tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55097573785582059522024-03-13T15:57:44.622-07:00McVwingsvw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-2803858763580420382015-01-25T06:21:00.002-08:002015-01-25T06:21:56.522-08:00Belo Horizonte<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Kacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15612034648400266002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-41115703338679996622015-01-19T16:10:00.001-08:002015-01-19T16:10:06.639-08:00Saying goodbye to sly<br /><br /><center><a href='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=15/01/19/281.jpg'><img src='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/15/01/19/s_281.jpg' border='0' width='209' height='280' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone<br />svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-10935288046309242112015-01-18T07:17:00.001-08:002015-01-18T07:17:42.791-08:00At the Trapp family lodge- last day in VT<br /><br /><center><a href='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=15/01/18/119.jpg'><img src='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/15/01/18/s_119.jpg' border='0' width='280' height='210' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone<br />svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-41851870045242508642015-01-18T06:08:00.000-08:002015-01-18T06:13:03.026-08:00And so it begins. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Kacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15612034648400266002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-38571862232038332962012-10-07T16:10:00.001-07:002012-10-07T16:10:30.079-07:00For Amber Waves of Grain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Glacier National Park, east side</span></div>
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Every town in America has something it wants to tell you about itself as you drive through. Sometimes it's just the town motto, or the population, from the sign which welcomes you as you're driving in. Sometimes it's the historical monument or museum you ought to visit. Often there are signs pointing the way to particularly beautiful vistas, or 'historic downtowns' (many of them sadly empty and dying these days). It seemed like every town in North Dakota had a sign listing all the different denominations of churches present in the area (all Christian, of course). Every town in Montana broadcast the mascot of their high schools' sports teams and their various state championships over the years.</div>
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The town of Poplar, Montana, which is the tribal seat for the tribes of the Fort Peck Indian Reservation, boasts the high school mascot the 'Indians.' The teams of the nearby town Culbertson, Montana, which is 89 percent white, are the 'Cowboys.' They don't pull any punches in Montana, I guess.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Glacier National Park, North Fork</span></div>
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I drove from Seattle across Idaho, Montana, and North Dakota on highway 2, also known as the Hi-Line. The road is mostly two lanes with a speed limit of 70mph, and an endless vista of flat plains and wheat fields. You drive directly through all the small towns along the route, slowing down to pass crumbling grain elevators and crusty looking bars. When you stop for lunch, you're sure to find a lot of ranch dressing. It's exactly what you want a cross country trip to be..... until you get to North Dakota.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">borrowed from Flickr user calwest</span></div>
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Several years ago, North Dakota offered a tax break to oil companies to drill in their state. This, plus the development of new technology for horizontal drilling and fracking, led to an explosion of development over what is called the Bakken Formation in the Northwest corner of the state. When Travis and I drove across the border from Montana, we were instantly covered in a thick cloud of dust which hung in the air over the down of Williston, ND. They are building so many new roads and houses and hotels, that the construction itself has generated a dust cloud far out over the horizon. The drilling derricks are visible in the hundreds from the highways, and the flares light up the night sky. We arrived there in the early evening, hoping to find a hotel room for the night and quickly found that every hotel within driving radius was completely booked. We were lucky to find one room for $200.00 at the brand new hotel, Black Gold, which offered breakfast from 3:30am-8am. The nearby mini-mart was almost completely sold out of beer. A woman who worked at the hotel told us she could find no work in her home state of Minnesota, but landed a job in Williston within the first hour of arriving in town.<br />
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After Williston, the Hi-Line widens out into a four lane highway, so we dropped down across the state towards Fargo, and then took in Brainerd, Minnesota for good measure. In Minnesota, I dropped off Travis, and picked up Liz. We managed to absorb a little of the wonders of Wisconsin (<br />
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) before we hit the ugly mess of interstates around Chicago. The cat managed to surprise quite a few toll booth operators in Illinois, Ohio, and Pennsylvania by popping up from my lap to meow at them as I handed over the change or the ticket. Our goal that night was simple: Detroit.<br />
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Having read a lot about both the rampant urban decay and the few hopeful renewal projects, Liz and I were both excited to see what we could of the city. We were not disappointed. Though I think were were both amazed at the extent of the decay, we had an incredibly wonderful lunch at the Avalon Bakery and drove around to the soundtrack of Detroit-natives Madonna and Eminem.<br />
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From there it was a relatively quick drive through upstate New York, across Lake Champlain, and into my new home state, Vermont. State Tree: Sugar Maple. State Fruit: Apple. State Mineral: Talc.<br />
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Tomorrow I start my new job producing Vermont Edition at Vermont Public Radio.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Liz with Vermont fall color</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Travis and I at Glacier National Park</span></div>
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svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-60350875628321716042012-08-29T12:13:00.000-07:002012-08-29T12:13:43.979-07:00If you eat like a Vermonter....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGMTIgAjOoVKHv2gFUNOQyo4fGm2FbQtgzt6tJGb2iZTf9mZ-sgClbHx3KuNLzFg7s2X3Bcl779JpvlvuNNBj34ToxY0kX2KMeoIDjt8VC0bZFTm8kvzp9176Qjqq0k5kUlwK73uAJs3y/s1600/DSC01985.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwGMTIgAjOoVKHv2gFUNOQyo4fGm2FbQtgzt6tJGb2iZTf9mZ-sgClbHx3KuNLzFg7s2X3Bcl779JpvlvuNNBj34ToxY0kX2KMeoIDjt8VC0bZFTm8kvzp9176Qjqq0k5kUlwK73uAJs3y/s320/DSC01985.JPG" width="320" /> </a></div>
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We've traveled from India and Norway to land in the middle of small-town, dairy-farming, creemee-eating, swimming-hole-jumping, roadside-farm-stand, muggy New England summer Vermont. We've spent the last few days driving around, pointing out the window at adorable all-brick colonial farmhouses, and wondering what the bright green hills will look like in another month or two. We've found an apartment right in the center of town, so we can walk to all five local businesses and the college campus. Kacy has been settling in to her new office.</div>
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When I interviewed for a job at the local public radio station last week, they told me that, since the only restaurants nearby the station were fast food joints: "If you eat like a Vermonter, you'll have to bring your own lunch." What does a Vermonter eat like? "Oh, you know, local, seasonal, whole grain...stuff like that." I do believe we've come to the right place.<br />
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It's hard to synthesize how the last year of traveling has affected us in the long-term, or to imagine what kind of impact it is going to have on our future. I do know that we are both very thankful for all that we have learned, and for the kindness and generosity we have received along the way. We are also very glad to be back together again, building a home once more. </div>
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Though I never thought I would be a blogger, it has been an incredible experience for both of us to keep this record of our journeys. Thanks to all of you who have read these pages and sent comments and encouragement. If I get a chance, I'll post an update or two as I'm driving across the country, but for the most part, I believe this blog has reached the end of the road. Middlebury, Vermont.</div>
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svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-41684847581358710562012-08-05T01:22:00.001-07:002012-08-13T11:19:02.664-07:00Norwegian Wood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7698321798/"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8294/7698321798_86294f5ac3_o.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a><br />Norway's three largest exports are: oil, fish, and black metal. That's not some kind of rare earth mineral, but rather a very specific variety of hard rock music. Black metal is satanic heavy metal music, mostly sung in Norwegian. The musicians often dress up in corpse paint and burn crosses on stage. The music is rabidly anti-christian and some of its most famous singers have also been arrested for burning down churches here in Norway. It is apparently very popular among a certain set of listeners.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7698322152/"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8168/7698322152_916b671495_b.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a><br />Most of Norway's money, though, comes from oil. Norway currently produces about 12 percent of Europe's oil and 30 percent of their natural gas. They're not a part of OPEC, and they have repeatedly voted by a slim margin not to become part of the EU. They are pretty thankful for that now, though Norway's Prime Minister recently made a statement warning citizens that if things get worse for Europe, Norwegians too might <i>begin</i> to feel the pinch of this economic downturn.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7698322490/"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8013/7698322490_d8230cd4d6_b.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a><br />This used to be a very poor country. Right up until oil was discovered in the early 1970's, leagues of poor Norwegians fled the country, ending up in places like Minnesota and Seattle to escape the desperate poverty of their homeland. This landscape, although stupendously beautiful, is isolating and difficult to farm or industrialize.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7698322814/"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8167/7698322814_659629680a_b.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a><br />This is a ridiculously expensive country to travel in. Even if the exchange rate were better, the high taxes make things like food, alcohol, cigarettes, and transportation mindbogglingly priced (food is taxed at 28 percent, for example). A young American tourist I met the other day asked me what my favorite food experiences had been in my time here. I told her that actually I hadn't eaten so much ramen noodles since I was in college. I haven't had the guts to test my wallet against dinner at a restaurant here. Thank god I have been camping most of the time.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ppgzgbPArkbh_OxWF_f8f71N3WyzzGC05gLxzBLrZconZ7MPVusr-w-kZ1ANx2Go1Szicz8myVj8T_SgiVIPG8sBz1j_F5IMPOQxmycVr3WvIWwJRXAmxEvKWfFLa00uLOgQ1x6KxSn8/s1600/DSC01793.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ppgzgbPArkbh_OxWF_f8f71N3WyzzGC05gLxzBLrZconZ7MPVusr-w-kZ1ANx2Go1Szicz8myVj8T_SgiVIPG8sBz1j_F5IMPOQxmycVr3WvIWwJRXAmxEvKWfFLa00uLOgQ1x6KxSn8/s320/DSC01793.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />For Norwegians, though, things are not really so expensive. Currently Norway has the highest income per capita of anywhere in the world. Their income (and that of corporations) is progressively taxed up to 38 percent. All those high taxes fund what conservatives in America right now rail against as the specter of 'Socialism,' but here they refer to as social democracy. Norway is the classic welfare state. The Government provides a large quantity of money for education, health care, transportation, pensions, and other social services. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GLG_foQFcc11mw_4y1kJ_cx8erojeM_W-adfsNAbdzv_UvXBgGgm_pOQ7-vnvFaWwYX_sZbKhkqljyxlbs5RZEtdvzhFYiCw4VpPUd7X6opRNQhh0RjGdUFl50tGqqS4rGAVaj20Xk1K/s1600/DSC01814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0GLG_foQFcc11mw_4y1kJ_cx8erojeM_W-adfsNAbdzv_UvXBgGgm_pOQ7-vnvFaWwYX_sZbKhkqljyxlbs5RZEtdvzhFYiCw4VpPUd7X6opRNQhh0RjGdUFl50tGqqS4rGAVaj20Xk1K/s320/DSC01814.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />When I talk to Norwegians about this I very quickly turn green. There is state support for disability, single parents, unemployment, and skills training. Health care and pensions are completely provided by the government. The government also provides money and cheap loans for education and housing. There is a mandated 38 hour work week and 14 months of full-pay maternity/paternity leave. The farmer I worked with pooled her government vacation and sick leave pay with other farmers in the village to hire a 'replacement farmer' who shuffled between farms, covering for everyone when they had an emergency or needed a holiday.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEituU7huMTcG-ywLRm2kwk9SIWqLDsXe_DvTB1rBwAOr1mAtckTc22RZq5di4bmEntB9G_iH2la3BsCoVaKpuMLGn70mEYLNbapzbVdb63Tfurmkg9dOmXWgzaQyavQZY4OXsd0q0UbbFjg/s1600/DSC01718.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEituU7huMTcG-ywLRm2kwk9SIWqLDsXe_DvTB1rBwAOr1mAtckTc22RZq5di4bmEntB9G_iH2la3BsCoVaKpuMLGn70mEYLNbapzbVdb63Tfurmkg9dOmXWgzaQyavQZY4OXsd0q0UbbFjg/s320/DSC01718.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />The state has also made a conscious effort to hedge against the day when there is no more oil to draw out of the North Sea. They have invested heavily incentives for businesses involved in fish farming, medicine, technology, and renewable energy. There is a law which limits the use of petroleum revenues and mandates that the profits are invested into a pension fund. That fund is currently valued around $189 billion dollars.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIn7IvXxgFoqRAzf4BdER_KCk1j0FxBiHPDtFv_2p9VFp07g-zCabfIDOb7Y_0VI8wecqx6cETohhgRI4ZHxLtNeNWfqiSTVgHXPFtPOrkn805F7g1vwtyzbUktxV39rTy1BQGkA4btsin/s1600/DSC01705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIn7IvXxgFoqRAzf4BdER_KCk1j0FxBiHPDtFv_2p9VFp07g-zCabfIDOb7Y_0VI8wecqx6cETohhgRI4ZHxLtNeNWfqiSTVgHXPFtPOrkn805F7g1vwtyzbUktxV39rTy1BQGkA4btsin/s320/DSC01705.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />This still seems to be a country in transition. It is not yet quite comfortable with wealth, and yet the people in general are now very well off. As you travel through the western fjord country you see thousands of tiny mountainside farms that were abandoned in the 70's and 80's. Many of them are now owned as vacation cabins. And yet you don't see a lot of SUV's, helicopters, iphones, or other evidence of conspicuous consumption. People told me it is not considered good taste to display your wealth.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbpfgX3-1hxRGXZMPQ3NZcR7Fp4wbpN6XiTkHnatILfOUrVCpHy8lxznKqv-rUslhqhB8v0K_i1IvShIHfk8TaJURnmN42WmCpjL9bC5Al1M9jGJrdVQCBYLrVBGylmnC2CFfzDggvqMKS/s1600/DSC01852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbpfgX3-1hxRGXZMPQ3NZcR7Fp4wbpN6XiTkHnatILfOUrVCpHy8lxznKqv-rUslhqhB8v0K_i1IvShIHfk8TaJURnmN42WmCpjL9bC5Al1M9jGJrdVQCBYLrVBGylmnC2CFfzDggvqMKS/s320/DSC01852.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Norway has quite a lot of millionaires, but not so many billionaires. The US has over 400 billionaires. In Norway there are four. One of them recently pledged to give away his entire fortune before he dies. Another can regularly be found selling fish from his boat on the pier in Oslo.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkGAQ4DxICVYqaLrUFb5RCQeV2EEeK7A0NUYQd9UdimB_XDm6NgaIaDFDvFiTbGPJxO-QUhOcEJsRELVO0SKPDZMWXaSXTCsqEqeV55Tsh_AIPe2OX6uRPzLAx9iLDunAPhwkpkdSt-v6x/s1600/DSC01762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkGAQ4DxICVYqaLrUFb5RCQeV2EEeK7A0NUYQd9UdimB_XDm6NgaIaDFDvFiTbGPJxO-QUhOcEJsRELVO0SKPDZMWXaSXTCsqEqeV55Tsh_AIPe2OX6uRPzLAx9iLDunAPhwkpkdSt-v6x/s320/DSC01762.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br />Of course this country is far from perfect. As a relatively homogenous society, they are struggling with increased immigration and I have personally encountered a fair amount of casual racism. That famous Scandinavian stoicism means that, while people friendly once approached, they are a long way from outgoing and cheerful. I will be glad to return to the US, however frustrated I have been trying to defend our economic system over the last several months.<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7775234178/'><img src='http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8302/7775234178_04d9cafa3f_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br />Yesterday I was here:<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg3FXkQ-RwZLL8AMzDXs_FyS51Wtap29u3c_Wt6ypcCW0KlaKJ8iKJz3CZIy-pq5Aw9OCRKjEjNOsq-vrsDab22XaQ3-2sDO6_ns27efV2Fw567bmrfJVyYAMJabrDgoZOS6DwSmxVNf07/s1600/DSC01798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg3FXkQ-RwZLL8AMzDXs_FyS51Wtap29u3c_Wt6ypcCW0KlaKJ8iKJz3CZIy-pq5Aw9OCRKjEjNOsq-vrsDab22XaQ3-2sDO6_ns27efV2Fw567bmrfJVyYAMJabrDgoZOS6DwSmxVNf07/s320/DSC01798.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Today I am here:<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7775242870/'><img src='http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8307/7775242870_aa43eb46f1_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br />In a week I will be back in the US, and this long explore will be nearly at its end.<br /><br />svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-59051397937169386552012-07-29T09:48:00.002-07:002012-07-29T09:48:54.247-07:00“I’m not sure I could pee on Kacy-ji’s face if she was stung by a jellyfish” – one of my students (note the honorific)I love my students. They make me laugh, they keep me in check, they teach me, they support me, and they do all of these things for each other as well. Sometimes I think of our group as a sports team or as a band. I wonder what we would be called.
