny how markets around the world, from Nicaragua to Turkey to ZA to Zim to India are the same in so many ways. The words the vendors use to lure you to their stalls “Yes Please!” “English Please!” “Just look! It’s free to look!” (Although at Dillihaat it’s not free to look, you have to pay to get in even though 15 Rupees is less than 50 US cents.) And they all have the perception that we are easily ripped off. Until they see me barter :)

After dinner CCS took me and Lindsay to a benefit for Vidya, the school I’ll be working for. It’s their 25th anniversary and they had a stunning dance performance with professional dancers from Malaysia.

A funny story from the dance show is that when we got there I had to use the restroom very badly. I ran into the restroom and went into the first stall which was a squat toilet. Obviously I do not enjoy those but whatever it’s India. Then when I came out to wash my hands, I noticed every other stall was a real toilet. Observance is key. But thank goodness for camping in Africa for perfecting my squatting skills. :)

Speaking of Africa, it’s amazing to me how fast some Cape Town skills have come back to me. How to act in a market, the confident, almost stone-cold stare as I walk through the city, spelling and writing in the British way, and knowing which way to look when crossing the street. It’s as though being in America for the last 6 months was just a blip, a side vacation from my former British colony tour (I guess USA was a former colony too, but we don’t act like it!).

Day 3 involved a sight seeing tour around the city. We went to a beautiful Ba’hai temple, a Sikh temple with our awesome driver, and lots of old Muslim ruins and tombs. Pictures are here: http://picasaweb.google.com/laiah.idelson/India# captions will come soon.

**Please note the haze in the pictures is not due to poor photography or bad weather. It's Delhi's pollution.

My favourite part of India so far is the CHAI. I curse lactose intolerance and drink it anyways. It’s delicious and I have at least 2 cups a day, although I forsee that number growing. It’s made fresh, from scratch, and it warms up my body during this cold Delhi winter. I can’t wait to learn how to make it; it’s totally worth the perpetual lactard stomach ache.

And your Indian moment of zen:

A vendor at the market to me and Lindsay:
“Are you from the land of the free and the home of the brave?”

She's BAAAAACKK

2008-12-19T00:57:00.000-05:00

Hey kids!!

I know you've missed those long emails popping up in your inbox from South Africa. I'm sure you've had as rough of a time without them as I've had not being in SA. So, because I'm that considerate of your feelings, I have good news.

THE UPDATES ARE COMING BACK! Not from South Africa, hence the new name (but same link so you are all still subscribed). But as I get ready to head off to India, I'm polishing up the blog and my mad blogging capabilities and so you better start warming up too! I know you're excited (this is better than Christmas!), but control yourself, they won't start coming for a few more weeks.

For those of you who don't know, I decided in August to graduate this December instead of May. Because I had some time before all of my friends were done with school and have a cronic fear of being old, I decided to go on another adventure before I begin real life. So I'm heading off to New Delhi on Dec. 31 and I'll be there through March, at which point I'll move to DC to be a real, live adult. Hopefully with a job and apartment and everything. I'll be in India on a volunteer program called Cross Cultural Solutions (CCS) and will be living in a middle-class neighborhood in the city. I've been asked not to post my mailing address on public blogs, so if you want to send some goodies, send me an email and I'll give you the address. I won't have internet at my house, but I'll be living near an internet cafe so I will still be able to be in touch.

CCS assigns each volunteer their own volunteer site, and I just found out the vague details of my post today, but one thing Africa taught me was to be patient and to not get attached to any detail, so I imagine something, or everything, will change about my post. However, as of now, I'll be teaching English to 4th graders. It's pretty unclear, but I'll keep y'all posted. I'm excited for this new adventure and place, and grateful that my family is supporting me postponing being a real person :)

If you would like to continue receiving updates from my travels you can remain subscribed, otherwise, you can remove yourself from the list, or ask me to remove you. I hope you all have a happy holiday season and a very happy and healthy new year.

Love always,
Laiah Jo

Curls in California

2008-07-03T13:24:00.000-04:00

I apologize for leaving Cape Town without updating my blog for a final time. The last weeks were too hectic to sit and think, and then, after leaving Cape Town, I continued to travel. But now I’m back in America and, while battling jet lag, thought I would update my blog one last time….

My first encounter with the ugly American was actually in Istanbul. Only moments before leaving the city for the airport, my friend and I were in a café in a nice neighbourhood in the city. While we were enjoying our drinks, we heard an all too familiar accent permeating through the café. An American girl, about my age, and her friend were loudly explaining to the waiter that the drink they received was not actually a latte.

“No see you, like, have to do it this way,” she said. “The foam has to be like this. Here, I’ll show you.”

Her voice was so loud, so nasal, and we couldn’t help but laugh at her and duck our heads a little.

In Heathrow, while waiting for my flight back to DC, I had my second encounter: a group of high school boys were waiting near me. “Oh my god that is SO GAY. I am like so ready to leave this shitty country. It’s never sunny. How the hell do people live here? It’s just so gross. I’m so ready to go home.”

I couldn’t believe that these people were what I was going home to. I couldn’t believe I was going home at all.

After a fun and crazy last week in Cape Town which involved a lot of exploration, a lot of parties, and a lot of goodbyes, I left the planet’s most beautiful city and went to Turkey to travel for a week with a close friend. Turkey was a good introduction to America while still being foreign; it had Starbucks, the cars drove on the American side of the road, but it still was exotic enough to feel like I wasn’t in the USA.

I landed in Istanbul at 2am and while driving to the hostel I couldn’t believe how clean the city was and how people were roaming the streets freely. The next day while walking through the city everything overwhelmed me, and I’m sure I was really annoying to listen to, but I was experiencing the first pangs of culture shock. The trip was really fun, the country is beautiful, and it gave me a reason to look forward to leaving South Africa.

I arrived in America after a hellish 12 hours in Heathrow in the middle of the afternoon. After having to go through extra security (maybe because I had a Zimbabwe visa in my passport? Who knows) and waiting for the bags to be thrown out of the carousal by hand, one by one, because the baggage carousal was broken (things were beginning to seem more efficient in Cape Town), I left the customs area and was bombarded by DC humid air, the welcoming arms of my uncle, and more obese people than I’d seen in months. I was in DC for 4 days and spent quality time with family and a few close friends. Everyone was very understanding while I expressed my shock over the excessive choices in the supermarket, the huge restaurant portions, and the wonders of air conditioning. After a few days in the USA these and other initially shocking things seem more normal again, and I know soon I will be totally back into the swing of things, and the differences between the US and South Africa will be an old memory.

