Overseas with the Senegalese

A Letter to My Replacement

2011-10-25T09:33:00.000-07:00

The Good News

Your domestic situation is cozy. In relation to other parts of the country, your climate’s a refrigerator, Your diet’s rather thorough and when you wage the battle against boredom, you decidedly win, when you sally off to the waterfront to join those on vacation.

The Bad News

You’re not on vacation. And despite what your envious and inexperienced stage-mates may prattle on about, St. Louis is not a club-med resort, nor is it an ancient artifact. It is a raw and relentless expression of Senegalese urbanization today. It’s densely-populated, clamorous and dirty. The streets flood. The electricity cuts. The water dribbles. Not to mention, there are hundreds of young boys, some of them as young as five years old, who are forced to beg. Like many of the seaside entrepô ts of the colonial era, constantly reconciling their past with the present, the storied first capital of West Africa is no different. According to my eight-five year old grandmother (Senegalese), who grew up under the French flag, St. Louis celebrated its independence by simply falling apart. However, about fifty years later, proud residents and nostalgic expatriates alike are desperately trying to restore St. Louis’ primness, power and prestige. But as a Peace Corps volunteer, you may never meet these people. Especially as a volunteer who is concerned with his community’s nutrition, you may enter St. Louis at a much different angle--one less trod by ’Toubab’s. Far removed from the swimming pools, hotels and live jazz, you may explore and practice your Wolof in the far-flung, crowded neighborhoods of families and compounds that meet, if not, surpass your wildest expectations of urban blight, sprawl and destitution. If you thought you were a ~~Peace Corps~~ Posh Corps volunteer spared of poverty, think again. Sunny St. Louis, although a healthy deviation from your preconception of life in the African bush, will, no doubt, bespatter your white linens and gurgle in your stomach. Your sleeves will be tightly rolled up, perhaps not as you had imagined, pulling water from the well, but I promise, you will nevertheless find your black-hole. You will be up-to-your-head in opportunity to make a difference and for this, the bad news, it turns out, may be the best news yet.

A Split-Second Retrospect for the Sabaar Newsletter

2011-06-26T05:02:00.000-07:00

In respect to our newest stage, I wanted to remind those of us over-the-hill that:

Before we became useful in our useless language,
Before we could Enable Macros and
Before we scratched our 1,000th Orange Card

WE TOO PARTICIPATED IN P.S.T.

I present a little retrospective:

Lets face it. Whether 2, 6, 12, 18 or 24 months ago, we all showed up to Peace Corps, clueless and in machine-washed clothes.

We were a group of jet-lagged, dewy-eyed co-eds, lopsided by so much camping-gear, we appeared that rather than beginning PST, we hade come to Theis to hunt the Blaire Witch. The 50 or so of us galumphed around the training center, exchanging one throwaway platitude after the next, “Did I hear you’re from Oregon!“ or “Can you believe how well Etiene speaks English.”

Several hours prior, leaned up against whirring glass, we watched the shivering heavens of the Atlantic. We exhaled the last of our American ingested air, swirling our index finger liberally through the condensation. Misty with emotion ourselves, we wrestled our reasons for joining Peace Corps. Replaying the old, indelible pre-service aphorism, “ I will walk away from this experience having gained more than I gave,” we intoxicated ourselves with the positive.

I will be able to read all the classics.
I will not be distracted by drink and drug. It’s a Muslim country.
I will perfect my French

The first few days at the center, we were all fresh off the set of some sitcom finale: drenched in the imagery of our final evenings and goodbyes. If initial impact had been too traumatic, many of us immediately iced the swelling on Skype. Some others, not so busy in heartache, were just swatting flies. A few, those of us who received the reading list, were sequestered into top-secret conference calls, where we whispered developmental sweet-nothings with each other:

“It‘s about bringing behavior change,”
“Shh, it‘s all in the implementation“
“No Chris. You just don’t get it. None of this will work if you don‘t scale up.”

For the majority of us, however, it was the newly-launched blog--not updated since take-off that had us most crippled with anxiety.

As for those next couple of weeks, our listening-skills would benefit greatly. Rather robust these days, our attention-spans still bear the stretch-marks of every shilly-shallied PST session. The mud hut, like Late Night television, was always calling its next guest. We would cheer and swoon as the next one took stage. Sometimes, we even briefly divinized that misshapen and scabby 2nd year volunteer, who, having returned from the front-line, never failed to regale us with drollery, misadventure and all of her cross-cultural whoopsie do’s.

A few weeks later, West Africa now gurgling in our stomachs, we were temporarily released from our foster-care. Animated and hot-blooded, we paraded to the catholic compound. Everyone took his or her turn, hoping to tell the next great village tale.

Retiring to our neon-bed linens, with the loose dopamine from our Prophylactics oozing in our skull, our dreams to save the world soon became rabid nightmares of murder and suicide. In the mornings, we would disentangle from our skuzzy, saggy mosquito-nets, spread blobs of jelly onto bread and we would listen, hazily, to the early morning echoes of LCF’s flirting.

On our second retreat to Theis, given that our most recent and uninterrupted fortnight of Senegalese role-playing had not left us dizzy enough, we were swiftly blindfolded and spun like dreidles. When we broke free of the bondage, we gazed down at our toes. In between cracks and fallen leaves, we contextualized, in cartographic terms, where we would begin our new life.

Never in our two years here, would we ever showcase, so fantastically, our need for improvement than Demyst. Depending what direction we left from Theis, some of us traversed through hilly, verdant jungles, others of us, hobbled along tawdry, windswept scrublands. Regardless, every forty kilometers or so, we would break at some nondescript juncture and some new non-African creature would emerge from the roadside thicket. Our anciene’s escorted us out of the Sports Utility Vehicles as if we were embedded journalists. We spent much of the week on a short and secure leash; occasionally our chaperone slackened it so we could perform one of our new cross-cultural tricks: how to prepare tea, dance the Mbalax or, for the very daring, how to properly place shoes down in between you and the person praying.

Once we returned from Peace Corps True Life, we quickly took to the beach for some of our own uncensored recreation. Undressing, splashing and capering, we absorbed the moonlight like werewolves; anticipating, in the evening’s heat, our own reincarnation. A few weeks later, as we swapped our street-clothes for stiff-wax, the process truly began.
We all took an oath to be Senegalese and stuffed ourselves with mini-hamburgers.

Volunteers Step Up to the Perma-Garden Challenge

2010-11-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

Volunteers Step Up to the Perma-Garden Challenge

The 15th of September, PC Senegal showed once again permaculture is not just a pot-smoking pastime reserved to those with Patagonia stickers on their Nalgene water bottle. Instead, the St. Louis perma-garden training, which occurred within a sprawling wave of perma-garden trainings around the country, helped Senegalese understand that if we all want to be around to care for future generations, we should consider soil-fertility and food-security in terms of how Mother Nature herself would. Encouraging methods that have zero-dependence on chemicals, that also conserve water and maximize space, we hoped to convey, if only at the domestic level, one can revamp vegetable production more cheaply more bountifully and you guessed it, more sustainably! Stretching from Kolda to St. Louis, from Kedagou to Linguere, the core message of the trainings are being heard loud and clear: Go a little deeper and good things will come.

Last May, APCD assistant Nathan Danielson, with perhaps Austin swooning in the back, thrust the Urban Agriculture Program into a ‘go sustainable or E.T.’ state-of-mind. Challenging every Urban Aggie to host a perma-gardening training at his or her site by August 15th, Nathan spiced up the summer with a little friendly competition. When the results came in, 12 driven volunteers from all six serving regions rose to the challenge. Some of these challengers commendably organized and hosted their training in time for the August 15th deadline and others, like myself, did so forgivingly after.

The Urban Ag’s who medaled included Austin in Tambacunda, Maya in Kolda, Mary in Linguere, Emile in Louga and myself in St. Louis. Besides the city-slickers, many of the cowboys from the Sustainable Ag program lassoed onto Nathan’s calling as well--herding some of these fresh ideas back to the farm. These buckaroos included Steve Sullivan down in Kedagou and Meg Thomson in Kolda and in the region hosting the largest number of trainings, Kaolack, there was Cassie alongside the lone S.E.Der Byron, Mike Kelly teaming up with Ben Magen and finessing one on her own, Danielle Stoermer.

In St Louis, I was spoiled rotten, having both the expert hands of Massaly and Arfang and the cheerful support of other P.C.V. and P.C.T.‘s who all happened to be passing through for Demyst. The day was certainly enlivened by the batch of fresh faces, including Jen, Clint, Michelle, Rachael and Claire of the new Stage and of course, enriched by the seasoned wisdom of a few old-timers i.e. PCVL Casey! Emile of Louga was an indispensable body on the logistical front! And Rachael Gardiola brought the women!

Although it was a hot day in Africa, it was a scorcher by St. Louisian standards! Despite the sopping sweat, we were pleased with how the day unfolded .The response of the twenty-three Senegalese who participated was decidedly favorable.

St. Louis, as we said, was just the most recent in this summer’s series. This past June, Maya Lau, down in the depths of Kolda lead the pact, hosting the first ever perma-garden training at her demonstration site. In the towering presence of Tech Trainer Yusipha, Maya and her supporters had an engaging crowd. Happy but not quixotic, Maya realized that if her participants did not walk away masterful, they at least left with broken up snippets. As she explains in her own words,

“It’s more important that they incorporate certain elements (e.g., double digging, soil amendments) of the permagardening method into their existing farming practices. A successful training is one where locals feel like the new techniques are affordable and adaptable, and it's important to emphasize during the training that they can mix and match the new methods in a way that works for them”

Emile in Louga and Mary of Linguere stripped the Neem as well, when preparing for their brilliant trainings, held in July and August respectively. Having attended Emile’s, I saw how often overlooked communication can be between gardeners and that a training is much more than a tutorial on new techniques but a rare forum to share experience. The scintillating round-table discussion that emerged in Louga was a colorful example that those in a common profession itch for an environment to exchange ideas. As Emile points out,

“The training provided an opportunity for leading market gardeners in the area to come together, exchange challenges and work towards solutions, especially in the local context of Louga.”

As we slowly say goodbye to the rains and look towards the cooler gardening season, the agriculture program can proudly rejoice in our summer of sustainability. Thanks to Peter Jensen from PC Tanzania and his rousing introduction of Perma-Gardening last December, coupled with Nathan’s competitive twist, Peace Corps Senegal, in just three months, steamrolled a healthy set of ideas far and wide. In our gardening practices, if we continue to promote more tender-loving-care, we will help our Senegalese friends reexamine soil-fertility as something delicate, too be protected and nurtured like a 4th wife or perhaps a 9th child.

The first annual Perma-Garden Challenge was a tremendous jump-start. Thanks to the 12 triumphant volunteers, the scope was expansive: nearly 208 farmers received the training--85 of them being women. Some of this success may have been garnered by the ‘I challenge you’ component, that I predict, will serve as a seminal approach for boosting initiatives into the future. But as we have taught with the double dig, the ultimate challenge is not to scratch the surface, it is to go deeper. It is to ensure that all the roots of Senegal have the capacity to grow strong.

To all the Peace Corps volunteers who will have fulfilled Nathan’s Perma-garden Challenge, he wanted the Sabaar to know the highly-anticipated T-shirts will be rewarded at the All Vol Conference this December, as well as an exhibition, he calls the “Perma-garden Hall of Fame” which will be on display to remember everyone’s hard work!

Richard Ross

Knocked Flat

2010-11-01T09:14:00.000-07:00

The bleakness of their stares reflected strikingly against the white, freshly painted walls. Little boys, some as young as four years old, dangled their brittle legs off a wooden bench. Their little bodies receded underneath black droops of cloth. On their heads rested the same cloth but it was detached and pointy at the top. Somewhere in between, their soft faces emerged--besmeared with eye-crust and flies. The one seated to the far left, suddenly, was the first to go.

Reluctantly, he dismounted. Standing up, the little boy was received by an elder, a caretaker of some sort, who hoisted off the thin cloak and unveiled the boy’s deathlike frailty. Around his teensy waist, dividing his naked youthfulness into halves, sagged a string of rawhide trinkets. Dewy eyes looked on as this unclothed boy followed his caretaker away. Shortly, he returned, wet and quivering. Clinching his jaw, holding his breath, he fought the onrushing tears as if he was pushing back the raging sea. But before he and the others realized what would occur next, he was shuffled through another swinging door.

I sat beside the others; no pair of feet touched the ground besides mine. All of the little boys, including the first, were Talibé. They had been brought by the Dara (a Koranic school) to a volunteer-based health clinic to be circumcised--a traditional procedure to preserve the Fitrah--i.e.the purity of creation, for Muslim boys. Unlike other Islamic circumcision rituals however, where the operation can be performed as early as the 7th day of infancy, in Senegal, the boys wait until a more primary age, such as five or six--an age that can box the day’s toe-curling trauma into a takeaway memory.

The boys remaining on the bench soon followed. However, against the crescendo of horror that now pelted off the white walls, their reluctance to join the others grew palpable. But on they went. As they returned, they were naked and shivering. The frightened bodies were then shepherded directly towards the frantic shrieks. Passing them, on the way out, were the first to be finished. Waddling and still wheezing, their little features were screwed up. All the teeth-gritting from the pain had left their faces exhausted and puffy.

Soon, the bench filled up again. Most were too busy adjusting to their new discomfort to notice that I had stood up. Moseying around, I stepped outside to catch a break from the unsightliness of it all. When I walked back in, the older caretaker of before stood over them. Menacingly, he sniffed for runaway tears. Although freshly altered, the lot of them promptly buried their gulping sobs. The slowest to suppress, the littlest, was smacked. Furiously crying now, he added an audible hysteria to the still bleakness and as his crying strengthened in pitch, the pacified ones and I withdrew to a half-zombified daze.

Against the white wall, that relentless bounce, the playful ‘let’s pretend’ that the Talibé palliate their wearisome circumstance with, was knocked flat. The street-kid in them too had vanished. It seemed that the circumcision had a greater effect: the thick foreskin of the Talibé identity, the very construct that causes us to be callous, had been scraped off as well. What remained, staring back at me, was a true identity-- the little, motherless child.

Upon leaving, offering a few sympathies in Wolof, I made an attempt to mollify the littlest one’s irrepressible tears. But he paid no attention. Again, I patted his shoulders and urged him to regain his composure but he would not. It was rather clear today he would not outplay the bleakness. His dislocation, the recent trauma, the raw pain had wedged too deep `

Raising the Dead

2010-06-19T08:19:00.000-07:00

When I first arrived to Saint Louis, I became the 4th Urban Agriculture Volunteer to serve in the city. In my service, like other generations, I've been granted a piece of land, located behind the municipal office of aggriculture to call my own. The space's purpose is to be used as a demonstration plot. A place where the volunteer can experiment new methods, gain better understanding of those methods and eventually have them on display for the public's interest. Inviting Senegalese to come and visit,to ask questions, to conduct trainings and to promote participation from the local community are all goals of the operation. Unfortuately, in my situation, there was a considerable gap of 7 months between the preceeding volunteer and myself. To the dismay of our project's intent, the garden was left unattentended and spent those days leading up to my installation, litterally rotting. When I first layed eyes on it, it was as if I had inherited perditition. I was now assigned the responsibility to raise the dead, to transform brimstone into a healthy, workable soil. And so, with the fresh eyes of an untrained farmer, collecting and composting dead fish, I've begun to confront the challenge. These photos were taken roughly December 2009!

The greener photo was taken March 2011! With time, hardwork and fishguts, life is rightfully restored!

A Review I wrote for the PC Senegal Newsletter

2010-04-05T16:36:00.001-07:00

The Untalented Take to the Stage and Shock

The First (and perhaps last) PCV Talent Show

One of Andrew Horowitz’s greatest accomplishments as a Peace Corps Volunteer, aside from scoring the highest level of Wolof of all time, was to have the intuition to never refer to the Thursday evening before WASTE as a ‘talent show.’ Instead, by introducing the event to Senegal as a friendly “Open Mic/Photo Contest,” the former Gambian volunteer kept expectations low. Thus, to no one’s chagrin, the evening‘s entertainment hosted performances and photography good and not so good, mediocre and fantastically wretched.

Granted, time has passed and wounds are healing, but we at the Sabaar thought compelled to remember the awes and the awkwardness of such an outrageous evening.
The night begun as most Senegalese events do, to the dim-witted lyrics of Akon. However, performed acoustically by the evening‘s front-men, host Andrew Jandhal and coordinator Andrew Horowitz, “Sexy Bitch” was the perfect warm-up for the smut and vulgarity to come.

Many of us, just to enter, had to yield to expatriate couples, twirling and shuffling in what appeared as a Thursday night Salsa class. Arame, representing the Peace Corps Staff was perhaps, also, representing that same class. After shoving us a few sizzling Cuban hip-thrusts, it surely appeared she was fresh from a lesson.

.No one was as famished for the spot-light than showman Byron Lee, who by the night’s end, treated us to three separate appearances. Dusting off his tap-shoes for the first performance, he whirled around the stage, supplying both the words and the foot-work to a slick show tune. He then returned with a poem, hammering us with it as if he was about to lead a coup. Howling a poignant version of the Peace-Corps blues, Byron made us realize, articulately, Senegalese and Americans are different.

By the very last act of the night, when the spotlight seemed just about saturated, Byron, for a third time proved that it could still reflect off his silky thighs. At first, seeing Byron, we grumbledreally again. However, frisking forward, toeing his latest experiment Alex along, he lit up the room yet again. This time, however, he really proved his testicular fortitude, yanking us in with a an art-form never before seen--the “Booty Gram.“

As the strip teasers skirted around a giggly Margaret, the sudden deviance had the Senegalese wait staff running to Touba for repentance and David J running to City Sports for his own pair of red spandex.

In between the Byron show, there were in fact other acts, albeit a few of them cheesy. One, surprisingly an exception, was Annika’s. Somehow, singing a song solely devoted to cheese, her act proved to be the least cheesiest of the bunch.

Somewhere during the night, I too tested my talent against the erratic stage lights--juggling occasionally. Exhausting my tricks early on, I relied on what I had learned from the young villagers. Stick as many filthy balls and rotten fruit into your mouth and everyone will be happy.

Jessica Scates, it appeared took stage impulsively. Asking Andy to provide the melody, she plodded through a Miley Sirus song unknown to mostly everyone. Her singing voice, not exactly ethereal nor epoch-making, still carried an undertow of sweetness-- onto which every stray note pulled our hearts deeper and deeper .

Nate chose a favorable strategy among stand-up comedians: self-deprecating humor. But in his version, where he lumbered through topics like masturbation, body imperfections and relationship problems, he tweaked the routine a tad. He instead, tackled intimate, rather provocative topics about himself without humor, leaving the audience a bit… uncomfortable. When he left stage, many onlookers were actually concerned.

Encouragement, so it seemed, proved more the appropriate reaction than laughter.

Nate’s performance then again was important; a seminal example that told all other stand-up acts to come, ‘punch-lines are not necessary.’ Adrian, the next ‘comedian‘, appeared as he would for most of WASTE: scruffy, sort-of drunk, and within eyeshot of Claire.
Dragging and directionless were his sentences, the intended ribaldry was never quite conveyed. But he too, served his purpose, preparing us for the evening’s most unrehearsed diatribe, mouthed by Aaron Cohen, of which the staff at the Sabaar wishes not to remember.

In spite of the dips, the evening ended on a high-note. Andy and Andrew returned to stage, bringing renewed energy to a fading, horrified audience. The vibrancy between Andy’s beat boxing and Andrew’s drumming confirmed the synergy that would make this year’s WASTE another wild success. In this respect, the Sabaar thanks the Andrews for their outstanding commitment to fun and invites them back for a fourth next year (which, remarkably, would be still one shy of Peter Treut who, in shorter swim trunks than me made this year his fifth appearance).

In closing, although there were great wisps of talent, I want to be fair and say the next American idol is not in the African bush. And if your name is not “Marissa” you unfortunately had little to show in the photo-contest. But nevertheless, thanks to the carefree headline, the event turned a blind-eye to talent--sort of like most things do here. Talent or no talent, once it‘s back to site, we all steal the show.