I was sick in bed for almost the whole of last week – with a viral fever. There is nothing like being alone all day, day after day, and being bedridden to make one feel sorry for one’s self. There was plenty of time to make long mental lists of all of things to be grateful for and to look forward to. I missed home (Sage), and for the first time all year (and perhaps quite a bit longer) I missed my physical home: Point Reyes. Of course I have missed friends and family during that time, but suddenly I longed to go there.
Here in the middle Himalayas, I felt very lucky to have so many caring people around me. One morning there was an anonymous note on my door that said, “feel better, Kacy-ji.” In addition to the wonderful people already here, my good friend Purvi came for a visit and a guest lecture. I had not seen her since I was last in Gujarat in May 2009. Over the years since then, as many of you know, I have wondered why of all the places in the world, I ended up in Gujarat. I haven’t wanted to go back. For a long time I have only been able to remember the challenges and discomforts. But here was another sign of how things have changed for me over the past year of being abroad. Spending time with Purvi (realizing that I still understand Gujarati!), with my dear friend Keith, and with my lovely students as they experience it all (rural India) for the first time, is definitely changing my relationship with India. I want to come back, and I think I’m even ready to return to Gujarat. Of course, I have no idea of the when or how of it. But being ready and interested is certainly a big step.
Tonight we celebrated Deepa’s birthday by singing and dancing, eating and sitting around the fire. As I went into my cabin at the end of the night a couple of students walked by and said, “god, it keeps getting better”. Several of the students joke about taking a road trip to Middlebury to sit in on my classes and to meet Sage (who they can tell is absolutely amazing because of the way I talk about her). As the end of the program grows near, I am beginning to brainstorm about how I will get to come back to see my friends, to be in this incredible place again, to go back to Gujarat, and to finally fulfill some promises from my dissertation research. My dream is for the next job I get after Middlebury to be one that allows me to set up my own study abroad program with Keith in the Himalayas!Kacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15612034648400266002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-82875937060938935122012-07-26T09:37:00.001-07:002012-07-26T09:37:47.116-07:00Kungsleden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-33542132130312087502012-07-16T07:26:00.002-07:002012-07-16T11:27:03.633-07:00Sleep! That´s Where I´m a Viking.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_UHw_jul4w1Y8VrjAvJZgNNjxn6GqQ2PH4kp31VsSoJB2fO1APUubMARSv6JzAYQLLAjQ_d8eXsqZGRl9zIZz_cD-R15YshX6fb48LG1HkOs_996vA0-pjUnZnYNP4vydHstEhwT0Fb-d/s1600/DSC01518.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_UHw_jul4w1Y8VrjAvJZgNNjxn6GqQ2PH4kp31VsSoJB2fO1APUubMARSv6JzAYQLLAjQ_d8eXsqZGRl9zIZz_cD-R15YshX6fb48LG1HkOs_996vA0-pjUnZnYNP4vydHstEhwT0Fb-d/s320/DSC01518.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />I couldn't very well come to Norway without venturing into the far north, above the arctic circle. It's long been a dream of mine to hike the King's Trail in Lappland, Sweden, so I've traveled up here to the land of the midnight sun. On my way to the hiking trail, I've spent a few days kicking around the Lofoten Islands.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAHLKWewAx9dYoqoU68kFUkXujYLkSqLWrwUjWdcs4U4KBTTxMO41ndiJhDwH3oCHTq_4a17Z2EXJeNvufbXIy4k4EFM8pLZlGFVrqhXm7CvV93HGjEN6OHqjozdUBpzsio9SMK3VMYl1/s1600/DSC01524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAHLKWewAx9dYoqoU68kFUkXujYLkSqLWrwUjWdcs4U4KBTTxMO41ndiJhDwH3oCHTq_4a17Z2EXJeNvufbXIy4k4EFM8pLZlGFVrqhXm7CvV93HGjEN6OHqjozdUBpzsio9SMK3VMYl1/s320/DSC01524.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />This area is famed for it's cod and herring fishery, still producing more salt cod than anywhere else. The cod migrate south from the Barents Sea and congregate here to spawn in the wintertime. They are caught by large and small fishing vessels and dried on racks on land in vast numbers. Most of the dried fish are taken down in June, but there are still some hanging on the sides of people's houses now.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><center><a href='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/07/16/2461.jpg'><img src='http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/07/16/s_2461.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeXAlXMd7oHHb_2-9iw2CuyEWdqH9jO9ecG-6XUyPKtt-fI8n8BPKBaOEHjhrGAsddk3yTlTVv7XTl8b7o7jk2g_ONV8_GjlA9bkCCjqmfvTFiGoKleUGIiH8QhNC9hIQbqlywxpGu86LQ/s1600/DSC01525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeXAlXMd7oHHb_2-9iw2CuyEWdqH9jO9ecG-6XUyPKtt-fI8n8BPKBaOEHjhrGAsddk3yTlTVv7XTl8b7o7jk2g_ONV8_GjlA9bkCCjqmfvTFiGoKleUGIiH8QhNC9hIQbqlywxpGu86LQ/s320/DSC01525.JPG" width="240" /> </a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />The Norwegian government devolves much of the authority for managing the fishing stocks to the local communities here- with a fair amount of success. Still, its a hard life to be a fisherman and there are many abandoned villages along the Lofotens. In the summertime, the old fishermen's cabins are largely turned over to artists and tourists. With good reason: it is stunningly beautiful here. These islands are fierce, moss covered rocks rising up out of the north sea- their peaks capped with snow and wreathed with fog. Deep fjords carve into the land mass, and tiny, brightly colored houses cling to the shoreline beneath the cliffs. It must be a very unforgiving place in the winter time, but it sure is scenic.<br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZfZlB9CgMpqkh4lNEhYBiq4yPQx_iXIsHp1AoBzvajvU2XfiNjzZJWQdagLHeWEz7993pxvoUFp2gQtbvKN-_KzzwwZVWvotKohG5kUgJC_5UnQlXqBaglDxhvVTHWKp_lHZneUddmbZ/s1600/DSC01520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZfZlB9CgMpqkh4lNEhYBiq4yPQx_iXIsHp1AoBzvajvU2XfiNjzZJWQdagLHeWEz7993pxvoUFp2gQtbvKN-_KzzwwZVWvotKohG5kUgJC_5UnQlXqBaglDxhvVTHWKp_lHZneUddmbZ/s320/DSC01520.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Some of the largest and oldest ruins of Viking longhouses have been found on these islands. The warm Gulf Stream and the North Atlantic Current bring not only fish, but also a slightly more temperate climate- mild enough for a certain amount of agriculture, anyhow. The tall, blond Vikings lived here contemporaneously with the indigenous Sami people who still herd reindeer further inland in Finnmark, the region where Norway, Sweden, and Finland meet (and where I am headed next). It must have been from these islands that Viking ships sailed west toward Greenland, and eventually Newfoundland.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQneHkSrk5QfJjj10g913ch7Y4flbMvP5oc1TxVyYK9DdXIXQH7dGZG9cCFXutkbnAzRK2Tt39ynvNifsdliZn8V8TUHsnKjfWzpSUFYAULIUdIgho5SEhCLgfsRgFrD2rmE3wiggwhq7/s1600/DSC01527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQneHkSrk5QfJjj10g913ch7Y4flbMvP5oc1TxVyYK9DdXIXQH7dGZG9cCFXutkbnAzRK2Tt39ynvNifsdliZn8V8TUHsnKjfWzpSUFYAULIUdIgho5SEhCLgfsRgFrD2rmE3wiggwhq7/s320/DSC01527.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />The Norwegians are quietly battling it out with Russia, Japan, the US, and Canada for both fishing and oil and mineral extraction rights in the Arctic Ocean and Barents Sea which were once more reliably covered with ice year round. Now that the Polar Ice Cap is melting, the possibility for resource extraction in this area has many nations vying to prove just how far their continental shelf extends north. Soon the volume of oil and gas extracted from these seas may rival the number of fish. And we might just get a Northwest Passage after all.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3U3dNywrk9nlBOSKlTns6PA1iDVZM9x48bO6jv1JDR9hzuEn6TpuHFJC2TR7v9OQSpfcoHMLOiCriMMMruH4_J8L55avZavNzS9MOPZ3Tw9TixbbhYNmw_FlgPqQ4R6yd72bY9ZZN-rXI/s1600/DSC01530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3U3dNywrk9nlBOSKlTns6PA1iDVZM9x48bO6jv1JDR9hzuEn6TpuHFJC2TR7v9OQSpfcoHMLOiCriMMMruH4_J8L55avZavNzS9MOPZ3Tw9TixbbhYNmw_FlgPqQ4R6yd72bY9ZZN-rXI/s320/DSC01530.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />*the title of this post is one of my favorite quotes from The Simpsons. Ralph Wiggum is probably saying that he often dreams that he's a Viking, though I think it could also be interpreted that sleep is something he excels at.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCv2vqhKPmk2aDRGirQpjalgR3hK_8BktnrN5padAmvK88TqXLFBa66WAqEOXJLDRrYCW2W4Mpf_2PbAszx_glcCe6p0JAxyAJ3nJX_6be1Lqp4V3khe5eCkVZoLRvRLaZscTBSOGM0RI/s1600/DSC01536.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCv2vqhKPmk2aDRGirQpjalgR3hK_8BktnrN5padAmvK88TqXLFBa66WAqEOXJLDRrYCW2W4Mpf_2PbAszx_glcCe6p0JAxyAJ3nJX_6be1Lqp4V3khe5eCkVZoLRvRLaZscTBSOGM0RI/s320/DSC01536.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><p class='blogpress_location'>Location:<a href='http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Finnesveien,Kabelv%C3%A5g,Norway%4068.212198%2C14.485425&z=10'>Finnesveien,Kabelvåg,Norway</a></p>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-91614640064038463332012-07-12T08:39:00.001-07:002012-07-12T08:54:30.753-07:00On The Road Again<br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7556513700/'><img src='http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8421/7556513700_8d035e9af9_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />I've spent the last week hiking in Rondane, Norway's oldest National Park. The mountains here are bare and rounded, covered with lichen and rock. It is the habitat of Reindeer and Musk Ox and lemmings. The playwright Ibsen loved to walk in Rondane, and every other trail or hut is named Peer Gynt. The weather has been lousy, rainy and foggy and cold, but I slept every night in warm, cosy huts, and ate three course meals cooked by the staff there. The Norwegians didn't seem to mind the weather. They geared up and hiked out into the fog and drizzle every morning, filling the huts at night. Next stop: Trondheim.<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7556514322/'><img src='http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7122/7556514322_e90533676c_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />As much as I hated to leave the farm, I am glad to be traveling again. Being on the move has a certain addictive charm. The momentum itself keeps you going. From one meal to the bus or train to the next place to sleep. At some moments every change, every new thing, feels jarring. Nothing is familiar. Every day brings something different. But there is so much monotony, too, in travel: waiting an hour for the next bus, sitting on the train as the countryside rolls by, reading by the fire waiting for dinner hour. At times like these it's easy to forget how strange and wonderful it is to set out every day doing something you have never done before. What a gift it can be not to know what will happen from one day to the next.<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7556514908/'><img src='http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7254/7556514908_f2052cfaa9_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />Also, there's something wonderful about moving through the world like a wide-eyed five year old. Everything is suddenly new and I have no idea how the simplest things work. I can spend a half hour figuring out how to turn on the tap in the bathroom and feel accomplished when I finally get it. The simplest things become mysterious again, and the details of everyday existence take on new meaning. Of course, here in Europe, I don't have to remain a clueless child forever. Unlike traveling alone in Thailand, or India, the customs and signage are slightly more approachable. If I put my mind to it, I will eventually figure it out. And it's virtually guaranteed that someone nearby speaks English at least passably. <br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7556515760/'><img src='http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8019/7556515760_1ee75ed63a_b.jpg' border='0' width='281' height='210' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br />I do feel bad, of course, for being the stupid American who only speaks one language. I always think if I could have a superpower I'd love to be a polyglot. That said, there is something so wonderful about not understanding the babble around me. I don't have to be subjected to the inanity of other people's conversations. I can sit there with my own thoughts (fairly inane themselves, but at least mine), while background words blur into noise. Or I can look at other people and make up the conversations they might be having- making them as eloquent or as lewd as I prefer. The two men ahead of me on the bus this afternoon were having a lively conversation about pigs balls, or at least that's what it sounded like to me.<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7556516648/'><img src='http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7247/7556516648_cc377193de_b.