While walking through my neighbourhood in DC and now in CA, I felt like nothing had changed: my friends still have the same quirks, the coffee in the Davenport tasted the same, and Broadway Plaza is still as ritzy as ever. South Africa almost feels like a dream; sometimes I can’t believe it actually happened. While it’s bizarre that my life’s dream has already been accomplished, I am proud of myself for the things I learned, the friendships I made, and how I grew up. I miss Table Mountain, Afraquazeen, and the excitement and challenges of daily South African life, but I know that this is only the beginning of many more adventures and international experiences to come.

If you’ve taken anything from my blog, please remember that the continent of Africa is diverse and vast. No two countries or people are alike. The American media distorts our perception of what Africa is like causing us to believe that everyone carries buckets on their heads and roams the streets with lions. I encourage you to pay attention to the events currently taking place in Africa because while they are distant, they affect us all. The political crisis in Zimbabwe, the AIDS disaster in South Africa, and the poverty sweeping the continent are some of the biggest human rights violations and tragedies facing our world today, yet we are taught to dismiss them because of the belief we’ve been brainwashed with that Africa is hopeless, filled with uneducated individuals, and second class citizens.

While in South Africa and living with people from all over the continent, I’ve never met people more dedicated, aware, or grateful for what they have. If the media told these African stories, perhaps the world wouldn’t view the continent as a hopeless, vast jungle.

As I close my blog, I’d like to thank you for following along and for your support along the way. Now it’s MY turn to live vicariously through YOU!

Carpe Diem.

Curls on the Cape is signing off.

2 weeks and counting

2008-06-03T13:04:00.000-04:00

I knew I would feel like Cape Town was home when I didn’t have to think about which way to look first when crossing the street.

Even though that moment came many months ago, everyday there are little things about Cape Town that make me feel like I’m at home. Despite my white skin, taxi drivers no longer try to rip me off, and I can give directions in certain parts of the city.

That being said, I try to wrap my mind around the fact that two weeks from today I leave South Africa, and it doesn’t seem real. I’ve completed 2 out of 3 of my exams, and my only commitment left will end when I finish my last exam next week. It’s cliché, but I feel like I just got here. Coming to Cape Town was a dream of mine since I was 13, and I’m not really sure what my big goals are now. I’ve learned a lot about the world here, and while I’m sure I’ve changed, it’s hard to figure out what those changes are while I’m still immersed in the experience, except for the fact that spelling words with “u’s” and “s’s” come naturally, and sometimes my friends and I catch each other speaking with South African inflections in our words.

I guess I don’t really feel like I can reflect on South Africa yet because I’m still very much here, both physically and mentally. They call Cape Town the mother city, and I think that’s not just because it is believed that human life originated here, but because it’s a city that holds you tight and makes you never want to leave. Just like a good mommy.

That’s not to say there aren’t things that I don’t miss about the USA. One pertinent example, something I never thought I’d say, but I miss how exams work at AU. Writing papers for many of my classes is much MUCH better than AP-esque style exams, with so much paperwork and timed writing and flashing your ID, and not being able to go to the toilet unless your stall is inspected first by a test proctor. I miss real Mexican food, which I have oddly been craving for weeks, and I miss not being woken up by a particularly loud flatmate who SLAMS her bedroom door, along with the bathroom and front door, shaking the flat, about 17 times between 6:30-9am, 7 days a week. I miss good customer service, being able to walk around at night, and I miss soy milk in every café. And, I have to admit, being the nerdy product of DC that I am, I find myself missing political discussions every minute: for a city and a country that has so many problems, I would have never guessed people here to be so apathetic. Oh, and I miss my friends too ;)

But these missing-things feelings are usually fleeting, the only time it lasted for long was when I had the flu and couldn’t go to Namibia. Even though I won’t miss the crime or the used condoms rotting on the street next to the candy wrappers, broken glass, and hair extensions, I’m still very much invested in my time here, even though many of my friends are beginning to check out, and I forsee going back to the US to be very strange. I don’t really know what it looks like anymore to not be the only white girl on the bus, and I don’t know what I’ll do without my favourite South African foods, expressions, and friends. But I guess that’s normal, and part of the study abroad experience.

And while I’m genuinely excited for the travels I have left to experience post-South Africa and to go back to AU in the fall, part of me wishes I could have been abroad for a year. I still want to see so much of South Africa and the surrounding countries, and it’s too bad that right after we began discovering places off the beaten path, British Airways said it was time to go home.

I am going to miss so much about being here. Not only do Americans seriously need to find a way to replicate Table Mountain and to incorporate butternut squash into our daily, year-round diet, but Americans could greatly benefit from incorporating the South African concept of ubuntu into their daily lives. In an old Vanity Fair issue a friend lent me that is Africa themed, Archbishop Desmond Tutu explains ubuntu as the belief that people are only people through other people. “You are only human in relationships,” he says.

In the article, Archbiship Tutu summarises a scene from the movie, The Defiant Ones to explain ubuntu. He says:

“It’s a movie in which there were two convicts. One was white, and one was black. They escaped, but they are still manacled to one another. They fall down a ditch, and the one tries to slither up out of the ditch and almost makes it. But when he gets to the top, he realizes he actually can’t get out, because he’s still manacled to his mate down there, and he slithers back down to the bottom and realizes that the only way they can make it is together. Up, up, up and out together. So we say that ‘I need you to be all of who you are in order for me to be all that I am.’ Because no human being is totally self-sufficient. In fact, a self-sufficient human being is subhuman.”

There is no word in English to explain this concept, and while this concept has been challenged lately in South Africa with the xenophobic violence, the South African community proved that ubuntu is still present: relief organisations are so flooded with volunteers they’re having to turn them away. It’s a concept talked about in my classes, that is on signs, in the newspapers, political speeches, and many South Africans’ daily lives.

There have been many moments here when I have thought that things could be so much easier if only the South Africans were more like Americans with better technology and public transportation. But it is this concept, of collectiveness and community, that would make life in America easier if we were more like South Africa.