My Daughter Natalie (my debut novel)

2010-02-04T06:38:00.000-08:00

If anyone had contested, it would have been the bride’s father, a regular at a Sunday mass. He, on the other hand approved the location, and did so rather cheerfully; the cross-wind he enjoyed very much. With his loose pores, he found comfort, realizing that on a late August afternoon, temperature may soar. He expressed this to his wife and her friends. Sometimes, he even changed the topic of a conversation, just to stress how pleasant the breeze would be at his daughter, Natalie‘s wedding.

A Very Special Christmas Chronicle!

2009-12-17T09:58:00.000-08:00

Season’s Greetings to All, Four months of this Peace Corps business has now passed with only 23 more to go. I am in high-spirits. As some of you know, the circumstance of my assignment is thoroughly unique, granted by an early gust of good-fortune. Posh Corps has been a term thrown around laughingly to sum up the snug turn of events since arriving. Indeed, my life as of late is certainly not what I had signed up for when I first made the decision to join Peace Corps. I am no longer taking bucket-baths, squatting before latrines or fetching from the well. Instead, I occupy one sunlit room, with electricity and running water in a commodious, pink house, not far from the river.

Having been assigned two years in Senegal‘s most enchanting, culturally-rich city, I am overjoyed and grateful to be once again blessed with a picturesque port on the Atlantic, loaded with rustic character, powered by fishing and tourism and vibrant with a music-scene that provides ample opportunity to pass those hours of the night, as I so often have, hot footing it front and center. But at this point in time, I am most thankful towards my new family, the Dñ ing‘s. They are as delightful as they’re sophisticated. My mother is not only a progressive, single mother of four, who drives, but a doctor who owns a string of pharmacies all throughout the city. My grandmother, “Mom” is nearly 80 years old and as a retired school-teacher, she is well received in every neighborhood for her years of service and for her powerful but kindhearted personality. My only brother, “Pop Sumba” is a high-flying striker who pops his stylish head when he catches a break between his mind-bending studies at the University of Dakar. My sister “Binta” is just recently a teen-ager and is ever too soon acting like one. My two youngest sisters are adorable twins, who from head-to-toe never fail to match and, through the boundless joy they receive from one and other, never fail to make me smile. There is also a rotating cast of maids, tutors and drivers appearing at different times, all of whom, contribute to the rampant hospitality of the house. Drinking up their sweet company, growing ever more in love with them, is and probably will be the lasting highlight of this experience.

So where am I? Let me tell you. After two months of training, following by our ceremonious swearing-in, October 16th, we were set free in our sites of service. I arrived to St. Louis October 20th, and I have been here since now, without much hankering to leave. Perhaps I’m like the French in that respect, who first settled here in 1659 and have, by and large, remained ever since. Although no longer the capital of the colonial empire, nor is it occupied by the French, the island of Saint Louis, which straddles the Senegalese River on one side, and the vast Atlantic Ocean on the other, is rather content to embrace it’s transformation--from the cradle of a European empire, to now, just another big city in a developing nation. The colonial architecture: shady patios, wrought iron balconies and large magazine doors of the earlier merchants and aristocracy, today, sit side-by-side the more contemporary styles of Sub-Saharan Africa; tin-roofs, dry-wall and yards and yards of clothes line. Also, in many restaurants and cafés on the island, the eerie vestiges of the slave auction remain palpable; so as to use the rest-room, one often has to walk the same raised stage where African men once stood, shackled in chains, awaiting the highest bidder.

For those who need a little more tug to visit Africa than me, all within a day’s stroll, my new home cares for a range of high-end hotels, concert-halls, swimming pools, as well as sprawling beach, billowing surf and one of Africa’s largest and chirpiest bird sanctuaries!

After the New Year, towards the beginning of February, all fifty or so of us who arrived together will return to the city of Thè is for another two week training. Now having a much more concrete understanding of the community we are serving, and a stronger command on the local language (Wolof in my case) and French, we will receive technical tools and techniques that are geared specifically to our site. Once I return, will my work really begin and the projects I‘ve been preparing for, little by little, since I arrived in Saint Louis, will have the support and funding to go their proper course “Insha’Allah!”

For a while there, I was in fact a member of Peace Corps. Below are a few passages you could have found on my blog, richardaross@blogspot.com with a couple brand new edits and additions, but to spare you the holiday traffic online, I have included some of them here. As I have said, for the first two months, as a part of Peace Corps’ Senegal’s training philosophy, we were immediately heaved into the culture and the language, sink or swim. These memoirs remember the first few weeks, when I found myself in a West African village, with three other volunteers, with no real ability to communicate, or any real idea what the heck I was doing. They are written in the style that I prefer writing, so I apologize in advance if they’re, lets say, wordy and over-the-top.

A Village Welcome

In the late afternoon, while the shade was spreading, certain villagers of Kër Sadero sat so as to see the passing of cars. Mané Thaiw was one among the bevy thronged alongside the sulfurous pavement of Senegal.

When the decrepit sports utility vehicle came to a halt, I was in the company of three sluggish Americans. We had all spent the first three days in Senegal, damping our jet-lag and rifling in the mental rubble of culture-shock. We gathered our bags, along with our water-filters, mosquito-nets and medical-kits we recently received (I might add, with the same feeling of empowerment as an infantryman, when he receives his rifle and ammunition) and we lumbered to the shady-tree where the Africans sat. When we reached, motherly women were overjoyed, clapping their hands and warbling like fertile geese. Mané Thaiw, soon to be my mother, even appeared unsteady when she stood, longing for balance between vertiginous shudders of delight. She was plump and had the hips of a prolific child bearer. Her arms and legs were chunky with softness, like a feather-pillow following a good-fluff. Loosely and uncaringly, she wore draping fabric, colorful, and constantly aloft with the winds of her energy.

I stood watch while her effusive flutters waned. When she regained her footing, she took only a few breaths before she smothered the little air between us with several stentorian sonorities--each one more singsong than the next. Rather obvious I was in a dither, having heard everything, and having comprehended nothing, she assisted me along by flinging a hand out pendulously while repeating two more freakish words, this time though, a bit slower.

“Bay Zal “
“Bay Zal”

I took her hoary hand and joined her in the sing-along, “Bay Zal. Bay Zal” By now, I realized the emphasis attached to these two words, and as we went on repeating, I rummaged through my incipient supply of Wolof vocabulary, but proving hopeless, I returned my attention to the confusing center. Famished for clarification, I nearly requested that any French speakers step forth, but before I broke the sacred seal of ‘Wolof emersion,’ someone else did, and did so, much more egregiously.

It was Emily from the back! “I think it’s your new name,” she spoke in forbidden English. As if we were two whales in the deep-blue, we had brilliantly transmitted sound-waves that were to be read by no sensory registers but our own.

It all made sense. I was now “Bay Zal!” In this fleeting lucidity, I endeavored to release from her crushing grip, but she contested, so as to even reaffirm her thrall. Suddenly, she heaved up another blizzard of verbiage, but this time, Peace Corps Senegal and I stood ready. “Nga Def!”

Peace Corps thankfully coached all of its trainees, rather painstakingly, on the one stroke of Senegal culture not to be smudged, the greeting. Not just in Senegal, but in all of West Africa, the greeting is an occasion when two people cross paths, and the excessiveness of mirth they both share brings them to sheer deadlock. From there, it is gentle interrogation, independent of one’s true curiosity, and without fail, evokes only but the same sequence of question and response. So when I was to return Mané ’s question, “Nga Def,” I did so with conviction, for all across the land, there is only one accepted answer.

“Mangiy fi!“ I ejaculated (note: literary usage).

In the prolonged clutch, I would go one to reassure her I had spent my day in peace and that my family in the United States, as far as I knew, was enjoying good health. By the time all matters had been addressed and my good hand was unclasped, I noticed all of my belongings were in the hospitable hands of someone else. Mané Thaiw, as well, carried my red pillow and had made several footsteps since our stand-still. Stalling at the entrance, she waved and wagged with that grand eagerness that charges all of us right before we introduce the ones we love.

Bending the corner, stepping conspicuously into the quarters of the compound, there appeared a broad selection of men, women and children. All of whom sat low to the earth. Everyone looked extremely preoccupied with idleness and bliss.

My arrival, however, breached the solace. I was immediately the rage. In a furious succession, I saw and met and greeted an indefinite amount of jubilant people. Head-nodding, hand-shaking, hips-swaying and tongue-twisting, I stepped in the ring with all of them. One after the next, I two-stepped with, topping off with the paterfamilias in purple pants. Seeing as the merry-go-round was still in spin wherever I went, I grew more appreciative of my recent adoption. It seemed, the whole cackling caboodle: the bare-footed, the bare-breasted and the bare-assed were all wishing the white-man a very special welcome.

I was then showed to my tin-thatched room, which was built, unwittingly, around the basic thermal technologies of a sauna. When the door closed behind, I remained calm despite sharpening nips of anxiety. A brigade of creepy-crawlies scurried out to greet their new roommate, as well as the dozen or so errant mosquitoes, for whom, my fleshy romp was just too mouthwatering to handle. Needing backup, the malaria-carrying nightshift was called in chop chop.

Playing hard to get, I anxiously rigged the four-masted mosquito net and slithered in discreetly, as to not invite any into bed with me. With a white skuzzy net drooping onto my knee caps, like sunken snow-drifts, I laid there entombed, with no where to go. The bugs, so it seemed, had me trapped! It was not very late, I wasn’t tired nor had I unpacked, but hearing all the buzz, I knew they were machinating. My headlamp gave light to the vermin that hovered noisily above, and as they bounced their bloodthirsty eyes off the sticky mesh, I did, in fact, decide to remain still.

And so, rather than reheating another hullabaloo outside, I made my first real impression in the West African village on my sponge mattress.

Life on the Farm

I would wake up the next morning, as I would many more, to the cacophony of boisterous livestock. As a child, having been aboard my share of hayrides and having passed through a petting zoo or two, I recognized straightaway the chorus-line of baas, barks, neighs, grunts and oinks. It was at first a lot to negotiate; a sandy village covered in horse-shit, but step-by-step, I would soon make tracks of my own.

Following the first cries of the rooster, 430am precisely, I rather groggily came to accept life on the farm. Often abandoning my scorching NESQUIK® and loaf of bread, I spent my breakfasts ushering wayward chickens out from inside my room and herding ugly, crooked-legged goats, who beeped unceasingly from my front gate. I even once stood in between the growing antipathies of a ratty cow and a burly horse, as to see that the quarrel was settled before all of us carried on. But nothing was more distressing as when a moribund cat, crossing my path, whispered its last meow and before my very eyes, keeled over, earthward. She was later pitch forked by my brother and taken by wheel barrel to the compost.

Seldom was there any real escape from the rambunctiousness in merry Ker-Sadero and for those moments, I and my American coeval, Erin, eked out a wisp of privacy, we were promptly waylaid. After lunch, we often sat ruminating Russian literature, not realizing that for the busybodies outside, we had slid the curtain on something else a whole lot more salacious.

On afternoon in particular, when we had recklessly overstepped our propinquity, we were investigated by the whole harem, one concubine after the next. They teetered the doorway, occasionally entering, roaming awkwardly from corner to corner. Proceeding with that theatrical insouciance and chit-chat, a detective without a warrant so purposefully does, they searched, hungrily, for the scandal. But as I had said before, behind the hanging drape of privacy, we had little to show but a sophistic critique of Tolstoy.

One wife, a bit more fit and fertile, spent the daylight freighting watermelons in her arms and, on her back, harnessing her newborn Mohammed. Mohammed was not alone, for many Senegalese babies are introduced to life as baby kangaroos are--on the trot, sunken snug into the pouch of their mother. As she entwined her newborn in loops of her taut fabric, she spoke happily. So very happily, I was soon entwined by the fine stitch of her spirit. She desired euphoria and in the opportunity to teach a foreigner her language, she demanded that he knew the euphoric words too.

How was the day in the city? Nex-na!

How is the rice? Nex-na!

It was all Nex-na! And the more you repeated it for her, Nex-na Nex-na, the more her mouth watered like the pink pulp of her watermelons.

Lunch Time

For most of my stay, however, lunch was only an agreeable activity for the infidel; indeed, for the others, the month of September was the month of the fast (Ramadan) and every Muslim in the village would pass time, as they would otherwise, slow and low, but without food in their stomachs, their sloth was now a topic of discussion. As the state of sloth heighten as the days numbered, the women, having to still cook for their infidel of a guest, were less verve and more slapdash and the plates, subsequently, were less zing, and more slop.

But towards the late afternoon, when the sun grew as lazy as all those who, the whole day long, hid from it, the mood of a country changed. Minutes before sunset, Senegalese would rise from the puddles of lassitude that they had lain, and all at once, in some weird act of urgency, they would gather around a bucket of hot sugary milk. There, they would chew bread with new health and a contagious joyfulness, and I, having usually just returned from my early evening jog would let the cool sweat dry in the warmth of their friendly company.

On those afternoons following the fast, the lunch hour returned to as the day’s paramount happening. The forceful commissariat, manned by childbearing wives and prepubescent girls, took their posts in the kitchen early. For the next few hours, pots and pans jangled to the beat of gossipy hoo-ha. Bespattering their arms and hands in the scaly flesh of fish, they prepared one bowl of Ceebu jën after the next.

Ceebu jën, pronounced “Chebbew Jin” is Wolof for rice and fish, and is the national dish of Senegal. For a Senegalese person, perhaps the dish whets the same passion as cheese may for the Frenchman or sushi for the Japanese--but never have I seen a person of any nationality approach his gastronomy with such voraciousness as the Senegalese do. Such craving, a fairer comparison may only lie with the grizzly-bear and his ravenous appetite for head, scale, and tail.

Cooking Ceebu jën is an art form, requiring a fine balance between proportion, between boil and simmer and between season and spice. It’s prepared in a tin bowl deep enough to bathe a young toddler and shiny enough for a teenage girl to do her make up--of which functions I’ve seen both. But it is in the bowl’s final shake when the true Senegalese shines, when all her ingredients, in a few sudden thrusts, bleed their juices into the greater medley, and the true flavor of this vivid, rich culture, sizzles. Until that is, small and big hands crawl up the rim and together plunge--with finger tips soon to meet--in the burning inner-core of mush ; )

That’s enough! Go sledding! Merry Christmas! And a Happy New Year! Love,Richard aka Alec aka Bay Zal Again for more photos and recap, take a trip to richardaross@blogspot.com and feel free to Skype...221 77-33-0-4829.

Life on the Farm

2009-11-19T03:23:00.000-08:00

Following the first cries of the rooster, 430am precisely, I rather groggily came to accept life on the farm. Often abandoning my scorching NESQUIK® and loaf of bread, I spent my breakfasts ushering wayward chickens out from inside my room and herding ugly, crooked-legged goats, who beeped unceasingly from my front gate. I even once stood in between the growing antipathies of a ratty cow and a burly horse, as to see that the quarrel was settled before all of us carried on, But nothing was more distressing as when a moribund cat, crossing my path, whispered its last meow and before my very eyes, keeled over, earthward. She was later pitch forked by my brother and taken by wheel barrel to the compost.

Seldom was there any real escape from the rambunctiousness in merry Ker-Sadero, and for those moments, I and my American coeval, Erin eked out a wisp of privacy, we were promptly waylaid. After lunch, we often sat ruminating Russian literature, not realizing that for the busybodies outside, we had slid the curtain on something else a whole lot more sultry.

On afternoon in particular, when we had recklessly overstepped our propinquity, we were investigated by the whole harem, one concubine after the next. They teetered the doorway, occasionally entering, roaming unsurely from corner to corner Proceeding with that theatrical insouciance and chit-chat, a detective without a warrant so purposefully does, they searched, hungrily, for the scandal. But as I had said before, behind the hanging drape of privacy, we had little to show but a sophistic critique of Tolstoy.

My First Impression

2009-11-10T08:51:00.000-08:00

In the late afternoon, while the shade was spreading, certain villagers of Ker Sadero sat so as to see the passing of cars. Mane Ninga was one among the bevy thronged alongside the sulfurous pavement of Senegal.

When the decrepit sports utility vehicle came to a halt, I was in the company of three sluggish Americans. We had all spent the first three days in Senegal, damping our jet-lag and rifling in the mental rubble of culture-shock. We gathered our bags, along with our water-filters, mosquito-nets and medical-kits we recently received (I might add, with the same feeling of empowerment as an infantryman, when he receives his rifle and ammunition) and we lumbered to the shady-tree where the Africans sat. When we reached, motherly women were overjoyed, clapping their hands and warbling like fertile geese. Mane Ninga, soon to be my mother, even appeared unsteady when she stood, longing for balance between vertiginous shudders of delight. She was plump and had the hips of a prolific child bearer. Her arms and legs were thick with softness, like a feather-pillow following a good-fluff. Loosely and uncaringly, she wore draping fabric, colorful, and constantly aloft with the winds of her energy.

I stood watch while her effusive flutters waned. When she regained her footing, she took only a few breaths before she smothered the little air between us with several stentorian sonorities--each one more singsong than the next. Rather obvious I was in a dither, having heard everything, and having comprehended nothing, she assisted me along by flinging a hand out pendulously while repeating two more freakish words, this time though, a bit slower.

“Bay Zal “

“Bay Zal”

I took her hoary hand and joined her in the sing-along, “Bay Zal. Bay Zal” By now, I realized the emphasis attached to these two words, and as we went on repeating, I rummaged through my neophytic supply of Wolof vocabulary, but proving hopeless, I returned my attention to the confusing center. Famished for clarification, I nearly requested that any French speakers step forth, but before I broke the sacred seal of ‘Wolof emersion,’ someone else did, and did so, much more egregiously.

It was Emily from the back! “I think it’s your new name,” she spoke in forbidden English. As if we were two whales in the deep-blue, we had brilliantly transmitted sound-waves that were to be read by no sensory registers but our own.

It all made sense. I was now “Bay Zal!” In this fleeting lucidity, I endeavored to release from her crushing grip, but she contested, so as to even reaffirm her thrall. Suddenly, she heaved up another blizzard of verbiage, but this time, Peace Corps Senegal and I stood ready.
“Nga Def!”

Peace Corps thankfully coached all of its trainees, rather painstakingly, on the one stroke of Senegal culture not to be smudged, the greeting. Not just in Senegal, but in all of West Africa, the greeting is an occasion when two people cross paths, and the excessiveness of mirth they both share brings them to sheer deadlock. From there, it is gentle interrogation, independent of one’s true curiosity, and without fail, evokes only but the same sequence of question and response. So when I was to return Mane’s question, “Nga Def,” I did so with conviction, for all across the land, there is only one accepted answer.

“Mangiy fi!“ I ejaculated (note: literary usage)!

In the prolonged clutch, I would go one to reassure her I had spent my day in peace and that my family in the United States, as far as I knew, was enjoying good health. By the time all matters had been addressed and my good hand was free, I noticed all of my belongings were in the hospitable hands of someone else. Mane Ninga, as well, carried my red pillow and had made several footsteps since our stand-still. Stalling at the entrance, she waved and wagged with that grand eagerness that charges all of us right before we introduce the ones we love.

Bending the corner, stepping conspicuously into the quarters of the compound, there appeared a broad selection of men, women and children. All of whom sat low to the earth. Everyone looked extremely preoccupied with idleness and bliss.

My arrival, however, breached the solace. I was immediately the rage. In a furious succession, I saw and met and greeted an indefinite amount of jubilant people. Head-nodding, hand-shaking, hips-swaying and tongue-twisting, I stepped in the ring with all of them. One after the next, I two-stepped with, topping off with the paterfamilias in purple pants. Seeing as the merry-go-round was still in spin wherever I went, I grew more appreciative of my recent adoption. It seemed, the whole cackling caboodle: the bare-footed, the bare-breasted and the bare-assed were all wishing the white-man a very special welcome.