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='281' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br />Of course, it is possible to be alone too much. You can easily go a tiny bit crazy if you've had too much time alone with your thoughts, particularly if you've been walking for hours through the rain and the mud in the mountains. On the train this afternoon, I found myself having a furious internal dialogue with the man in the row behind me who kept blowing his nose every few minutes with gusto. The sound itself was annoying and I also felt sure he would destroy his sinuses with the force of his blows. But I told myself not to get annoyed with him- it was hardly his fault that he had a cold. Then I began to feel annoyed that he was spreading his sickness through the stuffy air of the train compartment. I began to actually feel as if I was getting sick myself. I was furious with myself for letting myself be annoyed with him. I worked myself up into quite a fluster. When I finally turned around to get a look at the fellow, I realized that the noise I had been hearing actually came from the automatic sliding door- opening and closing as people came through the train compartment. I spent the rest of the train journey staring out the window, feeling very foolish indeed.<br /><br /><br /><center><a href='http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/7556517240/'><img src='http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7255/7556517240_77744fa37e_b.jpg' border='0' width='210' height='281' style='margin:5px'></a></center><br /><br />svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-60961212362809536482012-07-04T02:42:00.001-07:002012-07-04T02:42:54.773-07:0098 degrees at 11pm in Delhi or the scents of the monsoon seasonI’m back in the middle Himalayas of India, with my good friend Keith and a new group of fabulous students. As some of you know, I accepted a one-year position as Visiting Assistant Professor of Geography at Middlebury College in Vermont, just before leaving Delhi for the hills. Now that it’s certain that Sage and I will be there together for the year I am over the moon. I get to teach two of my favorite courses the first semester and to create two exciting courses for the second semester. I may even develop a short course for January about comic books and street art!
Over the past few weeks, I have begun to reflect back on this time we spent traveling the world. I am filled with memories and stories and am delighted to have 13 curious and interested students to share these stories and photos with. After so many months of travel there are tons of photos I haven’t even had a chance to look back at.
This time in India with Sage off in Norway is shaping up to be a time of reflection, of planning and of diligent work towards the next job application cycle and the start of my new job – in addition to the work I’m doing here. I’m enjoying getting to see what it’s like to follow Sage’s adventures through our blog.
Last night the rains came. I woke up to the first true rains of the monsoon season. I put my head out the window to breathe in the scents of downpour on parched earth. This morning it is clear that the land will need many more of these downpours to get back to a healthy state. When we arrived with the students, we were warned to take special care in the amount of water we use; the springs and rivers are at their lowest in years. There are now estimates that the monsoon rains will be 30% below average, but today it keeps coming.
A few weeks back we experienced pre-monsoon heat in Delhi. I can honestly say that for the first time in my life 98 degrees felt pleasant (after a day of 110+). When we arrived in the hills we stepped out of the cars to the most soothing temperature, a refreshing breeze and smoky, but very pleasant air. Before our arrival forest fires had been raging in the surrounding areas, and residents went out to fight the spread of the fires. We could still see the forests smoldering as we arrived.
My memories of monsoon season in Gujarat – in the city of Ahmedabad – are of asking then pleading fifteen different rickshaw drivers to take me back to my host family’s house before one finally agreed; of slipping in the calf deep waters and looking up to find a crowd of young men giggling and watching; of the most delicious frozen mango treat I could ever imagine served in a little clay pot; and of the dirtiest water I have ever seen flooding the streets in every direction.
I am delighted to be back at Sonapani with Deepa, Ashish, Vanya, Aru, another group of top notch students and Keith and Chicu. It feels so right to have started this year in India and to be ending it here as well.
My students' first band photo. Only our lone male student is missing (he's taking the picture). <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviBZXkoDPRxGTcX8DBAW6UB93JMXKWTqYwnYzlT6AxSl6kOqMMjU2FlLQhC8xru2nU9dSkTztzCD5hgmYHaRZAPYk7u8booHdoqsl04np1S26wZTjA0z1447yJNtsGGiaJ5Jrq-IwaN4/s1600/band+photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviBZXkoDPRxGTcX8DBAW6UB93JMXKWTqYwnYzlT6AxSl6kOqMMjU2FlLQhC8xru2nU9dSkTztzCD5hgmYHaRZAPYk7u8booHdoqsl04np1S26wZTjA0z1447yJNtsGGiaJ5Jrq-IwaN4/s320/band+photo.JPG" /></a></div>Kacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15612034648400266002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-86080096375085431102012-07-03T11:55:00.000-07:002012-07-03T11:55:26.086-07:00The Coldest Winter I Ever Spent Was A Summer in Norway<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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After all that talk of not knowing when or where we'd be coming home to, we are suddenly returning to the US, job and schedule in hand. How quickly things can change. Kacy landed a one year teaching gig at Middlebury College in Vermont. I had a brief flirtation with a job in California that didn't materialize. Now it just remains to leave Europe behind, get the car and the cat across the country, and hunker down for the Vermont winter.<br />
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In preparation, I've been spending the summer in Norway. For the last month I've been living and working at a small dairy farm in the middle of Norway, on the edge of the Finnish FOrest. Helen and Hans have welcomed me into their home, fed me potatoes and moose, and taught me how to make cheese and butter and sour cream. We have plowed up potato plants with a horse, hung hay to dry on fences, chopped down small trees by hand, and pulled innumerable weekds from the fields. Not to mention milking the cows, feeding the pigs and chickens, and mucking out the cow shed. Their home is warm and welcoming and Helen is a dedicated and forgiving teacher.<br />
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The hay must be hung up to dry because it's far from certain that the sun will shine long enough to dry it on the ground. They can't use round-bailed silage here because it freezes solid in the wintertime. Of course, when the sun IS shinging, it stays up far into the night. At 10pm here, the light resembles a sunny August afternoon around 4pm in Seattle. Getting up to pee in the middle of the night can be a disorientating experience.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(This photo was taken at midnight. Can you see the moon?)</span></div>
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It's remarkable how much I'm reminded of Maine here. The summer growing season is brief and fecund. The days are long, the sun shines with a purpose, and the rain, when it comes, is thick and heavy in the air. Everyone seems to have a little cabin on a lake in the woods that they use in the summertime. The forests are filled with blueberry bushes (though sadly it is not yet the season). The most popular non-fiction book in Norway right now is a manual on how best to prepare and store firewood. When I went on a hike earlier I found myself following a trail of freshly laid moose poop.<br />
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This area is called the Finnish Forest, though it is on the border with Sweden and far from Finland. When times were tough in the past, Norway saw quite a lot of immigration from Finland. Many of the Fins settled in this area because the forests reminded them of home. Now many of Norways newest immigrants are coming from Iceland, though the newspapers seem to be most concerned about a 'Muslim Invasion.'<br />
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July 22nd will mark the one year anniversary of the massacre at a Democratic youth camp here in Norway last summer. I had been looking forward to seeing the memorial services, but managed to mangle up my travel planning. I'll be in northern Sweden hiking on that day. Apparently the streets of Oslo were so filled with people carrying roses in the days after the massacre, that the whole city had to shut down. My hosts here tell me that there will be large events all over the country this year. They are very proud of how their country came together to deal with the crisis.<br />
I've been pretty impressed with this country so far too.</div>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-9200199159845884722012-06-18T07:18:00.000-07:002012-06-18T12:23:40.927-07:00Serendipity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On Saturday I was in Oslo as Aung San Suu Kyi finally got to give her Nobel Prize speach. Please forgive the quality of this story, as I am using editing software on an iPad and have borrowed the wifi at the local library in the very small Norwegian town of Valer. The librarian has been extremely kind.<br />
<br />
<iframe width="100%" height="166" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" src="http://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F50070177&show_artwork=true"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://soundcloud.com/sagevanwing/asskfinal">http://soundcloud.com/sagevanwing/asskfinal</a></div>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-33020918142019486562012-06-04T14:41:00.000-07:002012-06-04T14:44:16.048-07:00Home, or something Like It.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When we were initially planning this trip, we knew we didn't want to spend all of our time on the move. We wanted to choose a few places to really settle down a little bit, give ourselves a chance to get to know them and imagine what it might be like to really live there. We knew we'd be 3 months in rural India at the beginning, so we arbitrarily decided to pick two other locations to stay for 3 weeks each. There was almost no question that Berlin would be one of them.<br />
<br />
We first came to Berlin together 3 years ago for a brief visit on the
tail end of a trip to Germany for our friend Lars' wedding. We fell in
love with the place immediately. It was early summer and very warm and
we (and everyone else, it seemed) were out riding bicycles and picnicing
in the parks. The whole city felt young and vibrant and alive with art
and architecture and people making things happen.<br />
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<center><a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/06/04/2336.jpg"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/06/04/s_2336.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a></center><br />
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Berlin is the second biggest construction site in the world, after
Shanghai, yet there is 13% unemployment. Locals like to say that Berlin
is “poor, but sexy.” For a capitol city, it is certainly amazing how
empty it can feel sometimes. You can be riding the U Bahn in the middle
of a Monday morning and find the station nearly empty. But on a sunny
day in the springtime, every park is full. Biking, grilling, drinking
beer outside… these are things the Germans seem to place a lot of
importance on. It’s also remarkable how cheap and spacious the
accommodation is. Compared to London or Paris, this is a capitol city in
Europe that actually seems affordable to live in. If you can find a
job, that is.<br />
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<center><a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/06/04/2337.jpg"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/06/04/s_2337.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a></center><br />
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As the steady creep of gentrification moves eastward in this city,
giant communist housing blocks have been occupied by young artists and
hipsters. I’m told it’s still common to find listening wires under the
wallpaper when renovating old apartments in the East. We are staying in
what is referred to as the “up and coming bohemian area,” but is really
still the Turkish part of town.<br />
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Most of the Turks came to Germany originally as a part of the American
Marshall plan, a labor force of young men to help rebuild this country.
Naturally, their families followed soon after and many have been here
for generations. Most are still not German citizens. It wasn’t until
1990 that the law was changed so that children born to foreigners were
given the option of German citizenship (unlike EU citizens, they
have to choose at the age of 23 between Turkish and German citizenship).
There are over 4 million people of Turkish origin living in Germany.