Here's to the next two weeks...

Still Safe on the Cape

2008-05-23T08:57:00.000-04:00

After sending out an email to tons of people this morning saying that there was no violence in Cape Town, news reports emerged stating the opposite.

http://www.nytimes.com/reuters/world/international-safrica-violence.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin

But the violence is in the townships and towards immigrants from other African countries, specifically Zimbabwe and Somalia. I'm safe!

I was supposed to go to Namibia yesterday but after coming down with a bad flu, I am home, in bed, and living off of toast. Hope your lives are more eventful than mine!

All Safe On the Cape

2008-05-20T05:17:00.000-04:00

Some of you who have been following the news about SA have noticed the coverage about the xenophobic violence currently taking place in SA. Just wanted to let you all know that Cape Town is safe, the violence is happening in Johannesburg, which is very far from here.

For those of you who don't know, basically the black South Africans have been killing many African immigrants in their communities, because they feel that the immigrants are the reason they do not have jobs (SA's unemployment is 23%). The situation is incredibly disturbing.

You can read an American version of the violence here:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/21/world/africa/21africa.html?hp

South African headlines can be found here:
http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?click_id=13

The SA coverage is much more graphic than the NYTimes.

I'm going to Namibia on Thursday, and I'm sure I'll have some good pictures and stories for all y'all.

Cheers until then!

Contemplations about California from the Cold

2008-05-16T16:54:00.000-04:00

It’s amazing what a little sunshine can do for your mood.

As promised, winter arrived (I didn’t believe them when they told me the weather wouldn’t always be perfect), bringing with it LEGITIMATE COLD, and an ominous dark cloud that covered the entire city, including my beloved Table Mountain. In fact, if one had landed in Cape Town anytime last week, they would not have believed Tabes even existed. The rain was scattered, but the wind was powerful, often pushing me from side to side as I walked. There was literally no sunshine for almost a week straight, and the first entirely sunny day was Wednesday. I forced myself to walk outside in the sun, and afterwards, I felt like a new person. It’s raining and dark again now, and has been since Wednesday, but after a little bit of sun I’ll be alright for the next few days.

With exactly one month left in Cape Town, the thought of the US becomes more real every day. With friends finishing their abroad experiences and telling us here that America feels surreal and strange, everyone is becoming apprehensive about returning. Conversations lately have been about what foods we’ll want to eat when we go home (I expect to be greeted at the airport with a bagel and lox...hint to parents.) and how we won’t know what to do with ourselves when we will have to pay American prices. And although we’ve all spoken about how much we feel we’ve grown up this semester, I keep reminding myself that there is still a lot of living left to do in South Africa. Unfortunately, a lot of this living will consist of studying for finals (not sure if I really call that living), but I’m also going to Namibia next week as well as working on my final explorations of the city.

I have tried to write this blog 3 times, each time about a different subject. I wanted to write about the tragedies in Burma and China and how nobody is talking about it here. Newspaper headlines here are still about rape, rugby, and Robert Mugabe, and stories about China and Burma are in the inner pages of the paper. I reasoned that people weren’t talking about Asia because South Africans’ lives are hard enough already, that they don’t have time to worry about people worlds away when caring for South Africans is already hard enough. But it was weird. I love to blog, especially when it means I can write about what I want instead of an essay, but nothing I wrote seemed right, or at least decent enough to post for everyone to see, until I read the news about California’s Supreme Court ruling allowing gay marriage. Obviously this made me even more proud to be from California, and made me think about issues surrounding the gay community in South Africa. I know that not all of those reading this blog share my opinions on gay marriage, but I hope you don’t let our differing views stop you from reading… I promise it’s interesting.

During our safety orientation, CIEE told us that although Cape Town is the gay capitol of Africa, gay students should be careful about who they out themselves to, as many people here are very homophobic. In my African Traditional Religion Class we’ve learned how many African cultures do not believe homosexuality exists among Africans, and believe it is a result of colonialism. A friend’s African flatmate even commented that it wasn’t possible for an African girl to be a lesbian, simply just because “she’s African.” African guys here are very macho, and feel the need to make sure that everyone else knows that he’s a man and in charge. In my gender class we have read many articles about how African men often rape African lesbians, because they think the lesbians are “trying to become men,” and they need to remember that they are women. Last week, our professor shared a story of how a prominent South African athlete, who turns out to be a lesbian, lost her partner last year in a planned rape then murder. The murderers confessed to killing her for being in love with a woman. The athlete said she wished they had taken her too. However, the gay community does thrive here, albeit on a much smaller scale than in San Francisco or any other major North American city. The gay pride parade was small, only about 8 floats, and extremely segregated by race, but for an African country filled with traditional African beliefs combined with conservative Christianity, it was a huge success.

So until recently, these were my only interactions and observations about the gay community here. Last week, my friend Dani and I were waiting for a university shuttle and we started talking to a guy, Gideon, who was waiting with us. A Masters student from Zimbabwe, he told us he is highly involved in the Movement for Democratic Change, the opposition party in Zimbabwe currently battling for their right to power. As we were waiting, another student came to stand to wait for the bus, and stood close to Gideon. Gideon quickly moved us away from him, saying he couldn’t stand next to this guy, because he would ruin his reputation. Dani and I were confused. When we asked why standing next to this stranger was so bad, Gideon just said “I know you are American and are liberal about these things, but this guy is gay. Standing next to him will tarnish my reputation.”

I wasn’t that shocked, because I know about the attitudes towards homosexuality, but I obviously didn’t like what he had to say. He told us that when he becomes a politician if someone who is gay comes to him to ask for rights he’ll tell him “absolutely not” and slam the door on his face, because he doesn’t want Zimbabwe to turn into Sodom. I asked him how, as a black Zimbabwean, he could advocate for denying someone rights when his people’s rights had been systematically denied for centuries in his own country. He told me that denying someone work and denying someone marriage was entirely different. Dani and I told him that he didn’t really advocate for democracy, if he was okay with having an entire group of people without equal rights.

But then he said something that I knew was true, and also made me really sad. He said that democracy is about the will of the people, and that if you were to poll Zimbabwe on their opinions of gay marriage, 90% of the country would say they did not support gay marriage. “That’s democracy,” he told me, “doing what the people vote for.”