I was then showed to my tin-thatched room, which was built, unwittingly, around the basic thermal technologies of a sauna. When the door closed behind, I remained calm despite sharpening nips of anxiety. A brigade of creepy-crawlies scurried out to greet their new roommate, as well as the dozen or so errant mosquitoes, for whom, my fleshy romp was just too mouthwatering to handle. Needing backup, the malaria-contracting nightshift was called in chop chop.

Playing hard to get, I anxiously rigged the four-masted mosquito net and slithered in discreetly, as to not invite any into bed with me. With a white skuzzy net drooping onto my knee caps, like sunken snow-drifts, I laid there entombed, with no where to go. The bugs, so it seemed, had me trapped!

It was not very late, I wasn’t tired nor had I unpacked, but hearing all the buzz, I knew they were machinating. My headlamp gave light to the vermin that hovered noisily above, and as they bounced their bloodthirsty eyes off the sticky mesh, I did, in fact, decide to remain still.

And so, rather than reheating another hullabaloo outside, I made my first real impression in the West African village on my sponge mattress.

Let's Meet the New Stage!

2009-10-17T09:40:00.000-07:00

I was asked by the training group to write the introductions of each member to be published in the Peace Corps Senegal's monthly publication. With the help of a few other volunteers, mentioned below, this is what we came up with. Voila...

New Volunteer Introductions

Merci beaucoup to Richard Alec Ross, Emilie McClintic, Maya Lau, Shannon Mills, Emily Scott

Now at the close of PST, we’ve begun to chip away at many of the initial judgments we made about one another (others have been reinforced…) So we thought it would be fun to look at those first impressions and the accumulative impressions into which they have evolved. We have enlisted Richard Alec Ross to pen his thoughts on each of us (with the help of a few friends…) If it seems strange that our entire stage would want to know Richard’s impressions of us, it’s only because you haven’t met him. You must meet him. Go to Saint Louis, bring him a siriche of books and red wine and meet this man who has no malice and has no problem with plunging necklines.
Mary Allin: Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in tie dye and jeans always makes a point to do "GAD" work through her wardrobe and other habits…

Nathalie Andre: Natalie whose suitcase bore more books than the Amazon.com shipping ware house had little room to pack more than one floral blouse and a pair of jeans.

Josh Birmingham: Insofar as communication, he relies on a keen sense of economy-and sometimes, he does so with such vigor, he teeters on the fringe of vegetation. However, it is in the company of "strong-women types" when we observe exception and his laconic tongue begins to violently hiss. It is then, we meet the stages’ most silent "say-say."

Cassie Blass: Her brain salivates over the numbers 15 and 31 – telltale signs of a true Cribbage player. As she sits hunched over her miniature wooden racetrack in the disco hut, her pegs confidently galloping past her opponents', her clipped golden tendrils need finger-combing and she pauses for laughter. Never one to be easily skunked, Cassie courts would-be challengers late into the night, her gleaming baby-blues and congeniality impossible to dislike.

Jack Brown: A new-age man’s man who is only happy in the face of hopelessness, Jack dreams of making a living digging SUVs out of the Swamp of Sadness. His penchant for futility finds its most formidable enemy in his favorite article of clothing’s the Utili-Kilt.

Carla Burns: As volunteers of yore brought basketball to Senegal, so too will Carla be credited with introducing to this good nation another great American invention: Jazzercise. We all hope to receive the knowledge she passes on.

Kate Carol: Kate refuses

Melanie Chamberlain: When the sessions wind down and the terrifying unknown lurks into the disco-hut, we need not worry; her nerves are already clenched to a hair trigger. Famished for clarification, she explodes into a feverish blitz of anxiety and interrogation, leaving the shell-shocked tech trainers to flummox and flutter in their own cluelessness. In desperation, they loft over "Inchallahs" but in mid-air, she deflects them as entirely insufficient.

Ariana Constant: Raised upon morals of New York City rush-hour she urges on with the same plangent roar of 3 million horns honking at once! But in this same respect, when the West African has us all so convinced that a day spent beneath a tree is a day well-spent, we’ll remember Ariana as we try to reintegrate into the push and shove and appreciate her militant discipline to remain, against all odds, in a rush.

Elizabeth Corkery: Beneath her veneer of suburban Illinois pearl-donning girlishness is a globe-trotting bar-hopper who has had a few hilarious run-ins with the law—just ask those damn undercover cops in Poland. After deciding she didn't immediately want to plunge into the certified public accountants’ lifestyle (and who would?), she instead opted for a 2-year stint of ceeb-eating, Wolof-shouting, small enterprise developing work with the Peace Corps. But after that, who knows? That MA she has, yeah, that may one day come in handy.

Kenny Cox: voted for Bush in 2000 and we are fairly certain voted again for him in 2004
Katherine "KC" Crocker: Despite her dual degrees in English and Chemistry (wait, why?), KC does us the courtesy of only correcting our grammatical blunders occasionally…just don’t confuse nauseated and nauseous.

Erin Fenton: Already Intermediate-Mid Wolof in the womb, she entered her caffeine-induced reality, never needing training-wheels to ride from the used bookstore, to the art gallery, to an independently owned coffee shop, back to the bookstore for an open-mic, where she unveils her homespun English to Russian translation of the first chapter of Lolita.

Josh Fickle: Ravishingly American, he wistfully skinned a proud collection of ‘Bush-Cheney’ campaign stickers off his homemade guitar (His father used the rest of the wood to construct a rifle) before arriving to staging. But not to worry, in the stuffy company of slap-happy liberals, he keeps his cool head-perhaps in great thanks to the mesh baseball cap transplanted to his head.

Matthew Gardine: Against the drab of his wardrobe and the geekiness of his lifestyle, he somehow or other fills a gangly build with riveting charm and cultivation; and for some reason, his face, burdened by wooden ski goggles and a fish-hooked nose, still dangles the description of something ng oddly handsome. Yes, if there could ever be bright beige, Mathew would personify it, and if perchance, he ever convinces you with all his high hopes and rosiness, his glass (of beer) is always half-full, do believe him

Ryan Gorman: Terminating his gym membership early to join PC, he was able to afford a few more designer T’s from Macy’s. Since arriving, however, he has worn them with sleek modesty and aplomb-all of which, in only six month’s time, will serve the eye and enamor the heart of a wayward "French national."

Franck Guzzardo: Beneath his adorable, southern-comfort laden exterior, this affable Floridian is rife with internal conflict, "To be Polish, or to be Pulaar?" "To pay off existing loans, or to bury oneself in debt?" and most importantly "To go to Dakar, or not to go to Dakar?" These are the questions that shape Franck’s new, free-range, West African existence. There is one thing, however, about which Franck is sure: he just quit smoking…

Jason Haack: Very seldom closes his ultramarine eyes, but when he does, you can rest assured, he is about to shut the lid of a 30 watt tanning bed. Then and there, he will daydream of how muddy he is as a mountain-biker and how white he is as a pharmacist. Once his skin reaches that resplendent glow, he’ll enter their range and prove he is a marksman at large and as such-all beautiful women-take cover!

Ashley Hansen: Here in Senegal, the last thing we need is another sprinkling of sweetness, but we’re willing to smack out lips for Ashley if one day, she’ll share that Patagonia discount with us.

Cailen Hegman: Stoic but unpredictable! Pithy but nimble of wit! He can be as motionless or as brisk as those Montana Mountains from where he hails.

David Jaglowski: David J. has the voice of an angel, the humor of a demon, and the tattoos to prove it. Mix in some of that Chicago street cred and you've got yourself a Mr. Wonderful—he's funny but self-effacing, a SED-er but not MBA-track, tall but not gangly. His charm will sneak up on you like a thief in the night, the type of thief Etienne will later text everyone about. But David would protect you from that very same thief, a true friend who will never leave you alone in a vulnerable situation, paternally watching out for you like those talismans on his shoulder blades.

Brian Kay: While some of the more unsavory characters of the Summer ’09 stage opt to release stress through stuffy, traditional outlets (smoking, drinking, dare I say…sex?) Brian takes the road less traveled by when he chooses to decompress with a well-worn copy of "How to prepare for the Foreign Service Exam." Inchallah, this man will complete Senegal’s tax return before his two years are up.

Mike Kelley: Since he’s been uprooted from his much beloved desert, he has proven to be a chimerical raconteur of Peace Corps folklore, as well as a prolific repository for ludicrous knowledge. He has, in his own right, exposed the sagacious underbelly of creepiness.

Lucas Knutter: Having already completed three sections of the online application before realizing he was in fact applying to the Peace Corps and not towards his lifelong dream to enlist into the US Marine Corps, he paused and drew a long sigh. Too stubborn to turn back, he decided to go through with it acknowledging he has already 22 years of experience in the middle-of-nowhere.

Maya Lau: As the Michelangelo of idiosyncratic motion, Mya’s led an indomitable offense since she’s arrived to Peace Corps, marring the masses with her masterful muscle-memory. In addition to her severe impersonations, she’s a busybody at heart and a glutton for gossip, with a weird fetish for headlamps.

Christine Lee: Refugee of the financial crisis, Christine can give you a stylish bob, wield an uppukay and run spreadsheet equations at the same time.

Elida Lynch: Elida who keeps all of us guessing with a knack for silence

Ben Magen: A hot-blooded University of Michigan football fan or perhaps Michigan State (Whatever school Alysa roots against) he has the endearing stockiness and insouciance of the gnome next store.

Ethan McClelland: When hell does finally freeze over, Etienne, agog that his big crisis came true, will first notify Lucas and Ethan, "Tonight, the color of the party is green." Ethan, despite his best efforts, will show up to that party in red.

Emilie McClintic: Having been brought onto this planet to serve in Peace Corps Senegal "rekk," she shares, rather encyclopedically, her mastery of the land. In addition, she has slipped her tongue around the jabberwocky of Wolof, and now, can be heard from miles away breathlessly "woof-woofing" at the deafening pitch, we now associated with Alxum radios. Neverthless, two years from now, when we’re ready to C.O.S., Emilie, having already found her ticket to Senegalese citizenship (that being a Senegalese national), will be bidding on property.

Tim Meadors: Recently released from perdition, he appears rather weathered and bedraggled-by which he hopelessly conceals with a tucked in shirt and spectacularly altered pants. But more than this, he seizes the innermost of our attention with an ode to his new sector in Senegal-Yes, upon his back, he carries the densest forest in all of West Africa.

Shannon Mills: Notwithstanding our stages pitiful bunch of boyfriends and girlfriends left in America, no one has been falsely promised and continually played more by the organization of Peace Corps than Shannon. But despite such rockiness, she’s arrived to Senegal in high spirits, albeit a couple years off schedule, but at least she believes, as so many of you frighteningly do, that if it’s meant to be, it can wait two years.

Alys Moshier: Insightful Alys never misses a moment to point out that yes, Senegal is in fact not America; this sassy blond proclaims "deedeet" to the prospect of lowering her standard of living just because she’s moved to Africa. Luckily Alys skillfully troubleshoots whenever possible and solves simple problems such as: "It’s hotter here, therefore buy a fan" or "the roads here are worse, therefore take motion sickness meds.

Jessica O’Herron: Gushing forth from one place to the next, her delicate frame nearly takes flight. Or perhaps it’s because of the Red Bull bubbling in her bloodstream that leads us to believe she does, in fact, have wings. Whatever the case might be, any stray kitten would be blessed to have such an upbeat partner in the noble fight against hookworm.

Katherine Onyshko: Is not Japanese.

Austin Peterson: As an American in West Africa we’ve all lugged cultural baggage over with us. However, in the case of Austin, let it be known, he planned ahead and packed light. How else would you suggest if the only culture you had ever known sported the prefix "Perma." Indeed, he has already lest us spellbound by his uncompromising integrity to his former lifestyle when he deemed his laptop unsustainable and at once, had it disappear.

Jacqueline Prideaux: Bespattering her pale fastidious hand with the gruel and grit of her third-world relocation, she has not yet blackened her angelic purity nor has she hardened her old-fashioned motherliness. Obviously her charm has worked on someone in the states, as Jackie receives a package for each hour of the day.

Jennifer Richards: Disembarking in Senegal after an Odyssean tour of the world's riches on board the good ship Octogenarian Love Boat, Jocular Jenn's every word ought to be followed by a drumroll and cymbal clash.

Mollie Roper: As she journeys to her "happy place" with church bells ringing melodiously-she will sometimes stall, and as to make you believe she’ll preach, she’ll desist and delight us with her philosophy on hugs or surprise us with her history as a snake-charmer or her knowledge of martial arts.

Tamar Rosenstein: After maxxing out on the number of times one can go on "birthrite," Tamar needed a new game plan for traveling the globe. Either join the Israeli Military of join The Peace Corps. We are all glad she chose the latter.

Richard Ross: Bushwhacking through his chunky Boston accent and muffled speech impediment, he manages to compensate, rather grotesquely, with fluffy language and pedantic sentence structure. Typically garbed head to toe in his New England eccentricity, he finds his center of balance when he’s either mid-dance or teetering the Atlantic. St. Louis, in this respect, is his 3rd world dream, and in his service there, we ascertain at the very least, he will introduce his beneficiaries to the deep-V.

Christine Sauve and Aaron Goodman: Despite knowing that this couple, recently plucked from the sand dunes of Mauritania, will probably hate being clumped as one person…sorry that’s what happens when you get married. However, in the spirit of GAD work, the woman’s name comes first in this write up.

Teresa Schnur: In another life she might have been a professional French hair-braider. Or better yet, a 9-1-1 operator, her soothing voice invoking a type of booming, cool-headed command. Just imagine Teresa saying, "I understand he has a machete and is holding a child hostage, sir, but tell me your location." This Montana "mamacita" knows a thing or two about sprawling fields and the Big Sky, but she's no wide-eyed day-dreamer. Her most memorable feature is her explosive laugh, which you will no doubt encounter upon spending your first 5 minutes with her.

Emily Scott: In between sips of beer and giggle-chat, does she reminds us that a life shrouded by loud music and poor judgement is in truth, the life we achingly miss. And in doing so, one memorial night after the next, she rids development work of its melancholy and mawkishness and replaces it with her version. Thiés. Where she’s the queen and the game carries on long past checkmate.

David Shames: Dark sunglasses sit perched on a sun-kissed nose, masking a half-blindness that only a ninja could acquire. Scruffles of strawberry curls puff out, forming a beard reminiscent of a blond Cherno. His glances throw curveballs; his pessimism silences unknowing bystanders. But then, it's only shameless Shames, imparting his tales of woe over a soundtrack of solar-powered guitar music, his soulful humor finally winning over the crowd. Who else could transform himself into a svelte impala whilst prancing from one Gazelle to the next? Just don't try to pry away his beloved cigarettes... that's "fuckin' weird."

Cora Siipola: The founding member of the female chapter of the haircut club, Cora has proven herself a pioneer and we have no doubt this will translate into her service. She is also our resident fortune teller, toting tarot cards wherever she goes, so if you see a tie-dye clad Cora while passing through the Kaolack region, be sure to take advantage of her clairvoyance.

Danielle Stoermer: We've yet to see her softball skills, but based on this cheerful Minnesotan's all-around athletic prowess, it's a good bet you want her on your side for WAIST.

Zachary Swank: As if cruising the halls of Sweet Valley High, Zach is most often seen roaming the center, book or laptop pressed insecurely by his side, ready to chat by the lockers with the cheer-squad (anxious to praise him for his stellar "Ice Ice Baby" routine). Though he did recently descend from the north toting the golden locks of an angelic cherub, his former post was not the third cloud to the left but rather the dust cloud of Mauritania.

Alexander Thompson: It's hard to feel sorry for this guy, what with his Eco-Tourism and his counterpart's campement on the beach. As he elongates his syllables—like any self-respecting LA-area native would—he is renovating the sex-tourism industry in Mbour one 200CFA piece at a time. When not working, Alex can be found cutting up the dance floor, with spirited African moves akin to bouncing on hot coals. He is apparently also quite well-versed in using Skype to communicate with his girlfriend. If you're lucky enough, Alex will eventually peel off that telemarketer headset and sit down with you, and he will make you laugh.

Alyssa Titche: Her accent smacks of Southern Californian nativity, but don't let that detract from Alyssa's fidelity to Michigan. Oh dear sweet Michigan, a source both pride and anxiety for this die-hard mid-westerner from even a continent away. Her big-heartedness is dabbed with a saucy edge, her opinions audible and pungent, effortlessly slating her into that "strong-woman" category.

Susan Trainor: Prolific ink-slinger to rival Paul of Tarsus, she was plucked from her promised and highly-touted assignment in Ziguinchor at the last moment and told on countless occasions (by PC staff) that her new placement in Kaffrine is far inferior.

Anna Travers: The charcoal crucifix nailed to her flesh might insinuate she is in Africa for other reasons, but aloft with such spunk and rapacious curiosity, her service in Peace Corps is in fact more a crusade to free herself from a giddy confusion than it is to preachify the word of Christ.

Byron Yee: No questions ought to be asked, his showmanship is as versatile as it is peacockish. He can pulverize with words. He can bedazzle with dance. Peace Corps is but a performance, and his site, but only a stage. And so, infusing the same blustery entreaty he once hammered us with…
Sit down! Sit down! Sit down! For his show is about to begin…

2009-09-17T13:31:00.000-07:00

Close friends & family,

First matter to be addressed: I'd love to hear from you. You've all used skype, my number is as follows... 221 773 304829.

It's official, the angels are on my side. My site of service, in fact, will be in Saint Louis; therefore, I'll be waking up to a white expanse of sand and the blue atlantic, a landscape I have become rather used to in the last 24 years of my life. Let us revel in the prospect, that now, if you're as so magnficient to visit me during the next two years, the experience will prove as a relaxing, sunsoaked vacation, laden with culture, history and gaiety. This comes in contrary to what we may have expected of my adventure, and if this is upsetting, and Posh Corps is not what you're in the mood for, Aaron and Burkina Faso are just 25 hours by (bumpy) road. I'm sure he'd appreciate all of our company. So much so, I trust he would slaughter a plumpish goat upon our arrival.

Also to keep in mind, you music lovers, the end of May, Saint Louis puts on an internationally renowned Jazz festival, hosting a bevy of contemporary musicians. It's heralded as a grand affair.

I am in training one for one more month and are on course to swear in October 16th. Shortly thereafter, I will be installed in Saint Louis. My laptop has fallen to the hard-knocks of village-life, but I am slowly developing a peice I will show on the blog in the next few weeks www.richardaross.blogspot.com. My mother is also in the process of sending me a more portable, durable device. I also want to wait to incorporate this Sunday's celebration of Korite, the muslim holiday observing the end of Ramadan. My host brothers have led me to believe I will assist in the sacrafice of a cow.

Please update me about the latest on all of you.

With mirth, merriment, and xo's
Richard
or as I am known to rural Africa, "Baay saax"

2009-08-15T14:22:00.000-07:00

If anyone is poking around, I want to let all of you, I've arrived to Senegal safe. The arrival has been met with all sorts of warmth, energy and hardwork! I will be spending the next few weeks, trapping my first impressions into a larger net of observation and experience. When it's topfull, I shall release the net right here.

see you then,
RR

The Seacoast 7 Miler, Magnolia, Gloucester 7/18/09

2009-08-10T07:13:00.000-07:00

You can be rest assured that I will represent all Westerners when I introduce JOGGLING to the African people.

Blast Off!

2009-08-10T07:01:00.000-07:00

Greetings Everyone!

While I have all of you at once, I've wanted to update you on some important news. Wednesday, the 12th of August, I'll be headed to the West African Nation of Senegal, where I'll strive to accept an invitation to serve in the United States Peace Corps. If I am so lucky as to be sworn in and, in turn, complete my expected term of service, I will be there a duration of 27 months, returning to the United States in the autumn months of 2011.