They are Germany’s largest minority. Nearly 40% are not citizens. Many have chosen not to call this place home.<br />
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<center><a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/06/04/2338.jpg"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/06/04/s_2338.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="281" /></a></center><br />
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Recently, for some reason, quite a few people have asked
us if we're feeling homesick. We've talked about it, and neither of us
is, particularly. We miss our friends and family, of course. And our
cat. And sometimes there's a specific place (Limantour Beach, the
Marshall Store, Sitka and Spruce, the old Vivace, Pony, Honk Fest) we
wish we could be. But for the most part, I would say we're still happy
being on the road. Of course, it's been nice to have an apartment,
particularly a kitchen. There's nothing that makes us happier than
shopping at a farmer's market, coming home with an armload of food and
flowers, and spending the afternoon cooking. But it's hard to be
homesick when you don't have a very particular home to imagine. This
apartment in Berlin is just as much ours as anywhere right now. <br />
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<center><a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/06/04/2339.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/06/04/s_2339.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="210" /></a></center><br />
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We left Seattle at the end of August last year with all of
our things in a UHaul full of boxes. Those boxes are still sitting in
DiAnn's attic in California. We set out on this trip with the idea that
we would make a new home wherever Kacy got a job. And that is still the
plan. So while we will always love Seattle and our friends there, it is
unlikely we will be returning there to live anytime soon. And while I
will always consider Inverness my home, it is unlikely that Kacy's first
job will land us in the Bay Area.<br />
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<center><a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/06/04/2340.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/06/04/s_2340.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="210" /></a></center><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lars with his youngest daughter, Anna Lou</span></div>
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So how do you feel homesick for somewhere you may never have been? Well, we've decided to extend our trip as long as we can afford it. Kacy will be going back to India to teach another round of the UW study abroad program there for the summer quarter. I will be fulfilling a lifelong desire to go hiking in Norway. And we will both meet back again in Berlin in mid-August. We imagine we'll return to the US before the end of the fall. We have to get back in time to vote, after all.<br />
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<center><a href="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/show_photo.php?p=12/06/04/2341.jpg"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://photo.blogpressapp.com/photos/12/06/04/s_2341.jpg" style="margin: 5px;" width="210" /></a></center><br />
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<div class="blogpress_location">
Location:<a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Berlin,%20Germany%4052.492705%2C13.369164&z=10">Berlin, Germany</a></div>
</div>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-5055250649649233132012-05-15T02:49:00.001-07:002012-05-15T02:49:21.932-07:00How To Spend 5 Perfect Days in London<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Late lunch at St. John's Bread and Wine. Don't forget to have some sherry with your Eccles Cake.<br />
Shopping in Soho (Happie Loves it, etc...)<br />
Browsing at Foyles Bookstore<br />
Dinner downstairs at Duck Soup. Sit next to the record player where you will be asked to DJ.<br />
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Breakfast at Violet Cake Shop<br />
Kew Gardens in the Springtime (bluebells!)<br />
Visit the Tate Modern Museum<br />
See a Play at the National Theater<br />
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Breakfast at Violet Cake Shop<br />
Walk along Regent's Canal in Camden Town<br />
Climb Primrose Hill on a sunny day<br />
Visit a specialty tweed shop<br />
Have a nap<br />
See a show at Hackney Empire (if you're lucky, the entire cast of the show will get on the bus with you afterwards, riding on the top)<br />
Get a drink at the George & Dragon<br />
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Breakfast at Broadway Market<br />
Buy dinner fixings<br />
Late lunch at Little Georgia<br />
Visit Hackney City Farm<br />
Have a dill cocktail at Fika<br />
Walk down Brick Lane<br />
Download Janet Cardiff's audio piece "The Missing Voice: Case Study B," and start listening to it outside the Whitechapel Art Gallery.<br />
Find a Pub and join everyone else in a pint<br />
Make a delicious dinner at the flat and share with your host<br />
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Breakfast at the Columbia Rd. Flower Market ("English Peonies! Full o' Perfume!") before catching your train.</div>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-36594964749271442792012-05-06T10:03:00.001-07:002012-05-15T02:51:24.870-07:00"People think we all live in the bush with the wild animals. But no. This is how we live."<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When we arrived at Kruger National Park, the game rangers
were on strike. They were camped in tents by the main entrance calling for an
increase in wages. They had been camped there for over 2 months. In that time,
at least 100 rhinos were lost to poaching in the park. Most of the poachers
sneak across from Mozambique and bring back horns to be shipped to China.<br />
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zt-9a0HatKq6Y2lmAfVe7gmuXYEw7UIzAjEQkij4ZPri6Fe150b3TbikYorUn72y4CdWnlvgY0H2yX2SnCxateAR0D9Z00X2gAkOZG2BfknM29C2MHsJzeQb1PHwMZSiEXYXZ8Mvwm7r/s1600/DSC00884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zt-9a0HatKq6Y2lmAfVe7gmuXYEw7UIzAjEQkij4ZPri6Fe150b3TbikYorUn72y4CdWnlvgY0H2yX2SnCxateAR0D9Z00X2gAkOZG2BfknM29C2MHsJzeQb1PHwMZSiEXYXZ8Mvwm7r/s320/DSC00884.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">There was a particular line
in the Park’s explanatory booklet that caught our attention. It said that while
“some people were moved out of the area [in the creation of the park], the park
is working hard to provide opportunities to local people and to contribute to
local economies.” A young man who had been working in the park for several
years told us that, while he has seen many wonderful animals there, he does not
earn enough to sustain his family. </span> <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYX5uP9QOTUAp2LMJ7PfemaRm1_4wgsv9oTnRiD-pTA5CAFgAQizdBOdI5c6uTCr4mH1hPueigKhGvPrJtKS9v6cN5z1OQusNiVdhB87IrQAE_65LFQuc3wXDQDKo_wOyc6grQBari1t0Y/s1600/DSC00840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYX5uP9QOTUAp2LMJ7PfemaRm1_4wgsv9oTnRiD-pTA5CAFgAQizdBOdI5c6uTCr4mH1hPueigKhGvPrJtKS9v6cN5z1OQusNiVdhB87IrQAE_65LFQuc3wXDQDKo_wOyc6grQBari1t0Y/s320/DSC00840.JPG" width="320" /> </a></div>
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When we were in India, we spent a lot of time thinking about
the idea of parks. What does it mean to draw a boundary line to declare some
land ‘protected’ from the people who might otherwise be living there? Partly we
were thinking of this because it came up in the environment and development
class Kacy was teaching, and because the struggle over land and resources has
been a central aspect of her Geography studies. Also, we were thinking of this
because of where we both come from. The uneasy relationship between the
ranchers and the park service and the environmentalists in Point Reyes has been
a part of both of our lives. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Xz73v05vQBp7ul5D3zrAn70chfJkETcaFbqq71uecyvc2ZWmLzpODz5V_LIUSIAizRv3wXgqPv2goSlm9xX00vNTaF2vy7x1ix1mM6IIW3VQiKYsVsse_o1PJ3AmS9BMdUWGakdUvqlf/s1600/DSC00871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Xz73v05vQBp7ul5D3zrAn70chfJkETcaFbqq71uecyvc2ZWmLzpODz5V_LIUSIAizRv3wXgqPv2goSlm9xX00vNTaF2vy7x1ix1mM6IIW3VQiKYsVsse_o1PJ3AmS9BMdUWGakdUvqlf/s320/DSC00871.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
In the US we often imagine wilderness to be utterly
pristine. Emmerson, Muir, Thoreau, Leopold and Abbey have built for us a
cathedral of the wild- a holy place to worship and preserve, but not to live
in. Except of course that the
Yosemite Muir saw was not an untouched wilderness, it was the well-tended
garden of the Miwok. They had been harvesting, pruning, and burning that land
for centuries (see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tending the Wild</i>
by Kat Anderson).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkKyl3TOeSTu-z_YDBssSgYK93oFVVQ2vnuvThehEX1j6-GMfmcYfk-_V_M0TaXs5EoeovwcWC0fcuuW-rb33YhAOjN4q_wlhgJdigMdq-eOr1PzRvxBpaJui6dOBQKqiYNPzVzuBufk5/s1600/DSC00895.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkKyl3TOeSTu-z_YDBssSgYK93oFVVQ2vnuvThehEX1j6-GMfmcYfk-_V_M0TaXs5EoeovwcWC0fcuuW-rb33YhAOjN4q_wlhgJdigMdq-eOr1PzRvxBpaJui6dOBQKqiYNPzVzuBufk5/s320/DSC00895.JPG" width="320" /> </a></div>
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While we were in India, our friend Nitin came to give a talk
to the students about his research at a tiger preserve in southern India. He
had found that the plants and animals in the preserve were actually better off
when the indigenous tribal people were able to live within the park and manage
the land- including practicing agriculture and controlled burns. He also
recommended this wonderful article by <a href="http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?239276">Amitav Ghosh</a>.<br />
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2h5BeSNzveKkSAhsPrqZX4Auy5KI-qFVN2clj57k2TaReTTcbj6Jb4ETuVRDdj3aV3SjaAYD-qDjH51i57iKA4l1ajD492wgtM-pA_UsUCBTR78-3tqZipjI72ugGlT72GmTd1ImAH30/s1600/DSC00940.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi2h5BeSNzveKkSAhsPrqZX4Auy5KI-qFVN2clj57k2TaReTTcbj6Jb4ETuVRDdj3aV3SjaAYD-qDjH51i57iKA4l1ajD492wgtM-pA_UsUCBTR78-3tqZipjI72ugGlT72GmTd1ImAH30/s320/DSC00940.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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When we were hiking in the Pyrenees on our honeymoon, we
were amazed to be standing on the highest, most remote peaks and suddenly hear
the unmistakable tinkle of cowbells as a herd of cows and sheep came munching
around the corner. And yet why not? Why shouldn’t people use that land? There
must be a way to maintain the balance of a natural ecosystem and human
occupation at the same time.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9psP00ymiGFZFqmDVUa4pkuSIm0pFP5MIAWKyUkHrY1nFO6MsaFRTM6vKfAfCVw5yOmOAjVrQyn7gPyQLTDYbE73vEVvHsFLPe5esVuVk9S9ep7VufZB90OH3WHsORSQK4Q1p-TyrIxRt/s1600/DSC00900.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9psP00ymiGFZFqmDVUa4pkuSIm0pFP5MIAWKyUkHrY1nFO6MsaFRTM6vKfAfCVw5yOmOAjVrQyn7gPyQLTDYbE73vEVvHsFLPe5esVuVk9S9ep7VufZB90OH3WHsORSQK4Q1p-TyrIxRt/s320/DSC00900.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(The incredibly beautiful lilac-breasted roller flying away from a pile of elephant dung)</span></div>
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There is an article in the Brazilian Constitution that reads
that all land should be used for its ‘social purpose’ – no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">unused</i> (a sticky term to be sure) land should be off limits to
people that could otherwise be used to make a livelihood. Of course, this does
not apply to national parks, conservation areas and giant foreign-owned tracts
of land throughout the country. One has only to mention the words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mining</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">logging</i> to understand that this article does little to resolve the
struggles over land access and use (particularly as they relate to marginalized
communities).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcuEzbnuhMYcB4tzzZfPrEgT5Irm6dKbUJFtOSLLTWbVS4lnhaoI6LmTps9LqVDR31cawImnXDpiXfeeQ2ij8mspnEZig4DheBoyaofjkRAL2AX3Ca3UPfy6e9Cmf2xu-rqCKXveEl5i6w/s1600/DSC00916.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcuEzbnuhMYcB4tzzZfPrEgT5Irm6dKbUJFtOSLLTWbVS4lnhaoI6LmTps9LqVDR31cawImnXDpiXfeeQ2ij8mspnEZig4DheBoyaofjkRAL2AX3Ca3UPfy6e9Cmf2xu-rqCKXveEl5i6w/s320/DSC00916.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div>
As we drove through Kruger National Park, we thought of all
these things. We wondered about the history of land use and land rights in this
country. Who had been living on or making use of this land before it was made
into a park? Where are they now? Who is deriving economic and material benefit
from the park as it exists today? </div>
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The Kruger experience was in these ways fraught for us: both
a first hand look at the problematic nature of reserves, conservations areas
and parks (giving us time to reflect on conflicts over land rights, resources
and ideas of conservation), and at the same time a beautiful and rare
experience of incredible animals very different from a zoo or a nature program.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_hyphenhyphenXxL-sdMSz80jJBjEdCx5Xl0vVbdG88tMbccRdQCI2sHIwwq63JkfCqrnQyZIJ9CtEjOOkxN2nOrKiOm3bjMuGmqI3kXxliwyw_zkZ7yYeVWiL8jKgmZizM98YEBVwPe_tb9YSr6Wj/s1600/DSC00961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_hyphenhyphenXxL-sdMSz80jJBjEdCx5Xl0vVbdG88tMbccRdQCI2sHIwwq63JkfCqrnQyZIJ9CtEjOOkxN2nOrKiOm3bjMuGmqI3kXxliwyw_zkZ7yYeVWiL8jKgmZizM98YEBVwPe_tb9YSr6Wj/s320/DSC00961.JPG" width="320" /> </a> </div>