All I could say was that in history some of the best democratic leaders have gone against what’s popular to do what is right, and he said exactly what I anticipated him saying: “But it’s not right.”

I left the conversation sad and frustrated. Dani, also from California, and I agreed that although much of our country is against gay marriage, we believe that by the time our children are of marrying age, they will be able to marry whoever they want. We said that we saw it as an issue like Civil Rights, that, soon, the country was going to wake up and realize how mistaken they’d been.

This was exactly one week before California legalised gay marriage.

The thing is, gay marriage in South Africa is already legal. It’s been legal since 1994, when the apartheid regime fell and the African National Congress took over and Nelson Mandela became president. South Africa has one of, if not the, most liberal constitutions in the world, ensuring the right to marry to everyone, and making any form of discrimination illegal. If the ANC freedom fighters who took over the government in 1994, a bunch of old African men, raised with traditional African beliefs while educated by Christian missionaries, could write laws granting gays the right to marry, what is wrong with America?

In general, the US is extremely behind many in the world regarding rights for gays. At the same time, South Africa was very ahead of the game, but the attitude of most people in the country is much more homophobic than America. I can’t decide which scenario is worse. I will never understand how in South Africa, a country that until 14 years ago the majority of the country’s people were denied rights from where they could work to who they could marry, the majority of people can advocate against gay rights. The same arguments used to oppress blacks are used for homosexuals. It’s amazing how quickly people forget, or how well they can justify hypocrisy.

I am proud to be from California today. I hope that South Africa, a country that I now consider home, will follow California’s attitude and America can follow South Africa’s constitution.

And your South African Moment of Zen:

Last weekend we went to a black township where a large group of us went to Mzoli’s an outdoor restaurant that just serves meat and pap. No silverware. No plates. Just a bucket. Of meat. And a plate of pap. I probably had more protein in one sitting than I did from the ages of 12-20, and I don’t plan on eating meat again until June. (if you’re young enough to have facebook, there are pictures up, it’s quite a sight to behold)

While we were walking through the township, a township resident pulled his car over, and yelled:

“I love America! Fuck Hitler!”

This country is absurd, but I pretty much love it.

Life is a highway and I'm gonna ride it...

2008-05-04T09:59:00.000-04:00

On Wednesday, Jess, Emily, and I set out on the road to journey through South Africa. We rented a car (a French brand which we named Sophie) and hit the road, on the left side of course. South Africa’s southern coast has a route called the Garden Route, which just follows a main highway (although sometimes it becomes a main road through a town), the N2, and is literally a straight shot the entire way. It goes through mountains and follows the Indian Ocean and along the way are many cute towns and tourist attractions, and the most breathtaking views.

Whether the N2 is on a huge speeding highway or a main road, there are always people hitchhiking and crossing in front of the cars, even if they’re going 130k/hr. It’s a bit scary, because speed limits are not observed nor enforced, and you never know when someone will decide to cross the street while you’re driving. It was also interesting to notice that even though many city names were changed from Afrikaans to Xhosa or Zulu after the apartheid government fell, that most of the town and river names along the Garden Route were still in Afrikaans.

The drive was beautiful, and it was incredible how quickly the landscape could turn from vineyards to bush, and then lush green. Lush green definitely was the most common, but it was incredible how quickly the country gets rural outside of Cape Town. We took turns driving, and the first day we drove pretty much straight for five hours until we got to the town called Wilderness. We stayed at a hostel called Fairy Knowe. It was beautiful and we stayed in a room with a bunk bed and a double bed which was in an old farmhouse.

That night was Emily’s 21^st birthday, and we stumbled upon a small bar with live music after dinner. The bartender gave Emily a Happy Birthday crown and then we met the most flamboyant coloured man alive, who approached us and began singing opera, drowning out the live music while buying us drinks and telling us about his stories from living in America (where he lived in Lake Tahoe and dated someone from Walnut Creek...holler). He was completely absurd but hilarious, but he seemed to know every single person in the bar, including the owners, which benefited Emily because she got a lot of free drinks from them when they found out it was her birthday. The owners were definitely weird though, and the whole situation and a weird small-town atmosphere to it, so we left quite early.

The next day we visited the Cango Caves where we walked through ancient caves and saw a lot of old rock formations. It was really beautiful and pretty incredible what nature can do. Then we went to a town called Knysna (pronounced Nyesna) where we explored the town (which is all on one main road, the N2) and ate dinner where Jess and I split ostrich and zebra. I felt sort of sad eating the zebra because it’s so close to a horse, but I had to try it. It tasted sort of like steak, but a lot tougher. Knysna is really quaint and had a small-town America type feel to it, except obviously for the ostrich and kudu advertised on all the menus.

After dinner we drove to our next hostel in a small town called Plattenberg Bay. We stayed in the dorm at the hostel. It was an interesting experience, but we didn’t really meet the other people staying with us until the next morning when everyone was rushing out. The only other time I’d been in a hostel dorm was when people I know had filled the room, like in Ecuador, so it was a good experience, except for when the guys in the room snored loud, that Emily had to hit one in the middle of the night to get him to stop…

In Plattenberg Bay we visited a national park which is a nature reserve where we walked on a short trial and then swam in the Indian Ocean. The water was warmer than the Atlantic in Cape Town, but still pretty chilly. It was really exciting, it just seemed so exotic to say I was in the Indian Ocean! The water was also so clear and a pretty blue and green colour.

Besides the ocean, the highlight of the trip was going to a park called Monkeyland. For those of you who do not know of my obsessive love of monkeys, understand that just the name basically equates to utopia for me. I was SO excited. Monkeyland is a nature reserve to rehabilitate the monkey population and to help monkeys that have been abused by their owners. We took a guided 1 hour tour through the forest where monkeys just walk around and walk past you and come so close that their hair can brush up against your leg. It. Was. AMAZING. The fact that I was arms length from wild monkeys was one of the top moments of South Africa! Ok I know that’s a little sad but yeah…it’s true, especially because this was much safer than Zimbabwe’s lion encounter experience.

Then we drove to a small town called Nature’s Valley that is in a beautiful green valley next to the Indian Ocean. We had lunch at the only restaurant in town and Jess and I tried the town special, the Otter’s Asshole shot. In case you’re wondering, it was absolutely disgusting. They wouldn’t tell us what was in it, but it looked like it had the kind of egg you get in Chinese fried rice in it. I don’t want to talk about it.