As the gateway to West Africa, Senegal is as rich in its culture as it is in its beauty. Also, if you locate Senegal on the map, you will find that it is not wretchedly far away from the East Coast of the United States, and as a matter of fact, it is no further away than Italy. Just on the other side of the Atlantic, Dakar, Senegal’s capital city is West Africa’s largest and busiest port, as well as cosmopolitan and architecturally significant. In many circles, it is often referred to as the “Paris of West Africa.” The Senegalese are in particular revered for their rich musical heritage, but many native men may want you to believe it is their obsession for le fut soccer, while on the other hand, the women of Senegal would submit that it is the bedazzling shopping, inside the bustling, labyrinthine outdoor markets that defines the true splendor of this culture. Whatever the case might be, all 13 million Senegalese are to be proud Africans, and having experienced over a century of French colonization, they are no doubt also tasteful and refined.

I am truly blessed to have been assigned to a true cultural cornerstone of Africa. Of little surprise, Senegal’s national language is French, but of course, there are several other indigenous dialects being spoke around the country, Wolof, being the most widely heard. Peace Corps ensures that every volunteer is immersed in the local language(s) as soon as he or she steps off the plane, and I’ll declare, if I can’t finally raise my French to a near level of fluency in my two years of service, I am one horrid linguist.

All over West Africa, city centers are trying to accommodate unprecedented levels of population. The rapid urban population growth is a combination of worsening conditions in the rural regions and the attractive opportunities that are being created in cities. Needless to say, the cities are being overburden by the demands of such strenuous population density, and as urban planners and city officials scramble to make room for everyone to live, there is a more fundamental question that is being asked throughout West Africa. How will the cities be able to feed so many people, especially when many of the country’s agriculturists are abandoning their land in the villages to find work in the city?

In the Peace Corps, I hope to be assisting innovative and preemptive projects that answer that exact question above. I will be focused on food security, as well as new technologies and disciplines of sustainability to better transition Senegal into an ineluctable future of urban sprawl. I will be sure to consider the creative solutions I learned in India of recycle and re-use into the greater imagination of my work in Senegal. All West African Peace Corps volunteers, regardless of specialization, are expected to lead efforts in raising the awareness of HIV/AIDs. In our two years, we are also granted the freedom and highly encouraged to lead a project of our own, whether it is to host a talk-radio show, introduce and organize a recreational sport and/or activity, or fundraise for and build new facilities, such as libraries. You can imagine I have a few ideas of my own.

Before I receive my exact work-site and assignment, I will participate in a 3-month intensive training with 56 other trainees in the Senegalese city, Thies. During which time, if I meet all requirements, I'll be sworn in as a volunteer and my two years of service will begin.
This email of notification, not to be mistaken as a Chronicle, is primarily in response to a decision I had made after returning from India. I have, believe it or not, caved. The Chronicles of the past have always been disseminated via the medium of email, but I’ve accepted to be true, in our dizzyingly advancing world of technology and multimedia, all of today's blog mania might hold merit. With that said, my Peace Corps adventures to come will be available on my very own, Overseas with the Senegalese at http://www.richardaross.blogspot.com/. I had seriously considered the title Rich and the Poor but I feared that it would have been construed as a mere affront and much less the playful double-entrendre I had originally intended. You will also find there chronicles and photos of the last five years, as well as new installations of my South-East Asian escapade of last spring and an impulsive holiday in Sweden this past June. Do give me sometime once I arrive to settle in before it is routinely updated.

I want to say farewell and for those that will make the switch with me to the blog, Hello, Bonjour, or as the most courteous greet with in Senegal , Assalaamaalekum!. Let the next two years for all of us be safe, healthy and happy!

Xoxo,
Richard
My address, once I arrive for the first 9 weeks will be as follows:

Richard Ross PCT

Corps de la Paix

B.P. 229

Thies, Senegal

West Africa

Letters to Senegal are 98 cents. Flat rate int'l boxes start at $37.And be sure to send airmail and write "PAR AVION" and "AIRMAIL" on all letters, otherwise they will be sent via sea and can take years to arrive.

Pat Pong and Ping Pong: A night in Bangkok's Sex District

2009-07-31T12:13:00.000-07:00

Before I arrived to Bangkok, I was not too familiar with Thai people, what they looked like, how they sounded; I wasn’t sure I had ever met a Thai person. What I did know was that in fifth grade, my aunt had brought back a Hard Rock Café: Bangkok shirt for me. That whole school year, wearing the shirt once or twice a week, the bourgeoning potty-mouths were beside themselves. Those two syllables within Bangkok, so blunt and vulgar, immediately decided the choice words for the class.

Because of that Hard Rock t-shirt, and the dirtiness it once represented, the city had always stood for sex. I continued to associate this, and to no surprise, on every corner, the real Bangkok justified all of its phonetic filthiness. Especially, in one district—not too far from the city’s center. Pat Pong Market, as it was referred to, held a reputation from the onset that was notorious, a must-see for anyone passing through Thailand. I, for one, did not need too much persuasion to board the sex safari. Nor much time. That same night, with the wildebeest and his buzz-cut friend, we went.

They meowed and hissed. When my back was turned, I could feel the weight of their gaze. I would remember what I just sidestepped; a Thai girl, thinly-clad, wigwagging her backside, curling her index fingers inward, ushering me into her workspace, as if I was already late. There we many like her, all of whom, overflowed into the streets, rerouting the pedestrian traffic into one of the numerous Go Go bars. Once inside, the girls paraded around poles and cocktail tables, they purred on laps, they asked what my name was. In the center, others clustered onto a podium. Many were pretty, I reckoned, but each wore a numbered dog tag, dangling just below their small breasts. As they rotated, the respective numbers increased-- noticeable gaps suggested some were already at work. I was at once reminded of an Auschwitz wake-up drill and a beauty pageant.

It was simple. Once eyes had been met, they required one or two drinks—some jesting, a little lollygagging to follow. I saw no official transactions as in the red-light district of Amsterdam. No set prices. No up-front payments. The process here, it seemed, was modeled upon the casual negotiations of a yard-sale and entailed no more than permission from the manager. It was clear, if I wanted to take them out for dinner, I would have a girl-friend for the night. If I provided breakfast, I’d have them until lunch. So on and so forth.

I sat on the periphery, athwart a British girl, who was also balancing curiosity with caution. She had a disarming presence— granted probably by her rare distinctiveness in the gooey orgy of Asian women. At first glance, the shadowiness of the surrounding sin caused her to be aglow with cultivated beauty—like that of a virgin. Not long, when we agreed to step outside together, only a few feet from the sleaze, many of my early impressions of her were in fact, overstated. But I was appreciative to have her by my side, for she effectively, unflinchingly, warded off the whores who waited in ambush.

To anyone who’s been to Thailand, the real horror of Pat Pong Market is nearly the prostitution. There is, in truth, something at play which is far more outrageous; far more despicable and modestly spoken, spellbinding, for all orientations. I had never witnessed something so unbelievable, not in the most daring acts of pornography, nor in any display, X-rated or not, of human behavior in my entire life. The Ping Pong Show breathed life into a fetish seldom imagined, I would trust, but once the performance is seen and synthesized, the female body and (any) inanimate object(s) will share a relationship.

Marian, my interim lover and I took our seats moments before the curtains opened. We discovered Super Pussy minutes before by the jamboree of Finish boys thronged outside. All of us were horded upstairs by the leather laced doorwomen, cracking with bullwhip certainty we would receive a free drink upon entry. We received our whiskeys, and joined the other members of the audience, gazing inquiringly at the randomness of things scattered across the front half of the stage. In between the unclothed cocktail waitresses that passed, there appeared wooden paddles, soda bottles, a small fish tank without any fish, non-erasable markers and white paper. Good heavens, I thought.

When the music dulled and the rickety mechanics of the curtain squeaked, two women emerged. Both were gaunt, one was more demonstrative, seemingly more mirthful in the spotlight; the other was deadpan but sneaky, she seemed as if she was hiding something. The music resurfaced. The girl, who had seemed demonstrative, now shuddered as if she was irked by a sensation of twitchiness. She shuffled to the side, very close to me. Awaiting her turn for I did not know what, her growing impatience and her nudity made me uncomfortable.

Taking center stage was the other one. For the few seconds before, her whole temperament seemed strained, burdened by something unnatural. Even below the pelvis, however, she had no disfigurement save for the single red thong that scantily covered the slit of her fleshy vagina. When she scrunched into a squat, she stretched one arm behind for balance and used her other hand to pinch the thong to the side. She appeared now to be in a state of constipation, and when it intensified, a thump burped between her legs. A ping pong ball no sooner, ricocheted against the far wall. My heart galloped.

Now I knew all along she had been hiding something. To be precise, more than just something, but several things. Moist ping balls continued to be released, deflecting at random, bouncing off walls and confused people. I was handed one of the wooden paddles, encouraged to participate. Squatting, she served, and I returned. Back and forth we went. The crowd cheered, and the instances I missed, they booed. The whole experience was unique. Everyone was having fun.
Sidestepping to the center, the showgirl who had stood watch during her partner’s act was now excited for different reasons. What was once mirth, anxiety had replaced. When the right attention was granted, she wasted no time. Hovering over the fish bowl, with the interiors of her ankles pressed up against the glass, she gave the audience an unerring suggestion of what she had in store, or rather, storage.

The gold fish, the size of an unlit match, was released into the water alive. I had not known when the fish entered her exactly; had it been trapped up there since the show had begun? The restlessness I remember, suggested yes, and that was to be five minutes at least. Five minutes or five seconds, I’m certain this girl had experienced the most acute sensation of ticklishness available; granted from a biological standpoint, I cannot empathize, but I trust, seeing the openmouthed girls in attendance, there was reason to be impressed.

As the show continued, other girls appeared, with pale complexions and unbelievable objectives. One started pulling feet of multi-stranded ribbon from her midsection—I could not help be reminded of African Guinea Worm. Another girl absorbed Coke-A Cola and sprayed it into the crowd. Towards the end, a cute little go-getter came out with a box of markers. She chose the color red to be clamped inside her. Above a sheet of paper, she crouched low and planted her feet, as if to leap frog. However, instead of launching, she remained in place, thrusting her weight in a series of fine strokes. The final product was not legible until she raised it. With the same sloppiness and self-fulfillment of a kindergarten student, she had correctly spelt her name.
My participation early on drew one of the performers to my side. Seeing that I had my eyes glued to the stage, she refocused her attention there as well. “This is easy,” she spoke loudly while pawing my shoulder, “I can do this.” She was not intimidated by my female companion. Like her, the many other prostitutes I observed proceeded with a nasty disregard to all girl-friends and wives. Non-hookers were just laywomen, to be treated with insolence and inferiority.

Brushing Marian aside like a dog begging at the dinner table, she announced, “I do boom boom too.” Her overtures continued until she deemed me good-for-nothing, and went on to the few men left.

Some audience members lost patience with the show and left midway through. It almost seemed as some men came here to be stimulated, and when they were made aghast, they left. That the concept of a girl transforming her vaginal cavity as manipulative instrument perhaps had a carnal appeal at first, but in practice, was no more erotic than a gymnast holding a split, or a break-dancer extending a headstand. Yes, the women were naked. And in their appearance, they represented a foreign pulchritude to be desired, but my brain was in no mood to lust. It was instead hampered with jolting astonishment.

The absurdity of the show certainly had its own worth, but this absurdity was not achieved through its raw sexual explicitness. When it was all said and done, it was not the conventional strip show to sit sheepishly and hide my erection, I was witnessing; I had come, somewhat accidentally, to celebrate human accomplishment.

Colorblind

2009-07-09T09:29:00.000-07:00

There is the Sun and the Moon, and between, is the World, Blue and Rotund, and the rest, we unfairly color Green.

My First Swedish Midsummer

2009-07-08T10:41:00.000-07:00

Having spent the greater chunk of the year in the scruffy 3rd world, understanding that soon, I would spend the next two years in the sweltering straits of Africa, I knew at no delay, I needed a first world vacation. At the very least, I needed to cleanse my lungs in the freshest air of prosperity I could. Scrolling Kayak.com, ogling my options, Sweden, with the soft, ethereal touch of an angel, pulled me towards her. When I looked down, and to my wonderment, my fingers were no longer typing, but stroking, stroking silky strands of blond hair, I had no choice but to purchase.

Spending a few nights in Stockholm, I dipped south, spending the weekend in Copenhagen. From Copenhagen, I spent two nights in Malmo, a city on the Swedish-Danish Border. Thanks to a few friends I made in Paris, while studying at the Sorbonne, I was invited to stay at their place in Gotemburg. During that time, I had the opportunity to experience the apotheosis of Swedish culture.

The friday that falls the closest to the summer solstice is a much anticipated day if you're from Sweden. It is called Midsummer, a long standing tradition for Swedes to come together, usually in a country home or coastal cottage. Once you reach adolescense, the celebration is usually spent among friends, precisely balancing the male/female ratio. Suiting up with felicitous dress, the Swedes spend the afternoon hours with a glass in hand, mingling, each looking more exquisite than the next. As the hours grow later, evening is no where to be found. Darkness is no match to the stubborn Northern sun, and so, daylight continues on, far beyond the conventional concept, shaking your internal time-clock into a tizzy.

In my particular run-in with Midsummer around 8pm, after a few bizarre games, the men lit the grill. Together, in a similar fashion, we tossed on juicy slabs of unidentifiable meat. Losing sight of my particular contribution, I forked up two pieces, and took them upstairs to the decorative dinner table. When everyone took his or her seat, members of the party stood up and declared a toast. After the speaker finished, and the shrieks of laughter disipated, the table engaged in a round of Snapps shots--the custumary alcohol of Midsummer. The Swedes were very respectful, and compromised their mother tongue for english to include us into conversation. At one point, I stood up, toasting and raising a glass to Sweden as the "most competitive experiment in perfection the world has to offer." The bibulous cheer grew into louder explosions of joy, and soon merrymaking flared across the dancefloor. Frenziedly, the next few hours were dedicated to the music, keeping balance and Limbo. Towards midnight, bodies started to drop, a few in plain sight, others drifted off in pairs. By 1am, all floors of the house were like mini WWII battlefields of sprawling Europeans. The sun, at one point, touched down on the horizon, but quickly bounced up, even higher than before. Light then poured through the windows, revealing how absurdly positioned everyone was. As one of the first to be up, tiptoeing between broken glass, splashes of vomit and snoring lovers, I arrived at the window facing over the water. Gazing into a vast, billowing sea dividing Denmark, I was drawn to a gentle commotion below. Johnny, my old childhood counterpart was shirtless and smiling, upright on the sun-rinsed deck, tipping back a bottle of beer.

To see photos of the celebration, click the link below
6/09http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2158543&id=7402694&l=64ffa0f8fb

2009-07-07T08:59:00.000-07:00

A sneakpeek of Chapter 1 of my South-East Asian Travels

2009-07-07T08:01:00.000-07:00

When the taxi pulled up to Khaosan Road a little before noon, I immediately checked in to a hotel, broke free from my clunky backpack and fell backwards, waking up to a dark sky on a stiff mattress. I walked outside, secured a seat at the first outdoor café and ordered a cup of coffee and one Thai beer. I was impressed with the coffee and curious how another beer would taste. While the waitress brought over another beer, I noticed five bright-colored Barak Obama T-shirts undulating in the soft breeze, two of which, were obscured by another idle traveler. When I aimed my camera in his direction, he scooted to the side.

“Not that you’re not terrifically handsome” I said. Those were my first words to come out of my mouth that were not directly related to a formal transaction since I left India. While the waitress returned with the beer, he prepared to respond, to which he finally did, with an invitation to join him. With alacrity, I rearranged my chair and offered my company. He had a voluble tongue about his recent trip to Cambodia, his ten years spent in England and his long overdue return home, to Australia with his fiancé. He was adamant we drank more before we ate, ‘eating was cheating’ he enjoyed repeating. His fiancé, Beth, joined us, and urged us to revisit the topic of Cambodia. Etching on a napkin, the couple devised a ten-step manual how to reach the Cambodian border entirely hassle free. The detailed instructions were precise: how to detect a con-artist, a tourist trap, and what phrases to assert at the border. I inscribed the steps into the front cover of my Paul Theroux novel, Dark Star Safari. I felt I was being led on a treasure hunt and I liked that, so I insisted Cambodia would be next. James and Beth were satisfied and we continued on, our moods proving more expansive by each beer.

The road now was swirling with travelers. James and Beth saw it wise to resign for the night, leaving me with a sufficient buzz and a flappy mouth. I moseyed on across the street, taking a seat by two pretty women. They were rattling off in Spanish, but their table joined with a larger party, all of whom had the earmarks of an American with the exception of one man. At first, the associations of all those seated were unknowable. The one Indian man with the three Americans acknowledged my curiosity despite the sonorous Spanish that divided us. He lofted several platitudes over the banter until I pulled closer. Causing an interruption, I projected my introduction so all could hear, including the gabby Spaniards. All eyes were on me as I delivered my story: though I could go no further once I broached New Delhi—the Indian man asking me where exactly. And of course, the right response was Golf Links, his childhood home, also the same neighborhood my sister lives and I had stayed. The happenstance filled him with tremendous garrulity that he, with the support of the table, revealed the peculiar circumstances of why he and they were together.

In addition to Golf Links, the man from India and I shared one more thing in common. At that table, we had both met his daughter—for the first time. 20 years had passed since his American girl friend had urged him to run along, to pursue his dream to be a hot-air balloon captain, and to be anything but a father in their daughter’s life. So he did, his daughter and he eerily explained. He never bemoaned about his abandonment, nor paid much attention to it. He seemed a product of his profession, someone who had unhitched early in order to float through life. The illegitimate Katie, a senior at the University of California Irvine, located her errant father on Facebook a few months before. She notified him that she was a student abroad in Bangkok—if he ever passed through, they should meet for a meal.

And here they were, she sat before him, I sat beside, their first conversation. Both so stoical, devoid of grudge or melodrama, they spoke as perfect strangers. I was disbelieving of the arrangement, certain they were merely exploiting my ignorance. Still, to my amazement, the details of the affair poured in without inconsistency. I appreciated the story. It was a pleasant vacation from the blame-games and bitterness of a broken home.

Passing midnight, the yawns were too difficult to hide. The Spaniards retired to their cigarettes, father and daughter made plans to spend the next day together, and I stood up, as to bow, and wished everyone a good night. Entering the street, I was nearly washed up by the flowing current of interesting people, but I resisted, crossing over to my squalid hotel. Entering my room, leaving the light off, I undressed in the glow of a city still awake.