<br />
The animals. Driving down the road in this gigantic park we
first came across giraffes poking their very strange heads out from behind the
bushes. Around the next bend, there was a herd of white rhinos. Down the road a
bit we saw wild dogs lazing about on the side of the road. In the next few days
we saw both a lone male lion and a pride of at least 10 female lions tearing
into a recent kill. As we drove
down the winding roads of the park in our little car, we had to stop for zebras,
impala, elephants, wildebeest, and hyenas in the middle of the road. On our last morning we watched as a
giant bull elephant nearly trampled the tiny white car in front of us. He was noshing on a tree by the side of
the road and they tried to get around. He came running to the car with his
tusks down. Needless to say, we stayed put and waited for him to move on.<br />
<br /></div>
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From Kruger we drove back through the dry landscape of the
northern part of the country to Johannesburg and flew down to Cape Town. We
stayed for two nights in the township of Khyleshita with Vicky, her husband,
and their six wonderful kids at their home and B&B. Khyleshita is the newest and one of the
largest townships that spread out from the edges of Cape Town. There are miles
upon miles of tiny shacks made of corrugated metal clustered together in the
sandy soil of the cape flats. There are also some small, well built houses in
the townships, with indoor toilets and water supply. Everyone else uses
communal outhouses and water taps. Vicky’s place is the only two storey shack
in Khyleshita- it’s a hodge podge of used materials and uneven floors and a
surprisingly comfortable space to live in. In our three days in the township,
we were fed incredibly tasty meals, beaten roundly in card games with the kids,
given lessons in the Xhosa language (the x is a click-so cool!), and generally
welcomed into the family. We did not see another white face the entire time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidu9w3fSx5C_aZPROoaLZ3vO8oQoZsoocOHetkIowUZvxS-ykh5lOdkXfJn2pbTXzr8a1C4jBowZfpNeCi9NYO7-kMCNuf2SsWkKRRqgJmdmAu53SQSSltGYG96JF7AVPYJ4j5UP889I87/s1600/IMG_3574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidu9w3fSx5C_aZPROoaLZ3vO8oQoZsoocOHetkIowUZvxS-ykh5lOdkXfJn2pbTXzr8a1C4jBowZfpNeCi9NYO7-kMCNuf2SsWkKRRqgJmdmAu53SQSSltGYG96JF7AVPYJ4j5UP889I87/s320/IMG_3574.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Our first morning in Khyleshita involved a visit to one of
the many churches in the area (this one Catholic). We understood nothing of the
sermon, which was in Xhosa, but the singing was unbelievable. I get shivers up
my spine just thinking of it now. Everyone in the church joined along with the large
choir. They even had special beanbag pillows to pound out a beat. </div>
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The woman who brought us to church asked us to come to the
front after the sermon to introduce ourselves to everyone. There must have been
200 smiling black faces in front of us and, when we said that we came from the
USA, everyone cheered wildly-it was amazing. We felt proud. Proud to have a
black president. Proud not to have to feel so ashamed the history of where we
are from. They love Barack Obama here. They also love Beyoncé, and Whitney
Houston, and Rhianna. The kids at Vicky’s were excited to listen to our ipods,
but were disappointed to discover that we didn’t have any ‘lil Wayne on them. Apparently we are not as up to date on
our African American pop stars as the children in the township are.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD8xh3f77XARvZNmtRHiJEhgZdK75wdPRnZ98x0tieYoF3oz0Z5WS9StaayzbhqGK44isYQoY1dk3hkOyhLgM-9oP1K9XTeA2xcR3Dt_XpFzjmocLA5jEeat7qPpcAVQC3wTUDcxskeD9B/s1600/IMG_3589.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD8xh3f77XARvZNmtRHiJEhgZdK75wdPRnZ98x0tieYoF3oz0Z5WS9StaayzbhqGK44isYQoY1dk3hkOyhLgM-9oP1K9XTeA2xcR3Dt_XpFzjmocLA5jEeat7qPpcAVQC3wTUDcxskeD9B/s320/IMG_3589.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div>
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Everywhere we went in Khyleshita, people asked us if we were
scared to be walking in the streets of South Africa. They worried that we had
heard only about the violence and HIV. One out of every four people in South
Africa is infected with HIV. The numbers are even higher in the townships. One
of Vicky’s teenage daughters told us she hoped to grow up and become a doctor
because she wanted to discover a cure for AIDS. We told her that HIV is also a problem in the US. She was
surprised. She had thought the disease was only a problem for Africans. We
loved these kids; they were so lively and welcoming and provided a window into
the everyday lives of young people in the densely populated townships on the
outskirts of Cape Town.<br />
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1K1jVULhoOkfNEfNRvy3gOt4thsjMUZ6fG4_Rrb18L7Ozse8vERaN97DwBr1X9HZk_ic5Zj7aa9RNG1nKA4KFORHy-q1OE0w097Aljhpme0yp_H7OmJ0n-nAH7rTAzl08190blh1KVHdc/s1600/IMG_3576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1K1jVULhoOkfNEfNRvy3gOt4thsjMUZ6fG4_Rrb18L7Ozse8vERaN97DwBr1X9HZk_ic5Zj7aa9RNG1nKA4KFORHy-q1OE0w097Aljhpme0yp_H7OmJ0n-nAH7rTAzl08190blh1KVHdc/s320/IMG_3576.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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We love South Africa. We are fascinated and confused by
South Africa. We try to compare and contrast what we understand about race and
the history of inequality around race and class in the US. We try to think
about colonialism and indigenous peoples and revolutionary struggle and all
that we have learned from our travels and from our home. In many ways this
country feels the most familiar of anywhere we have been so far. The landscape,
the language, the culture, even the problems here seem so familiar. And yet so
very different too. </div>
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</div>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-29817209357758912862012-04-16T08:53:00.014-07:002012-04-17T18:19:41.480-07:0080% Chance of Rain<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuT8-BZ2plSUFJFrqG0YZodT5tTTCpYNno_7V4nPzA6JmtiZzDgZ8Id7oejyH_g1fF4_pBcNfYhpeeF7fJJEq7E2vA2wIQecAiITZbu762OLjr1G5oaBqJJ3lp21_tQrzyBWznQw7Ds18_/s1600/IMG_3310.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuT8-BZ2plSUFJFrqG0YZodT5tTTCpYNno_7V4nPzA6JmtiZzDgZ8Id7oejyH_g1fF4_pBcNfYhpeeF7fJJEq7E2vA2wIQecAiITZbu762OLjr1G5oaBqJJ3lp21_tQrzyBWznQw7Ds18_/s320/IMG_3310.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732498310355215938" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />On the corner of the street, under the lamp post, is a ceramic bowl with a dead chicken in it. When we first arrived, nearly 3 weeks ago, the chicken was freshly killed: its head severed, red blood staining the yellow manioc flour underneath it. Now, the bowl is broken, the flour is scattered over the pavement, and the chicken is mostly decomposed. The temperature reaches the upper 80's most days here, but nobody has tried to clean up the mess. This is Salvador da Bahia, Brazil, and that chicken was a curse in the Candomblé religion.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivT_7ni4PxroDvg9Hd0mUzbtslhDWIt_0itmCoJDhMvmeiBFSJWlq9ks_Bi9PoJ9ALO8P6wc0sN1X70g1vKRmzJ9GX4-nf1cwqhc83GpGhY0BWjJ8rUu_DQtZ40Kf0O5w6yBQrT4BMVbQQ/s1600/DSC00677.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivT_7ni4PxroDvg9Hd0mUzbtslhDWIt_0itmCoJDhMvmeiBFSJWlq9ks_Bi9PoJ9ALO8P6wc0sN1X70g1vKRmzJ9GX4-nf1cwqhc83GpGhY0BWjJ8rUu_DQtZ40Kf0O5w6yBQrT4BMVbQQ/s320/DSC00677.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732027605980474754" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Candomblé is a mix of African (mostly Yoruban) animist religions and Catholicism. It features the worship of orixas (saints), many of whom are closely associated with various Catholic saints. The most important church in Salvador, Bonfim, is dedicated to both Jesus, and Oxala, one of the Candomblé orixas. Salvador is the birthplace of Candomblé, but the religion is currently practiced throughout the African diaspora.<br />Salvador was the first capital of Brazil during the colonial era. It was, for many years, the main arrival port for slaves entering Brazil. An estimated 1.3 million slaves came to Brazil through the fort which still rests just off the harbor of Salvador. The oldest neighborhood in this city is named after its first function as a slave market: Pelourinho, the whipping post. One of our taxi drivers told us that when he sees a white person, he automatically assumes they're not from here. An American negro, he said, would blend in here better than a whiter person from some other part of Brazil.<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs94jgepaAdIdBaU56whv63oqtFXLLt21TjyBpPIhT3cH9Bv_KJi9VINKUiSPGhCtHoGmzodw7Ib_atgF6woob9gwPPbl4f9Dm6AqQnCoOUx14d5JiLnaRmq9Sk_UHnN1-MNY_AS3jJ17h/s1600/DSC00712.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs94jgepaAdIdBaU56whv63oqtFXLLt21TjyBpPIhT3cH9Bv_KJi9VINKUiSPGhCtHoGmzodw7Ib_atgF6woob9gwPPbl4f9Dm6AqQnCoOUx14d5JiLnaRmq9Sk_UHnN1-MNY_AS3jJ17h/s320/DSC00712.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732028222020983090" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">We have rented an apartment on Praia da Paciência, a small beach in what's referred to as the 'bohemian' neighborhood of Salvador, Rio Vermelho. Every morning before the sun gets too hot, there's a soccer game on our beach. We can watch from our third floor windows as the ball misses the goal and tumbles into the warm water. During the day, entrepreneurial folk bring down coolers full of beer and set up umbrellas over plastic chairs. For $1 you can buy yourself a drink and some relief from the burning sun. The beach is the great equalizer in Brazil: when all you've got is a speedo or a bikini and the waves, race and class don't matter very much. We learned from the beach vendors that if the weather report calls for 80% chance of rain, it will indeed rain ...for all of five minutes. Then the sun comes right back out again. The dire predictions of the future are never as bad as they seem.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjixz34-ADwPpkWg3vGxOkKLpp5u8a_70bWvgVcnRBu78cSoBi-GuVoba-8Ktpd0_YefktMWLiGfaiUp8qWc6QGErsL14fFLjtQ9kWJ8uKRYsZ0AfcrcaZeRSf8iaCjRSazLs5yooPVfwc/s1600/DSC04941.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjixz34-ADwPpkWg3vGxOkKLpp5u8a_70bWvgVcnRBu78cSoBi-GuVoba-8Ktpd0_YefktMWLiGfaiUp8qWc6QGErsL14fFLjtQ9kWJ8uKRYsZ0AfcrcaZeRSf8iaCjRSazLs5yooPVfwc/s320/DSC04941.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732488493724626914" border="0" /></a><br />In the evening, the plazas of this neighborhood come alive with food vendors and hundreds of people sitting out in their shorts and tank tops, drinking beer and eating acarajé. The food, like everything else in Salvador, is a remarkable mixture of west African and Brazilian traditions and flavors. Acarajé is a deep fried dough ball made from black-eyed beans and stuffed with dried shrimp and a spicy paste made from ground cashews and hot sauce. It is ridiculously delicious and more than a little messy.<br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT4UGRDTklA8RmKFpp33Go79E7ZzL79d5AgB-daY5uatX26tbNVTpnn0Hran_y4S4sWLFTeFuNYX8VIeGDKKZ6bjTJyEctyjRWlVn5YrWSaU3Wi71DopfTXpJbf8jI5dWbARCdtMLCBxLF/s1600/IMG_3449.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT4UGRDTklA8RmKFpp33Go79E7ZzL79d5AgB-daY5uatX26tbNVTpnn0Hran_y4S4sWLFTeFuNYX8VIeGDKKZ6bjTJyEctyjRWlVn5YrWSaU3Wi71DopfTXpJbf8jI5dWbARCdtMLCBxLF/s320/IMG_3449.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732040734413626994" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">We've had the real pleasure of sharing this space with two great friends who came to visit. Trey journeyed up from Argentina to make his first foray into Brazil, and DiAnn flew all the way down from California to have the coolest spring break of anyone at her school. DiAnn arrived early in the morning on my 34th birthday and made the day one of the most special I've had in a while. Exploring this incredible city with good friends has been quite a way to mark the anniversary of one more year exploring this earth.<br /></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ACKbR-rAYqr5A_8AtyfUumCHQNiOxhWoqku8zaBVlp-eZBAWVHVIZV89dHGreBcB2hEGQwEP_5a2-5RTeHshqCWgdAdKzJD8OVvesP96FZ5pr6OvVUo_vd1ZpZ6gHy_h-H3cZ4afm4OZ/s1600/IMG_3446.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ACKbR-rAYqr5A_8AtyfUumCHQNiOxhWoqku8zaBVlp-eZBAWVHVIZV89dHGreBcB2hEGQwEP_5a2-5RTeHshqCWgdAdKzJD8OVvesP96FZ5pr6OvVUo_vd1ZpZ6gHy_h-H3cZ4afm4OZ/s320/IMG_3446.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732034115058412818" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Tomorrow we leave for São Paulo, the largest city in South America (and one of the largest in the world). We have a few days to explore, and then we fly to South Africa. It will be fascinating to make the transition from Salvador, with it's rich Afro-Brazilian heritage, to Johannesburg and Capetown, each with its own compelling history and present.<br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDKrZO999xGqTupR3-CjnzUK-V9PWFiSQwAGfM6o_ELrk77UJhXC5Rb8Sn6WhzcNNhSH_pDmiR9QAiPX8ncdUC7nswyPvZ56k8t7Tm3EUTAvrwD5s2XPoBXHQvIqIS8BJ-Ad8-5KJG_5t/s1600/IMG_3443.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDKrZO999xGqTupR3-CjnzUK-V9PWFiSQwAGfM6o_ELrk77UJhXC5Rb8Sn6WhzcNNhSH_pDmiR9QAiPX8ncdUC7nswyPvZ56k8t7Tm3EUTAvrwD5s2XPoBXHQvIqIS8BJ-Ad8-5KJG_5t/s320/IMG_3443.