After lying out more by the Indian Ocean, we drove to our last hostel in a town called Storm’s River. Storm’s River is really famous because it is near Tsitsikamma National Park, and home to the largest Bungee Jump in the world. I didn’t bungee, and I’m really okay with it! The hostel we stayed in was really hip, and we met people from Ireland, Germany, and Jo-burg, and we all played Charades at night in the common room. It was the quintessential backpacker’s experience. The next morning after a short hike in Tsitsikamma next to the Indian Ocean, we drove back to Cape Town, which took about 8 hours. I am glad that I got to go on this trip, even though we only did about half of the Garden Route. It will probably be my last chance to travel while I’m here, and I am glad I was able to see more of South Africa than just Cape Town. The geography of this country is breathtaking, and I wish I could carry it with me wherever I go.

To see pictures from the Garden Route, go to: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2100452&l=94bd6&id=7407223

Also, last weekend was Freedom Day, the celebration of the first democratic election in South Africa. Some friends and I went to the Waterfront, a downtown shopping centre for a celebration featuring Archbishop Desmond Tutu. We had second row seats, which meant that I was probably about 45 feet from him. I was surprised at the complete lack of security, and his overwhelmingly joyful and peaceful presence. The ceremony was interesting because it talked more about freeing Tibet, and less about the fact that despite South Africa’s new democratic state, the majority of people are still living under conditions worse or similar to apartheid. Archbishop Tutu explained that because the international community helped liberate South Africa, it was South Africa’s turn to help another country in need. It was an interesting perspective, but I still think that Freedom Day should have focused more on South Africa.

Only 6 more weeks to go in the crazy country. My South African roomie is starting to tell me she is going to miss me when I leave, even though I still have over a month left. This next month will bring the end to lectures and finals, and final exploration in the last moments of sunshine...here's to the final push!

Proud to be an American?

2008-04-26T03:51:00.000-04:00

On Wednesday, I went to meet with my Media in South Africa tutorial teacher about an upcoming paper topic. The class consists of a lecture twice a week, and then a themed tutorial that we could choose among many topics once a week for two hours. My tutorial theme is Youth Culture and Hip Hop in South Africa, and my tutor is a new English doctorate (although apparently in South Africa you don’t have to know who Robert Frost is to get a doctorate in English) and an expert on the subject of hip hop. He is extremely educated about world issues, and is highly critical of America in class. Normally I don’t mind, as most of what he says is correct (except when he called lynching a “fine and proud American tradition” and when he said that the colonists killed the Native Americans with chicken pox…whatever, formalities.) and it is interesting to learn about a genre of music that is highly influential in society, especially in South Africa, that I know little about. He is quirky and says exactly what is on his mind, even if it comes across as politically incorrect.

After he answered my questions about the paper, we were chatting, and I told him that I had sent an article we had to read about hip hop to a friend of mine in Toronto who is very interested in the subject (yeah ok I was kissing up a little bit, but it was the truth). When I mentioned Toronto he looked confused, and so I explained that even though I am from California I have spent a lot of time in Toronto and have a lot of friends there. Without missing a beat, he said “yeah. I think Canadians are much more interesting than Americans.”

I was taken aback. I couldn’t believe he had just said that to my face. Did he expect me to agree with him? Maybe he could tell because he continued with “I mean, I think Canadians have a bigger worldview than Americans.”

That is something I used to believe too, based on many of my stereotypical suburban high school classmates’ knowledge (or lack thereof) of the rest of the world outside of Walnut Creek, until I went to college and met many students, from my university and others, whose worldview was much bigger than I’d encountered in anyone before. I didn’t want to fight with my tutor, but I felt that I couldn’t just listen to him as he threw out semi-ignorant statements. So I said “well, I think there are more American students studying at UCT than Canadians.” (I know that this fact isn’t entirely due to the worldview issue, but I thought it proved my point in the moment.) He went on to say that while that may be true, in general, Americans are more loud and flashy than Canadians, and that Canadians are more educated. I told him that I’d met many Canadians in my generation, and that I thought it was the Canadian government that had a more open worldview, but I’d met just as many dumb Canadians as dumb Americans. (I didn’t even want to get into some of the idiotic things I’ve heard my South African peers and professors say.) I couldn’t help myself from arguing a bit with him, because he was being completely outrageous. His comeback to my statement about intelligent and dumb Canadians and Americans was “well, maybe I’m just basing this on generalizations. I don’t know a lot of Canadians. But I do know that if I were to get sick in any country in the world I’d want it to be Canada and definitely not America.”

WHAT?! I wanted to say “Don’t accuse me of the fact that I live in a country with a defunct and class-ist health care system, which was designed long before my family ever set foot on American soil, and I won’t accuse you of things wrong with South Africa that are out of your control either, like the fact that South Africa is the rape capitol of the world, with a woman being raped about every three seconds.”

I didn’t say that, though. Instead, I realized that it was time to change the subject. But as I walked out of his office a few minutes later, I was still surprised at what had just happened. I would have never said to him that I liked Zimbabweans better than South Africans, even if it were true (which, in case you’re wondering, isn’t. I like them the same. Except at the markets, when the abrasive Zimbabwean vendors were too overwhelming for me.).

As I was thinking about the conversation later, I began to remember a lot of other comments I’ve heard since I’ve been here that show that many South Africans are frustrated with the American student invasion of Cape Town. In classes we hear criticism of Americans and America often from both students and professors. (“We’ll take a vote, but there’s no recount…this isn’t America” is my personal favourite.)

On one of the first days on campus for orientation, way back in February, before classes had started, my friend encountered a South African student who was on campus pre-classes. He came up to her and said “are you American?” she said yes, and he said “oh so you’re one of the ones that comes just for a few months, rapes our resources, and then leaves?” after seeing her look of utter shock, he laughed, said “just kidding!” and walked away.

In the elevator in my residence one day, one guy asked if I was American, and when I said yes he laughed. I asked him if it was a bad thing, and he said “if you like Bush, then yes.”

Even one of my South African roomies told me to my face after only three-ish weeks of living together that she doesn’t like any American students (and to answer the question I’m sure you’re asking, yes, it has been awkward ever since).