The Indian Chronicles V

2009-07-07T07:57:00.001-07:00

Greetings,
As I promised in our last encounter, each Chronicle lags somewhere in the distant past. I know we are already past Valentine's Day, and I'm sure half of your have already made plans for next Christmas, but let me bring you up to date as much as I can, beginning the last few days of 2008 and taking you up to the now--where I am just hours away of leaving India, behind. Where am I off to in just a few hours? Many places! But if you want to know exactly, you must read--the answers lie somewhere in the text!
-------

My holiday travel began on the island-nation of Sri Lanka. I followed eight others, some family, some who’re friends of the family. Arriving in the capital city, Colombo, 4 hours from taking off on a frost-glazed runway, I had for the first time in my life, left India behind. Sri Lanka had been under the British Empire, as both a proud colony of the British East India Company and a strategic port for harboring naval fleets. Around the time India made its getaway, so didn’t Sri Lanka, achieving independence in 1948. No more than 20 miles off the southern coast of Chennai, Sri Lanka literally operates in India’s shadow but in spite of all the similarities, the 20 million Sri Lankans have their own way of life, not to mention, their own problems. The recent history is one of civil war, concentrated for the most part in the Northern region of the country, it’s a perennial struggle of occupation between the Sri Lankan government and the cause of the Tamil minority, preserved for better or for worse, by the Tamil Tigers, a tightly- banded and tactical terrorist organization. Colombo, in response, is strangled with checkpoints, trying its absolute hardest to separate the murder of the north with the sunbathing of the south. I did not stay long, just enough to see the hatching modernity, cleanly streets, free-flowing traffic, and the pleasant lack of gut-wrenching poverty and pollution—all of which I had lost touch with in India. Amid this aging civil-war, there was surprising evidence of independent progression, as if Sri Lanka was India’s little sister, and for this reason, wanted to be nothing like her.
Four hours south of Colombo, we reached our final destination,. Bentota Beach. This seaside town, burdened by empty hotels, empty-chairs and empty taxis, seemingly had once sold its soul to tourism, but without any more tourists, the complexion of the locals, glum, a bit desperate, suggested that perhaps ‘we should not have.’ The unpeopled landscape, however, provided every bit of reason why, once upon a time, Bentota was a cluttered destination for Germans and Russian Tourists. It was in fact, a splendid looking place—a rich juxtaposition of lush vegetation, velvety sand and pounding surf. Our bed & breakfast, snuggled somewhere in between, was an atmospheric delight. An architectural vision put forth by a rich, voguish English woman, who one winter, collected her severance package and headed to the Sri Lankan seaboard, where she met and married a local fisherman. Together, with her money, and his land, they constructed a five-bedroom villa.
Along the deserted beach, the local men would emerge from the shadowy bush as swarthy, scantily-clad sculptures. For many, their dark straight hair had not been disturbed in years, nor had their lifestyles—from what I could conclude, they had never been apart from the beach; like the breaking waves they surfed, they had no other direction but towards the shore.
I set out early, each morning, walking bare-foot on the warming asphalt that separated a swampy forest. The walk was memorable. As the red sun climbed to its late-morning post, the overhanging mangrove branches reflected pockets of shade, to which I hop-scotched to and fro, occasionally startling a prostrating cow. Once I stepped off the road, onto the sandy path, my friends were always waiting, lounging in between the sling-shot V of a tree, ostensibly where they had slept the night before. We engaged in many activities together; the ones requiring less vocal communication were more successful. We would toss my Frisbee—an activity that on their end proved as challenging as when I attempted to surf. At night, they would invite me to their “parties”—usually at the request I pitch in for alcohol, which I learned after the first night, meant to purchase all of it. This was not asking too much, they had been friendly, they were poor—a little bibulous cheer was the least I could give this Christmas.
My first invitation, occurring Christmas eve, was to be accepted quickly, in between the celebration feast of those that I traveled with. Christmas Eve was an evening that every year hitherto, constituted certain tradition, the faces of certain loved-ones and the evocation of certain emotions. But when the sun sunk below the horizon my first Christmas away from home, I was contently homesick, sitting around a crackling bon-fire, passing around a bottle of “Irak,” a locally distilled spirit, made of crushed coconut, but tasting more of vinegar. Two of the beach boys were wearing Santa hats I’d provided, another banged a bongo drum, interspersing slurred lyrics of Bob Marley into the up-tempo sounds of "Sri Lankan reggae". In this far-distant land, I was reminded of the many summers in Annisquam, where we too, nestled up to a fire, atop soft sand, serenading each other with our motley renditions of Revolution and Buffalo Soldier.
Back at the guest house, the others (Did I mention, “Grammy”, i.e., the wonderful Deb Gardner had made the trip from Gloucester) had assembled my I-Pod speakers and were singing and dancing to music a bit more customary this time a year. Jingle Bells, Frosty the Snow Man and other classic carols revived all of our hazy holiday spirits, and as the bottles uncorked, and the song and dance grew more outrageous, I was at last, celebrating Christmas, rather than reminiscing about it.
After two more sunsets, I was off to the next civilization-by-the-sea. Reentering India, I had taken an early morning flight from Colombo to Goa. Everyone, however, advised I stay clear of it, stay in Sri Lanka, change my plans. The rampage of terror was sure to continue on, the terrorists were still hungry and the flesh was ripe in Goa. I, too, second-guessed my itinerary, but the hype of a New Years in Goa had infected my mind. I was too curious. Eventually, I in fact, found solace in my decision. If I were to exercise good judgment, I would not have been going to Goa in the first place.
Granted, I had not been before, and of course, Tourism is napping across the world, but the Goa I encountered was not groggy. Whether the numbers were lower than seasons in the past, those that made the trip this year wanted to be there. I had seen nothing like it. India, where the majority live hand-to-mouth, in Goa, it’s sand-between-toe. Once colonized by a pious Portugal, Goa could be India’s Catholic keepsake, but surrounded by ceaseless sin, every crucifix that remained seemed to be crooked.
Entering North Goa, I was transplanted into a restless state of being. The bumpity bump of Goan Trance trembled from all directions—but never one, in particular. That ancient promise of debauchery, why the Portuguese disembarked year after year still remained. As if heaven had been sold to the devil, the air and the ocean, seeming fresh and pure at first, was in fact contaminated.
Most would dismiss them as delusional, freeloading hippies, and I agree, such a reputation retains truth, but they were every bit convincing. They live honest lifestyles, not hiding nor downplaying that they were high. The hippies of Goa have no business gazing through the pedestrian and predictable lens of sobriety. Their philosophy instead suggests that the human mind is too vast, too multidimensional for it to waste away on its own—it needs further experiment, it needs more exploration. Let it be said then, although Goa’s 125-kilometer coastline may once have been discovered, it will forever continue to be explored. If you arrived to Goa this morning or 20 years ago, it does not make a difference. From 10pm on, with a water-bottle in hand, the trip for most has just begun.
Who were these people? They were Israeli and Iranian sensualists, forming mini peace agreements on the dance floor; Russian Mafiosos and their porcelain prostitutes. On the beach, there were the hairy, grotesque Indian men, straddling black Speedos—their docile wives trailing behind, bedecked head-to-toe in dark radiant garb, they perspired needlessly. These panting Indian women, sweating products of a chaste culture, were of course juxtaposed to the topless and inconsiderate Europeans. The retired English couples, who were supine, unclothed, did little but sunbathe and squawk. The shriveling French women, as well, were unpleasantly peacockish, spending their days face-down in the buff, naively in the way of those that needed to get by. And the Americans you ask? Well for better or for worst, there weren’t any.
Off to the side, the local Goan women pose as the God-sent beauty of South-East Asia—the Indian, so supernatural in her appearance, the drudgery in which she labors sneaks away and only her face shines. It’s a fresh concept for the American-construct: the pretty living meagerly—but throughout India, the beggar, the weary, the filthy—they behold the eye. For the rich, silk-stocking type, they’re but gluttons—a mid-Elizabethan mindset somehow still resonates here; where pale skin and a pot belly dyes the blue in one’s blood.
The hawkers and peddlers in Goa were of another breed—some playfully frisky, others borderline pestiferous. At times, I was waist deep in the water, seconds from absolute submersion, and a young girl, with her right arm supporting 50 beaded necklaces, trying not to drown, would gurgle, “sir, necklace, very good price.” Or the many inert taxi drivers, as I zipped by them on my rented scooter, would not ask, but insist earnestly that I, already in locomotion, needed their service.
It was almost lunch time, of 2009, when my New Year’s celebration made any hints at last-call. A night-club, so magnificently located, the dance-floor was the beach: the ocean, the restroom. The energy was riveting. It was remarkably not about sex and seduction, my New Years, and everybody else’s, was about movement and space—synergy and sensation. After the 1st, growing more exhausted and emaciated by the day, I had to leave. I packed my bags, kissed my chemical romance goodbye and boarded a bus to Mumbai.
When witnessing one of the largest cities in the world for the first time, you are always on the edge of your seat, but in the case of Mumbai, formerly known as Bombay, you’re perched on the outer edge of a moving train, latching on for dear life. From the inside looking out, Mumbai seems to be the most talked about city this year for Americans. Between the international media’s unabated coverage of November’s terrorist attacks and the buzzing success of Slum-Dog Millionaire, I’m sure you all have your own impressions—perhaps some more horrific than others. To me, however, Mumbai was the Indian fantasy. All that I had seen in India up until then, was inconceivably aggrandized—for instance, in Delhi, where four may be saddled to a motor scooter, in Mumbai, there are six. Mumbai, as well as India’s business hub, serves as Bollywood’s center stage—and a little like New York and a tad like LA—Indians are more caught up with self-image, self-expression and self-identity. Fighting for recognition in a pageant of 12 million, many Mumbaites are India’s most unique. They’re goaded by money, driven by success —it is for many, the land of opportunity in a country that offers little. Mumbai, encouragingly, also proceeds with the blindest eye to caste and religion in all of India.
I am illustrating images that may not justify the grazing slums, the day-to-day struggle of those who pick trash and sleep on cement each night, or the many families who lost their loved-ones in one of the greatest surprise triumphs in terrorism, but Mumbai, it seemed, did not indulge itself in sympathy. To slow down and observe, to soften the heart and appreciate the horror, will only lead to an inconvenient fender-bender. Mumbai is an urban culture shaped by the nouveau-riche, and thus, individuals are always swimming upstream. Mumbai’s treasure for most may be just on the other side of the run-way. For others, it’s that next casting-call, striking one more wicket, the nightshift at an emerging call-center or more recently, the chance to go on Want to be a Millionaire. Wherever it is, no one wants to lose momentum, so no one looks back.
No highlight of Mumbai could of course outshine the reunion with my mother Amy and her boyfriend Richard. This time, although traveling a little farther than usual, they had not abandoned the life of luxury. Where ever they turned in India, the feather pillows were fluffed, the masseuses were knocking, and the morning buffets were “please sir, right this way.”
In their first day or two here, retarded by jetlag and stomach-gurgling, they were not exactly sure what to expect. In the next two and ½ weeks, however, from the South to the North, they delicately scraped off all of India’s delights—the food, the shopping and the sunlight—and by the time they reached us in Delhi, their final destination of the trip, they were rhapsodic about the place. As if India had been once a googly-eyed monster, but as they grew more acquainted, sipped his tea, he was in fact, a friendly creature. They are not alone in this respect. For so many who travel to India, it seems, what was strange when you arrived is special when you leave.
Once we split in Mumbai, I was butted by a hankering to return to Goa, which, in the darkness of night, I did. I won’t continue to blather about another week of sun-basking and merry-making but I will say, in my spontaneous return, I did feel just how thin the line is, between just arriving for another week and remaining there for a lifetime. I told everyone I would visit again soon, but between you and me, I dare not go back—ever.
Through and through, the experiences have been great—and less misfortunate than the saga in Chennai. Once I resettled in Delhi, where I have been the last month, I took a paid-assignment for the International Center for Research on Women (ICRW), helping with the writing, editing and publishing process of a report, assessing various micro-credit programs in India and their impact on women’s empowerment. The experience, to work at a very respectable Indian research-center as the only non-Indian, was fruitful and rewarding.
In about four hours, I fly to Bangkok, trading my expatriate badge of India in for a grimy tourist-visa—to again trespass aimlessly in someone else’s country. As I’ve stated, my plans upon arriving, are frighteningly unstructured. As I’ve stated before, I would like to make my way South, following what Lonely Planet refers to as the ‘Beach Cure’ passing through South Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, and on into Indonesia, hopping between Bali and a few other sun-drenched islands—ending in the untold mystery of Jakarta.
I do know however, my time is not as boundless as it once was. My recent acceptance into the Peace Corps somewhere in West Africa, with a departure date in August (pending I am not carrying too many latent viruses) will rush me around the US, making my rounds and wishing everyone, once again, a farewell—though this one—to be much longer.
I can’t wait to see all of you. If I had to guess, I’ll be back in the refurbished United States by mid-April. But of course, an on-the-fly Chronicle of South-East Asia should precede my physical homecoming.
Happy President's Day!
Richard

The Indian Chronicles IV

2009-07-07T07:52:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Goa!
A belated merry Christmas, Happy New Year and an advanced 'hip hip hooray' for the Inauguration just around the corner. As you've probably gathered, each Chronicle is emailed a month or so after the experience in which I reflect about. This one is no different. Although, I have covered much ground since we last met, I can not jump the gun--I must remain true to the chronology I've set forth. Below takes you back, just to where we left off. On my way to South India. Enjoy!
In my first descent to South India, the sun rose with fiery promise—beaming a reflection of levity, warm-heartedness and laziness I hadn't seen in the North. However, for all her warmness while I was there, the sunset was not pretty. She sunk unnoticed, amid an unforecasted squall of misfortune.
The largest city on the south-eastern coast, Chenai, once Madras, was not to be handsome or terrifically tropical, but a valuable city nonetheless. Valuable, in its own right, as a sound sanctuary for south Indian culture. Still, undeniably in Bombay's shadow, Chenai breathes without the cosmopolitan fluff and western indulgence. No instead, food grubbing, lungi's* and the Tamil language are the norm—all conventions to be considered animalistic in the upper-crust, old money circles of Delhi.
*Cloth, swathed around the waist of a man, insofar as to call it a skirt.
The same Indian pandemonium and pollution reeks, but here, its scented with the salty air of a forlorn sea. The roads even more clogged and the equatorial heat, which befriends the scalding pavement and sooty exhaust, come together to release unbreathable smoke like that of burning plastic. On the surface, the neighborhoods along the coast appeared unusually egalitarian. However, when I voiced this observation, a local responded, "the poor? They were washed away with the tsunami." A theory, need I say, wrenched my heart.
My being there had much to do with an ultimate Frisbee tournament. Eight teams had journeyed from all across India to take part in a round-robin contest. We, being the most American rooted team thought we would cake walk end-zone to end-zone, leaving the bulk of competition, all of whom, Indian-born, beseeching for our autographs. Hell, we invented the sport! But…the curse of cockiness curled our throws and cramped our muscles; what we anticipated and what took place bred humiliation of nth degree. We were the Soviets, with the ice still in our veins, denied the Gold and by who? Amateurs, a litter of copy-cats that took the American import and ran with it.
Once defeat had been swallowed and digested, and my teammates hurried back to their jobs in Delhi, I, having been invited to my first Indian wedding had to stay on. With a few days to kill before the 'auspicious' morning, I fled the grungy stew of Chennai and headed for fresher air. Pondicherry, another coastal city four hours south draws tourists alike for its French flavor—France's piece of the pie in the colonial free-for-all India once was. I, myself, a closet Francophile was not thoroughly impressed. The Gallic architecture was there, but you could easily tell, as time passed, the Indians had painted a few shabby coats of their own, For the most part, the Indo-French culture was wearing thin, but what thankfully remained were the outdoor-seating cafes. One in particular proved delightful. Sipping a frothy cappuccino, I relaxed and recharged, for little did I know, le bon vie only had a few hours left.
I rarely offer any real travel advice in the Chronicles, but when an incident unfolds so nefariously, yet so easily avoidable, I will with great obligation, bewail an episode of hard-luck, not as a chronicle, but as a precious lesson to you, but more myself: "Richard, the Traveling Clutz."
One afternoon, as I was waltzing northward, switching from one dilapidated bus to another, the thickening fuliginous sky signaled I was near to where I needed (not wanted) to be. I was making great time. Punctual as a priest to Sunday mass, I was sure to make it to Chenai airport for my departing flight. In fact, two hours before take-off, I had enough time to dicker with a rickshaw driver over 200 rupees, but hard-pressed, I pursued a recommended alternative, delivered in broken English, "bus—airport—abi."
Indeed, among the milling crowd of this nameless Chennai suburb, the approaching bus read, for all 137,367,876 eyes to see, AIRPORT.
In India, buses rarely arrive at a stand-still. They simply accelerate and decelerate. A complete stop would be opening the floodgates too wide—the hordes would gush in too quick. So instead, it's roadside Darwinism. Only the fastest and most ferocious can ride.
With some practice, not a lot, darted towards the transient bus. A gladiator as such, I wrestled for space and fought for air—anything it took to repel the cascading flock. Emerging, I regaled. I was king of the mountain…or so I thought.
Somewhere in the stampede, I had been outfoxed, defiled, my invincibility kaput. I was the protagonist in the classic tale of traveling pick-pocketing. Yes, I had made it aboard, but my wallet, passport and camera had not.
"Stop!!" I bellowed and dismounted from the bus. In some South-East Indian hinterland, with a heart racing and a face paling, I gazed over some three-hundred culprits, and wondered what one does now? My wallet, bearing the high-value bulk of my most recent withdraw, both my credit cards and driver's license, my US passport with my Indian visa and a camera, brimming with memories of the trip, yes, withhold judgment, were all concentrated into the same zippered pouch. I was a sailboat that had suddenly capsized, with all hatches open and each fender untied.
No one spoke English. My flight was in an hour and my ability to remain calm, in the hours to come, was acutely going to be tested. Photo-IDless and penniless, I boarded another bus. Weighed by despondency, I stuck out not just as a white-skinned vagrant, but a white-skinned vagrant on the verge of a cosmic melt-down. Six school boys, still clad in proper uniform acted upon their immediate curiosity to my current state of misery and asked what had happened—in intermediate English. Short of breath, I let body language express the vicissitude of the last half hour; fluttering, squealing, but nevertheless, communicating, the young boys understood my desperation. Making my flight, they assumed was of most importance to me—and I suppose at the time it was. Predicament had me cornered, but my departing flight held promise. Promise to escape this sweltering, Dravidian hellhole if not with my personal belongings, at least all limbs intact.
The young boys, together, represented me, expressing to the rest of the bus my current hardship. Before I knew it, lower-class Indians, with little but rags for clothes and dirt on their hands passed around a hat, each contributing to me: the rich, strange, foolhardy American.
I could have used my energy more constructively. The flight, long-gone by the time I had reached the airport proved that fleeing the crime was appallingly counter-productive. Without the police's observance—in document form of the incident, I had not a hope to board a flight in a country recently zonked by terrorism. Here, there and beyond, the school boys would not leave my side. When we first returned to the scene, the policemen on patrol insisted I'd identify the perpetrator. A feat, even by Hardy-Boy standards, would be impossible—especially considering that two hours now had passed and for all I knew, the sneaky crook already had fronted two month's rent, booked a flight to Boston, and had his family holding a still pose, as he searched for the viewfinder of his new Cannon digital camera.
So, squooshed into the back of a cruiser, we diverted to the station. A dusty dungeon of prehistoric office equipment including: rusting type writers, and glossy, see-through paper for tracing—the most pervasive method of photocopying I've seen through India. I sat, of course. Just as I learned in my first experience (see Chronicle 1) in a Delhi police station, one must always remain seated. The school boys converted my English into Tamil out loud and on paper. One grizzly-haired man, perhaps an administrative assistant handed me a boiling cup of tea and with utmost confidence, maintained I had come to India on a Christian mission. "No, I have not sir." Speechless, but more because he was at a loss for more English, he disengaged.
Hours passed, but the same procedural tedium remained the exact same. "Sir, please write the name of your father on this line" and that line or in that space or on this document. Bureaucrats in this country, you will quickly learn, fixate themselves on paternal lineage. The designated box: Father's Name may even precede the box of your own.
By now, my cell phone was receiving the calls of worried mothers, of all whom, were notified much earlier with my number that their sons would not be home in time for dinner. While the police were still disputing the spelling of my father's prename, I had a minute to semi convince the boys I would be okay and that they should run along; my sister had arranged other help on the way. And so they did, against their gentle will. We hugged farewell; my eyes drizzling with tears.
There's nothing that I love more about Indians than their kindness of strangers. The inevitable crack of the smile if eyes lock or their teddy-bear indifference to a pat on the back. These four boys, Raj Kumar, Mohan, Frank and RK were hallmarks of the selflessness anchored into the hearts of so many Indians. And not yet, is it the wily pickpockets, so-called corrupt politicians and inept police force that make the final difference here. It is the four boys' and the millions and millions of Indians like them who know benevolence and nothing else. India is a daring experiment, both in its overpopulation and fragmentation, but it carries on, cautiously, clinging to the age-old promise, Gandhi himself, entrusted—truth and love will always win.
I did in fact return safely to New Delhi the following morning. I went straight to the American Embassy and filled out the proper paperwork for a new passport. I purchased a new camera, and spent the next four days, again, clambering through the muck of Indian Bureaucracy trying to reinstate my stolen visa. In the 11th hour, a day or so before my flight to Sri-Lanka, I located the only woman who was not preset by a clockwork. She was by all accounts more biological than the other bobbling-head androids I dealt with. She spoke and then she listened, and what she possessed, was an imagination. Staggeringly, she unearthed my paperwork among the sky-scraping clutter, and with just an ink-stamp and my trust, she reissued my visa—free of charge.
India, once more, revealed its schizophrenia. Like I found in Chennai, for all the unforgiving, the compassionate will always be on call. And for all the jostling and jolting, you'll always meet gentle embrace. I will continue to regard India, as I've said before, not just as episodic ups and downs, but as an ever-unfolding debacle—and to be frank, one I have really come to appreciate.
Stay tuned, a couple of weeks, for Chronicle # 5: it's sure to be the best so far! Raw with nostalgia from a wonderful and rapturous voyage through Sri Lanka, Goa, Bombay, and back to Goa.