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732034387538774002" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-1318739932994199612012-03-28T14:13:00.001-07:002012-03-28T15:00:37.464-07:00No news is bad news. Or, We’re not in Asia anymore, Toto.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXaZpJ6wKUryIcn2vZM_WDK0kxu-lTQXrPXVQqGnqO38YIfJUpmgVBbqKDnR04cpMk1yM7ln634zTEQbBTEMa1Kx0lsIU2ZoGaOAZf9MzNyex_zh0m1Q12SfkW_PzfFIVhFbXdLbLugmo/s1600/DSC04865.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXaZpJ6wKUryIcn2vZM_WDK0kxu-lTQXrPXVQqGnqO38YIfJUpmgVBbqKDnR04cpMk1yM7ln634zTEQbBTEMa1Kx0lsIU2ZoGaOAZf9MzNyex_zh0m1Q12SfkW_PzfFIVhFbXdLbLugmo/s320/DSC04865.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725069869389442370" /></a><br /><br />In Buenos Aires we had the great pleasure of staying in the San Telmo ‘Ghetto Mansion’ with two of the loveliest boys – our friends Andrew and Trey from Pt. Reyes – who have been living in BA for two years. They showed us around and we basked in the luxury of their home, of Andy’s cooking and friendly relations with the local shopkeepers, and Trey’s extensive knowledge of local politics, history and geography. We got a lot of sun by their rooftop mini-pool (the ‘doggy bowl’), we explored the city, and we had eight flavors of incredible ice cream delivered to the house on multiple occasions (Andrew is my ice cream soul mate).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh07s93ejqOsQhFtJD_8-COhnpFy_2IjsZdIdzeKnE_12nzR6M6ghTmV50QIxx-Oi0EIVGi0-PNTCq_0Yh2OrArJQZoxRF9eROkPwEfD7VRoTkQHQd630NhUEJd9mZ-O_dCdH9SJhNb9vg/s1600/IMG_3493.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh07s93ejqOsQhFtJD_8-COhnpFy_2IjsZdIdzeKnE_12nzR6M6ghTmV50QIxx-Oi0EIVGi0-PNTCq_0Yh2OrArJQZoxRF9eROkPwEfD7VRoTkQHQd630NhUEJd9mZ-O_dCdH9SJhNb9vg/s320/IMG_3493.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725068833246234962" /></a><br /><br />We had only been in Buenos Aires a few days when the deadline to hear from my most interesting job prospect came and went with no word. I knew what it meant that day, a Friday, but tried to wait until Monday evening to be sure. And there it was: no news is bad news. There are, of course, two possible understandings of this phrase: 1) there is no news that is all bad, and 2) not receiving any word means that it must be bad. I have been trying to understand it as the former. As many in my incredible support network have said to me since then: maybe not getting a job this time around (and this type of job) is a blessing in disguise – maybe it leaves me available for other possibilities to come. I like to think this is the case. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6SCn71457nj6cow8REVLjrTkDiUjlLCnUh2oSEsorx0yRbm4MNdc72KMjHVf_i2jpl1vQ-d12iRSMCqChgX7wK8ssVk9rHRFb_kOL2_Rva2xMMuMU_orGuHaZLb3NwRNDG9a6hdXCog/s1600/IMG_3150.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6SCn71457nj6cow8REVLjrTkDiUjlLCnUh2oSEsorx0yRbm4MNdc72KMjHVf_i2jpl1vQ-d12iRSMCqChgX7wK8ssVk9rHRFb_kOL2_Rva2xMMuMU_orGuHaZLb3NwRNDG9a6hdXCog/s320/IMG_3150.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725068214099339778" /></a><br /><br />It has been fascinating to note the sense of familiarity (socially, culturally, politically) I feel in Costa Rica, Buenos Aires and Brazil, as opposed to in South and Southeast Asia. Beyond language, which is a major difference (I speak Spanish and Portuguese), both Sage and I have noticed how much easier it is for us to understand what is happening around us and the interactions we have with people on a daily basis. We are not nearly as lost in the fog of wonderment that overcomes so many travelers (Why is she doing that? What does that shrine there mean? Why is the tiller so very long? Why is it called that I wonder? Etc…). Brazil, much more so than Costa Rica and BA even, offers me a sense of home and of belonging. I am so happy to be here using the language I worked so hard to learn and in the place that I have come to love so much over the years. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgDhNN4WzVNnpQaTNkrd1OCYM_6hFGnfoNgJNLYsc6UsniOx2K1rl68DZ9iVDahstTqNkPiTvpCZ7Fus7uEUsQ8_qNtYpY1Bj-P-FD3KM8hqyQdSN4UoL3HFbpz7Ur97xKZ5NqeyxuSnc/s1600/IMG_3169.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgDhNN4WzVNnpQaTNkrd1OCYM_6hFGnfoNgJNLYsc6UsniOx2K1rl68DZ9iVDahstTqNkPiTvpCZ7Fus7uEUsQ8_qNtYpY1Bj-P-FD3KM8hqyQdSN4UoL3HFbpz7Ur97xKZ5NqeyxuSnc/s320/IMG_3169.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725068495776329442" /></a><br /><br />So, we continue our journey. Now we are in the outskirts of Belo Horizonte, Brazil, staying with one of my best friends in the world. Soon we leave for Salvador da Bahia for three weeks in an apartment by the sea. Then, after a few days in the gigantic city of São Paulo, we are off to South Africa. I lived in BH for a summer and then a year in 2001 and 2002-3. One of the things I remember most about living in this city is that it lives up to its namesake – the skyline, the clouds and the sunsets are magnificent nearly every single day. Staying outside the city, we are surrounded by a landscape that is not what people think of when they imagine Brazil, I think. There are rolling green hills, waterfalls, crazy electrical storms and sharp rock formations jutting out of the hillsides. It has been food for the soul to be here with Sage and Luciana as I finish grieving for the end of the academic job search for this year. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGn-ZzGWzjMISXX-JWbgE7xjzUVCSB7ysNOC9jNme_vy81RdgqiPENRCb4DGMjc241Gw5tlvUYAj8hj5KJXfxPSJTpXXv8aBvj710GiqhKD0ZUvmZ0aqf7id2gS0ths3o4NxPkz4S8ZM4/s1600/IMG_3154.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGn-ZzGWzjMISXX-JWbgE7xjzUVCSB7ysNOC9jNme_vy81RdgqiPENRCb4DGMjc241Gw5tlvUYAj8hj5KJXfxPSJTpXXv8aBvj710GiqhKD0ZUvmZ0aqf7id2gS0ths3o4NxPkz4S8ZM4/s320/IMG_3154.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725066201746610258" /></a><br /><br />Visiting our friends in BA, and then here in BH has definitely inspired us to look with open hearts to the possibilities awaiting us at the end of this trip. One thing we do know now is that I will be returning to India in June to direct and teach the study abroad program for the UW in the Himalayas. Sage is weighing her many options. And then, in August, we hope to land somewhere lovely!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVj98pvWjJ0-p5NQ5EGP1RQbFNXSeXiwLkKC9cfMsF3ClE4bB_fIw6yt-IDDrxaXyrzY1IQQzPK39egbBNH1pVPfaqNT12_W_1OsBSRf9-iK0ttDCoUz00i3rTgLT5SbU-EAaMKl0f-vE/s1600/IMG_3159.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVj98pvWjJ0-p5NQ5EGP1RQbFNXSeXiwLkKC9cfMsF3ClE4bB_fIw6yt-IDDrxaXyrzY1IQQzPK39egbBNH1pVPfaqNT12_W_1OsBSRf9-iK0ttDCoUz00i3rTgLT5SbU-EAaMKl0f-vE/s320/IMG_3159.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725070930368438690" /></a>Kacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15612034648400266002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-32514261777819797222012-03-25T10:10:00.003-07:002012-03-25T10:25:24.381-07:00Buenos Aires Audio Postcard<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1OBuq1GeXLIVJ2PpV-z3iQ8lksgHgD9o7Sol4o66NlFosln9HA2c3AtJfcAfWqMNqLnnFsGHNf0ibpHAALkMqPmmw4tCwWGHwwfc_f8yVHSJllXyTxOHaotvIh3vNErrep7ER6VJV3wKh/s1600/IMG_3472.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1OBuq1GeXLIVJ2PpV-z3iQ8lksgHgD9o7Sol4o66NlFosln9HA2c3AtJfcAfWqMNqLnnFsGHNf0ibpHAALkMqPmmw4tCwWGHwwfc_f8yVHSJllXyTxOHaotvIh3vNErrep7ER6VJV3wKh/s320/IMG_3472.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723885996724085090" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><object height="81" width="100%"> <param name="movie" value="https://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F40909172"> <param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"> <embed allowscriptaccess="always" src="https://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F40909172" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="81" width="100%"></embed> </object><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Also, I've been adding some of our best photos to my flickr page as we go. Search for <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/">sagevanwing</a> on Flickr if you care to look at more pictures.svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-23702043689154965942012-03-06T16:59:00.008-08:002012-03-06T17:39:18.418-08:00What About She?<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmXUk9NjP6-WFWQKzHb-dx_l_B6Pa9ootTjupJQPUznNTkm8Lrw-zujpNrE5GFnwVr64M-o29l5_xQAuLeN2mtNDYlqThKOj-2heZ2YylTkrsn934GCBb3Iqt7OMLKbE_04YwsRgakBVx/s1600/IMG_3321.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmXUk9NjP6-WFWQKzHb-dx_l_B6Pa9ootTjupJQPUznNTkm8Lrw-zujpNrE5GFnwVr64M-o29l5_xQAuLeN2mtNDYlqThKOj-2heZ2YylTkrsn934GCBb3Iqt7OMLKbE_04YwsRgakBVx/s320/IMG_3321.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716955072880662370" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">The adjectives that come to my mind to describe Costa Rica are the same as they were when I traveled here in 1998: easy and beautiful. It is easy to get around, to communicate, to find delicious and clean food. And despite the immensity of the tourist industry, this country remains incredibly beautiful. I was last here for my 19<sup>th</sup> birthday. At that time, Costa Rica was the perfect introduction to the start of a three-month trip in Central and South America- my first time traveling outside of the United States. Now, it’s a lovely break after an intense couple of weeks of interviewing for academic jobs and being in New York City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And it’s a perfect beginning to the third segment of our big trip. </p> <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGaJMQlMaA7eqRKbqOhNg3rRDvlMgJ7IW4CGHXH5uhpsBOsgXf_kwW2aGM2mqYpMRdPs0NKX8ZONR3H42DNXyGJMFtTomnf5ZXdNVACgPu5mu2rlEpKo0N-vcfrc26iTqIhPhmUkiN6NwA/s1600/DSC04849.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGaJMQlMaA7eqRKbqOhNg3rRDvlMgJ7IW4CGHXH5uhpsBOsgXf_kwW2aGM2mqYpMRdPs0NKX8ZONR3H42DNXyGJMFtTomnf5ZXdNVACgPu5mu2rlEpKo0N-vcfrc26iTqIhPhmUkiN6NwA/s320/DSC04849.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716955665583709394" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">So far we have seen a pair of sloths and a pair of toucans, several tiny Poison dart frogs, a Jesus Christ lizard (we are not sure why it is called that, but we’ve had fun imagining), endless colors and sizes of butterflies, and we have heard Howler monkeys, who give the impression that we are surrounded by a forest filled with roaring beasts, perhaps dinosaurs. The frog sounds at night are like a synthesizer gone wild.</p> <br /><object height="81" width="100%"> <param name="movie" value="https://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F38946785&show_comments=true&auto_play=false&color=ff7700"> <param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"> <embed allowscriptaccess="always" src="https://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F38946785&show_comments=true&auto_play=false&color=ff7700" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="81" width="100%"></embed> </object> <br /><br /><object height="81" width="100%"> <param name="movie" value="https://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F38947013&show_comments=true&auto_play=false&color=ff7700"> <param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"> <embed allowscriptaccess="always" src="https://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F38947013&show_comments=true&auto_play=false&color=ff7700" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="81" width="100%"></embed> </object> <br /><br /> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">It rained all night in that tropical way- as though someone had rent a hole in the awning of the heavens and the water just came pouring through. This morning, the jungle is dripping around us, the sky is grey and blustery, and the ocean is seething. We are amazed at how much water the earth can absorb. I left my book outside last night and now it is a swollen, pulpy mass. I’ve come out to the beach to read, but everything is damp, so I’ve set it to dry on the log beside me and the wind ruffles through the pages.</p> <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFsJN7KLZYgqZpYPAMitKSJo70jqF99_5YpS5m73Lz1NW83UAFak6NcXM6L5b6l68ZxbRjIbujziQW-r0RcSMgGDa3JQ-8emussg7xX6lLfAHsZnKKIBBW8MLRswkSlqaVq8BOv5xge3S/s1600/IMG_3320.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFsJN7KLZYgqZpYPAMitKSJo70jqF99_5YpS5m73Lz1NW83UAFak6NcXM6L5b6l68ZxbRjIbujziQW-r0RcSMgGDa3JQ-8emussg7xX6lLfAHsZnKKIBBW8MLRswkSlqaVq8BOv5xge3S/s320/IMG_3320.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716960003881388114" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">There are coral reefs here just offshore, but the waves have been too high the last few days to try snorkeling. Today will not be the day for it either. It’s been sunny, though: humid and warm and we have played in the waves with the Costa Ricans who flock to this beach on the weekends and the other white tourists and local kids who are here during the week. The kids yell back and forth to each other over the waves in a mixture of Spanish and a Jamaican-style Creole. </p> <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQmS3Tqxw7ERsfUg6aJL8k9Sh2BO72kFTH5B6JF9tLo4E6KNJWg_cTbFKnOtumXj_81KwwJQspIWp93aZaUWbjayT8a1dvlGy-h-B9_7JESiOu3Ise5UE5LaYnLtFXBM3KLFEWKHZEVs_/s1600/IMG_3319.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQmS3Tqxw7ERsfUg6aJL8k9Sh2BO72kFTH5B6JF9tLo4E6KNJWg_cTbFKnOtumXj_81KwwJQspIWp93aZaUWbjayT8a1dvlGy-h-B9_7JESiOu3Ise5UE5LaYnLtFXBM3KLFEWKHZEVs_/s320/IMG_3319.