But after this conversation with my professor and some reflection, even though I thought he was incredibly rude, I feel I have a bit of insight into why so many people in South Africa feel this way towards America.

Obviously our lovely president hasn’t helped the situation, and South Africans are critical of the Iraq war, and South Africans of colour are critical of our support of Israel (who they view to be similar to the apartheid regime), but I think there is another reason, specific to South Africa, and deeper than the popular anti-america/Bush sentiment circling the world today. When apartheid and the international trade embargos fell, the isolationist gates collapsed as well, and American companies flooded the streets of Cape Town. And then, the Americans came, students and businessmen, and told South Africans how they should live. But many Americans who come don’t know the capitol of South Africa (there are 3: Pretoria, Johannesburg, and Cape Town) or who the president is (Thabo Mbeki). They don’t know anything about South African society. They just know that the mini-busses and the townships and the painfully slow and old university system aren’t right. And, in true American fashion, they speak up about the system that isn’t benefiting them.

America has made parts of cities all over the world look the same, but in a country where apartheid prohibited the development of a national culture, I think there is a fear that South Africa will become American-ized before it ever gets to become South African-ized.

My friends and I aren’t here to bring American values to Cape Town, we’re here to learn about South Africa and to see the world. Unfortunately, our accents and clothes and just the way we carry ourselves through the world liken us to our fellow citizens who view South Africa as a business endeavour and our peers who view Cape Town as a 24 hour party. I think a lot of South Africans immediately go on the defensive when they hear an American accent. Besides a few examples, mostly listed above, everyone I’ve met here has been hospitable and welcoming, but at first there is a look of judgement when I tell them I’m from America (and don’t even get me started about what happens when I am forced to say I go to American University. They should really look into changing that name because, frankly, it doesn’t help our reputation. And it’s embarrassing). I wish that every person I encounter could know that I’ve wanted to come here since I was 13 because I learned about it in school because I know that the United States is only a blip on the map of the world’s cultures and places to see. But I can’t let every person know that, so I try to sound respectful, patient and intelligent, and hope that the next speech Bush gives he doesn’t say something stupid.

In other news, I hope everyone had a happy Passover (to those who celebrate it). My seders were great, I went to two, one at a South African family’s house that I was matched up with through the UCT rabbi, and the other seder was at the UCT rabbi’s house. Both were orthodox seders, meaning they took forever, but it was nice to see that, generally, Passover is the same wherever you go. The only difference was no gefilte fish! Also, instead of dipping parsley into salt water, South Africans dip hard-boiled eggs and potatoes. I got a little homesick getting ready to go to the seder, knowing I wouldn’t be seeing familiar California or DC faces, but I felt welcome at both seders, and really had fun at them.

Keep keeping in touch everyone! I hope everyone’s semesters are wrapping up well and that your finals aren’t too bad. Keep your life updates coming, and thanks for reading my long and ranting blogs. Now if only disciplining myself to write papers was as fun as writing blogs…

Random chatter from a cooling cape

2008-04-13T05:57:00.000-04:00

Summer in February was weird, but the thought of winter in June sounds weirder. But it’s approaching, and I am in denial. The sun is beginning to set before 8pm and I see people wearing scarves and puffy vests even though it’s only in the 60sF, and it reminds me of California. But I am realizing I didn’t bring enough winter clothes. Maybe South Africa really will get cold?

This could present some problems.

It’s really hard to believe I’m half-way through my semester abroad. Registering for fall semester classes at AU on Monday morning shook me from my reverie—the weeks here are numbered, and there is still so much left to see in Cape Town. I love this city and its people and each nook and cranny I discover, but I need more time to learn it well, or just to stop going to class (don’t worry Mom and Dad, I go…mostly J) so I can use that time to explore. I am realizing that some of my goals for this semester were unrealistic, but the ones I have and will accomplish by June are/will be worth every challenge that was presented to me during this semester.

And life here can challenging. There is mostly no language barrier, although oftentimes the cultural meanings behind the English makes it seem like we’re all speaking different languages. For example, what do you think when someone says they’ll do something for you “just now?” In America, you expect them to turn around, and do exactly what he’s supposed to be doing, at that exact moment. But not in South Africa. Here, when you’re told “just now,” you can wait for an hour. “Now now” describes the immediate gratification. It reminds me of how middle school girls (or my mom) describe crushes: “Do you like-like him?”

Another funny thing that I keep forgetting to write about language…South Africans call stop lights “robots.”

Even when I’ve had a lot of work, my life here is so relaxed. Being the constant over-achiever I am not used to this feeling, and often dub myself as lazy when I’m relaxed. Ok, so this week may have been a bit lazy, but in general, if I don’t have a lot of work or volunteering I just love being in the South African sun or curled up with a book or laughing with friends. Everything here, despite daily challenges (like it taking 45 minutes to print an essay or my web browser not opening when I needed to register for classes) is so calm and laid back.

My friends here are amazing, and we are always looking out for each other. We have started cooking dinners or snacks for each other sometimes as well. We’ve shared garlic bread and homemade sauce, guacamole, curry, Mexican food, and crepes. Everything about my life here is shared: it has to be to conquer some of the South African ridiculousness. Rarely do I have a meal alone or a break between classes without a friend.

Speaking of ridiculousness, South Africa is experiencing electricity shortages, something I’ve mentioned in earlier blogs. As a result, the government has created “load shedding,” which is similar to California’s Rolling Blackouts in the late 1990s/early 2000s. How it works, at least in Cape Town, is that every neighbourhood has assigned biweekly 3 hour power outages. Mowbray, the neighbourhood I live in, loses electricity Monday nights from 8-11 and Friday afternoons from 12-3. But Monday night nobody was expecting it so when the lights went out everyone in the residence started yelling. All of the flats in the res look out onto a courtyard, so it was pretty funny because you could hear everything. At 11 the lights flickered on and then our whole residence was turned off again for another hour, but I looked outside and the rest of Mowbray had lights. I’ll have to see if our res usually has longer outages than the rest of the neighbourhood or if it was just a fluke. Fortunately when we moved into the residence they gave us an emergency light which turns on when the electricity goes off, so I wasn't totally in the dark. The outages on Fridays won’t affect me because I am usually out exploring another part of the city at that time, but I’ll have to remember to do homework requiring my internet before 8pm on Mondays.