The Indian Chronicles III

2009-07-07T07:49:00.000-07:00

Hello All!
In my hopes to debunk some of the floating allegations of abandonment and or death, I want to present this chronicle for all of you to be rest assured, I am still flying high. I must admit—taking on a few more commitments—I’m denied some of the time that once was devoted to the Chronicle. I promise, once I leave Delhi and start more rigorous traveling, I will once again, proliferate.
Tonight, the diary opens on the eve of Diwali—India’s most anticipated and arousing holiday. With the same contagious rapture Christmas time brings to the streets, Delhi’s marketplaces and residential neighborhoods are brightly festooned with vibrant stringing lights. The homecoming dash of family appears no different than the “there’s no place like home” attitude during the American holiday season; and might I add, where congestion and chaos already vegetates the flow of movement, “Gee… the traffic is terrific!!” Even more impressive than the traffic however, are the exploding skies. For the past week, the deafening crackle of recreational fireworks shakes the powdery dust off the ground. The spattering eruptions and choking smoke would honestly lead you to believe that Hitler’s Luftwaffe reemerged—air-striking Delhi’s skyline into sheer smithereens. As well as fireworks, other dicey activities such as card-playing have seeped into the popular tradition of Dewali. Leading up to the holiday, friends and family gather around tables, hoodwinking one another, while chancing their heard-earned rupees in various poker sequences. This year, sadly, the celebration’s celestial potential is dampened by the hardship of the year’s terrorism and economic languish but if you ask all the shell shocked, whimpering canines—they’d be sure to tell you that Diwali is as ballistic as usual.
To bring all of you up to date—I have begun working for a highflying and snowballing Delhi-rooted NGO, by the fetching name of Goonj (www.goonj.org) In the late 1990’s, the founder of the organization Anshu Gupta, spent one curious afternoon following his local mortician on his daily route—only to discover that this mortician during the colder months of winter, exercised a small business on-the-side. Despite what you may have heard of India’s inexorable heat, Delhi, especially around Christmas, can be a chilly place—and for those that live on the streets—it is at times unbearable. So unbearable, this mortician earned an extra stipend by leasing freshly diseased bodies to the shivering homeless—all of whom relied on the fleeting warmth and increased weight of a corpse to survive the bracingly cold nights. Aghast, as I assume you’re as well, Anshu was struck both by how tragic such an unfathomable reality was but more, how possible a prevention could be. That New Years, after stuffing their car full with the heaviest clothing and blankets they could find, Anshu and his wife drove around Delhi, distributing a less- macabre source of warmth. Goonj, from that point on has addressed the fundamental necessity of clothing—which surprisingly, is often grossly overlooked in the grand scheme of India’s development.
Owing to Goonj’s clear-vision and creativity, the organization recently won the World Bank’s “Development Market” award and more impressively, “India’s NGO of the year (2007).” For you all who were in my Social Entrepreneurship seminar, let it be said, Anshu is also an Ashok Fellow. Above all, I assist with writing: writing anything from newsletters, reports to catchy slogans but in the next few weeks, I will take on a responsibility much more engrossing. With Goonj, I’ll volunteer in the far-flung villages of rural Bihar—an area of northern India that always has been unrivaled in poverty and disarray but as of late, a result of a catastrophic flood, is in an unprecedented state of crisis. Take some time to check out the website and find out how you can “spread the Goonj.”
November, already in mid-bloom, has yielded much reason to celebrate. Needless to say, Obama’s victory made crashing headlines as Indians and expats alike, expressed fondness to America’s radical make-over. I will happily report that already, the reception for the American abroad is on the brink of a grand renovation—and as sad as I am not to be in Washington for the momentous inauguration, I am equally delighted to travel with my head up high; dangling, not burying my blue-covered passport.
I’ve recently ran the Delhi ½ marathon—by far, the most disproportionate running event I’ve ever taken part in—where police outnumbered spectators 20 to 1. Nevertheless, to run freely on the regularly clogged roads provided a rare opportunity—but running in Delhi is like swimming in the Hudson—withstanding the pollution, in itself, poses the greatest challenge.
The longer that I am here, the less noticeable the debacle-du-jour’s seem. I’m sure the debacles still spring up, but constantly blending together, they have lost all episodic distinction. In order to reside in a place as different as India, maintaining both your composure and concentration, you mustn’t continue to dwell but rather, desensitize yourself to the never-ending unpredictability. In essence, you must submit yourself to India. At first, her every whim will unstitch the very seams of your patience, the threads of your temper, but once it rips, let it rip entirely. You’re then free—free to be at peace with her mercurial nature. Free to gaze in the eyes of the unicorn and accept her as just another horse.
I realized something ripped when the other day, jogging, I ran past a man pedaling a bicycle with a washer machine tied around his back. When before, in America, I would take a second, maybe even a third glance to the occasional mattress tied around someone’s car roof—I looked at this man, as devil-may-care as he was, performing perhaps the greatest display of strength and balance the world has ever seen, with deadpan indifference. Stomping elephants, horse and buggies, pet monkeys on motor scooters, a man lassoing a cow—it’s as if you woke up every morning front-row at the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus.
After two grounded months in New Delhi, the starting gun will sound this weekend. For the next 6 months, easing in gradually, I will start to shed the ties of fixed residence. In the company of “The Stray Dogs” my ultimate Frisbee team here in Delhi, I’ll be headed to the southern port of Chennai for India’s one and only ultimate beach tournament. I’ll also spend a day and a night in Pondicherry. A place that owes a lot to its French settlers, Pondicherry hopes to offer a much more laid-back, congenial version of India. Once I return to Delhi, it will only be a few days until I head north-east, to Bihar, where I’ll experience firsthand the same grueling reality that almost 70 percent of all Indians experience—rural subsistence. Not long after, I’ll join the rest of my sister’s family for a white Christmas—be it, white sand—on the southern coast of Sri Lanka. Naturally, in the days leading up to New Years Eve, I’ll rush to the world-famous beaches of Goa to join the spate of dreadlocked hippies and recently discharged Israeli’s for what’s to be the wildest NYE celebration in all of Asia. If still standing, I am to meet my mother and Richard in Mumbai, fritter rupees away in India’s largest and most flourishing city for a week or two and hop a flight back to Delhi. Saying my goodbyes in Delhi, just in time for its unpleasant cold, I’ll runaway again—beginning in Bangkok. At first, while my bank account seems strong, I’ll swagger around Thailand, Malaysia and once my money runs low, I’ll stagger through Singapore and Indonesia. Along the way, we’ll be sure not to lose touch. Squiggling in a journal and trawling internet cafes, I will do my best to keep all of you abreast.

While I have your attention, I want to report about my loyal friend from A.U., Aaron, who some of you may know, others may not. Aaron Susman, following through with his plans to join Peace Corps, has safely arrived in Burkina Faso—a north-western nation of Africa, that, in top contention for the poorest country in the world, will promise to provide an exceptionally demanding assignment. Over the course of his first month and ½, we’ve spoken frequently via my Skype account to his cell phone—by the far—the only way to reach him (+22675525060).. Shockingly, Wi-Fi has yet to infuse his mud-hut. Currently, he’s amid his 3-months of intensive language and cultural training but after Christmas, he will decamp to his post to begin his two years of service. He will live in a northern Burkina village, a stone’s throw from the Mali border. Far removed from any city, he’ll subsist as the only Peace Corps representative within 70 kilometers, in one of the most arid, futile and sulfurous desserts in all of Africa.
Once he arrives to the village, Aaron’s to head a project that encourages sustainable independence through a fuel alternative known as “japropha.” Despite his already bedridden outbreak of Malaria, sharing his bedroom with lizards and cockroaches of comparable size, and accepting the fact he’ll only eat three variations of millet for the next 25 months, he still expresses crisp commendation for his decision to join.
And to think, it was my sparkling idea that one day, he and I should join the Peace Corps together that ultimately led him, literally, to muffle in the African bush. So in all fairness, let me announce here, once everything is all said and done in South-East Asia, I’ve decided to uphold my end of the deal. If all goes as planned, next Fall will witness the launch of a two-year Chronicle Series. Set where? To be announced but chances are, I’ll be like Aaron, whom, after receiving initial word of his host-country and capital, frantically sprinted to the nearest computer and kindly asked Google where in the world is Ouagadougou? Three weeks later, he now calls it home.
If we could rewind a few weeks, I’ll gently put this chronicle to rest with a bittersweet story of my visit to the Taj Mahal...
Seeing as the outward bound train from Delhi to Agra, the homeland of the Taj Mahal, was booked full for the next 22 years, I opted for the bus. The buses in India always prove to be the more inexpensive mode of transport, but even here, where rationality has little role, there is a clean-cut reason why the buses are the cheapest. A train is attached to the track, a plane is eventually bound by gravity, but when you sit in an Indian tour-bus, you’re the foolish coachman who forgot his whip. In the hours to come, the fickle horse had free rein.
I was to board the bus at 6:30 am at the travel office I booked the ticket in Connaught Place—Delhi’s largest commercial district. I learned fast when I arrived, at 6:20 am, the long line of eager tourists I had expected were nowhere to be found—but still, the office was eerily open. Inside, homeless and half-clad Indian men slept on the very same desks I had just purchases my ticket on the day before. I was literally stepping over bodies as I looked for clues to where my bus was. I walked back outside to the empty sidewalks and metal caged markets; astonished that for how lively the streets are during the day, New Delhi was currently sound asleep. Except for the monkeys trapezing from the rooftops, I was surrounded by more snoring men outside—most of them—ever-so reassuringly were security guards. Eventually, around 7:30, still alone, I almost resigned; but right before, a man approached me, who in broken English, claimed to know of this mythological bus. “Come to me” as he pointed towards his car. I followed him and so did a new comer, who just arrived on the scene—an Indian fellow who knew to arrive one hour and ten minutes late rather than myself, who arrived ten minutes early. After 15 minutes or so, we approached a block congested with long rectangular buses. Again, ungrammatically, he verbalized and pointed to a particular bus. I hopped aboard, experiencing the shameful limelight that a person who is late and lonesome, receives when walking down the aisle of a bus. As the only non-Indian to be seated, I was a walking wellspring of curiosity for most. Discovering an empty seat, I gestured for permission from a pot-bellied man but like so many Indians, especially the thousands of rickshaw drivers I transact with, he propped up the same inconclusive half-nod, half head-shake. So I sat—if he wanted me elsewhere—I assumed he would have snubbed more convincingly.
The bus sat idle for about another hour. Once we began moving, we of course had to stop for fuel—why would anyone ever think to fill the gas-tank before embarking on a 4 hour drive? Continuing on, now almost half past ten, we drove beyond the ostensible city limits of Delhi and merged onto the thoroughfare. As soon as the self-appointed tour leader delivered a verbose instruction in Hindi, without the customary follow-up in English, I knew I was on a tour catered exclusively to the preferences and peculiarities of the Indian-born.
What followed was a day of shall we call—bustration: optimal frustration evoked by a bus. After a luncheon on-the-fly and intermittent road-side urination, we arrived in Agra just a few hours before sunset. Without delay, I was thrown into a frenzy of peddling predators—unable to bare— my distrust succumbed to my restlessness and I paid some hapless swindler to advance me past the queue.
When you visit the Taj Mahal, you’re not to lay eyes on it until you walk beyond the barricades and take your first left. The moment it comes into focus, you feel you have just arrived in Candy Land. The Taj Mahal’s magnificence, call it ethereal, call it surreal, but in my opinion, it’s in its ability to appear entirely fake. Photos always project it more as an optical illusion, but even with your naked eye, it renders the same untruthfulness as a two-dimensional backdrop does of a Broadway stage
I made earnest efforts to avoid the possibility of being left behind; but as I should have predicted, such hurry would pan out as another superfluous act of punctuality. At long last, the passengers returned to their seats, including the customary hitchhikers. As a tourist in India, you learn quickly that one person’s tour bus serves as another person’s public transit. What you may consider a site visit, the fellow dangling out the backdoor, considers his stop.
That evening, I promise you, we paused and resumed more than a San Francisco trolley. It was the birthday of Gandhi and I suppose in a special salute to a preacher of all faiths, we stopped at every place of worship between Agra and Delhi. Somehow 8pm gave way to 10pm and 10pm summoned midnight and we hadn’t traveled more than 25 miles from the Taj Mahal. At one point, at 2am in the morning, our recent progress convinced me we were finally homeward bound—but once again, implausibility prevailed—and we stopped for dinner. Nearing sunrise, we entered a lifeless New Delhi. Almost 24 hours had elapsed on my trip to the Taj and my state of mind, had it not been so sluggish, would had been murderous. I was awoken by one of the driver’s helpers, a husky man of sort. While jostling my shoulder, he asked me where I lived. I responded listlessly, “Golf Links”—
“Number?”
“91” I told him--too tired to reckon why he asked. Shutting my eyes again, I faded back into sleepy hatefulness but before long, was awoken by the sudden stillness of the bus. I straightened my slack neck enough to view out the window—and not yet differentiating reality from a dream—I felt the presence of something very familiar. I will never know why or for what reason, but in the morning mist of that early autumn morning, a tour-bus literally keeling over with Indian men, women and children pulled directly in front of my residence.
There I was—both shocked and flattered--having never felt so special nor embarrassed in all my life. How should I approach this I wondered? As a walk of shame: droopy, on my tiptoes? Or was I to strut, boasting a big chest as if I were on a red carpet? I gathered my things, which of course proved disruptive, as my camera, Ipod, photos and trash were scattered helter-skelter beneath and between seat cushions. Rising to my feet, I treated the moment—as I treat most of my moments here—once-in-a-life-time. Out I went. At first, marching, but as my sleeping security guard came into view, I made sure to lighten my step.
If a tour leaves three hours after its scheduled time. If tour-buses pick up hitchhikers. If 250 rupees can advance you past an entire line. And if I can be dropped off at my personal address in a bus of over 50 passengers, wouldn’t it sound silly to you to wake my security guard while he's sleeping on the job?
From that October morning and every passing minute since, I've discovered the obvious answer in India is not often the preferred one.
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I wish everyone a succulent Turkey! To my usual Thanksgiving crew, I'm stuffed with envy.
Attached (or below) are some more photos. I know, the laundry basket costume returned once again but I thought, being on the other side of the world and all, it had one more Halloween left in it.
Will some one let me know how the Bradyless Patriots are doing?

The Indian Chronicles II

2009-07-07T07:45:00.000-07:00

Hope everyone is happy, healthy and braced up for the big election! I have attended a few Democrats Abroad happy hours myself and without question, the Indian expat community, if called upon, is poised to make the difference!

The Regular Rambling
A few weeks have now passed since the launch of the Indian Chronicles. During our time apart, I have diligently embraced the dramatic relocation of South-East Asia. To my credit, I’ve digested the curry, maneuvered the crowds, bargained the rickshaws, and befriended a tailor. I’ve kept both my head and balance in the caprice of the Indian culture; a culture that buoys its reputation flawlessly. The thrilling mélange of color, spice, smell and widespread bizarreness proves to be as wonderful as it is whiplashing. For many things unfamiliar, I’ve acquired fascination, enjoyment but of greatest importance, a sense of tolerance.

In this world of difference, if you do not learn how to be tolerant, in particular, patient, you ought to as well stay on the runway. Patience, however, is more a virtue for the outsider. It protects you against the endemic impatience found within India. As an American, according to the whole world, we too, are always in a hurry. But here in India, the hurry is different. Here, hurry makes things align evenly, fall into place correctly. Hurrying, it seems in Delhi, is accomplished so simultaneously, the city slows down more than speeds up. I read in Time Out, Delhi’s hippest magazine, that every day, over 110 million traffic violations occur on the road, scientifically concluding that if a driver follows the formal rules laid out, the driver increases his risk for an accident exponentially. India’s anarchical nature—as many would similarly argue towards the corruption in the government—needs to be left unbothered for the society to fully function. In America, where rules define every action, the only upshot of our hurried nature appears to be in our continual coffee stains and fender-benders.

I’ve come to view India as a gigantic slightly-opened treasure chest—with 1/3 of the population who live inside, 1/3 of the population who cling to the side and 1/3 who live completely outside. Those that live inside were either born there or have lifted themselves up and over. Those that cling, cling because they can—thanks to the last few decades of improved socio-economic condition. Lastly, those that remain at the bottom of the chest may not even know about the treasure inside— just as the 1/3 living inside—have no way of seeing what’s outside. The treasure chest both separates and blinds the population from one another— breeding complacency on the top and breeding complacency on the bottom—leaving the clingers in the middle to test the degree of social mobility available in the current system. Some days, I’m overly impressed with the high quality of life in New Delhi; the rich sophistication and liberal expression presented in their fashion, architecture, art, literature, language and general decorum could compete with any progressive culture. Inside the many McDonalds, hundreds of teenagers exchange mobile numbers, discuss their plans to study abroad and devour Big Mac’s recreated with chicken. Other days, however, I am not so impressed.

I have adjusted to the of pungent smell and the heaps of garbage, but what I have not and cannot adjust to is the tattered 4-year old, whom, without any chaperone, ruffles through the rotten trash with the eerie resemblance of how his privileged contemporaries, ruffle through pits of plastic balls. Past midnight, the sidewalks of Delhi resemble a fenceless refugee encampment—though these tens of thousands of homeless are Indian born, displaced outside not by a civil war or hurricane, but by the mere misfortune of a wretched fate. The misery of India begins and ends in its inequality. Its segregation is as multi-dimensional as the treasure chest I speak of, and depending if you’re in, out, or in between the golden treasure, mother India can be kind or she can be cruel.

Let us move away from the miracles and failings of India and focus a little more on what I’ve been up to. Quite frankly, I’ve been up to a lot! In the course of no more than three weeks, I’ve ascended to the highest peaks in the world. I’ve swam in perhaps the holiest water on Earth and I have stood face to face with one of man’s greatest creations. To say the least, I’m terribly grateful to be handed this one-in-a-life-time opportunity (to which I mainly owe to my sister, Gabrielle and her family for without them, I may have never come within a 1,000 miles of India!) I do plan to share my prolonged bus ride to the Taj Mahal and action-packed camping weekend on the Ganges River but I have specially reserved this chronicle to thaw out my memories of a colder India; a breathtaking hideaway, lodged into the Himalayas, where the heavens truly meet the earth.
7 Days in Little Tibet
An hour north of Delhi-snuggled beneath the lofty, snow strewn peaks of the Himalayas, A Buddhist oasis known as Ladakh still manages to breathe fresh air in a politically polluted region of Northern India. Commonly refered to as 'Little Tibet', the Ladakh region, located in the notoriously disputable Jammu and Kashmir province, has removed itself from the border-wars between India and Pakistan. Gruesome violence, that without cease, has defined the way of life for the common Kashmiri. Instead, the Ladakhi people are the proud products of Buddhist philosophy—where the silence of tranquility and the goodwill of compassion can only whisper at the side of thunderous explosions and rampant firings. In light of this, as one of the few preservations of peace in the Indian Himalayas, Ladakh is unsurprisingly the cradle of northern tourism. Since the early 1970’s, when the first Westerner unveiled his pale skin—Leh, the capital of the Ladakh region—developed utterly conscientious of the fruitful rewards tourism can provide. Today, downtown Leh teems with internet café’s, Patagonia fleeces, scrambled egg breakfasts, hotels, and enough spoken and written English to rival Wichita, Kansas. Between May and October, herds of European tourists—in particular the French—suffuse the shops and sidewalks. After a few days trekking the wondrous mountain side, frozen but also sun scorched foreigners return and rapidly thaw amidst the peaceful warmth of the locals.