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716958078200708498" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">In the late 1800’s, many Jamaicans were recruited to work on the railroads and banana plantations of this coast and the Afro-Caribbean culture is strong here. Yesterday we ate jerk smoked chicken at Miss Edith’s Restaurant in Cahuita. It was truly one of the best meals of my life. When Sage walked over to the ocean to wash out a spot of jerk sauce from her shorts, Miss Edith came over to take away my plate. I ordered a ginger cake for dessert and she gestured to the empty chair, saying, “what about she?”</p> <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXXWgn-nMnL_axSdDlVFOstVesAPAdxgYptbIFYfnCClhE9uaivCyn-Lk8c56Dqgn9biEAF4r7v0cD1eebo7KAc2i79OLB8gvglfyBRvN7zZnBTZahtJ0z7R20u6_dLVVQe7jRRn6CJes/s1600/DSC04853.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXXWgn-nMnL_axSdDlVFOstVesAPAdxgYptbIFYfnCClhE9uaivCyn-Lk8c56Dqgn9biEAF4r7v0cD1eebo7KAc2i79OLB8gvglfyBRvN7zZnBTZahtJ0z7R20u6_dLVVQe7jRRn6CJes/s320/DSC04853.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716956619397790146" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">The darker skinned folks all seem to speak in a patois to each other, and in Spanish to everyone else. Though the patois is based on English, it is impossible to understand, but very very cool to listen to. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>At the bar in town the other night we felt invisible – which was kind of cool – so we tried to listen to the conversations around us at the dominoes table and around the bar. </p> <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xmoUZcc7yIYlMCd2_ko0KsoGgUfzlvsm7btQVNMGL9C1o0cktTrOY1Hx4NsKGGOwWwbK-ajeb93G4aQuaTs3x3CWf1E-QKrlPnvdaE5BfL_o0iTf_jKOlxE9TtH_5Ix-p2zsn71vX1De/s1600/DSC04851.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xmoUZcc7yIYlMCd2_ko0KsoGgUfzlvsm7btQVNMGL9C1o0cktTrOY1Hx4NsKGGOwWwbK-ajeb93G4aQuaTs3x3CWf1E-QKrlPnvdaE5BfL_o0iTf_jKOlxE9TtH_5Ix-p2zsn71vX1De/s320/DSC04851.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716959719507818770" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">The last few months of travel through Southeast Asia have been fast-paced and exciting. We’ve traveled to places neither of us had ever been in countries whose languages we don’t speak and with whose cultures and food we are largely unfamiliar. Now we begin a different kind of travel. We will be visiting friends. We will be staying places longer- settling in a bit and developing a routine. One or the other of us will be familiar with the languages. We will be visited by friends. </p> <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbyBJ-C26hk_CN_-anDbZazF_gYomgoaV6pZxQt5P4u4gYpqGi-LSCKWoOY3mgwRFNf4dXoBTDFuYFg9rUN0m7RIWq7vNusPuFDeW5DdE9BHiY8VPGvcgXmvIr7swIMGwrmRIYGRTwmGx_/s1600/IMG_3289.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbyBJ-C26hk_CN_-anDbZazF_gYomgoaV6pZxQt5P4u4gYpqGi-LSCKWoOY3mgwRFNf4dXoBTDFuYFg9rUN0m7RIWq7vNusPuFDeW5DdE9BHiY8VPGvcgXmvIr7swIMGwrmRIYGRTwmGx_/s320/IMG_3289.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716957266503390002" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">Though our time in New York was made stressful by job interviews and conferences, it was made rejuvenating by friends. It was the first time since we had been in India that we really had anyone to talk to besides each other. It was the first time since we left home that we got a chance to talk with people who truly know us well (both in person and on the phone). We look forward to visits from friends in the upcoming months. We both left New York feeling incredibly blessed by the friendships we have in our lives.</p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">--Kacy and Sage<br /></p> <br /></div>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-23037990398238323802012-02-10T01:34:00.000-08:002012-02-10T01:52:18.341-08:00The King Likes BoyScouts<div style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm back in Bangkok, taking a Thai massage course. It's intense, wonderful, relaxing, and challenging all at once. The class is offered at a Buddhist temple called Wat Pho, which boasts the largest reclining Buddha in Thailand. As you might imagine, he's a happy looking fellow.<br /><br /></span></div><center style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/6834778229/"><img style="margin: 5px;" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7034/6834778229_2b7aaa343c_b.jpg" width="210" border="0" height="281" /></a></span></center><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The temple itself is all spires and pointed rooftops covered in ceramic, mirrored, and golden tiles. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Images of dragons and peacocks abound (I think of Amanda every time I pass one particular peacocked wall). The gold and the mirrors reflect the sun and everything and everyone inside glitters. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">It's breathtaking in the morning light.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><center style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/6834778711/"><img style="margin: 5px;" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7141/6834778711_c3e22df3a6_b.jpg" width="210" border="0" height="281" /></a></span></center><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The massage classroom is packed full of mats and students and instructors. We alternate massaging, and serving as models for fellow students. Since the full massage sequence takes an hour an a half, sometimes you're just lying there on a mat for a good portion of the day. I've spent the last five days massaging all sorts of different people: a Thai woman who lives in Germany and wants to start a massage place there because "German people are so uptight;" an Italian masseuse from Genova looking for a new style; a Chinese acupuncturist from Szechuan province who wanted to learn about Thai pressure points; a Swiss guy who was on a sort of Eat, Pray, Love kick (he had been meditating in India for several months before this); a French cabinetmaker with a truly incredible mustache that made all the girls giggle; a Greek fellow who said he doesn't really have a country because he now lives in the part of Cyprus claimed by Turkey but admitted by no one; and of course all the many Thai women who have come to get their foot in the door of what can be a very well paying industry. A massage here costs roughly $6/hour. The masseur keeps less than half of that. </span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The instructors speak a little English, but mostly manage to communicate to all of us by roughly pulling and pushing and prodding us into the right position. They are incredibly physical people. They grab your hand when you come in the door and lead you around the room. If they're bored for a moment watching a fellow student practicing step 3, they're likely to pick up whatever limb is closest and start kneading it. You may find yourself getting worked on by three people at once. There are a few stock phrases you hear echo throughout the room- "palm press," "sit up please," "second line." This last one because there are always two lines of points along any limb, and people often forget and stop at the first. Every time they shout out "second line! second line!" it makes me think of the funeral parades in New Orleans (and Milissa, of course).<br /><br />I find that I have to stop thinking to do the massage properly. If I concentrate too hard on what step comes next, I lose track of where I am completely. And if I start wandering off and daydreaming about something else, I forget what step comes next. I think it's the closest I've ever come to "being in the moment." Except when I'm hiking, of course.<br /><br />What I love about a long walk is that all the overcrowded thinking in my brain eventually falls away. At first I have more space to think (and then it's a good place to work through problems), and then I have space to daydream. But then, when there's nothing left to think or daydream about, I reach a kind of zen place. It's just "there's a rock," "that must be an egret," "the light is gorgeous here," but not even enunciated that clearly inside my head. A river of thoughts, and myself walking slowly through them all, leaving them aside. As someone who spends entirely too much time thinking, a long walk every now and again is a necessity.<br /><br />And now it seems that I can get to that same place by giving a massage. Indeed, it seems to be the only way I can do it properly. It's been a very strange couple of days here in this room at Wat Pho in Bangkok. Slowly pushing and prodding and touching other people, and not thinking very much at all.<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><center style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/6835719961/"><img style="margin: 5px;" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7031/6835719961_d046bb0d3d_b.jpg" width="281" border="0" height="210" /></a></span></center><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br />My walk home from the class passes the Thai Police Shooting range. The cracking of the pistols has a way of jolting one out of a massage induced reverie (though my next thought is always to wish I could test out my aim). Next door to the shooting range is another training ground- this time for Thai boyscouts. The King of Thailand has decreed that all Thai children participate in a program modeled on the Boy and Girl Scouts of America. Young boys in brown uniforms with yellow knee socks flood the sidewalk in the afternoons.<br /></span><div style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ></span><div align="center" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img style="margin: 5px;" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7166/6835721891_369bb3c58f_b.jpg" width="210" border="0" height="281" /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div align="left" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">My hotel is in Chinatown- a bustling neighborhood chockablock with street markets of all sorts (every time I see flannel pajamas for sale, I want to buy them for Chicu, who went to such lengths to have them made in India). The food stalls spill over into the sidewalks at night and the selection is mouthwatering, from sweet and savory snacks to full course meals barbequed, grilled, deep fried, or roasted right there on the street. My favorite so far: custardy persimmon cupcakes with fresh coconut on top, steamed over a boiling vat of water on the sidewalk. (I think you could do a great version of these, Claire.)<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span><center style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/6835773777/"><img style="margin: 5px;" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7164/6835773777_25261665cd_b.jpg" width="281" border="0" height="210" /></a><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">(all of SouthEast Asia makes Seattle's sidewalk cafe rules look ridiculous)</span></center><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><center style="font-family:arial;"></center><div style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">My window is right across the street from Hi-Fi alley, where folks come to buy good speakers. The stores display their wares by blasting Thai pop hits onto the street. I'm not sure how anyone can determine a quality sub-woofer in the resulting cacophony, but they seem to do a brisk business. Fortunately, I'm not in my room much during the day.<br /><br /></span></div><center face="arial"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/6834779121/"><img style="margin: 5px;" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7032/6834779121_6c4874e86b_b.jpg" width="281" border="0" height="210" /></a></span></center><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It's entirely possible to be drenched through with sweat in just the few short blocks between the Wat and my hotel. Bangkok, at this time of year, is a three-cold-showers-a-day kind of a place. When we first arrived in the city three weeks ago, it was raining every afternoon- torrential downpours of the kind that would clear the sidewalk immediately, everyone waiting until the rain was through before continuing on their way. There was rain every day for a several weeks. People everywhere were telling us it never rains in January or February. I began to be worried about floods. </span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">This city is built on a swamp, really. The river is tidal- once a month at the full moon it pours over into the streets. Yesterday, my taxi driver made me get out and take a canal water ferry instead because the traffic was so bad. Much of the southern part of this country flooded quite badly last fall. You can still see the high water marks all over Bangkok. Yet, everyone I talked to said they weren't worried about floods now. This rain will pass, they said. That doesn't mean they don't think it will flood again during the next rainy season, despite the assurances of the government. They seem quite sure that it will. Bangkok is sinking at a rate of 3cm per year.</span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><div style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">At least the rain had a way of taking the edge off the heat for a bit. Now it is just thick and hot and bright all day. Today it was 92 degrees. Believe it or not, even I am learning to walk slowly. More slowly, anyway. I guess it's about reaching that zen kind of a place.