Although I haven’t been that impressed with the quality of a lot of my classes here, I think that UCT is the most beautiful campus in the entire world (I mean it is at the base of Table Mountain. No campus can even compete with “Tabes!”) and it has the best food on campus. I eat lunch on campus almost every day for no more than $2USD. Ok, sometimes I splurge for a whole $3 or $4 lunch. (Big spender, I know.) I will definitely miss cheap and delicious campus food at AU next year. My favourite places to eat are Afriquazeen, a stand that has two spots on campus with delicious authentic African food (but no ostrich). The staple of African food is pap, which is basically a porridge made from ground cornmeal. Throw some mixed veggies and beans (or meat if that’s your thing) and some peri-peri sauce on there and you have yourself a delicious, authentic African meal. Another stand on campus that is amazing is Souper Sandwich (I know that super is misspelled, but that’s what they call it!) which makes the best hot subs and muffins (which are basically like cupcakes) I’ve ever had. My favourite sandwich is hummus and chukkah, which is a spread of curried mixed vegetables. I could go on forever about the deliciousness of all the campus food, but I thought I’d write a little bit because people always ask “Like, what do they eat in Africa?!”

Lastly, many people have asked me about how Cape Town is being affected by the crisis in Zimbabwe. For those of you who don’t know, Saturday the 29^th of March Zim had an election where Mugabe, the president of the last 28 years had some serious competition for the first time. Mugabe is known to squash competition and rig elections, but it came out a few days after the election that Mugabe lost, but now Mugabe is clamouring for a recount and all this other craziness in order to maintain his power. Zimbabwean politicians and lawyers have been arrested and the influx of Zimbabwean immigrants to S.Africa has increased (because Zim is such a mess already half of Zim lives in SA). Thabo Mbeki, the president of SA, seems to be buddy-buddy with Mugabe and is saying that there is no problem right now in Zim, although Jacob Zuma, another important S.African politician (and most likely next in line for president) disagrees with Mbeki. Basically it’s a mess, but there is no violence in Cape Town over it, because Cape Town is really far from Zim (We are in the southwest corner of the country, and Zim shares the Northeast border, and SA is 3 times the size of California, so there is a lot of space between CT and Zim). So it’s definitely talked about a lot, but talking is really the only way the election has affected our lives here. The influx of immigrants probably has affected something in Cape Town, but I haven’t experienced that at all as a student. It is something that I find sort of personal though because I was in Zim on the 27^th of March, just 2 days before the election. It did not seem tense at all about the election, many people were actually quite apathetic towards the whole thing, although I guess that makes sense since most of Zim is under 35, so Mugabe has been in power their entire lives.

Anyways, life here is still great, and I must stop writing now so I can go to the beach! Yeah yeah I know you’re jealous ;)

Hope all is well north of the Equator, whichever continent you may be on, and a Happy Passover to those of you in the tribe.

Spring Break '08: Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe

2008-04-02T17:29:00.000-04:00

This last week I travelled through Botswana, Zambia, and Zimbabwe for our Easter vacation. It was some of the most incredible 10 days of my life, and it definitely made me even more grateful to be able to be studying abroad in Africa. The places I saw I know I will probably never again see, and they were absolutely incredible!

You can see pictures (with captions) of the whole trip here. There are some great animal, Victoria Falls, and sunset shots (as well some of my cute little face) so I suggest you check em out:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2096046&id=7407223

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2096048&l=5e96d&id=7407223

The highlight and the most exciting story of the trip took place towards the end, in Zimbabwe at Victoria Falls. VicFalls is one of the most extraordinary things I’ve ever seen and I’ve never seen anything that massive. I have resigned myself to the fact that no photos and no words can do it justice because it is just breathtaking. The falls are so strong that when the water comes off the cliff it shoots back up after it hits the ground, and you can see the mist from miles away because it swirls up into the sky like clouds of smoke. The actual falls are mind-boggingly large. The water swarms down huge cliffs and when you go into the park to view the falls, you get drenched by the water. They call it “mist,” but really, it is more like a torrential downpour. I wore my bathing suit with a tank top and gym shorts over it, and I felt as if I’d just gone swimming with my clothes on. Sometimes the mist was so powerful that I couldn’t open my eyes, and if I could I couldn’t see the falls because I was surrounded in a world of white water. At one point I looked up and saw a full rainbow. It was gorgeous, and the beauty of it left me speechless.

We danced around in the water and went all around the falls, even over one of the bridges that separates Zambia and Zimbabwe from within the park. We shrieked and yelled with joy each time the water pelted us. I tried to absorb it with all five senses: the roar of the water, the clear blue falls, the clean smell and fresh taste of the water, and the wetness to my bones of the hot and cold splashes. It was this moment when I knew I’d made the right decision by coming to South Africa (not that I’d ever doubted it) because I know I probably won’t have this experience again. I don’t believe that anything in this world is as real, as natural, or as breathtakingly stunning as this continent, as those falls. I wish I could effectively explain Victoria Falls, but now I know why it’s considered one of the wonders of the world: because it is inexplicably wondrous.

Zambia and Zimbabwe (which will be referred to as Zam and Zim, respectively, from here on out), are separated by a bridge between the gorges at Victoria Falls. The Zim and Zam sides of VicFalls offer touristy activities. One of which is the “Lion Encounter” which my friends and I did. I thought that I would be walking with baby Simba, but when I got there I found out that actually 10 people and 6 guides were walking with 2 14 month old (aka HUGE) lions. Even though one cannot domesticate lions, they’re incredibly familiar with humans as they’ve been working with humans since they were 3 weeks old in an effort to rehabilitate the African lion population.

On our “Lion Encounter” we were able to pet the lions and take pictures with them (if you have facebook the photos are up). We were told not to walk in front of the lion, and were given a big stick and told that if the lion looks at us in a “bad way” we are to point the stick at its face, make eye contact, and say “no!” forcefully.

In the beginning of the walk I felt safe, at least for the first 20 minutes in. Soon after the walk started my friend Sierra was guided to the lion to feel its tongue. The lion wasn’t so interested in sticking out its tongue for her instead, it bit her shoe. She pulled back, and the lion, trying to be playful, stuck out its paw to bring her leg back, and, in doing so, clawed out a chunk of her shin. I watched the entire thing, and it happened so quickly I was in absolute shock. The guides responded so quickly and even though I continued on the walk, I was still very wary of the lions after that point. And thankfully, after some heavy antibiotics once arriving back in Cape Town, my friend is okay and her leg is healing well.