The local Ladakhi is a living being unlike any other. Wearing skin as tough and rigid as the bark of an Old Sequoia tree and bearing smiles so bright, they too, could melt a solar ice cap. The young girls all possess a common beauty as raw, rugged and unspoiled as the ground they walk on. Each, in their own style, reveals the oneness with nature Pocahontas may have only achieved. The older generations mosey freely with a hunchback and the same weathered mystique of a Victorian Armoire.

As I briefly mentioned—with the surging influx of foreign visitors and the town’s commitment to accommodate every Tom, Dick and Harry, the locals surely have created an acute awareness of the modern world. Materialism, at a growing rate, leaks out of the traveling suitcases and sticks to the daily lives of the locals. All around Leh, Buddhist monks who are swathed head to toe in homespun robes blab way on their cell phones. Young boys mobilize their gun-touting Rambo’s into battle while the girls braid Barbie’s blond hair. In school, English is the medium and the local Ladakhi language is but only one subject. An educated mind might assume that a Himalayan community, 10,000 feet in the sky among few resources and an extreme climate could be protected from the swelling effects of globalization. However, the reality is quite different here. Jeopardizing a thousand years of frugality, ecological balance and social harmony, Leh has emerged as an overnight globalized sensation.

Not all is lost in Ladakh. From the very beginning, Ladakhis and the Earth joined hands in a spectacular co-evolution that still amazes the outsider of today. Even more remarkable is the human and animal relationship. Cows, goats, donkeys and dogs all play a role in the friendly environment. So much so—Leh’s claustrophobic presence of farm animals could easily be mistaken as a sprawling petting zoo without fences. During the coldest months, when all the tourists have scattered, the animals are granted their turn to reap the kind treatment of the locals. If you are a shivering, seasonal depressed Mammal? Bird? Or even a straggling reptile? The Ladakhi’s want to welcome you into their house— equipped with a first floor that is both four-legged friendly and comfortably heated. A wrinkly old man with emerald eyes gleefully explained to me that as long as the animals yield the goods and labor during the harvest season, winter room & board will always be available.

When I descended into Leh, I soon discovered that Leh is not only breathtakingly beautiful but downright, breathtaking. Neither my ski getaways to Mt. Sunapee, my four marathon finishes, nor the many Dave Mathews Concert tailgates I engaged in my unruly youth had prepared me to how high and out-of-breath I was during my first few hours teetering the topmost peaks of the planet. My first day was spent with winded nausea and a pulsing headache. But after a hard day’s rest, I acclimatized like an unraveling kite. In no time, the air thickened and my stride quickened and my adventure was poised to reach even greater heights!

My first day’s uplifting was distinctively spiritual. Having just arrived, I was confident my exotic tales of middle class America and my shiny Ray Ban sunglasses would without question galvanize the local folk and espouse me as an instant celebrity. I’m sure this would have been the case had the successor to the Dali Lama not been staying in the house next to me. Setting aside my jealousy, I joined the many Ladakhis in line (and I mean the few hundred) and awaited my turn to meet the Karmapa. The Karmapa, who by birth, heads one of the four major schools of Tibetan Buddhism, fled Tibet at a young age to study under the Dalai Lama. Due to the impending fear that the Chinese government will choose the next Dalai Lama, many Tibetan Buddhists have rallied around this young man as their future spiritual leader. When it was my turn, the Karmapa, appearing no older than me, immediately sensed my inexperience to the formalities of a Buddhist greeting. When I clumsily forwent the customary bow for the insipid handshake, he allayed his insulted body guard, whispering in English, “it’s okay,” and cheerfully shook my hand.

The first half of the week, I spent perusing the shops, day hiking up and around the outskirts of Leh and dining at the same cheery restaurant, Summer Harvest, energized by the cacophonous clatter of 6 different languages spoken simultaneously. The local cuisine consisted of two basic staples—momos and mutton and more often than not, I colored within the lines and ordered a tasty little combination of the two known as a mutton momo. At every restaurant in Ladakh and I am also now noticing it more in Delhi is the he’s Western therefore he needs Ketchup assumption. Regardless if you order chow mien or a hot fudge Sunday, if you’re white, your food should be red. Someone like me, who has always approached ketchup with enthusiasm and an open-mind, is only reinforcing to Indian hospitality that all Americans are foaming at the mouth for more ketchup.

The next thing more dangerous than driving in the jostling traffic of Delhi is careening over the ice and snow-ridden overpasses 17,000ft into the Himalayas. What’s even more frightening? Some government official has convinced that the safety of mountainous driving lies more in the wittiness of the warning sign than the presence of guardrails. As if a local kindergarten class headed the project, rotting wood in drippy paint reads: “speed thrills but kills” or “don’t get risky with whiskey.”

What’s even more frightening? The magnitude of danger that rises uncontrollably when the driver of the car is either too ill-equipped or too much of a brash individualist to combat the slippery roads with the proper chain apparatus. Like the toddler who forgets his ice skates but still has his stick, we disadvantageously fought for friction. After two long days, driving to the threshold of the solar system and back down, I will readily attest to the peril.

In our two attempts to reach Lake Pangong, we trucked through whiteouts, we sanded frozen surfaces and we shoveled out of snow banks. On a few occasions, the Grim Reaper, himself, almost had his way with us but we were too much in a hurry to even bother to stop for tea, let alone, lengthier time-consuming interruptions like death. 9 hours or so later, we were afforded our first peek. Between two symmetrical mountains, the lake revealed its placid existence. Drawing closer, the multihued and florescent water transiently glistened, while the brisk wind layered ripples to prove that the lake was not frozen. The water’s edge expanded 85 miles east—passing decently beyond the Tibetan (Chinese) border. With both feet in an India that until now, had only stripped me bare of privacy and personal space, I simultaneously found myself standing in the shadow of another ghastly overpopulated civilization—but somehow, someway--there seemed not to be the faintest murmur of human life. I was sandwiched between 1/3 of the world’s entire population, but yet in my whole life, had I never felt more alone with the planet. The cold breeze and the imminent nightfall pressured us to continue on, but as I stood dwarfed by the surrounding mountains and squint-eyed from the fleeting fusions of navy, light and baby blue, I imagined how pleasurable Earth’s inevitable inhabitation will be. I took a few last photos, snapped out of my sappy awe and revisited the snug backseat for what would transpire as a blockbuster sequel in Himalayan snow escapades.

The wintry bliss reached its end in jolting abruption, obliging me to bid farewell to the simplistic and soulful authenticity of the Ladakhi people. Granted I have not shaken all the palm trees and traversed all the mountainsides, I’m still certain I experienced one of the few remaining existences that actually pulsates the way we are supposed to. A value system truly remarkable, where work and leisure are not differentiated and one single wedding may last for weeks. Leading by real example, the Ladakhis’ quaint and quiet nature reminds the industrial world how simple a formula happiness really is.

When I landed back into Delhi, passing through the sliding doors of the airport, I was at once, regurgitated back into the sensual tailspin of smog, dust and flesh. Still in a Buddhist state of mind--I was not ready. I was still trustworthy of the human heart. I hadn’t had a debacle du jour in the last 8 days and I almost had forgotten what one was. But in typical fashion, the Indian capital delivered, and once again, I was waist-deep in a debacle…

In my fog of optimism, I accepted my first offer for a taxi but like the sunbather who bestows trust in the rising tide, I was soaked with consequence. Once I had followed the tatty swindler into his rusting sedan, he slammed the doors shut and waving his dull pencil as a substitute to his switchblade, demanded his handsome payment upfront. At the mercy of a first-rate maniac, with his rage snowballing by the second, I stoically cooperated to his preposterous request.

And as life would have it, I spent my first morning locked inside the corroding backseat of an illegitimate taxi service, while the enchantment and fresh-air I was desperately holding on to, evaporated into the sweltering asphalt below.
(And respectively, this winter, when you’re planning your next snow-seeking vacation and you’re searching for a frost that kisses, not bites, I suggest you huff and puff through the nip and thin-air, to frolic as you wish, in the fairy-tale of Ladakh!)
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I must admit, I'm a bit behind but the next chronicle promises to be another gravity-defying plateful, where I'll be remembering an adventurous weekend rafting the rapids of the Ganges River, rapelling down cavernous slopes and ofcourse, my first ever bungee jump. If you're on facebook, try clicking on the link to catch a glimpse (you may want to fastforward to the end) http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=551650875135If Also, I continually post all my photos there. If you're are not on facebook, I've attached some photos to this email but I do seriously recommend you ditch the dinosaurs and consider joining the rest of us. Other than that, my marathon training is slow but certain, my hindi grows 2-3 words a day and my job-hunt has almost concluded in success but I will not disclose until everything is final. Again, feel free to bury me with the latest news and gossip. I'm obviously dying to know how the failing economy has affected you.. in particular! But I will understand if you're too sullen to reply--for it must be paralyzant agony to realize that the great George Bush is near finish

The Indian Chronicles I

2009-07-07T07:34:00.000-07:00

Greetings readers,
In what may have been a long two years of fruitless junk and just downright drab in your inbox, you'd be glad to know another new suit case has been opened and a series of Chronicles awaits to be unpacked in that rotting inbox of yours. For those who did not receive the Paris Chronicles, let me speedily update you. In my semester abroad, my real true travel experience up until now, I garnered a few impressions, observations and incidents and tried to construct a travel log worthy of reading and less worthy of southern scrolling. I documented my stay in Paris, my wanderings around France and my run-ins with other European countries and cultures. As clash-prone the French and Americans are , I urged my chronicles to map out an accurate cross-cultural crash course—but in such effort, I crossed over to a literary terrain well explored by Americans alike. Tonight, I can honestly say, the second volume of my chronicles introduces an area of the world less traveled by the average American, let alone, the average individual. A place-- I am just as rapidly beginning to believe the praise as I am the criticism. So early into my understanding of this foreign land, these people, and their way of life, I impart only nascent impression in this email. My time here remains undetermined but most of all, uninhibited. I hope to seek occupation and I hope to cover cosmic ground—and in the process, keep all of you suffocating in suspense. So without a moment of further delay, I want to welcome the old, the new, the interested and the not-so-interested to the India Chronicles 2008…
Dorothy: [has just arrived in Oz, looking around and awed at the beauty and splendor] Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas any more. Dorothy: [after a pause] We must be over the rainbow! [a bubble appears in the sky and gets closer and closer. It finally lands, then turns into Glinda the Good Witch wearing a spectacular white dress and crown, holding a wand] Dorothy: [to Toto] Now I... I know we're not in Kansas!
My toto is named Jean Claude and he is a Bichon Frise. He is one of my three roommates and he has been with me since I first arrived. He, who has followed my sister from Geneva to Delhi has made the Euro-Indo transition seemingly smoothly, but he certainly takes time to show a little empathy for a lost American like myself. His patience, loyalty and soft fur has provided me the reassuring comfort that Toto once provided Dorothy when she realized she had landed in a different world.
Indeed, I had arrived into this new world with a thundering bang—5 bangs to be exact. In my first hour in Delhi, news struck that a series of five bombs had rattled the busy marketplaces—killing 30 and injuring 100 plus. Voyaging to a new land, like India, where culture-shock would paralyze the spine of a Chameleon, the imposing threat of terrorism, I suppose, is an added bonus. We've been heavily advised to avoid the crowded areas until after the festival season—ending towards late October but I, and the other 14 million don't so such a good job of that.
As the second most populated city in India, New Delhi appears to be the marvelous bedlam I had imagined. From the moment we pulled out of the airport parking lot, our driver fused into the whizzing traffic without fret. I was in disbelief and I still am with the approach to driving. Rickshaws, cars, SUV's, motorcycles, motor scooters, bicycles, pedestrians and cows all share the same road—moving forward like schools of salmon upstream. The sound of the horn is one flowing sound that echoes across the city—as honking one's horn is much more thoughtful and a compulsory gesture than any groan of frustration. In America, where beeeeeep is so often complimented with a middle finger, you'd be amazed to see such static facial expressions while an Indian man squashes down his horn. I've seen families of 4 squeeze together on small, rusting motor-scooters, I've seen little boys petal bicycles bursting in the back with concrete bricks but most extraordinarily, I see 5,000 recipes for disaster a day, but not one accident. The point of contact between two cars is so close, yet somehow, so far.
I am also fascinated how the more reckless and dangerous the driving is here, the less concern there is for safety belts or helmets. Just as the hotter the climate is, the more Indians see reason to wear as much clothing as possible. (As soon as my sister saw my suitcase piled high with shorts, she alerted me that men do not wear shorts in India. I have respected the custom so far, but I've seen a half dozen Indians in the last few days who too, are trying to show off some more leg that I may soon join them).
Many of the poor beggars engage in a practice of roadside vending. When you break at a stop light, malnourished, dirt-covered children approach your window either selling knotted balloons, oversized cowboy hats, or an issue of Maxim magazine. However, a few days back, a little bare-foot boy knocked on the backdoor window holding a brand new ball-point pen. Gee, I wondered. Here is a young fellow who has the idea of what the average consumer might want. Rolling down my window, I handed him ten rupees and he handed me the pen. I still use the pen and with it, I've brainstormed a list of more useful items a hungry child could display while he asks for money. In fact, I've recently purchased a few packages of Pens and sterile wipes to distribute to the panhandlers. Begging is not going away anytime soon, so why not empower the desperate with items that hold a bit more utility and practicality. I'll be sure to keep all of you updated on how my first social entrepreneurial project pans out—especially Dr. Levinson.
While we're on the topic of the lower class, I want to cite a passage in the India Times the morning after the terrorist attacks that struck me with unfamiliar bluntness. As you will see, these same children that I discuss above as impoverished and misguided receive what I consider to be brutal treatment in the Indian media.
"Located at the bottom of the urban social pyramid, rag pickers are the smelly boys in tattered clothes whom everyone quickly passes by. Even street dogs, sub-consciously aware of their lowly status and often confusing them for thieves, chase them in shabby bylanes."
This article goes on to say how one of these "rag-pickers" notified the police about the location of a bomb and emerged as a hero, but can you imagine the New York Times describing one of America's unprivileged as so depraved, he or she would be subject to the discrimination of a stray dog. Eeeks.
Where disparity, malnourishment and overpopulation throttles a roaring engine—Delhites tender strong convictions to modernize (At least as what the Western standard considers to be modernized). The citizens incorporate a wide range of Westernized products, pastimes, and procedures into their daily life. The gimmies like McDonalds, Subway, Western Union, but I've seen baseball games (not cricket, I am sure!) multicolored I-pods, fitness centers (I belong to one), night clubs, lustrous lingerie boutiques, wireless internet cafes and advertisements of half naked Indian women. Those that frequent the main marketplaces represent every walk of life in Indian society. The wealthy walk side by side the famished while the ever-growing middle class fills everywhere in between. Whereas in America and in Europe, defacto segregation plays a major role where one goes to shop, dine or just relax, New Delhi stands out as the greatest convergence of social class I have ever seen.
The landscape of the new city appears flat, green, methodical and manicured. When you emerge out of the commercial and populated areas, you're refreshed by trees, shrubbery and long narrow columns of grass. If I were to explain the vegetation, a tropical rainforest has shmoozed with the backwoods of Vermont. In my first few days, the heat certainly bolstered India's scorching reputation but in the last week, it has cooled down somewhat comfortably. Spending a summer in DC prepares one suitably for the climate in Delhi. Furthermore, as the capital of India, New Delhi resembles the same manufactured layout as Washington and subsequently, Paris to some extent. In Delhi's case, the British aesthetically designed the federal buildings in one concentrated area— complimented by the same manmade ponds and grassy gardens one would see at the National Mall. Like Washington, all roads converge at twirling circles and if you're not careful, you're spat out going the opposite direction on a one way. The India Gate, a very visible landmark in the center of the city stands as tantamount and proud as the Arc-De Triumph with a broad avenue running beneath it, seamless in its similarity to the L'avenue de Champs- Elysee in Paris.
The only thing developing in India that I notice on a daily basis is my laziness. We're not short of help in this house. Let's just say when you have two guards, a driver, a full time maid and a chef, one's attempt at earning keep is often thwarted by the duty of others. If I were to clean a dish, let alone bring a dirty dish into the kitchen, I am immediately reprimanded by our most soft-hearted chef, Teresa. If I tiptoe outside my bedroom and glance back, happy-go-lucky Lela is making my bed. To a restaurant, how about a day outing to a market or a party in the evening, my driver Vipan awaits still. With all the luxuries, my sister Gabrielle is a new-age ascetic—who acutely monitors electricity, cheese and alcohol. My Niece Sachi, 9, is a Canadian-Japanese- American who has lived everywhere but. Delhi, Geneva and back, she salutes an erasable flag. My sister's husband, born and raised in Canada, has called South-East Asia home for the last 14 years. His post at the World Bank has him orbiting around a half-dozen nations—some of these countries are honorees of Washington's "axis-of evil," others are only sketches on a map.
One of the most reoccuring attitudes in India from Indians and foreigns alike is that absolutely anything can happen here. Where cows unconditionally have the right of way and buses hold three times their compacity, a new day is a new way for the Indian people. Let me offer a small taste of what I like to refer to as the Indian debacle du jour...
The other night, my sister and I had to rescue our security guard, Ravi Ji, from a series of allegations held by a neighboring couple. That morning, Ravi Ji asked the man to remove his bike from our parking space. The man jeered at Ravi's request, and when Ravi repeated, the man impulsively struck a right fist into Ravi's cheek. Next thing led to another, and there were a dozen policemen and bystanders processing the sudden eruption of violence. In muddled up English and Hindi, we were told Ravi was headed to the hospital for treatment. Our condolences were only with Ravi's face until we received a call at dinner— Ravi ofcourse—in jail. The man who swung the punch and his wife had accused Ravi of a long history of offensive slurs. I accompanied an enraged Gabrielle and the guard on duty to the police station. Having not the foggiest clue what I got myself into going to an Indian jail, I sat in the backseat, thoroughly impressed with my sister's know-how and courage to zip along in Delhi traffic with a right sided steering wheel. We arrived at the station and Hindi emerged as the chosen language—I again, sat silently and obliviously. I sat because the most gracious Indian police officer invested more concern that I sit than he did arbitrating the dispute at hand. As the two sides pleaded their case—Gabrielle representing Ravi Ji (In Hindi, b.t.w., she speaks crystal clear Hindi—as I am told) I would stand--out of consideration to those that were standing. But again, the same police officer halted the deliberation and signaled that I sit back down—waving his hands back and forth below his waist. I sat and the Indian judicial process resumed. Once the parties quieted, the kindhearted policeman who made certain I was still comfortable, declared that in India, the two men must formally apologize to one another, followed by a handshake. This did not come easy, but in time, the two men suppressed their animosities and shook hands. The handshake concluded that Ravi Ji indeed may have said rude remarks to the couple, but there had not been any other testimonies to substantiate such a claim. Ravi Ji and the other man swapped positions--Ravi was set free, while the culprit spent his night in jail.
On the other hand, many Indians stay rather clear of the city's hussle and bussle. If truth be told, I've never seen so many humans just sitting, and not just sitting, but sitting so low, their legs seem to be missing. Sitting on the ground, sitting on walls, on bicycles or sitting beside dogs who sit for hours—primarily due to the fact they're unconscious. It seems for a lot of Indians as well, if they sit too long, they begin to fall asleep. 12pm or 12am, the sidewalks prove to be a terrific spectrum of snoozing, sprawling men.
Indians do much more than seek room and board on the sidewalks. They also come together and create small little economies that serve the needs of everyone on that block. Little external kitchens that grill, young girls and their mother's husk corn while others knit. But the most venerated professional on the block seems to be the barber—who spends his day shaving the wooly faces of his neighbors. Observing the popularity among the local folk time after time, I needed to discover what all this hype was about! So when I decided I needed a haircut, my sister and I approached the crowded dwelling where the barber sets up shop and requested a beginner's trial. Undoubtedly, I was his first westerner of the morning and very well likely, his career. As he began to cut, an audience of 20 to 25 puzzled Indians observed, as if a friendly octopus had just sat down for a quick trim. After delivering a picture-perfect haircut, he ended with a complete head message—all for one great price! 1 US dollar! As long as he still practices, I will forever roam the Subcontinent with a fresh dew!
Under the guise of my sister's son, I was able to join the family membership at the health center. I spend most mornings recovering the mental and physical health that once propelled me to run marathons. I am starting back slow but I have signed up for the New Delhi ½ marathon in early November. It is to be one of the world's premier half marathon events, attracting runners from all over.
We're busily brainstorming ideas for Christmas, but I have firm aspirations for my forthcoming travels. Starting tomorrow morning, where I will join a few other Americans to a land I know very little of except that its beauty is as breathtaking and its enchantment is without equal. Known as the Ladakh region of Kashmir, we will fly to Lak, a quaint Buddhist town tucked high in the skyscraping Himalayas. The plan is to spend three days acclimatizing and three days hiking higher into the mountains. You can be sure the next installment will be stuffed with my experiences there. Down the road, I plan to take a few weeks to see more of Southern India, including Bombay and the Goa region but at the fore is my adventure to sashay the shores of South East Asia. Beginning in Bangkok, I will rove south to see for myself where the bluest water truthfully meets the whitest sand—Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore or Indonesia? I am subburn just thinking about it!
There is so much more to tell but I need to break everyone in before I totally fill the page!
I want to thank everyone who attended my send off party in Gloucester and I kid you not, if you thought it had covered some reasonable ground, the teenage pregnancy scandal at GHS made headlines in the Delhi newspapers.
Please feel free to forward these emails to anyone who I may have left out or someone you know that may be interested in this part of the world. Please respond with questions, gossip and travel advice! I've even discovered that earth-shrinking gizmo called Skype (Richard Alec: India directory). I would love to hear from everybody! Without any hockey moms over here, it can get a little lonely.
So long for now,
Richard