<br /><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ></span><center style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/39656056@N00/6835623287/"><img style="margin: 5px;" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7157/6835623287_94f0c8d762_b.jpg" width="281" border="0" height="210" /></a></span></center><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span><div><br /></div>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-91671992202308663272012-02-07T07:33:00.000-08:002012-02-07T10:31:42.999-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpwskGP1VgiIJ5ZfYlpCJLDtcNeRGtHKZmXBQba966XSHVMrAZahP9N0QGqlTYB5yGvBiADTeJC-0XFTqfCB6g-VoeQiiQQTbawQyzVVeOxNFwdldEMrE56WHc19mrgWQkRQcM9NDXH4/s1600/DSC04761.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijpwskGP1VgiIJ5ZfYlpCJLDtcNeRGtHKZmXBQba966XSHVMrAZahP9N0QGqlTYB5yGvBiADTeJC-0XFTqfCB6g-VoeQiiQQTbawQyzVVeOxNFwdldEMrE56WHc19mrgWQkRQcM9NDXH4/s320/DSC04761.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706462239784453474" /></a><br /><br />In my first day or two in Singapore I kept mulling over this latent desire to be in fashion. After a bottle of sake to myself I watched shows and movies about fashion, hungering over what I don’t want to miss out on in my life. But today, looking at art, buying a new pen and some special watercolor paper, I remember that with art I can do many of the other things I long to do.<br /><br />I see artists using illustration and animation to make fine art with powerful messages. I see them using patterns and textures to make something even more interesting to me than fabric. I see them telling me that if I just let myself get better and try to open myself up, I can fulfill those latent desires. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAN2Qq3-ONObW_6rwvyJrGI_xziZ9CedEGzOzRMITaW4utOUV6f8zBX_MWU6Y3-R6unRK4Zt36iGMJ8_y2yemVrnYCpYPjiKbR-yykEVHnqb7cGIwiF3MDI1endbVpylF4Dge0IetvW1Y/s1600/DSC04807.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAN2Qq3-ONObW_6rwvyJrGI_xziZ9CedEGzOzRMITaW4utOUV6f8zBX_MWU6Y3-R6unRK4Zt36iGMJ8_y2yemVrnYCpYPjiKbR-yykEVHnqb7cGIwiF3MDI1endbVpylF4Dge0IetvW1Y/s320/DSC04807.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706461902144665538" /></a><br /><br />The art housed in the Singapore Art Museum (SAM) is filling me (once again) with the power of art to be political, to bring awareness, to look critically across time and space. There is a series of photographs and a short film called “Bomb Ponds” by Vandy Rattana, which appears at first to be everyday nature scenes in Cambodia, until you read the description and find that these are ponds created by bombs dropped by the US on neutral Cambodia – this was particularly poignant to me after having recently being there, and knowing that the signs must have been all around us. <br /><br />In the next room at SAM there is an incredible mural - “Baston ni Kabunian, Bilang Pero di Mabilang” by Rodel Tapaya - that depicts greed and folly through stories originating in 300 years of Spanish colonial rule of Philippines. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EqUhcRS9aFQSueL4nDDg_rCO-WWcXgfRwQSoX0c22b0P4Ctfh4bh_aS7wMrK2CyqogEdknIom47flySbC2kNrxkSahXg5g2YpUWUzYe1YvSa5gZch0o8B_Wk_OEh3fWxXCDWpp_y53Y/s1600/DSC04824.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EqUhcRS9aFQSueL4nDDg_rCO-WWcXgfRwQSoX0c22b0P4Ctfh4bh_aS7wMrK2CyqogEdknIom47flySbC2kNrxkSahXg5g2YpUWUzYe1YvSa5gZch0o8B_Wk_OEh3fWxXCDWpp_y53Y/s320/DSC04824.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706461277820413010" /></a><br /><br />Another series “Needling Whisper, Needle Country/Embroidery Project” from the South Korean artist Kyungah Ham, was so moving that I had trouble standing. This is a series of large embroidered pieces created through sending coded instructions and digitally composed images on a 1:1 scale by third-party couriers (to avoid detection by the authorities). The images and instructions were sent to North Korea where they the pieces were embroidered in extraordinary detail. In the process some of the pieces were confiscated, and several were under suspicion of their messages. <br /><br />One of the missing links in bridging my art and my academic work is my difficulty in allowing myself the time necessary to establish a style and enough freedom to be political in my art. The walls that inhibit me artistically are certainly self-made.<br /><br />I have been putting my related hopes into one of my job applications in particular, in the Critical Studies program at California College of the Arts. Telling myself that if I get that job, I will create the space to live this art and academic life together. But as the weeks pass and I do not hear from them, I realize I need to find a way to make this happen wherever we end up. I don’t just want this; I need it. The image of one of my early graduate school advisors comes into me head: pushing me, telling me that the only way to do this, to really do academia, is to put everything else aside. I did that. I put my art aside. I put my creativity aside. This is making me tear up just to write it. Towards the end of graduate school, I brought some of this back, I made time to volunteer, and very importantly, I worked on a (forthcoming!) graphic novel about jellyfish with a friend, I started to draw a little more. <br /><br />In India last fall I let the people around me see my work, I tried to draw as often as possible, to make it a habit again, to call myself an artist. As we have traveled in Fiji and South East Asia, I have done some drawings and paintings, but not yet as much as I had hoped. My goal, for the coming months, as Sage and I continue our travels, is to create the space to really dive into my art, whether it is through working on the graphic novel about my field research or through other projects, it doesn’t matter. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0JdHmMLzF5Ku8HKU18iA4FNpyLSyGwtmhedbsb2Qcq6XYG9m6cj8hfPKVAbs7EQ1ZSOhKemtt1UxEuXdMims-ON29WE3YBX6tDMjxmHSCQM-J8cnh49VUV5NHE0wLA0L5VaFbaZcgzk8/s1600/DSC04796.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0JdHmMLzF5Ku8HKU18iA4FNpyLSyGwtmhedbsb2Qcq6XYG9m6cj8hfPKVAbs7EQ1ZSOhKemtt1UxEuXdMims-ON29WE3YBX6tDMjxmHSCQM-J8cnh49VUV5NHE0wLA0L5VaFbaZcgzk8/s320/DSC04796.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706462555548901762" /></a><br /><br />Sage told me a few months ago about how a friend of ours in San Francisco got together with a group of people to work on comic books – they holed themselves up for 24 hours, and each drew 24 pages. It’s hard to explain how this made me feel. I want that! I want that group of people around me; I want that time; I want to try it! Which of course means prioritizing it. There is a part of me that is absolutely desperate to begin the struggle that will be finding myself as an artist. <br /><br />Over the next few weeks, as I interview for jobs, I will try to keep this in my mind. How can I make the space in my academic life to fully explore my artistic life?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS89jx9XrsvXeI68-m8uuvif1ApQtVLATn3CeNOhlnuJPcM_y8F9ZCRUE1G9BqdbfT3H8QlrQQ37k3N1tcs_CuSrka41w6_j0ZkB3obZtqPW2JwgAbxXiBiyctvrakXxpsqowZrjzVpbg/s1600/DSC04808.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS89jx9XrsvXeI68-m8uuvif1ApQtVLATn3CeNOhlnuJPcM_y8F9ZCRUE1G9BqdbfT3H8QlrQQ37k3N1tcs_CuSrka41w6_j0ZkB3obZtqPW2JwgAbxXiBiyctvrakXxpsqowZrjzVpbg/s320/DSC04808.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706462994675153522" /></a>Kacyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15612034648400266002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-55353731201549972402012-02-02T00:12:00.000-08:002012-02-02T00:12:00.496-08:00Bridging the Gap<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidh5JgyyzjvrMqauV1mxVrHPWXITotHh7i6oTzZkDoKNeMMydiMnfDwmGFFLqtUGWEnr0vCC1X7b2CLg1p0OyE7Tu-6BY3AY3G5cMJKNU2Y-p6u5lyvaTLPuXdgKTQq_JEiq44aLFnYNR/s1600/IMG_3155.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidh5JgyyzjvrMqauV1mxVrHPWXITotHh7i6oTzZkDoKNeMMydiMnfDwmGFFLqtUGWEnr0vCC1X7b2CLg1p0OyE7Tu-6BY3AY3G5cMJKNU2Y-p6u5lyvaTLPuXdgKTQq_JEiq44aLFnYNR/s320/IMG_3155.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703758417398692786" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >We went to a spa in Bangkok. It had been hot and humid and suddenly it was raining- the kind of torrential rain that only a tropical climate can produce. It seemed silly to try to do anything outside, so we hopped on the skyway and soon found ourselves confronting a menu of options for relaxation: traditional Thai massage, foot reflexology, oil massage, hot herbal compress, mud body mask. The women at the spa spoke no English, but the language of the place was familiar to us. Nearly every woman I know in the US has gotten a massage or two in their lives. In the last few years, Kacy and I have made a ritual of going to the Korean women’s s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small; ">pa outside of Seattle and I think we managed to take most of our friends there with us. The idea that women will go to spas to ‘pamper their bodies’ has now become commonly accepted in the US. In other countries it’s understood that this is something both men and women should do. I sat in public baths with whole families in Iceland and Hungary, and the men’s side of the Onsen in Japan is just as full as the women’s. But in America, at least, I don’t know many men who get massages, or sit in the steam room (except gay men, of course)- it is still primarily a woman’s realm.</span><br /> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >So when the women at the spa in Bangkok led us into a room</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small; ">, we knew to take our clothes off and lie on the mat. And when they began pummeling our bodies, it felt immediately familiar. It felt, in fact, like we were crossing a giant communication barrier. We couldn’t speak the same language, but our bodies, ultimately, were the same as theirs. Our muscles strained in the same ways, our backs cracked with the same motion. The pure physical contact was immediately universalizing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_nH13PudHYT_mcv6-WxTjNdpPwWX0NsB1E9XJ-D3IFvvc5AiwVxhCr9qxOjmygTfI0t84e0zG9tAqUwspaIYcplnVgo2smN-nAtVU54qzDNXNLBJHn_JkornyZasmHkGPX5gDUGKUhBj/s320/IMG_3138.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703758407386548082" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px; " /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >Of course, as I lay there in a Bangkok massage parlor feeling pleasure and familiarity in the physical contact of another person’s body, I couldn’t help but think about the sex industry. Bangkok’s red light district is famous. The sex industry’s annual turnover is nearly double the Thai government’s annual budget. I have heard it said that Thai’s are much less uptight about sex than Westerners. Does this universalizing feeling of human bodies come into play there too? Is sex a way for men to bridge the communication barrier as well? The language of sex does seem to be fairly universal, after all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">I’m not at all suggesting that this is the whole reason for this huge multi-faceted sex industry. There are so many different reasons why women get into this business (or are forced into it) and why men go looking to pay for sex… and I’m certainly no expert on the subject. But it’s hard to ignore that it’s here, after all. While getting massaged in a place like Bangkok, it’s impossible not to wonder: does the sex industry give Western men something of what massage can give women? And what is this exchange like for the Thai women who are involved?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:7;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCN6rp811A9ap225mqMb3tHfJK7MiNxqMojne8htbz58UZfYJRpZ7tYA7UQ623dChgbdeHrD-6r_MrOpjYALMltp7QkxV7Ua-SUqqVuTD1izn3GRo-BieZQdj6Niu-AxY8ruHZTOnffVbx/s320/IMG_3142.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703758414874739682" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px; " /></p> <!--EndFragment-->svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509757378558205952.post-47937624400530240722012-02-01T00:13:00.000-08:002012-02-01T00:13:00.064-08:00McVwing = McKinney + Van Wing<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_PPo980-WudBqOTIuahCoY_YVx8Rh6KQlw-GXS5Vp89ErlREgwHt4PiY5t6selrg_9JEQcVSJCjVjjZioqDyV71NIPdTDCZ_iSZLqxN9-Ssn8SRzZ0i1z-BHguVqXT8zfcPPdFUyNyFD/s1600/DSC04743.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_PPo980-WudBqOTIuahCoY_YVx8Rh6KQlw-GXS5Vp89ErlREgwHt4PiY5t6selrg_9JEQcVSJCjVjjZioqDyV71NIPdTDCZ_iSZLqxN9-Ssn8SRzZ0i1z-BHguVqXT8zfcPPdFUyNyFD/s320/DSC04743.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703759795717528882" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Kacy is in Singapore now for a few days before flying back to New York early for a few job interviews. I'm staying behind to work my way down the southern peninsula of Thailand before joining her in NYC on February 20th. Kacy's got the computer, but I'll do my best to throw up a blog post or two from internet cafe's I meet along the way. For the next week or so, I'll be working at an organic farm near Sriracha (my favorite hot sauce, and thus a town I'm excited to visit), and then will continue on my way. Wish us both lots of luck, friends!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9LvXO103YNx0I9RhDrNUL91zBUBrB-4Ec78KrUvTCceULqDE7OWVKTld9X2j2GIzEyacczfqk1pUbvPz4Di5f-Q8xzuHDKkcnRqrMuJ7-62wbs8X96DxwzWssnW9-kI4e5tqzPrdLupIC/s320/IMG_3170.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703759804407216146" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px; " /></div>svw.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11995641181808381409noreply@blogger.com0