After the lions, we were all a little shaken up and visited the Victoria Falls Hotel in Zimbabwe for a fancy lunch and a taste of what colonialism was like in Zim. Because the inflation is so high in Zim, their money is essentially worth nothing, and unless you’re from Zim, you’re not allowed to pay in ZimDollars, although your bill comes in Zim Dollars. For 8 people, our lunch was about $200US, or about $6.6 billon ZimDollars, also known as the most expensive lunch I’ll ever eat. I felt a bit ridiculous about it though, when, afterwards we crossed the border back into Zam where we were staying and saw people in No Man’s Land coming back into Zim with huge boxes of food, because there is absolutely nothing in Zim. I am glad I was able to see Zim before the historic election that just took place on Saturday.

Here’s a rundown of the whole 10 days, if you’re interested. You can keep track of all the animals we saw (besides “tame” lions) and places we visited!

We left Cape Town around 6am to fly to Johannesburg, where we were picked up by two huge overland trucks. They were blue and high off the ground, a staircase was required to get inside! The driver was in a separate cabin and there was a buzzer we could press if we needed him. There were 17 of us on the truck, all American international students, plus one South African leader, Mike, who runs the company that we went with, and Tawanda, a Zimbabwean who works for the company that Mike’s company works with. Our truck also had a chef, Rims, also from Zim, who turned out to be the best chef ever. Even though we were camping the entire time, we ate so well. The food was delicious and pretty much gourmet (best meal: African food!). We travelled with another truck from our group of about 17 people who had a chef, and different leaders as well.

The first day was a really long day because we drove from Jo-burg to Botswana, about 12 hours. When we got to the South African/Botswana border around 9PM it was one of the creepiest things I’ve ever seen. It was a giant parking lot where you had to walk up to the border office where your passport got stamped. Then, instead of immediately entering Botswana, you cross through No Man’s Land (something that is apparently at all African borders) which is a space of land between the two borders that is owned by neither country. After about a mile drive we reached the Botswana border where again, you enter a small room to get your passport stamped. I don’t know why it was creepy, but the whole border (and all the other African borders I encountered last week) just had an eerie feeling about them.

Day 2 we drove all day again, but I was able to get to know some of the people on the trip. “Bathroom” breaks on the side of the road were in the African bush, and I was amazed at how far we could drive and literally see no sign of human life. Signs of people were so rare, and when they were there it was the poorest of the poor. Sometimes there would be little huts that said “haircut” or little clinics or small huts or concrete homes. A lot of cows, goats, and donkeys were by the side of the road and I couldn’t tell whose animals they were because they were often so far away from any homes. It’s really what you all picture me in, the African Bush! For 10 days I definitely was in the Africa that many Americans picture. The bush really is just a vast space of land with low shrubbry, small trees, and high grass.

I later learned that in Botswana there are only 2 million people, and 1 donkey for every 4 people. The donkeys are a nuisance as they stand, literally, on the sides of the roads, cause many traffic accidents, and are highly overpopulated. Fortunately we did not have any accidents from donkeys, although our two trucks almost got in an accident due to a cobra in the road….what can I say besides TIA (This Is Africa).

Day 3 we finally arrived to our first destination, the Okavango Delta in Botswana. At the delta we went in pairs in a small boat similar to a Venetian gondola called a Mokura. We rode for an hour through the delta to our campsite. It was so quiet and peaceful and I enjoyed being surrounded by the tall reeds. The water lilies and lily pads made it seem like I was in my favourite Monet painting or just a fairy tale. At the delta we went on three walks through the bush to spot animals (it’s not a zoo, the animals naturally live there). My group’s guide was a big man named Mox whose favourite movie was Blade. While we were all trudging through the bush and downing our nalgenes, Mox walked around in dress shoes and didn’t take a sip of water for 6 hours. He was very knowledgeable about the bush though, even able to tell how old giraffe poo was that we saw (5 days old aka no giraffe sighting there). Later one wild beast started walking towards us and when we got scared, Mox just laughed at us. It was pretty amazing to see the animals in their natural habitats.

The best sighting was a group of elephants. We also saw zebras! The elephants were beautiful and quiet and huge, but even though we couldn’t get very close we definitely could see them well. We went swimming in the swimming hole with pristinely clear and clean delta water. The last night the Botswanan guides performed some songs in Setswana. My favourite dance enacted the hunting of the elephant. Their singing sounded different from the African music I’ve heard in Cape Town because it was more flat, less harmonious, and more filled with high pitched yelling.

A funny thing about Botswana is that between towns there are often “border” crossings where you have to get out of the car and disinfect your shoes to prevent foot and mouth disease. Tires (called tyres in Africa) are also cleaned. One stop we had our bags had to be searched as well.

Next we went to Chobe National Park, also in Botswana. We went on a sunset cruise on the Chobe River which separates Botswana and Namibia where we saw so many animals including a family of elephants, hippos, a croc, and monkeys as well as impalas, sprinboxes, and kudus. We also went on a game drive at 5:30AM where we saw more animals, including hyenas, warthogs, and lions!

Later that day we crossed into Zambia, which made the South Africa-Botswana border look normal. The border is huge and dusty and any person or tuck that wants to get across has to cross a ferry into Zambia. Because big-rigs obviously take up a lot of space, it takes a long time to ferry them across, meaning it can literally take some trucks days to cross the border. However tourist groups get to cut the front of the line, so crossing the border was not a problem for us, AKA we got to get into Zambia before food and supplies got to get into Zambia. While waiting for a stamp on the Zambian side people are selling crafts, and are asking for clothes off your back in exchange for their work.

And your moment of zen:
Something I never heard Ed Gillis say while leading a Free the Children/Leaders Today trip to South America, but I heard Mike, our trip leader, say quite often last week, in total seriousness: "Watch me while we cross the border, just in case I get mugged. I'm carrying a lot of cash."
T.I.A. folks. T.I.A.

oh ps: in case you haven't noticed, I've turned my Microsoft Word (which I write my blogs in) to South African spelling settings...I haven't totally naturally conformed yet to putting "u's" in my words.