The Paris Chronicles (A Roam through the Balkans)

2009-07-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

Hello all! It has been a while, I know! I will do all that I can to bring you up to date in this longwinded and expository email. The bulk of the writing was composed over the course of my traveling. I apologize in advance for its jumbled presentation-as it may read more like a teenage diary than an email.But before I thrash out my Eastern European experiences, let me take a few moments to discuss my recent activity in and around Paris... It is officially springtime in Paris. Sun is replacing rain, screen is replacing glass and tourists are replacing Parisians. Around the sites, the sidewalks are chalk-full, demanding certain bushwhacking maneuvers just to clear a passage. Lately, I have been engaging in a considerable amount of picnicking. To be honest, if I don't master the language while I am here, I will still probably return to the States as a proficient picnicker. In my last email (eons ago, I apologize) I believe I had been en route for Normandy and Brittany. The weekend lent itself to fresh oysters, World War II remembrance and a verbose Polish tour guide named Mirek. That following weekend, I visited my sister Gabrielle and her family at their home in Geneva. In just my short stay, I landed a crucial role in my niece's church pageant. As essentially my first real involvement with both religion and theatre, the experience was absolutely thrilling. I am not sure if any of you are following the French election, but as someone who is currently residing here, I've never experienced such a fervor for politics. Sunday, the 22nd, the primary election witnessed the largest voting turn out in French history, with 84% of the population showing up to vote. The candidates have been narrowed down to two, including the favorite from the right, Nicolas Sarcozy and female Sigmond Royale of the left. Sarcozy is a controversial figure to say the least, already provoking a few violent demonstrations around Paris. Upon the likelihood that he will win the presidency next month, the city is prepared for an angry backlash from his opponents. Need I say, the nation is politically divided and unlike the case in America, where political divisiveness usually poses a benign threat to the domestic peace of the people, France remains a different story. Here, the consequences of a divided nation can be severely problematic. Will the Guillotine make a comeback? It will be interesting to see. The day I returned from break, I attended a Bob Dylan concert at the premier entertainment venue in Paris. Having seen the show, I now can say I've seen two out of the short list of living legends that still remain; the other including, Michael Jordan. Dylan's antiquated voice made some songs less discernable but just as a piece of any antique furniture, the magnificence was found in its wear and tear. THE BALKINS I am writing to you all from Charles De Gaul Airport, just moments away from boarding my flight to Zagreb, Croatia. From Zagreb, I'll meet my connection, and if all goes well, I'll be observing my first Adriatic sunset on the rocky beaches of "old town" Dubrovnik. I now write from the inside of the plane as we prepare for take off. I just briefly viewed, not by any means to be mistaken for read, a Croatian newspaper. The overflow of the consonant letters affords a romantic linguist like myself little foundation to even deduce the connotations of the words. Ten minutes into the flight, I still have little strategy yet to identify a Croatian solely on appearance, but the flight attendant (perhaps the prettiest girl I've ever seen) will hopefully serve as an accurate reference point to discern other Croatians. I apologize, but I now write three days into my Dubrovnik visit. Currently, eight out of my ten toes are snuggled into the warm sand. I am surrounded by an eclectic ensemble of tourists, who all seemingly share the same sun-tanning ambition. While the locals are covered head to toe in jackets, scarves and pants, us vacationers are quite content with the 70 or so degree temperatures. The sun, so far unchallenged by cloud cover, monopolizes a breathtaking blue sky. The architecture of Dubrovnik is amazingly identical. Each building is constructed of an archaic off white brick, topped by terra cotta roofs. "Old Town," the center of tourism, is defined by high, mid-evil walls that circle around the entire perimeter, known to most as the "city walls." The main harbor is colorfully scattered with small rowboats, some afloat, others submerged. Larger boats provide various shuttling services to the neighboring islands. Yesterday, on one of these boats, we visited an island just a few football fields off the central pier. We spent the day hiking, sunbathing, cliff-diving, and familiarizing ourselves with the natives-who happened to be a frisky flock of peacocks, dreading the start of another tourist season. For the natives more inland, they certainly have less feathers and speak better English. They are very friendly and have ostensibly adjusted to the high-frequency and ephemeral nature of their guests. Our hostel is embedded into the compressed residencies of the city. Inaccessible by car, we must walk through narrow entries and up endless stairs in order to enter our building. The juxtaposition of a rapidly growing tourist industry with the nourished preservation of its old architecture and natural geography allows the experience to be relaxing but raw. We met a crazy Canadian, who prolonged what was once a week visit in Amsterdam to a 9 month tour of Europe-subsisting as a chef at a Belgium hostel, a laborer at a cattle farm in North Germany and now a bartender at our favorite travelers bar in Dubrovnik. He has turned out to be a great tour guide, leading us through the placid landscapes of the remote coast. At times, he is difficult to follow, often pouncing from rock to rock like a hungry bob cat. However, his energy and insight is surely something to be admired. (I now write from an idle bus in Mosta, Bosnia, on route to Sarejevo) Leaving Dubrovnik behind certainly was not easy. Over the span of a little less than a week, we were already weaving ourselves into the close-knit community of the "old town." Nevertheless, to be fair to the rest of Eastern Europe, we had to move on. Mosta, Bosnia, one of the hardest hit cities during the Bosnian War, was tragically picturesque. The majority of the pre-war architecture consists of doodling gravity, poke-a-dotted bullet holes and imploded roofs. Hundreds of buildings appear gutted and abandoned while others appear dilapidated yet still inhabited. Overgrown cemeteries sprawl around the city with the majority of tombstones recognizing the many lifes that were cut short between 1992-1995. Such hard and bitter evidence of war could not obscure the beauty of the geography. Outside my bus' window, I am taken back by massive green mountains complimented by rocky jiggered peaks and snow sprinkled tips. The water below is a sparkling translucent indigo. As I am currently meandering through this maze of mountain and river, I am arrested with memorization. I have never seen such a creation with my own eyes as breathtaking as Bosnia! If I had an insatiable appetite for natural beauty, let me tell you that the spoon full I am swallowing now could forever leave me with a full stomach. The coast of Croatia can be remembered as vibrant but viewing the virginal scenery between Mosta and Sarajevo, I have a new expectation for this planet's content. ( I now write from a moving bus chugging along the countryside of Serbia, in the direction of Belgrade.) In Mosta, we were greeted by an unbelievably sweet woman, who, with her mother, opened up their home as a hostel one year ago. For such a small space, she still managed to accommodate the eleven guests who had a booked a bed for the evening. Among the eleven, there was a nationalistic group of retired French middle school teachers, three Brits who were ambitiously driving East on an unfamiliar side of the road, a swiss girl and an Irish lad. During our visit, we went into another "old town," viewing most importantly the Mosta Bridge. This high bridge was recently restored after its destruction during the war. Before it was strategically bombed by the Bosnians themselves, the bridge enabled the Serbs to enter within the city walls. Mosta was a little quiet towards the evening but we managed to have a tiny taste of the unrivaled food we soon would experience in Sarajevo. As mentioned above, the scenery during the 2 ½ hour ride from Mosta to Sarajevo was intoxicating. We arrived in the hospitable hands of Jasmina, a Bosnian woman we found through some friends we made in Dubrovnik. Again, we overflowed the room with our suitcases, sharing seven beds between eight people. Sarajevo is definitively a city on the rebound. Tall, modern, glass and neon sky scrapers share the same shadow with the eerie remnants of the bombing and bloodshed that once dominated the way of life. There is no particular order to the layout of the city, just the palpable differences between the pre-war and post-war construction. Nevertheless, the center of the city is full of vitality and modernity. The Bosnian coffee culture, do I dare say, upstages the French. The cafes, all fluorescently colorful and hip, provide valleys and valleys of outside seating. The coffee itself is very unique-consisting of a thick powdery solution that is to be poured onto a bed of sugar cubes. Bosnia was as equally provoking to my taste buds as it was to my eyes. The first night, we heard the sound of a guitar from a truly authentic Bosnian restaurant. Four men were passing around an acoustic guitar, crooning Bosnian folk favorites. We were instantly enchanted by the reception and charm of the locals and quickly received five-star service. In such a local dwelling, it was very difficult to differentiate between who was a costumer and who was an employee. A man who had lived in Canada for ten or so years in his life assumed the role of translator, while a man sitting at a stool at the bar assumed the role of bartender. Lastly, the only woman present assumed the role as the chef, when she went behind the closed door and returned with some of the tastiest food I have ever digested. I am at fault for not remembering the exact names of the dishes, but I do recall the emphasis on unrecognizable meat. We ate, drank and were serenaded until we feared our stomachs were so enlarged, we would have trouble removing ourselves from the table. Eventually, we broke the shackles of our satiated stomachs and waddled to the dance floor. The local men were pleased to dance with my entourage of American and Canadian women, while I tiptoed to the bar in order to conduct some of my own interrogative research. Fascinating individuals who all fought in the war and prided themselves on the liberalism they had achieved. They all lost brothers or fathers during the war, but were the least reluctant to discuss the details of their past misery. For years, many of the residents I talked to lived within the city boundaries during the Serbian siege. By doing so, they were the constant targets of the Serbians who positioned themselves all around the perimeter, sniping and bombing every time a Bosnian decided to expose his or herself in the open. Just as deer in the forest during hunting season, any Bosnian who decided he would risk going outside to retrieve the newspaper or buy groceries would be fair game for the snipers above. I visited a museum devoted to the hand-shoveled tunnels that were built by the Bosnians during the war to clandestinely transport food, medicine, and the wounded from the outside into the inside of the city. We were shown a short film, showing real footage of the day to day during the war- successfully illustrating the unfathomable danger Bosnians put themselves every time they left safe shelter. All the Bosnian people I met were undoubtedly happy to be Bosnian and seemed ready to defend it if they had to again. During one of my rants about the appreciation I had for their homeland's beauty, a Bosnian man chuckled, and added, "Why do you think we continue to fight for it?" (I write from a moving train just outside Belgrade, Serbia, heading to Zagreb, Croatia to meet my early morning flight back to Paris) In the passenger car of what appears to be a washed up Soviet train, I lie listening to Dylan (in preparations for tomorrow's concert) as I pass the final hours of my Eastern European jaunt. My ipod's battery's low, my suntan a bit faded and my eyes heavy. Fortunately, my exhaustion only reminds me of the energy that was. For I have never ventured into a city that demanded so much energy as Belgrade did. Certainly living up to its reputation as the city in the East that does not sleep, Belgrade provided an assortment of activity. The streets were chock-a-block with shops, live music, vendors, cafes, clubs and bars. To my delight, Serbian fashion called for much more color than the monochrome attire my eyes have become use to in Paris. Indeed, the hordes of pedestrians provided for a colorful collage. Eastern Europeans also take whopping pride in the size of their sunglasses. Sunglasses in Belgrade walked a thin line between eyewear and face masks. I saw frames with lenses as large as wind shields. The irony in large and flashy glasses is when you are out checking out the girls, you really in turn are checking out yourself-conveniently in the reflection of the tint. So when I say I could see myself living in Belgrade, understand, on the sidewalks or at the cafes, I could literally see my self living in Belgrade.---------------------------------------------------------------- Those are just a few impressions, anecdotes and observations of my break. All and all, I am grateful to be living in Europe during the time that I am. I can't imagine that my parents and grandparents would have had the opportunity to freely frolic through Eastern Europe while they were my age. Now with the fall of the Soviet Union and the relative state of Peace between ex-Yugoslavian states, I urge all of you to consider your next Euro trip to incorporate some of the places I mentioned. In America, what we can dismiss as only war zones are often some of the most wondrous areas of the world. I have about one month of classes left in Paris. Following my finals, my mother is planning to come for a couple of weeks. In my mother's French cookbook conquest, we hope to gallop around a few regions of her favorite French recipes until I make it as south as Saint Tropez to spend a night or two with the Truppiano's (Annie and Jer, I hope Leo briefed you on this prospect, and if he hasn't, I then hope the news isn't too shocking) and then I must report to Dublin, on the 20th of June to meet my flight back to the states. That is about it for now. If you read all of this in one sitting, go outside and get a fresh breath of air. And if by any chance, I accidently agitated any curiosities, don't hesitate to respond with any questions you may have. The computer lab is closing so I must hurry but I wish you those May flowers, which after April (snow) showers seem to be rightfully yours! Best Wishes and Bon Weekend!!!Richard

The Paris Chronicles I & II 2/07-7/07

2009-07-02T08:42:00.000-07:00

February 3, 2007

Salut,As you may know, I am spending the semester in Paris. Upon my grand arrival Monday morning, I have teamed up with my will and my ego in the efforts to translate inhibition into education. The metaphorphis, I am proud to say, has begun to take shape. As the only male in my group f/ American (notice I use the adjective, not America.) And about 3 out of the 45 students I've seen in the program. . My host family, by no stretch of the imagination, is traditional. My host mother is a. sweet and an erudite professor in 18th century history. She speaks little to any english whatsoever. My host father on the otherhand, has once been able to speak fluent english, though sadly, he is now in a bedridden state of M.S. The room next to me, lives a fellow student as well. A french 19 year old, just beginning the rigors of med school. The mother and father have three beautiful children who have recently moved out. For those familiar with Paris, the appartment is located in the affluent arrondiessement 16 on the very top floor over looking la avenue de Mozart.As far as tourist activity goes,I've so far taken a boat down the Seine and have just returned from a run around the Eiffel Tower. In the evenings, I often meet with my good friend and long standing summer resident of Gloucester, Oliver Horvitz, who also is studying here for the semester. The French women are so consistenly attractive, my neck aches with pain in its constant rotation. My mother was also right in that the Parisians wear black and only black. I swear it seems as if everytime some one departs the subway, they are headed to a wake or funneral home. And as many of you may know, black is not the paramount color in my wardrobe, so I am often times, the white sheep in a herd of black.There is so much more to discuss, but I must go outside while it is still sunny. And Believe me,the sun is as rare here as the english language. Please feel free to email me, I am sure to respond instantously (sp) with this new blackberry gadget. For those receiving this email who are inhabitting Europe at this given moment, beware, I will visit. This may include my sister Gabrielle in Geneva and my British friends, jonathan & veronique and gracey t! Rob Gillis, I think I added you to this email chain, in which case, I wish you the best in your return to America and look forward to some major catching up this summer.To the nevada house, I hope things can be evn more crazier without me hassling you to clean the dishes. My benley buddies, thanks for entertaining me over break!The mudbox gang! You know who you are. I still expect a visit.Many more beatiful people I hope receive this email, and I hope those who do are running, smiling and most of all, dancing!Love and miss you all,

Richard, Alec.Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

February 15th, 2007

Bonjour,I hope your backs don't ache in pain from what I've heard has been a super- snow-shoveling past few weeks!!!!I revisit you now in what could be my third week in Paris. I can not explain how much I enjoy the abroad experience and the state of mind that follows. Though I love and miss you all, I may have inherited the similar wanderlust gene that has landed in a few Ross' and Bell's over the years. Let me begin with my utmost appreciation for the French's emphasis on mayonaise! At all times of the day, I can dip any food from french fries to carrots without any of the mayonaise taboos that I've been confronted with in the States. But you do wonder between the cigarettes and mayonaise, how these people live to see their children graduate highschool.Yes, wine and champagne are often cheaper than the water, but wine is not as pervasive as I had envisioned. My family drinks not a sip a week, and often the cafes and bars are filled primarally with coffee and beer drinkers. It may just be my experience. Also, another popular cocktail, which can be found on most menus is the “Hurrican Katrina” I suppose the mediteranean hasn't stirred up anything too severe to induce any feeling of empathy into the French people.Have I become amuned to gorgeous, stylish and super confident women? No...have I built up somewhat of a tolerance? I suppose. You have little choice if you continue to ride the metro every day.Monday through Friday, from 8 to 10am, I have my intensive french class at the Sorbonne. As an American, I am finally a minority. Each morning, in a classroom where any other language except french is forbidden, I am surrounded by Spanish, Sweedish, Mexican, Turkish, Brasilian, Japan, Chinese, Canadian, and Lebonese. Begininning this week, I have been going out for coffee after class with an ecentric southern male spanyard, a kindhearted Bolivian and a curious Chinese girl. With each of our native backgrounds, we have little hope of communication unless we apply our intermediate French. I sit impatient for tomorrow's rendez-vous.At the American sponsored institution, I am taking a French culture and civilization course and a class a little more up my alley, called Islam in France, taught by a magnificent and brilliant Iranian woman.Outside of class, I hang out with a lot of Parisians, Swedes (studs and the rest of the Nevadians can empathize with Swedish presence) and ofcourse, Americans, including a large Georgetown contingent, who I look forward to continuing friendships with as we one inevitably find ourselves in Washington .My fellow gloucester friend Oliver and I have still preserved our pact we made prior to our arrival in which we vowed we would only speak to each other in French. So within a few social networks and my host family, french emersion is taking place. However, I still have ways to go. I have my first date with a Parisan though on Sunday, so maybe a pretty teacher is just what I need!!My running routes are breathtakingly sureal. In my many running routes in gloucester and DC, I have yet to run directly underneath the Eifel Tower. Now here in Paris, I use the Eifel tower (I must say it truely is the most incredible manmade creation I have ever seen) as just a helpful navigational reference..I have booked my Spring vacation. During two weeks in April, I first fly to Debrovnik, Croatia. After a few days on the beach, my friend and traveling partner, Kate from AU, hope to head even more south to Montenegro via Bosnia. A night in Bosnia and a few more days on the beach in .Montenegro, we should be ready to head even more east, with a visit to Belgrade, Slovakia and then Budapest, Hungary. We fly back out of Zagreb, the capital of Croatia. So yes, these places may seem to be bizarre spring break destinations, but what's an adventure without actually making it an adventure!!My family's great. She is a weathered chef, with a diverse selection of dishes each night. The fellow french student who lives with me as well is a cheerful and intelligent fellow, who often uses me as a listening ear to the latest english he learned in school that day. I have so much more to discuss!but I am sure you all either have a class to attend, another email to read, or a pot-roast in the oven (the latter is more directed specifally at my mother) However, I still want to continue to hear what's new with all you guys. Please feel free to forward my emails to anyone who knows how to read, I could only locate so many of your email addresses.Feel free to visit! And you can call me anytime at 063 711 6774 and I think the country code is 33...not too sure though. I will double check.Enjoy the rest of your day,

Love Richard

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile