Flat Stanley

My coworker's friend asked that while he was in Pakistan, he bring along a tool to teach his classroom about the world: Flat Stanley. Basically, it's a cartoon cut out of a little man. He asks that "owners" of Flat Stanley take pictures of him throughout the country, as a way to expose his students to new and different things.

My co-worker and I of course, took this task very seriously. Below are my photos of Flat Stanley.

At the port of Karachi. Flat Stanley forgot his swim trunks at home.

Flat Stanley at the Badshahi Mosque.

Flat Stanley in front of the Hazuri Bagh Baradari in Lahore.

Flat Stanley enjoys the Shish Mahal (Hall of Mirrors) in the Lahore Fort.

Flat Stanely surrepticiously enjoys roasted corn by the roadside in Islamabad.

How Not to Get Over Jet Lag

1) Arrive home, clean up kitty litter/dried puke, unpack, refuse to shower.
2) Stay awake as long as possible, say, until 8pm.
3) Plan to go to work the very next day.
4) Own a cat that is hungry every morning at 4am, regardless of the state of her food bowl.
5) Attempt to placate cat with more food; end up overfeeding cat and searching for origin of vomit smell at 5am.
6) Try to go back to sleep.
7) Fail.
8) Go to work at 6am.
9) Leave work at 2pm.
10) Party with book club until 12 am.
11) 4:00 am, face wrath of hungry cat.
12) 5am = cat puke duty.
13) 10 am. Catch plane to New Mexico on 4 hours of sleep. Feel nautious.
14 ) Sleep on plane.
15) Arrive in New Mexico. Shop with friend.
16) Take 2 hour nap b/n 7-9pm
17) Party until 4am, at which point, you are wide awake and everyone else is drop dead tired.
18) Sleep until noon.
19) Go see movie, fall asleep at midnight.
20) Give up. Your body is so messed up at this point, you might as well go back to Pakistan.

Photos from Ghotki District

My company's supports a school nutrtion program in over 2,000 schools in this region. Daily, we provide biscuits and milk to about 160,000 kids. Given my breakneck schedule, I only had ONE day to go out to the field office. Part of that day was spent visiting two of these schools, handing out milk, meeting and chatting with the children. This little boy was singing a song from the Qur'an to welcome me, chest puffed out and arms wrapped tightly around. He was very proud!

Girls drinking milk!

Bata, the European shoe company, donated a load of canvas shoes and sports equipment to one of our all girl's schools. I helped hand out shoes to the littlest receipients.

Part of the shoe and sports equipment ceremony in a very small courtyard.

PIA

After the exciting Monday morning visiting Old Town, I went back to the office, did a little work and then took off with my chaperone to Sukkur, population 2 million, in Sindh province. It’s here we have our school feeding project and I have ONE day to see three schools, our distributor’s and everything in between.

The airplane ride was uneventful, but there were a few things that I wanted to note. Our flight was delayed by two hours – but that was pretty much expected.

No one asked for my id at the airport. Perhaps my foreign name matches my foreign looks, and I don’t look threatening, so they let it slide. Fine.

However, there were a lot of security checks. There weren’t separate lines for women – we were still asked to go through the metal detector, but then all women were pulled, one by one, into a dark, curtained room and frisked by a female. And by frisked, I mean felt up. First time, I didn’t notice so much, but the second time, there was definitely too much touching in the chestal area.

Also, personal biases aside, I notice that the communication style isn’t so straightforward here. I’ve encountered this in other places, sure, but it’s taken to new and dazzling heights here. I get detailed explanations on what I should and shouldn’t wear, but then zilch on others.

For example, my chaperone handed me some paper luggage tags when we checked in. It just so happens that I have a large orange embroidered leather luggage tag my mom gave me on my carry on, so I politely declined. He put them in my hands and walked away. I stuffed them in my bag.

We get to security and I get stopped. Where are my luggage tags? I point to my LARGE ORANGE luggage tag. That’s not good enough, says the big scary soldier, so, thinking quickly, I pull out the previously stuffed paper tags and slip them on.

It’s only then that I understand what’s going on. The scary dude hole punches my tags and let’s me go get fondled. I emerge, slightly ruffled, and collect my things. I get stopped again, trying to leave the area. A woman not only must twice stamp my boarding pass, but ALSO my luggage tags.

By this time, my chaperone is so far ahead of me, I have no idea where he’s at. And I’m a little miffed he didn’t take TWO SECONDs to explain to me why I needed these tags in the first place, instead of just handing them to me and walking away. I mean, no harm, no foul, but this is just one example of many. If it was the first time, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But after awhile, you start to seriously doubt whether they do this on purpose or not.

The only other thing of note is that, before taking off, the captain got on the speaker and sang to us. I could tell it was some kind of prayer, and this was confirmed by my chaperone as something one sings before traveling.

Huh. I wonder what would happen if airplane pilots in the US started doing this? There would probably be a lot more suspicions of drunk pilots, but other than that, it’s kind of a nice tradition.

I arrived in Sukkur, two hours late, but no worse for wear. I was greeted so warmly by our project staff, who explained that even the towels were purchsed new (and washed!) for me, already I’m regretting that I have so short a time here. I leave again tonight, on another PIA flight that has already been cancelled and delayed by 3 hours.

I am ready to arrive in Karachi for the last day of my trip. I leave Pakistan tomorrow evening. (In sha'allah!)

Old Town Lahore

After my morning meeting Monday, I conned my driver and my male escort (I’ve come to think of him that way, if only to feel less like I’m being “chaperoned” and more that he must do my bidding) into taking me to see Old Town Lahore.

Of course, this being Pakistan, we couldn’t just “slip away”. I had to get the approval of our team leader, who is a reasonable Pakistani man, but it still makes me feel helpless. To his credit, he gave me only two stipulations: 1) that I wear a headscarf at all times and 2) that I wear my trenchcoat. Keep in mind, I’ve been wearing long, loose clothing the whole time I’ve been here. So, when I asked him about the reasoning for the trenchcoat issue, his embarrassed response (immediately making me feel bad) was “To protect you from prying eyes.”

Not only did this make me feel like kind of like a dirty prostitute, but I also wanted to tell him that it was completely useless. I could be wearing a paper sack and people still stare. I might as well be naked. And yet….I’m in no position to argue. (Also, in three days I’ll be back to “normal people clothes”).

So no matter, I had my freedom, if only for an hour. I must ask for permission, but at least he’s a benevolent despot.

So after the meeting, I was whisked away to the Lahore Fort, Hazuri Bagh and Badshahi Mosque. Until I get a chance to download my photos, the ones on Wiki certainly give you and idea of the scope and size. Both are enormous!

As we entered through the unassuming gate, I wasn’t sure what to expect. We don’t get a lot of details here, and asking doesn’t always help. Part of traveling, I think, is trusting those you’re with and just going with the flow. So, I was totally amazed to walk into the park. In typical Mughal fashion, everything is symmetrical. As such, the garden gives off an orderly and stately peace. It took my breath away.

On either side of the garden are these enormous gates. On the east side, there is the enormous and foreboding white gate. Across the immense lawn, to the west, was the red sandstone entrance to the Badshahi Mosque, of which you could only see the three Alladin (you know what I’m talking about) domes peaking out majestically behind.

A tour guide quickly found me, and my chaperone approved of him, so he took us around both sites. Although we only had an hour, we saw the Hall of Mirrors, the Roshani Gate and played with the acoustics within the enormous mosque. (It was once the largest in the world, before the Faisal Mosque in Islamabad was built). All too soon, the hour was up and I felt like I’d only seen a fraction of what was there.

For me, the absolute best part was visiting a gurudwara, a Sikh temple, next door. This particular temple, next door to the Mosque, is the tomb of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, one of the rulers of Pakistan before it was. Sikh’s are near and dear to my heart for a number of reasons, so I was honored to view the Guru Granith Sahib and be allowed to see inside their hallowed walls. Again, it took my breath away.

Our car arrived back at the office breathless, but safe and sound (the traffic here is like none I’ve ever seen; smoggy, dirty, filled with people AND donkeys AND horses AND motorbikes AND the kitchen sink…).

Yes, we’ve been working easily 12 hour days (we were stuck at a Pakistan Sam’s Club (called METRO) over an hour on Sunday night, when all we wanted to do was go to bed), but it’s opportunities like these that truly make it worth while. It’s hard, and been uncomfortable in a lot of ways, but I am so lucky to get to do this. I am truly grateful.

Pakistan Zindabad!

While our schedule is tight, me and the team were able to convince our Pakistani counterparts to take a little time off yesterday to drive the 30 km to Wagah, better known as the border crossing between Pakistan and India. Dean and I had read about it in the Lonely Planet, and it sounded like it shouldn’t be missed.

According to the guide, every day, approx 30 minutes from sundown, guards at each crossing gather to try to out “pomp” the other side. For Rp 10 (about…well, less than 1/7th of a dollar), people are allowed into the stadium surrounding the official gates between the borders to watch the guards march up and down, and growl at each other from across country lines. The crowd claps and cheer, and chants “Pakistan Zindabad! (Long Live Pakistan!)” or “Al-LAH! Al-LAH! Al-LAH!”

It. Is. Spectacular. I got chills watching the crowd being whipped into a frenzy.

On the Pakistani side, men are separated from women, but there is a special seating arrangement for tourists, down front, where both sexes mix. After a long and dusty ride, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I’m certain it wasn’t throngs of Pakistan men chanting, throwing their hands in the air and yelling “Allah wa Akhbar!” (God is great!) In comparison, the women sitting like colorful peacocks in their sparkly salwar kameez’s could barely muster a clap. For our part, the tourists were kind of stuck in between.

We arrived to much confusion, and pushing, finally finding a spot for our group down front. A tiny old man and a middle aged fellow dressed head to foot in Pakistan green waved enormous flags down the center of the stadium, and lead the preliminary chanting. Across the floor, about 200 meters from me to my left, the double gates were closed and behind them, you could vaguely make out the roar of the Indians. To my right were the gates we’d walked in on and, well, the rest of Pakistan.

Suddenly, 15 Pakistani solders wearing dark blue garb and turbans with giant starched folded paper fans (but out of cloth) tucked in the top, rapidly marched out in square formation to the middle. Their steps were quick; and every moment or so, one would jump up, kick his toes to his head and stomp ceremoniously on the ground. It looked like bulls going out to a fight, stomping and blowing hot air. I swear one guy was like, 8 feet tall.

The crowd roared.

Much more stomping and crowd frenzy ensued. Two men marched down to the gate, kicked up their heels some more and, in perfect synchronization with the Indian side, opened the gate. One soldier from either side stomp-danced forward, they shook hands, and then the real fun began. A few more soldiers from the back came forward (again, perfectly mirroring another set of soldiers on the other side). They stompled and growled and even put their hands menacingly up in the air like tiger claws. The Indian side did something similar (but in brown costume).

Finally, after much more of this, the soldiers moved to take down the flags on either side. Atop the stadium to my right, where we entered, was an enormous portrait of Ali Jinnah, the father of Pakistan. Below him, three soldiers stood with their arms, and called out several times in a long, deep drone. I’m not sure what he was saying, but after several more minutes of this, the flags were lowered, there was more cheering and then it was over.

Our team streamed back to the car, kind of awestruck. One of our consultant’s remarked – ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if all international conflict could be solved this way?’

Judging by the recent bombings in Mumbai and the subsequent blame on Pakistan, plus the historical tenseness (they were once one country; it’s a long story!), I can’t say that this has worked in either countries favor.

However, I can enjoy the tradition.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

This this this this this this this, is the best thing to hit international development in my short career. The first time I heard about this ban, I was flabbergasted. It's long be known in the public health sectors as the "ABC" method - Abstinence, Be Faithful and Condoms. You had to discuss all three, in that order, equally.

While I don't necessarily disagree that discussing ALL options (including abstinence) is a good idea, how do you tell a gang-rape victim in Southern Soudan that she should "Be Faithful" to her husband?

No, my main beef is that it's kept women-centric organizations, like Planned Parenthood, unble to access funding so that they can provide SIMPLE assistance to those who need it (we're talking something as basic as access to condoms and pre-natal care, not world wide abortions).

This is an important distinction. It's not that the US government is now giving organizations money to perform abortions overseas. NO. It's that ANY organization that even breathed the possibility of perhaps offering an abortion or abortion counseling or any mention of the "A" word (that wasn't Abstinence) either internationally or domestically was immediately rejected out of hand from receiving government funding to do any assistance overseas.

So, thank you Mr. Obama for having the heart to understand the need for comprehensive reproductive healthcare for women the world over. This dogmatic legislation has left underprivileged without access to so many of the freedoms we take for granted in the United States.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Obama, for not mixing "standing up for your ideals" with blind entrapment in ideology.

As a uterine-fitted citizen, I am proud to call you my President.

(As a side note - last night I was shopping in the Liberty Market of downtown Lahore, and chatting with a shopkeeper about some of his clothing. When he found out I was an American, he gave me a discount for being a part of "Obama Nation"! (I wonder if before I was being charged a Bush tax?))

Keep Your Arms, Feet and Clothing Inside the Vehicle

Driving to Lahore today, we stopped at a roadside pitstop for refreshments and to stretch our legs.

I've been wearing long scarves wrapped loosely around my neck, but I'm unaccoustomed to having them draped about me and not tied tight against the wind, so they're constantly falling down and getting caught on things. Conversely, I like having it on hand for a) it's warmth and b) to cover my head when needed.

Little did I know it would garner more attention that necessary today.

As we pulled back onto the roadway, the Pakistani motor police happened to pass us by. They cut in front of our car and motioned that we should follow.

Heart beating, we all wondered what on earth they could want from us.

Sitting in the back, I immediately reached over to pull on my seatbelt (yes yes I know). At that point, I realized that I'd inadvertantly slammed a majority portion of my dupatta (about 4 feet long) in the car door!

As I hastily pulled it in, the policeman, who had gotten out of his card, shouted something in Urdu (something that sounded like : Hey! Your crazy American infidel is waving her clothing around for the entire countryside to see! We are all inappropriately aroused!) and started laughing.

Relieved, we dissolved into fits of cackling laughter.

Needless to say, I retired the dupatta for the rest of the trip......

Yes, that's less conspicuous

Every once and a while, I'll see an older person with spots of red on his beard, or near his temple. The other day, in the bakery, I saw an elderly man with his entire head dyed fire engine red.

In Africa, red tinged hair is a marker of advanced malnutrition. I asked one of my Pakistani work colleagues what that was all about. He laughed and said, "Oh that's just men trying to hide their grey hair with henna."

Fire engine red?

Yes, he said, they think it's more sophisticated.

It's alot of things, but sophisticated is not one that springs to mind.

*Sigh*

While I've warmed up considerably to Pakistan - especially during the long beautiful drive between Islamabad and Lahore today - there have been challenges this week.

One of the dimensions I'm struggling with over here is both an age and cultural gap between myself and one of our staff members. He's 30 years older than I, and was once in the Pakistani army. As such, although extremely accomodating and solicitious, every once and while he says something that has me stewing.

We're eating alot of greasy food, with limited healty options, and we're all starting to feel the bloat. One evening, he gave me hard time about becoming so fat that when I returned no one in the office would recognize me.

Last night, I was a "good little girl" for having a salad at Subway (yes - he made us go to Subway in the land of biryani, kabab and chicken jalfrazi). He thought I might not get so fat now.

Then, he went on to disparage post-partum women, declaring that "so many of them let themselves go and become fat"(I wanted to ask him if he'd ever tried carrying around a 7lb baby without gaining any weight, but I judiciously held my tongue).

This morning I was "too young" to represent our company in a meeting with a large bank. Well, more accurately, he made a wide generalization about how young our group is to be going to this Bank (one is 40, one is 35 and I am 29. Spring chickens we're not) and then, so that we all got it, pointed at me and said "I'm talking about you."

Honestly, at this point, I've been frustrated so many times that I can't do anything now than just hold my tongue and laugh at the next crazy thing he says. Tonight he grilled me on how I was going to wear my dupatta (head scarf). Tomorrow it will probably be about how fat I am again.

On the other hand, he has done some wonderful things (negotiating with a trade for me on a beautiful piece of Afghani jewlery) and is genuinely concerned that I enjoy my time here.

Thing is, I can't enjoy myself if I'm constantly being grilled.

*sigh*

Notes on.....Everything

People keep telling me that Islamabad is like the "Disney Land" of Pakistan - ie not real. There is a long wide boulevard and the streets are pretty clean. It's January, so everything is stubbly and brown, but judging by the amount of pruned rose bushes I see, it's probably a beautiful city in the summer time. The first day we were here, it was dark and cold, but subsequent days have been sunny and downright cheerful.

There are people around, but not throngs. There is traffic, but not gridlock. I was telling a friend over skype tonight that thus far, Islamabad to me has been a series of conference rooms, guesthouses, one extremely nice hotel (the Serena), and several concrete strip malls. Needless to say, I don't see that I've gotten a very good "feel" for the country.

Tomorrow, we leave for Lahore, the capital of Punjab and the second largest city. Punjab is considered the breadbasket of Pakistan, but mostly what it makes me thing of is the guy from Little Orphan Annie.

(Yes, I am culturally sensitive, thankyouverymuch)

And for all the hype about how dangerous it is here, I don't feel like a Threatened Woman. I haven't had much more than the random photograph taken, or stared at. I'm not cowering in my bed at night, waiting to be taken by mullahs. I haven't been groped, or even leered at.

I know that most women have it tough here. I don't want to down play acid throwing, honor killings (known as karo kari) and the treatment of women as commodities. There are real and undeniable inequalities, even among so called "upper class". I'm currently reading "My Feudal Lord" by Tehemina Durrani, who describes her destructive marriage to Mustafa Khar, influential Punjabi politician in the late 70's and early 80's. For lack of a longer description, he basically beats the tar out of her for 10 years - and she takes it because she feels she has no other choice.

I'm of two minds reading this book - at once fascinated at stupidity of her thinking (through my western lense, I find her reasons for staying just....heartbreaking) and revulsed by the cruelness of Paksitani men and patriarchal underpinnings of their society.

Isn't this the image that we're all used to seeing? The scary, dominant, Middle Eastern, tyrant man? It was sitting in a row of similar titles like "Behind the Veil" or "Honeymoon in Purdah" or "My Kurdish Tyrant" or "A Summer's Eve in Kabul" or.....you get the point. There's not so much good press about Middle Eastern/Subcontinent men.

So I have to wonder, are there any good men in Pakistan? Judging by the press, I'd say not. But, I can't believe this is true.

I don't know where I'm going with this except - don't believe everything you read, about Pakistan or otherwise. Go there, experience it and draw conclusions for yourself.

Tomorrow - Lahore!

Houssain? I am!

It was interesting watching Obama's inauguration from my Islamabad hotel tonight. It's no suprise that Obama is popular the world over - especially in the in the Muslim world. In fact, the media claims that Obama has ties to Pakistan (if you count having Pakistani friends as "ties". .....Whatever that means.)

Anyway, although this trip is more than a little awkward, it's made less so by the fact that now the world doesn't hate our President.

Woo hoo!

Pakistan, Day Two: Sophmoric and Uneventful.

Today was completely uneventful.

I got up at 5:15, and had breakfast in the hotel cafe. Then, I sat in a conference room until 2pm. Went back to the cafe and had lunch. Then, sat in the conference room.

Somewhere around 5:00, I went upstairs and had a twenty-minute nap.

Then, it was back to the conference room.

We finished around 7:30.

Luckily, I was able to talk Rashid into taking us out for dinner at a BBQ place. We passed one called "Butt BBQ" and I couldn't stop giggling. Perhaps they only serve rump roast...?

That is, until Rashid explained that Butt is a common Kashmiri name.

And that was pretty much the highlight of my day.

The end.

I'm In.

This morning at 3am, Dean, Brad and I arrived in Islamabad. Although it’s considerably warmer than Minnesota right now (about 50 degrees), it’s also damp, rainy and chilly. Glad I packed my long johns! Am looking forward to moving southward, to Lahore and Karachi later on next week.

Having slept until noon, I woke up to find Dean and our Pakistan Country Manager, Rashid, on their way out the door for a walk. We were scheduled to drive to Murree today, about 1 ½ hours away, to see the British hill stations. It was a chance to see some of Pakistan before starting work tomorrow. I got them to wait five minutes, and soon Brad and the other consultant, Greg, joined us as well. Unfortunately, the late start, pouring down rain/hail and general inclemency had us abandoning that trip before even the first stop.

Instead, Rashid and the drivers took us to two scenic overlooks of the city, which, by the time we got there, had cleared up enough for a nice view. We had chai at a beautiful restaurant set high in the hills above the city, along with the rest of Islamabad’s population. After that, we wound our way back down the slick and winding roads to a local market, where Dean bought a Kashmir coverlet for his bed and Brad bought a sweater.

At every stop, I am stared at. Not impolitely, but casually and with interest. I’ve been covering my head, more to keep my head dry and warm, than to keep the stares away. (They stare anyway). A little girl came up to me, not more than 12 at one of the overlooks and wanted a photo with me. We chatted for a little bit – she is studying in Islamabad, but from Lahore. She wanted to know my name, and its meaning. I wanted to ask her why me, but I didn’t.

Dean is conducting a project for one of his friends, who is an elementary school teacher. They have this cartoon character, Flat Stanley, which is basically a cardboard cutout of a little man about a foot high. We’re supposed to take photos of him in all these exciting places. Dean asked the girl to hold him and took one (of many) photos today.

Last stop was the National Monument of Pakistan, which looks like a big ½ of a lotus flower. Four enormous petals rise off a platform, with etchings of former leaders (Iqbal, Jinnah) and other famous Pakistani monuments (Faisal Mosque). Rashid’s driver, Nawaz, broke out some more chai for us from the boot of his car, which we drank in the rain. We also had some cold samosas and gulab jamun (my favorite!).

Currently, I am waiting for my internet to start working and the electricity to come back on in my hotel room (in that order). There have been intermittent power outages all day, I assume because of the weather and in part rolling blackouts that are hitting the country (although I hear this is mostly in Lahore).

One day down and nine more to go. So far, so good.

Now THAT's a cold shoulder...

I am not immune to the risks of traveling to Pakistan. I've been involved in no less than five security briefings this week. While I understand the risks, my commitment to living a life free of fear and embracing adventure far outweighs any trepidation I may have. I mean, what white-bred chick off the farm gets the opportunity to get to Pakistan in their lifetimes?

Also, I remembered my friend Jean-Marc was in Pakistan this September, when the government had pretty much shut down the entire country (it's true; even British Airways wouldn't fly there) I was in East Timor at the time, skyping him. He was very much ok; and enjoyed his time there.

So, while I don't mean to be harsh or flip about the very real security risks, I do really wish people would stop acting like I'm going to die.

No less than five people came into my cube this afternoon to wish me well, remind me to be safe and, the more morbid ones, to say a final goodbye. While this is nice, being reminded over and over again that I might die is not.

I was trying to finish a ton of things, so by the time G. came by, I was at my wit's end with this lunacy.

G, marches into my cube, into my personal space without a warning: "Ok, give me a hug."

Me, eyeball deep in year end performance review crap that needed to be done for me to get my raise: "Mmmmmmmmm, huh?"

G, "Give me a hug. You're leaving."

Me, thinking quickly about how to get out of this: "Yeeeeeeeeah, how about I give you a hi-five? I don't really hug co-workers."

G, seeming hurt, "But, what if you don't come back? This could be our last hug."

(PS. G likes to hug. I don't).

Me, turning back to my spreadsheet, mumbling: "Well then, you'll just have to hug my corpse."

///////Morbid, yes. But I am still kind of laughing about it.

What Do I WEAR?

This may sound trite, but I found myself honestly struggling with this question while preparing for my trip to Pakistan this week.

Not that I received mixed messages. Everyone I talked to cautioned me to dress modestly, and bring many scarves.

As my colleague Michael eloquently put it: "This is a good opportunity to use those silk scarves you have collected over your travels and/or off sales racks at Daytons."

Rashid, our Country Manager, requested that I bring no less than "Four formal dresses" (??? My only guess on this one was that he doesn't understand that "formal" translates into "prom" here in the US. Regardless of his suggestion, I am NOT bringing my green orgazana ballgown to Pakistan..)

Smartly, my friend Farida recommended the salwar kameez, a tunic and pants outfit worn commonly throughout southeast Asia. I agreed with her, but where to find any? This isn't something TJ Maxx normally carries...

Honestly, I've never been so frantic over wardrobe before. Usually, one gets the "western" card when traveling overseas (as in "Oh well, she's a westerner, she doesn't know better). But I already expect to stick out quite a bit, so if it's in my control to dress like the locals, why wouldn't I want to do that?

Hence, since Saturday, me running around the Twin Cities trying to find an India/subcontinent dress shop. I'd even stooped so low as to heading to Holy Land grocery in NE Mpls and accosting customers for ideas on where to shop. (Am not proud of this).

So, imagine my relief when last night when I was cruising down Central Ave in NE and I came across a small, but glittery, sari shop. I was so excited, I pulled over my car and RAN the three blocks in sub-zero temperatures, rather than turn around and find a closer spot. I was so afraid that it would close! The second I was in the door, I knew I was in the right place. Several kameez's (tunics) hung in the front entry way and, although too big, the shop keep was helpful in pointing out one's that would fit, and offering to tailor ones that didn't.

I spent the better part of an hour weeping with joy in the back room, finally picking out two outfits. One is a very somber, and warm, rough knit orange with a deep blue linen salwar (for lack of a better description - genie pants). It doesn't show too much cleave (I think!)

Secondly, I found a beautiful blue silk kameez with jewel embroidered flowers scattered across the front, paired with jewel toned purple pants/scarf. It was way too expensive (and I knew I'd be finding nice ones in Pakistan, too), but my vanity couldn't pass it up.

These, coupled with one my co-worked loaned to me, and the tunics I bought in Banda Aceh, I hope will bring me through.

I've packed Western clothes, too; a somber black suit and sweater set that never lets me down. My suitcase is bulging, but atleast I feel like I've got something for every occasion.

Goodness, I hope.

The First Trip 2009

I'll be going with a team for work for 10 days, starting this Friday. Our project is closing down there and I'll be giving some assistance to our team there. I'm 2% nervous and 98% excited!

Ruby Red

Last Saturday, with the help of my friend Kaydi, I went down to the Humane Society and adopted a cat. Ruby had been cooped up for two months, after being given up due to divorce, and was waiting for a good home. I took her to the vet on Tuesday, and besides needing to lose a little weight (you try living in a cage for two months), she is in perfect health.

I'm still not sure if I'm well suited to be a good "cat mother" but so far, so good. I haven't managed to poison, kill or maim her, and she seems to like me. She's terribly affectionate and loves to be petted. After an initial fight with my handbag, she's settled down to be quite a loveable companion.

I'm still getting used to being woken up at 5am with a cat in my face, but - love takes some adjusting. Gotta run. We've got our first case of cat puke!

It's Rough, But...

I won!

I've written a 50,800 word hastily hung-together no-plot travelogue/memoir!

Woot! Woot!

You Can't Win, Buddy

I went to the liquor store last night to pick up some wine for Thanksgiving. I was feeling punchy. I'd had a tough day.

Liquor store clerk: Can I see some ID?

Me: Don't worry, I'm old.

LSC: You look young enough to me.

Me: Was it the enormous pimple on my face that made you think that?! (It's true; I have an enormous pimple on my face).

LSC: (rightly so) ????WTF??


Poor little dude. He never knew I was just yanking his chain, but I had a good laugh.

Quick Trip or, Notes on Terrorism

With such a quick trip this week, I found it difficult to find time to do any research. As such, I kind of "showed up" in the Philippines without any context or understanding of the local culture. It wasn't really necessary, given that I spent my week sitting in a windowless conference room, but at times it would've been nice.

For example: After our meeting wrapped up Saturday morning, I took the afternoon and wandered around the many many shopping complexes interconnected via an open air skyway system through the Makati district. After a few margarita's and the world's best massage, I decided to try my chances at heading over to the Glorietta Mall.

I live in the land of the world's biggest shopping mall, so I thought I would be immune to the masses, but I was dead wrong. I have never seen crowds like that in my life, outside the Tokyo subway system at rush hour. I was crushed by tiny dark-haired Philippinos at every turn. Couple that with a very confusing skyway system and I was soon miserably lost.

On top of that, at every new shopping mall or department store, everyone had to queue through security. Sometimes there were several lines open and you walked through, opening your purse for a cursory glance by the sleepy security guard. Others were longer, like those you'd find at an airport (thankfully, I didn't have to take off my shoes) and twice as ugly.

I couldn't understand it. Shopping malls? You've got to be kidding me. Nothing I saw was worth protecting that much from theft.

When I finally joined my co-workers for supper that night, I mentioned the enormous crowds and the perplexing, ubiquitous security check points. Turns out, last year at this time, a bomb exploded, killing eleven and wounding 126. There's been no determination of whether or not it was Islamic militants, the government or just a freak accident, but it looks like no one is taking any chances.

Huh. That, along with the incident at the hotel, might have been nice to know before I arrived.

All of this got me thinking. I had a brief discussion with our VP the other day about the increased security around Manila (I've already blogged about what happend at our hotel last year). He had forwarded to me President-Elect Obama's recently issued brief regarding his administration's goals for the next four years. One of them included reducing the climate of fear in our country. Based on what we'd seen in the Philippines our question was this: does the increase in security guards, guns, night patrols, pat downs, liquid limitations and check points make you feel more, or less, safe? And secondly, how do you combat fear? Do you put more, or less, policeman on the street? Do you put more, or less, guns in private citizen's hands?

Isn't this just as difficult as waging war on "terrorism"? What do you do when the terror comes from within?

I realize that this very debate has been floating around in public discourse since 9/11, but it finally hit home for me. I was pulled over not once, but twice on my trip. The first time was random, but the second time was because I had house keys in my bag. Apparently, being able to get into your own home is ILLEGAL in some places. I mean, where is the line here? Does it make you feel more secure knowing I can't carry something as remotely pokey as my HOUSE KEYS on board? Might I be tempted to stab you in the eye and turn the knob?

More and more I feel I live in a world that Ray Bradbury would immediately recognize as twisted science fiction. As tripe as it sounds, I look with hope to the future that might return the innocence of the past. The kind of past where we looked at somone and thought, "Huh, they're different" instead of "I wonder what they're going to do with those keys..."

Do Your Research

This is what I get for not googling my hotel. I found out from our divisional VP today that exactly one year ago this month, our hotel was the set for a very real coup attempt. Yes, the photo above is a tank in the hotel lobby.

From our pals at Wiki:

The Manila Peninsula rebellion occurred on November 29, 2007 at The Peninsula Manila hotel in Makati City, Philippines. Senator Antonio Trillanes IV, Brigadier General Danilo Lim, and 25 other Magdalo officers walked out of their trial and marched through the streets of Makati City. The mutineers called for the ousting of President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, and seized the second floor of the Manila Peninsula Hotel along Ayala Avenue. Former Vice-President Teofisto Guingona, Jr. joined the march to the hotel, as well as some of the soldiers from the Armed Forces of the Philippines.

After several hours, Trillanes and Lim surrendered to government forces once a military armored personnel carrier had barged into the lobby of the hotel. Trillanes and the mutineers were arrested while several journalists that covered the event were detained. The journalists were subsequently released.

Dude, what a weird world.

I'm an Aunt!

I'm an aunt! I'm an aunt! I'm an aunt.

I am also still in the Philippines.

Aunt!

You Should've Checked with the PR Department on That One

The Philippines are a predominantly Roman Catholic nation. In fact, I've managed to hit both of the only Roman Catholic countries in all of Asia this fall (the other being East Timor).

Unlike East Timor, there is also a sizeable Muslim population. Some of them are part of a successionist movement in the southern region of Mindenao. Not having read much about this conflict I can only comment on the poorly named Moro Islamic Liberation Front, or MILF.

Yeah, you read that right: MILF.

Against my better judgement, I find it terribly difficult to take this group seriously.

Because really, a bunch of MILF's running amok in southern Philippines would be kind of awesome.

Another Random Asian Country: Philippines

Quick trip, for a week. Spending most of it in Manila, in a conference center and a hotel.

God Bless Wiki. Without it, I wouldn't know anything about anything....

The Philippines (Filipino: Pilipinas, officially known as the Republic of the Philippines, Filipino: Republika ng Pilipinas), is an island country located in Southeast Asia with Manila as its capital city. The Philippines comprises 7,107 islands in the western Pacific Ocean, sharing maritime borders with Indonesia, Malaysia, Palau, the Republic of China (Taiwan), and Vietnam. The Philippines is the world's 12th most populous country with a population of 90 million people.[4][6] Its national economy is the 46th largest in the world with an estimated 2008 gross domestic product (GDP) of over US$154.073 billion.[6] There are more than 11 million overseas Filipinos worldwide, about 11% of the total population of the Philippines. It is a multi-ethnic country. Ecologically, The Philippines is considered to be among 17 of the most megadiverse countries in the world.[8]

Prior to the arrival of Europeans in 1521,[9] the Philippines was already settled by Austronesian (Malayo Polynesian) peoples. The Philippines became a Spanish colony in the 16th century, and a territory of the United States in the 20th century. In 1896, rebellion led the Philippine Revolution that won independence from Spain. American occupation of the Philippines during the Spanish-American War led to the outbreak of the Philippine-American War. A Commonwealth government was established in 1935, which allowed self-governance. The country gained its independence from the United States on July 4, 1946 after World War II. Martial law was declared in 1972 which led to the insurgencies of the New People's Army and the Moro National Liberation Front. Liberal parties then led People Power Revolution of 1986, which would bring the country back to democracy.[3]

The Philippines is one of only two predominantly Roman Catholic countries in Asia-Pacific, the other being East Timor. Pre-Hispanic indigenous rituals still exist; and there are also followers of Islam.[10] Spanish was an official language of the Philippines until 1973. Since then, the two official languages are Filipino, and English.[3]

The name Philippines was derived from King Philip II of Spain in the 16th century. The Spanish explorer Ruy López de Villalobos used the name Las Islas Filipinas (The Philippine Islands) in honor of the then Crown Prince during his expedition to the Philippines, originally referring to the islands of Leyte and Samar. Despite the presence of other names, the name Filipinas (Philippines) was eventually adopted as the name of the entire archipelago

28 Going on 80

My birthday is coming up next week and as such, I will no longer be able to use my current favorite phrase, "I'm 28 going on 80". This phrase is usually my prefix to some revealing some granny-eqsque habit/ideaology I've acquired that may be unusual for someone of my actual generation.

For example, I have an extreme affinity for my crock pot. I love to floss. I made curtains for my bedroom. I cook - alot, in large quantities - for my household of one. I make bars.

If I had a lawn, I'd probably tell people to get off it.

My friend Joyce and I were talking about this last night and decided that we are definitely going on 80. Our conversation topics centered around the following:

Work
Why Work is Stressful
Why Work is Necessary
The Economy
401(K)s
Taxes
Malpractice lawsuits, driving up insurance
Taxing junk food
Politics
Norm vs. Franken
Knitting
Yelling at people to shut the patio door, we were cold!
The Library
What a Membership at the Historical Society Gets You
Grandkids

And yes, I was home by 10:15, for the weather.

///No granny panties, yet though.

////Ok, maybe one pair.

The Post That Wasn't

Driving back from my parent's farm this weekend (which, to my astonishment, took only 4 hours and 20 minutes. Now THAT's a tailwind!) I mulled over deep thoughts fit for blog posting.

I'm mid-journal for the moment, having finished up my most recent during my trip to East Timor, and I've yet to find a new one. This means I'm dangerously close to posting items that the general public at large might find, at worst, embarassing, at a best, egotistical. Regardless, there are many many things I'm not prepared to share with the internets. (As my mom reminded me this weekend, my 82 year old uncle reads this...)

So, the best I can do is tell you what I'm NOT going to write about:

1) Fall. I'm of two minds about this slow slide into winter. On the one hand, the rise in baked goods is yummy and heartwarming - but on the other, it sucks that I have to bake just to keep my apt warm until they turn on the heat full time. I love my fall wardrobe and those fleeting crisp fall mornings, but I feel myself sliding into despair when I think about the bitter, long, upcoming winter months. Ugh.

2) The election. Me = patriotic. I emplore everyone to please, go vote. In fact, Vote Obama.
But dear Lord, can it stop now?

3) Turns out, I'm a "thinking" person. This has been used twice now in two weeks, from two seperate, completely unrelated people, to describe me. I'm not sure what this means. Mostly, I think it means I'm difficult. Hm. I think I'm going to stop thinking about being a thinker.

4) Hot dog, if people don't say the darndest things. My personal favorite from last weekend was being asked if I was pregnant.

I was going to write a whole post about the little indignities you have to put up with as you get older, especially in the form of unwanted questions that measure you against some strange standard (Why aren't you married/divorced/pregnant/pregnant again?) It's like older people have a sixth sense for finding your sorriest most bruised melty mess in your life, jabbing a sharp point stick into it, ripping it out of your gut, holding it up to the light and saying "Nope, she's lacking." And then they kick you in the groin.

But then I thought, you know what? I could care less what most people think. I don't have any control over the nasty rude things they say - they're going to say them whether I put up a stink and make myself miserably angry and irritated about it, or not.

So, I laughed with the little old lady when I told her it wasn't ME, but my sister who is indeed, 8 months pregnant. Turns out, she's a little nearsighted. :)

5) Sex
6) Drugs
7) Rock and/or Roll
8) Zombie Pub Crawl. Which was terrific, by the way. I finally got the bloody handprint off my car.
9) My awesome job. I'm going to the Philippines in a week!
10) Why I Haven't Blogged in Like, 8 Years.

That is all I'm not going to talk about.
Aaaaaaand, I'm spent.
M.

Are We In A Relationship or WHAT?

I have to laugh; awhile back I got talked into signing up for a Facebook page (although, I wasn't entirely convinced; I signed up with a 'nom de plume') and now it's become a source of discussion between myself and the same person who talked me into it.

When I first signed up, I joked "I'll do this because we need to take our relationship to the next level: the Virtual Level." 

(yes yes, it's a lame joke...)

So anyway, I gamely signed up and made up all sorts of crazy things about myself. However, much to my chagrin, there was no "HMF" status (listen UP Facebook!), so I had to list myself as "In a Relationship" and send him the link.

Can you believe it? He DENIED me!

Seeing as my photo used to contain a very sweet picture him kissing me on the steps of the capitol, I was concerned that the members of my burgeoning online followers might be a bit...confused. (Ok ok, I wanted the validation, too!)

Since we've been together almost five years, we both understand it will take more than his virtual rejection to keep me from hanging around. But still - denied over the internets? That's harsh.

And plus, I'm not the only one who's thinking about this. I've had several conversations with friends who were either in the same boat (or worse, my friend who's "boyfriend" overseas lists his relationship status as "single" !) 

Then, there's the awkwardness of being "friended" by people whom you ran away to the big city to forget in the first place. Do they actually get a notification that you've denied their friendship? Is Val Lindemoen going to pull my hair again in Sunday School if I don't? 

Several news (or news-esque) sites have started talking about this very phenom of the Virtual Rejection.

The Lede (A NY Times blog) writes:

And then, there are all the ways wearing your personal life on your digital sleeve can bedevil you. One of the Facebook members quoted on Canada.com described how the site's "in a relationship/not in a relationship" indication can do that:

"It's turned into this big thing, where if you just start dating someone you have to have this serious discussion: Should we change our Facebook status? Is it too soon? And then, if you break up, you have to change your status again and have that pathetic little broken heart next to your name on the (Facebook news) feed. No, thank you." 

So, I'm slowly coming around to my HMF's thinking. I used to think he was just ashamed to be with me (how's that for jumping to conclusions?) but now I think he's just got more common sense. I'm not worried anyway. Why would I want the virtual relationship, when I've got the real thing? 

More Photos

East Timor Photos

Compare and Contrast

Driving down the road yesterday, I marvelled at the cleaniless of the streetcorners. There were none of those ubiquitous plastic bottles I'd come to expect, no candy wrappers, no pop cans, no shanty-towns, no potholes filled with nasty water, no barbed wire, no corregated iron gates, no haphazardly glass-shard topped walls, no open sewers - and no people. Granted, I was driving through a residential neighborhood, but it was hard not to notice the distinct lack of human interaction. Besides the well manicured berms and beautiful sidewalks, I could trace no sign of what actually went ON on these streets.

Cut to East Timor - where the streets are dusty, noisy and filled with garbage. My morning walk from the hotel to the office consisted of no less than three boys trying to sell me phone cards, two sidewalk vendors, a bank, three restaurants, one infant health clinic (with waiting families outside the door), a billard hall with its doors open, two stinking garbage heaps in the middle of the sidewalk, a dump, a hole in the sidewalk filled white worms and water (always made me gag), a random piece of barbed wire sticking out from the wall (caught my clothes more than once!), a pile of broken glass, and two brothels - sometimes with clients, sometimes not.

(I came to appreciate those brothels when giving people directions to our office for interviews - everyone knew where they were!)

If I ventured out in the day, I'd immediately be overwhelmed by the heat, radiating up off our concrete office yard. I always felt sticky and saggy (if I was coming from the beach, I felt sticky, saggy and DIRTY). For the first two or three days I felt smelly, too, but I soon learned that everyone - even malai - smelt that way to a certain degree. I can't say that I ever enjoyed having that body odor smell in the office, but I didn't bother me the way that I expected. The best thing I could do was mitigate it with an open window (if in the car) or just deal. I dealt.

In fact, with all the other smells around, I found that BO was the least offensive. Heat always seems to intensify stenches, making everything smell slightly overripe. Even "nice" smells (flowers, for example) became overpowering; the sweetness of the frangipangias lingering on far after I'd pulled them from my hair. What I really hated was the garbage pits and the open sewers; I always had a fear I'd slip and fall into one. Michael told me he once saw a severed dog head in the garbage pile by our office, which didn't endear me to them. I'd often watch with interest though, when a mother hen and her chicks picked through it - wondering what it was they found to eat in there...

I also stopped wearing makeup, because it just melted off my face. By the end, I might slap on some mascara if I was going out to dinner, but that was the extent of it. In fact, I stopped washing my face properly, full stop. That's because I ran out of face soap the second week in, and I was sweating so much anyway that it didn't really matter.

Really, the only hygiene thing that changed was my feet: they were ALWAYS dirty. I mean - black. Yes, I'd be wearing shoes - sneakers, even - but the dust would just seep its way in. This was problematic for me because I love flopping down on my hotel bed at the end of the day - a hotel bed that was pristinely crisp white. I had to take to washing my feet about four times a day though, just to be able to relax.

Dirt was everywhere, in everything. I took to washing my hands a whole lot and wiping down my computer on a daily basis, just because dirt got stuck on the keys. In the shops, everything had a fine film of dust on it. Shopkeepers would often throw water outside their doors to "keep the dust down", which worked, but also created some indavertant mud-pits.

These are the things that strike me now, as I'm re-entering American life. We are so clean. Our houses are so large, and our streets are spacious and safe. Communicating with someone is extremely efficient; I wasn't off the plane 5 minutes when I got a cell phone call (in customs, which is illegal, by the way). I went to the grocery store yesterday and I wanted to by dried apricots, out of season. Sure enough, they were there. And clean.

So, this time around, I can't say that I'm in culture shock, I'm most in culture awe. I'm grateful to live in a place where things are so comparatively EASY we don't even know it.

And yet, I'm miffed that we don't *have* to know it.

While I think most Americans would argue that America is great, it's all the more inspiring when you see what else it could be like. I am truly blown away by all we have here.

Wow, That's Pretty Proficient

I've been reviewing CV's for the past few days, and today I came across one that made me stop in my tracks. Under "Languages" they'd writte:

Proficient in English, both anally and written.

He is SO getting an interview...

Liga Hau

I keep getting these annoying text message one after another, in rapid succession, about once a day. Each text message says the exact same thing:

Liga Hau / Call me

At first, I just ignored them, and deleted my entire inbox (the phone can only hold about 25 messages at any given time). But, finally my curiousity got the better of me - and because I hadn't heard from one of our project employees for a few days and I thought she might be in trouble.

So I called.

Me: "Hello!"
Dude: "Bondia. Hello?"
Me: "Hello?"
Dude: "Hello?"
Me: "Why do you keep texting me?"
Dude: "What?"
Me: "Why do you keep TEXTING ME?!"
Dude: "Why you calling me?"
Me: "Because you just texted me, asking me to call you! Liga Hau! Liga Hau!"
Dude: "I sorry. I don't speak English so well."
Me: "I don't care. Stop texting me."
Dude: "Why you call?"
Me: "..."

I'm STILL getting those damned texts.....

SCUBA CHEESE

Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus

For the past two weeks or so, another old worker, Natalie, and I have been bumming around East Timor after Emily left. Actually, there's been a small group of us at the hotel who meet up for supper most nights and generally hang out on the weekends. It's made all the difference during the downtimes.

While I'd thought about doing scuba-diving while here, it takes about five days to get PADI open-water certified and, as previously posted, I've been crazy-busy with work. Plus, now that I'm (finally) leaving on Thursday, I thought all my options were over.

However, Natalie researched the opportunity and talked me into doing this open water diving course at Dive Timor. Luckily, they offere an intro course where you do a little book-learnin', a pool session and one open water dive - all in one day.

I've been snorkeling before (most recently, last week) and while it's always beautiful, it can be a claustrophobic experience if you don't remember to keep calm and trust in your snorkel. I thought it would probably be the same was with diving. Yet, SCUBA iss one of those things that I've always, always, always wanted to try. .

They say you won't ever forget the first time you can breathe underwater, and I have to say, it's absolutely true. Not only is it awesome, it's also bizzare. It goes against everything you've always done in your entire life, and I found myself struggling to fight against natural urges (such as wanting to rip off the mask to take a deep breath of air). Of course, you just have to keep reminding yourself to BREATHE, but it's hard because part of your mind is also telling you that that's impossible!

In the pool session, we learned how to fill our masks partway with water and then blow it out, as well as what to do if your regulator (breathing mask) gets yanked out of your mouth, and how to share air with your "buddy". For me, the scariest part was filling the mask with water, but after a few tries, you get the hang of it.

The real fun came when we hit open water. We dove with an instructor, Martin, who was constantly by our side and went over a list of hand signals with us so we could communicate underwater. Getting in and out of the ocean surf was a bit challenging (SCUBA gear is heavy!) but we managed. Once underwater, I had to constantly pop my ears to regulate the pressure, and get used to swimming with all that stuff on my back.

There wasn't much to see but white sand and blue water at first, but we eventually made it to a coral ridge. I can't remember (or name) all the fish we saw, but I do remember seeing a clown fish (NEMO!), a big grouper, several angel fish and lots of tiny little electric blue ones. The coral ranged from brilliant red, pinks, greens and yellows with tiny fingerlike wavies or thin filigrees. Martin poked an enormous pink clam and it shut tight. I saw a bright blue starfish the size of my face.

It was a bit freaky to be that near to wildlife and not be on National Geographic. We were careful not to brush the coral with our fins. Martin pointed out lots of little things, but as I wasn't really adept at turning, I didn't trust myself with getting too close. I found swimming accurately to be really tough - I kept running into the ground, or swimming too fast or generally just being overwhelmed by things to remember!

We we surfaced, both Natalie and I were laughing. What an experience!

Nothing to Say?

I have been trying for the past week to carve out time to post on this blog. Tonight, I've finally made myself stay awake long enough to handle the wickedly slow internet and now, strangely enough, I find I have little to say.

As is common with overseas work travel, these past few weeks I've been consumed almost constantly with, well, 12 hour work days. Not that I mind; I think it's well documented that I love what I do. However, unless I want to devote myself to endless descriptions of my tedious work schedule and adventures in Tetum translation, it doesn't make for very exciting blog posts. For that, dear readers, I'm exceedingly ashamed. Because really, is there really *nothing* I can find to write about East Timor? I mean, who the hell gets the chance to go to East Timor? And I have nothing tosay about it? That's messed up.

And yet, I've had very little time to find something interesting to tell you.

So I guess this is going to be a work blog post. Since my colleague Michael has arrived, and graduation has ended, my focus has completely shifted from "holding down the fort" to "batton down the hatches". That is, full steam ahead with extending our program here for another three years. In a nutshell, this has meant:

1) meet with potential partners, press the flesh, get to know your NGO neighbors and see how you can partner/overlap to make both/all programs a success. Also, poach staff.

2) continue meeting with the East Timor Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries, keep them happy and get them to agree to fund 1.5 years of your program. Create, review, translate and sign MOU. Lather, rinse, repeat for subcontract that actually gives them the funds to do it.

3) meet with the three school directors to a) finalize the entrance exam for next years students b) finalize the teacher needs for next year and c) keep them happy

4) handle staff turnover. This has largely fallen on my plate, and I don't mind. However, it's been tricky to deal with attrition of old staff and trying to recruit new. Not only am I advertising new positions (wait, back up, that means actually assessing what our new staffing needs will be, and writing job descriptions and getting them translated) but I'm also trying as best I can to communicate to current staff that they will no longer have jobs. This is going mostly well, minus a few tearful breakdowns.

5) Rustle up 50 students for each school we work in for the 2008/2009 school year. If we don't have enough students at each school, we don't have a program, so this has also been trickly. My colleague and I came up with an off the cuff recruitment plan last week that I *hope* will work. We'll find out tomorrow when our staff come back to report out.

It's challenging, but mostly, I'm energized. Michael paid me what I felt was the best compliment ever one morning over breakfast when he said, "I can tell you're doing what you're supposed to in life. You've found your niche. You're constantly smiling."

And yes, it's frustrating. Last night, I just about wore myself to tears after working for twelve hours and realized I'd put the wrong contact information on our $600 newspaper advertisements (and that's only for one week!). It's also become patently clear to me that my hope of being hired on long term to this project will not materialize; there simply isn't enough money in the budget. I didn't really realize how much I'd been motivated by this possibility until suddenly, it wasn't there anymore. Also, it helps to break for lunch.

Today, I've chosen to move forward and just enjoy the last week I have here. I've met some amazing people; eaten a ton of fresh fish; run along the beach; eaten banana chips with homeless kids; snorkeled along a deep coral reef; met Jesus on a mountain top; watched an entire two seasons of Boston Legal; drank a crap load of Bintang beer; gotten a full body massage; karaoke'd until dawn; met old friends; made new ones; seen beautiful sunsets; flirted with Pakistani UN soldiers; received a gift to ward off the "evil eye" from the Turkish restaurant owner; learned Portuguese swear words; and eaten so, so, so much rice.

My boss in the States emailed me today to thank me for extending my stay, saying that he knew "East Timor is not an easy place." Don't tell him, but I haven't minded a bit. I don't know if I'd want to stay here forever, but I haven't minded being here for a month. The sunsets are beautiful and I keep running into good people.

Plus, there's beer.

What more could a girl want?

King of a boring post, but that's it in a nutshell. I'm still alive. I'm still kickin'. I still find joy in my ridiculousness.

Hey, Pants! You F@*%ing?

Which is what was yelled to me last week, by a tiny impish woman.

Love,
Pants

The Legend of Timor- Leste

One day, a boy came across a baby crocodile struggling to make his way from the lagoon to the sea. As the crocodile was very weak, the boy took pity on him and carried him in his arms to the sea.

The crocodile was very grateful and promised to remember the boy's kindness. He told the boy that should he ever want to travel, he should come to the sea and call, and the crocodile would help him.

After a while, the boy remembered the crocodile's promise, and went to hte edge of the sea and called out ot the crocodile three times. The crocodile told the boy to sit on his back and over the yeras he carried the boy on many journey's.

Although the crocodile and the boy were friends, the crocodile was sitll a crocodile, and felt an irresistible urge to eat the boy. However, this bothered him and he decided to ask the other animals for advice. He asked the whalte, the tiger, the buffalo and many other animals, who all said, "The boy was kind to you, you can't eat him." Finally he went to see the wise moneky. After hearing the story, the monkey swore at the crocodile and then vanished.

The crocodile felt ashamed and decided not to eat the boy. Instead he took the boy on his back and together they traveled unti lthe crocodile grew very old. The crocodile felt he would never be able to repay the boy's kindness, and said to the boy "Soon I'm going to die, and iwll form a land for you and all your descendents."

The crocodile then became the island of timor, which still has the shape of the crocodile. The boy had many descendants who inherited his qualities of kindness, friendliness and sense of justice. Today, the people of Timor call the crocodile "grandfather", and whenever they cross a river, always call out, "Crocodile, I'm your grandchild. Don't eat me!"

(Taken from the book, "Timor Leste: Land of Discovery" by Daniel J. Groshong)

Graduation

Early Sunday morning, Michael and I, with our driver Jaime, went to Fuiloro for graduation.

Fuiloro is at the very tippity tip of eastern part of Timor, and the roads are wickedly windy. Although Jaime likes to drive fast, it still took us the better part of five hours, climbing through switchback hills (some with guardrails, most without), along pristine white beaches, amongst dry rice patties (it's dry season) and in the shadow of Mt. Matebian (the second highest mountain in East Timor). Contrary to my expectations, I only got a *little* car sick.

We arrived around noon, to be greeted by Father Manuel, the Director of the Dom Bosco school for boys. Everyone else wasn't set to arrive until three, so we had some time to relax, see that graduation preparations were in order and generally get a feel for the place.

The school is on an enormous compound, amongst farmed palm trees being intercropped with maize. They've got a small dairy with 68 head of cattle, two large basketball courts, a cathedral, the father's quarters, several dormitories, classrooms, a computer room (that our project built!) and several farm outbuildings. It was absolutely enormous.

Later on that afternoon, the Mission Director from USAID arrived, but the real show didn't come until about 6, when the Minister of Agriculture and Fisheries - and his entourage - showed up. First the national police forces (PNTL) showed up, six deep in the back of a pickup with several large machine guns. Then the UN police showed up with two cars, followed by six black SUVs. About 30 people poured out, and Michael and I tried to figure out who was what and most importantly - who the Minister was. Weren't we surprised when he turned out to be the shortest, youngest and only barefoot member of the entourage! After an entrance of such pomp and circumstance, it was hard to stifle the giggles...

From that moment on the Minister's needs dictated our schedule. Mass was scheduled to begin at 6, but the Minister didn't want to go so we held it with out him (ahem, God waits for no one). We were supposed to have dinner at 7:30, but the Minister was asleep so we all had to wait (students included) until he woke up, showered and felt like eating. We didn't even sit down to eat until 9:30, and then the electricity went off because to save generator gas it's always scheduled to go off at 10...

By this time, both Michael and I were beyond exhausted. Yet, even with the lights out, we still weren't allowed to go to sleep, as a special bonfire had been planned. We originally thought this was just for the students, but all the adults were ushered out into the back football pitch (with cows milling about) while a gentle rain fell. It took about 2o minutes before the Minister was available to come out and light the bonfire, a little program was announced (in Tetum, of course) and the kids sang and danced with candles.

And then, just as I was about to drop off my feet, all 300 of us were forced to join hands and dance willy nilly around the fire to the school anthem. And then, just as I was about to weep tears of blood frustration, the skies opened up and *really* let us have it.

I have never been more grateful to be soaked in my entire life.

The next day, the graduation went swimmingly. The Minister was more ameneable to a realistic schedule and we were all finished - not just early - but TWO HOURS earlier than planned. It was a joyous ride back to Dili!

Faith

This weekend was the first graduation of the beneficiaries of our high school program. Due to unforseen circumstances, I was tasked to step in at the last minute (the last week, actually) to make sure everything went smoothly. It hasn't been as difficult as I worried, but it certainly wasn't easy either. I've been struggling with not only language and cultural barriers, but also the sheer logistics of stepping into something you didn't design, or really have any idea about, until one week before. Answering questions in that position is a bit tricky!

I've had to rely an awful lot on people I hardly know, trusting that things that should be done are, and believing when people tell me what they need, how much and the logistics to get it. I'm a believer in the natural goodness of people, but when you're walking around with a fistful of $20 in your pocket for unforeseen expenses, you begin to feel more like a human cash machine then "partner".

So, imagine my surprise and relief, when I arrived at the high school and everything seemed to be going well. In fact, the whole weekend went off basically, without a hitch (there are a few stories of course, but those are for a different post). I am enormously relieved.

Now that it's all over, I can reflect on the idea of faith. It's so much more than believing in thing you do not see. It takes an enormous amoung of intestinal fortitude, as well.

On the way out here, I read the book "Under the Banner of Heaven" by Jon Krakauer. It's about a ritualistic killing that took place in Utah in 1984 by two Mormon fundamentalists that believed God told them to do it. It also underscores the root of Mormonism, and the rise of an essentially "American" faith (having been developed less than 200 years ago).

According to Krakauer, Mormons believe that the angel Moroni came to Joseph Smith in a dream in the early 1800's, claiming there were golden tablets buried on a mountainside in northern New York State. Although these golden tablets have never been discovered, Smith was able to find and transcribe them into what would become the holy Book of Mormon.

Crazy, huh?

One of Krakauer's minor points centers around the scientifically unbelieveable doctrines that most religions focus on. For example - Moses parting of the Red Sea, Jesus rising from the dead, Muhammed riding into heaven on a winged horse or Buddha reaching nirvana. They all ask that one suspends what everyday reality tells them to be impossible and make the leap between knowing with the mind, and knowing with something else. I mean, isn't the essence of religion to ask yourself to believe in something inconceiveable by mind alone?

(In Krakauer's case, he explores if it's crazy to think that two men were told by God to kill that woman and her baby or not).

In my case, it has more practical aspects. I have no prior experience that this graduation is going work; no history with those I was working with (heck, no common LANGUAGE, really); no basis for believing that it would be a success. This caused my greatest amount of stress - just not knowing with my mind.

Yet, in the end, there was precious little I could do. I could've driven myself nuts trying to find out what was going on with every last detail. But I was forced to give up trying to know with my mind, and just float in a sea of limbo - leaping into the sky on a winged horse and hoping to Allah that it really would fly.

It did!

And now I'm in heaven.......

It's over!