tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33478071462961056672024-02-18T23:02:31.591-08:00The World is My Classroom; The People are My TeachersWorld Travels, Life in Tanzania, Joining the Fight Against AIDS, Stories Collected from A Few Corners of the WorldJoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-57263840820195645832014-07-23T09:07:00.001-07:002014-07-23T09:17:57.324-07:00Send Eb back to School!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I need everyone's help! I am trying to send my kaka EB
Shore back to school because he doesn't have anyone to pay for his high school
fees. Eb was one of the kids I had the privilege of stayingwith during my time
in Tanzania. He is one of the sweetest, most caring young men I've met and he
was always a big brother to all of the rest of the kids. He is so desperate to
be allowed to return to school, which he can't do until his school fees are
paid for. I am trying to raise $630 U.S to pay his school fees ASAP! I made
this playpal donation button. If everyone gives a little, we will reach our
goal. :) One of my teaching partners Saidi is holding down the fort in
Arusha to help look after the kids. Asante sana everyone!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post" target="_top">
<br /><input name="cmd" type="hidden" value="_donations" /><br /><input name="business" type="hidden" value="YVYZVC8MKN2C2" /><br /><input name="lc" type="hidden" value="US" /><br /><input name="item_name" type="hidden" value="Send Eb to School" /><br /><input name="currency_code" type="hidden" value="USD" /><br /><input name="bn" type="hidden" value="PP-DonationsBF:btn_donateCC_LG.gif:NonHosted" /><br /><input alt="PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online!" border="0" name="submit" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_donateCC_LG.gif" type="image" /><br /><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" /></form>
<br /><br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" /></span><br />
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JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-45840273235073054442011-07-01T22:37:00.001-07:002012-11-21T17:23:07.934-08:00Why Not Climb that Pointy Mountain in the Distance?This story was told in a letter to one of my most generous donors, a very kind Mr. Paley.<br />
<br />
"One of my favourite memories with our kids happened one weekend when most of the other volunteers were in town for the weekend off. My roommates and I stayed to be with our kids and we took them on a hike, led by our director, to climb that one pointy hill far in the distance. We trekked through flat, dusty fields for a couple of hours before finding ourselves at the base of a hill, steeper and barer than any hill I've ever met before in my life. There was no path up. There was nothing to walk on but dirt that would slip beneath your weight. So we climbed. On all fours. We pushed and we pulled each other up. We used small weeds as hand holds. The kids helped each other. Some were fast. Some were slow. Some were brave. Some were scared. But not one even thought of stopping. In my mind, I kept thinking how we would never be allowed to do this with kids in the U.S. because of child protection laws. But what value to an exercise like this. Teamwork. Perseverance. Trust. Exploration. Tenacity. We made it to the top eventually, not one man or child down. We had our lunch of PB and J while surveying the sprawling African landscape around us. Then we began to descend. And we discovered that if going up was hard, going down was twice as hard. We slid on our butts and hands. Everyone was scraped. Our calves had cramps form being so tense so that we wouldnt tumble forward on our faces. But we all made it down. And we headed home. This time with the pointy hill behind us and no landmark ahead of us to give us any direction. So we got lost. All our water was gone. We had been walking for over 5 hours now. I carried Farajah on my back. We held others hands and helped drag them along. I don't think I've ever been qualified before in my life to complain of thirst until that day with the hot sun of the African equator bearing down on me and my children, a 40 pound child on my back and the last drops of water on my tongue tasted 3 hours prior. <br />
We found little dukas (soda shacks) along the way and bought the kids sodas to help quench their thirst. Finally we found our way back home 8 hours after we had left it. And you know what the kids did right when they got home? started playing soccer in the yard.<br />
Yes, we might have electricity and running water in the U.S. But how many of us are actually living and experiencing the world we're in? Who of our kids know how to explore and play and suffer (even just a little)?<br />
<br />
That's the story I've got for you tonight Robert. Thanks again for your interest and support. I taught some while I was there and I certainly hope it made a little difference. But more than anything, I learned. every day. from everyone and everything. I'm not the same and I hope I can bring a little bit of those kids and their world back here because, honestly, we all need it."JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-30858104635210569862011-05-06T14:16:00.001-07:002011-05-06T14:17:27.266-07:00Morocco Part II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Jamal took us straight to the tour company office where we discussed the matter of our missing friend, Krystal. The company told us that if we didn’t want to cancel the tour, Mimi and I would need to leave for the Sahara as soon as possible so that we could arrive at the desert before dark and make it to our Bedouin tents on camel-back. We worked it out that we would leave a message at the hostel for Krystal when she arrived to contact the agency who would instruct her how to catch a bus that would bring her to the Sahara hotel in the middle of the night. She would at least be able to catch up with us for the next day’s itinerary. <br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With that plan in motion we set out for the desert stopping once for lunch and once to feed the monkeys in the middle of the road. Mimi explained that she and Krystal had gotten snowed in at the Amsterdam airport and had gotten separated when Mimi had gone to the transfer desk and Krystal went straight to her gate. Mimi was lucky and got on a direct flight out to Casablanca within a few hours but her luggage didn’t make the transfer. <br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the time we got to the desert we had had a couple of phone calls from a very tired and frustrated Krystal. She had missed us at the hostel by a couple of hours. Both her flights in Amsterdam and Paris were severely delayed and she had missed the last night train out of Casablanca by an hour so she had to wait for the 6AM train. Realizing that she would have to wait until the might bus could take her out to catch up with us in the desert, she tried to make the best of the situation and enjoy her day in Fes. She had an encounter with Saide as well who touted himself as “JoAnna and Mimi’s friend” but she was keen enough to see that he was a hustler and played him to get a full city tour without paying a dime. Bad luck struck Krystal again when she got to the bus station three hours early and they were already sold out of tickets. She met another guy who offered to take her to another bus company but on the way he pushed her limit by asking how much she was gonna pay him and not wanting to deal with another hustler, she pushed him away and ran back to the first bus stop.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mimi had taken the camel trek by herself to the Bedoiun tents and I stayed back at the desert resort with Jamal to sort things out with Krystal. Jamal and I were having a traditional tangine meal when we got the call from Krystal that she was stuck at the first bus station with no ticket and was trying to evade a hustler. Jamal immediately called a friend of his who was also a licensed driver and convinced him to make the drive out to the Sahara at night. It would cost Krystal $200 and she would arrive at 3am. <br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Krystal came into my room and I was so impressed at how good she looked for the hell she had gone through. Smart enough to pack some clothes into her carry-on bag, she at least had some layers to keep her warm when her bag got lost too. I listened to her crazy story before we drifted off to sleep. We woke at the crack of dawn for a sun-rise camel ride on the dunes. Mimi headed back on camel-backl from her tent and we all had a huge breakfast before taking off toward Marrakesh.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next few days felt like a road trip with old friends. Jamal fit right in and we beautiful Moroccan countryside while jamming to our African music. Morocco is stunning. I’ve never been to another country that has such a diverse and impressive landscape as the United States done. (Traveling made me appreciate my country of residence more—I quickly came to realize that the world does not look so different… if you really break it down differences come down to climate zones and the US has a good mixture of them all.) Morocco impressed me with its rolling green hills, snow-capped mountains, red-sand Sahara dunes, rocky gorges, ancient citadels, and Mediterranean coastlines. </div></div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-7241533827545481482011-02-16T13:25:00.000-08:002011-05-07T13:33:07.765-07:00Morocco Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On Dec. 1, Mimi, Krystal, and I all departed from Tanzania and headed toward Morocco. We would all be landing in Casablanca at different times so the plan was to just catch a train from the airport heading to Fes whenever each of our planes landed and we would rendezvous at our hostel in the Medina of Fes. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I flew on Qatar Airways and got a glimpse of just how rich and extravagant the Modern Middle East really is. As soon as I walked on the plane, I was enveloped in scented mist colored by the pink, blue, and green mood lights flooding the cabin. I sank into a leather plushy chair and got confused about whether I was indeed flying in coach like my ticket said or if I accidentally was seated in business. Qatar treats even the poorest passengers to a taste of luxury. My ride was comfortable, my meal was tasty, and my flight was on-time and hitch free. <br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I arrived at the airport in Casablanca at 7am and after picking up my bag rode the escalator down to the train platform. I needed to catch a half hour train from the Airport to the main train station in Casablanca where I would wait another 20 minutes before boarding a train that would take 4 hours to get to Fes. I arrived at the Casablanca station and waited outside in the freezing cold morning air with my African village clothes and blankets layered around me to keep me warm. I had left all my books behind in Tanzania. There was no wireless. My camera was broken. So I just sat and watched hooded and cloaked Moroccan’s walking by and thought about how much Morocco resembled Europe and how little it resembled Africa.</div><div class="MsoNormal">My train to Fes finally arrived an hour and a half late. On the train I met a mother traveling with her son and an older gentleman traveling by himself. They informed me that in their broken, French/Arabic accented English that there had been heavy rains for days before my arrival and it had slowed the entire train system down. I got to Fes around 4pm and the woman and man wanted to help me find my way to my hostel. It was rush hour so a taxi would be impossible to find. The man offered to help me hail a taxi and we could share it. He bought me some bananas from the road and though I was on guard in the presence if a stranger in a foreign country, I welcomed the assistance. <br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Driving around the outside of Fes was conjured up images of arriving at a citadel after a long camel journey across the desert. The walls of the city were high, mighty, ancient, and impressive. The road that wound around the walls of the Medina was the border of juxtaposition—modernity on your left and antiquity on your right. The taxi could only bring me as far as the Blue Gate covered in mosaics. After that point, I had to travel on foot. The gentleman was kind enough to pay my taxi fare so I strapped on my giant backpack and tugged my carryon luggage behind me through the blue gate, into the winding market alleys of Old Fes, and back into time--Arabian nights. The city looked magical and much more astonishing than I could have ever imagined. This was one of those rare cases where you go to a place and you actually are not let down by what you find but it exceeds your expectations. The alleys were bathed in the warm glow of a low, orange sun at dusk. Richly colorful spices shaped in tall cones piled up in front of spice shops. Dazzling sequined shoes and fabrics were brightly arrayed in front of clothing stalls. Detailed leather goods hung from the tops of the canopies of stalls selling belts, bags, wallets, satchels, and sandals. I was mesmerized.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I had a task at hand: to find my hostel in this ancient labyrinth with no street signs or direct routes. I had an address but no directions. I began to ask the merchants if they knew where my hostel was. Some didn’t speak English. Some knew but couldn’t tell me directions. Finally one merchant tried to figure out how to direct me there when a lanky young man came up to us and asked if I needed help finding something. I told him I was looking for Dar Bouanania Hostel and he told us that he worked there. I was skeptical, aware that anybody could say that and jus be looking for a tip, but the merchant told me to go with him so I did. He brought me directly to the hostel and the Inn Keeper greeted both of us and said, “Oh good, you’ve met Saide. He’s the best guide. You should definitely go with him.”<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> With the Inn Keeper’s stamp of approval, I set out with Saide to catch the some sights of the city before the sun set. He brought me to a carpet maker, rug maker, and jewelry maker all of whom displayed “Moroccan hospitality, inviting me into their shops, giving me a tour of how the crafts were made, pouring me a glass of Moroccan whiskey (Berber mint tea), before artfully broaching the subject of prices and purchases. I gently turned down all offers professing that I was a poor student and volunteer. <br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once the sun set, shops closed up and we headed back toward the hostel. As I followed Saide through the winding alleys he mentioned to me that all the restaurants in the area near my hostel were very touristy and expensive and since I was on a tight budget I should just come to his house to eat because then I could get a home cooked meal for only a couple of dollars if I pitched in for the groceries. He said “we live very close to the hostel and we love to have guests over to cook for them.” I thought “Well, it would be nice to see a real Moroccan family and it seems like an economical choice.” As we approached his house, he gave me the run-down of the history of the building and pointed out the architectural details, He opened a huge wooden door with brass fixtures and led me inside….to a dark and empty courtyard. He then opened another door on the left that led to a small, plain single room with one bed, one small coffee table, a chair, a tv, and random Berber carpets hanging on the wall. As I processed my surroundings, I realized that he did NOT live with his family, that this was the apartment of a bachelor, and that there was no one else around in this dark, drafty building except me and this strange man Saide. Before I knew it, he said, “Just sit down and I am going to buy some food for dinner. I will be back in 5 minutes.” And off he went. I was a little stunned and scared but I headed for the door. It was pitch black in the courtyard and either I could not figure out how to open the huge ancient door or he had locked me in. I went back to the room and sat down and marveled at how I, a savvy traveler, had gotten myself into such a stupid situation. Half an hour passed and by the time Saide returned I was very cold and on guard. He quickly pulled out a clay Tangine cooker (basically a kerosene lamp with a clay plate that sits directly on top of the flame and a cone shaped clay lid that sits on top of the plate to steam the food inside. He lit the lamp and began to heat the plate while pulling out the vegetables, meat, and spices form his grocery bag. At this point, I realized that if I were to freak out and make a run for it, I would not be able to find my way back to the hostel and he would be able to catch up to me no matter what. Also, he did appear to just be cooking dinner so I went with the flow readying myself to attack should he make any funny moves. Dinner was delicious actually, albeit awkward. The silence between the two of us was masked by some shrill Arabic music he had turned on for background noise. As soon as we had eaten, I quickly announced that my friends would be arriving at the hostel soon and I needed to return. He led me back to the hostel and when I offered him a couple of dollars for dinner, he said “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back in the morning to help you with your luggage when you check out.”<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was relieved to be alone but anxious about the whereabouts of Mimi and Krystal. I had figured that they should be coming in on the train that arrived at 10pm and since I didn’t want them to get accosted by hustlers this late at night, I wrapped myself in my Masai blanket and headed out to the Blue Gate to wait for them. I was joined by some cloaked and hooded young hashish smoking Berber musicians who kept trying to get me to wait for my friends in their apartment that overlooked the gate. “We can watch them from up there and we can be warm and drink some vodka and smoke some hashish and play the drums.” “No thanks”, I said and endured their presence until midnight when I gave up and went back to the hostel alone. I had to wake the inn keeper to let me in and then to let me use his computer to check if my friends had tried to get a hold of me. All I got was a message from Krystal that said:<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span" style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;">hey girl. All flights are all delayed. I will get into casablanca at 11 at night. So i cant take the bus until morning. Try to delay the trek one day or later in the day. Meet you at the hostel either way</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">No mention of Mimi. No info on her exact whereabouts. I couldn’t delay the trek because we only had five days in Morocco and our trek took up three of them. It would take us from Fes to the Sahara to Marakesh where we would spend one night in Marakesh before heading back to Casablanca to catch our planes out. If we delayed our trek one day we would not make it back to Casablanca in time for our flights. I would have to just cancel our trek entirely but then I would have to pay to get from Fes to Marakesh myself and we would lose everything that we had already paid in full to the tour company for our trek. Confused and tired, I went to bed hoping that I would know what to do in the morning.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two hours later, at 2am, I was woken by a knock at my door. It was Mimi! But where was her luggage? And where was Krystal? Mimi asked me why Krystal wasn’t here yet. I asked Mimi why isn’t Krystal with you? Still as confused as ever we both went to sleep for another four hours and woke at 6am to find Saide asking for us to join him for breakfast. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We had the most delicious pancake/chipoti/crepe-like thing with Nutella and cream and rich lattes before heading out to the tannery with Saide in the lead. The tannery was amazing and surprising. We climed to the roof of the building and looked down on and puzzle of giant stone vats filled with different colored dyes and animal skins hanging on all the walls around. Men were walking with amazing balance on the edges of the vats, dipping the skins and curing them into leather. After again being hassled to spend hundreds of dollars on “Moroccan artisan goods” we asked Siade to take us back to the hostel because our driver for the trek was arriving at 8:30. The way back seemed longer than the way there and Saide kept saying “Oh don’t worry. Your driver can wait. You shouldn’t have hired a company anyways. We could have taken you to the Sahara for much cheaper”. Meanwhile at the hostel, the inn keeper was telling our driver, Jamal, that we had left with our luggage and we were going to the Sahara with another person and that he should just leave.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, the inn keeper was in cahoots with the hustler to get rid of the legit driver so that we would have no choice but to hire more hustlers to take us to the Sahara. Luckily for us, Jamal saw through the ploy and waited for us. When we arrived and loaded up the car with our luggage, Saide then hit us with the $100 bill for his services. Mimi and I looked at each other incredulously and then looked to Jamal to ask if we should pay him. Jamal didn’t say anything and we fumbled around in our wallets to give him something to make him go away. It wound up adding up to around $60 but that wasn’t enough for him. Mimi was heading to a shop to get change to give him what he wanted by I grabbed her arm and told Saide that was all we could give him and we quickly got into the car and drove off. Jamal explained that he couldn’t tell us to not pay him then because Saide could have followed him out of the city and given him a lot of trouble. He just said, next time don’t give the hustlers any attention. But we were still glad that we had gotten to see some of Fes, especially the tannery. <o:p></o:p></div></div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-88744016895470281512010-12-01T10:37:00.000-08:002010-12-01T10:37:47.219-08:00Reflection from Kilimanjaro International Airport<div class="MsoNormal">I am a young woman alone with my roll-on suitcase (which is the bane of my existence on world travels. The thing could be empty and still weigh a hundred pounds) and my small brown knapsack sitting in an airport for the seventeenth time in the last 3 ½ months. I’ll visit nine more airports in the next 2 weeks. Really, what am I doing? …This thought emerges from time to time and never a concrete answer follows.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been in Tanzania for two months and already I’m itching to go. I think part of why I like to travel is to just be in airports and on planes and trains and in transit to the next destination. In all things in life, I am a fan of the process and don’t so much care how the results turn out. I love the part where you never know what’s gonna happen. Everything could go as smooth as the peanut butter I’ve taken to carrying around in a small tub with a handle. Or everything could fall apart before your eyes. Or, if you’re really lucky, everything will fall apart just enough for you to have a good surge of adrenaline before by fate or mercy or your own sweet cunning it all comes back together into that narrow escape. No matter what happens, it’s always a story. And collecting stories is a penchant of mine—always has been. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I like sitting in places like airports to stir my thoughts like a pot of stew. I could have made the analogy to a vegetable or alphabet soup but stew seems more fitting to me as it is a bit harder to stir, messier—your spoon seems to bump into more things with each rotation. Not that my mind is always chunky with thoughts. Honestly, sometimes that blank stare I wear can’t even pretend to be a pensive gaze into the distance on account of the real void of the brain behind it. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyways, trains. I rode one from China to Mongolia—the legendary Trans-Siberian Railroad. One of the more Harry Potter moments in my life, I’d have to classify. Two more trains I will ride. Casablanca to Fes and Marrakesh to Casablanca. I don’t allow myself to imagine a magical Arabian nights setting for fear of disappointment. Magical setting or no, there is something inherently fantastical about a train. Most importantly, I don’t get motion sickness on a train. If you know me and my issues with cars and boats, you would take a moment to thank the Lord for my lack of motion sickness on trains. Of course, as thankful as I am for this, it’s not numbered SO high up on my list pf blessings merely on account of the fact that I encounter trains in my life only 3 times every 22 years or so. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t believe I will be almost 23 when I get home.</div><div class="MsoNormal">How untouchable are trains! No stop lights. No traffic. Yet they fit right into the landscape with the smallest disturbance of only a 7 foot-wide track. Oh, and some tunnels blasted through mountains when necessary but who is there to disturb in the center of a mountain anyways? Train windows remind me of thos old moving picture machines that you stick your face into and crank a handle on the side to make a series of scenes crawl slowly before your eyes. Trains. Travel by train.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love the lack of attachment the perpetual traveler has toward material things. It is of utmost importance (on account of aching backs and fee-happy airlines) to keep your luggage light. In the process of elimination, you find that really a human only needs a handful of things to be happy and healthy. Things when you do not need them anymore you merely bid adieu in the place where it’s necessity expired and you do not look back like Lot’s wife did. Trinkets are another story. Curios. Those curious things that after your travels you put into your Ger or Boma or Bedouin’s tent and when someone comes over for tea, they pick it up and gasp, “ooh, I’ve never seen such a curious thing!” And then you smile a knowing smile and slip into a nonchalant recounting of the <i>story</i> of how such a curious thing came to reside in your Bedouin’s tent. You see, it really is all about stories.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve taken to collecting small vials of sands…magical Gobi sand, Shifting sands of Serengeti, white sands washed by the Indian ocean, Sahara sands, sands of crumbled pyramid dust at Giza, black sands shiny with mica in New Zealand, volcanic sands in Hawaii….sands. Maybe I’ll put each kind into a small hourglass and try to figure out the significance of sands and travels and time. Or maybe I’ll just use them to time each team’s turn when we play Taboo. I’m really good at Taboo.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once I get on this plane, I’ll leave Tanzania. I’m not sure if I’ll ever come back. And I’m ok with that. Did you know that I’ll be riding camels in three different countries?</div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-20310634418115708282010-12-01T09:25:00.003-08:002010-12-01T09:25:12.147-08:00Reflection from Kilimanjaro International Airport<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>ZH-CN</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> <w:UseFELayout/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">I am a young woman alone with my roll-on suitcase (which is the bane of my existence on world travels. The thing could be empty and still weigh a hundred pounds) and my small brown knapsack sitting in an airport for the seventeenth time in the last 3 ½ months. I’ll visit nine more airports in the next 2 weeks. Really, what am I doing? …This thought emerges from time to time and never a concrete answer follows.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been in Tanzania for two months and already I’m itching to go. I think part of why I like to travel is to just be in airports and on planes and trains and in transit to the next destination. In all things in life, I am a fan of the process and don’t so much care how the results turn out. I love the part where you never know what’s gonna happen. Everything could go as smooth as the peanut butter I’ve taken to carrying around in a small tub with a handle. Or everything could fall apart before your eyes. Or, if you’re really lucky, everything will fall apart just enough for you to have a good surge of adrenaline before by fate or mercy or your own sweet cunning it all comes back together into that narrow escape. No matter what happens, it’s always a story. And collecting stories is a penchant of mine—always has been. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I like sitting in places like airports to stir my thoughts like a pot of stew. I could made the analogy to a vegetable or alphabet soup but seems more fitting to me as it is a bit harder to stir, messier—your spoon seems to bump into more things with each rotation. Not that my mind is always chunky with thoughts. Honestly, sometimes that blank stare I wear can’t even pretend to be a pensive gaze into the distance on account of the real void of the brain behind it. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyways, trains. I rode one from China to Mongolia—the legendary Trans-Siberian Railroad. One of the more Harry Potter moments in my life, I’d have to classify. Two more trains I will ride. Casablanca to Fes and Marrakesh to Casablanca. I don’t allow myself to imagine a magical Arabian nights setting for fear of disappointment. Magical setting or no, there is something inherently fantastical about a train. Most importantly, I don’t get motion sickness on a train. If you know me and my issues with cars and boats, you would take a moment to thank the Lord for my lack of motion sickness on trains. Of course, as thankful as I am for this, it’s not numbered SO high up on my list pf blessings merely on account of the fact that I encounter trains in my life only 3 times every 22 years or so. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t believe I will be almost 23 when I get home.</div><div class="MsoNormal">How untouchable are trains! No stop lights. No traffic. Yet they fit right into the landscape with the smallest disturbance of only a 7 foot-wide track. Oh, and some tunnels blasted through mountains when necessary but who is there to disturb in the center of a mountain anyways? Train windows remind me of thos old moving picture machines that you stick your face into and crank a handle on the side to make a series of scenes crawl slowly before your eyes. Trains. Travel by train.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love the lack of attachment the perpetual traveler has toward material things. It is of utmost importance (on account of aching backs and fee-happy airlines) to keep your luggage light. In the process of elimination, you find that really a human only needs a handful of things to be happy and healthy. Things when you do not need them anymore you merely bid adieu in the place where it’s necessity expired and you do not look back like Lot’s wife did. Trinkets are another story. Curios. Thos curious things that after your travels you put into your Ger or Boma or Bedouin’s tent and when someone comes over for tea, they pick it up and gasp, “ooh, I’ve never seen such a curious thing!” And then you smile a knowing smile and slip into a nonchalant recounting of the <i>story</i> of how such a curious thing came to reside in your Bedouin’s tent. You see, it really is all about stories.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve taken to collecting small vials of sands…magical Gobi sand, Shifting sands of Serengeti, white sands washed by the Indian ocean, Sahara sands, sands of crumbled pyramid dust at Giza, black sands shiny with mica in New Zealand, volcanic sands in Hawaii….sands. Maybe I’ll put each kind into a small hourglass and try to figure out the significance of sands and travels and time. Or maybe I’ll just use them to time each team’s turn when we play Taboo. I’m really good at Taboo.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once I get on this plane, I’ll leave Tanzania. I’m not sure if I’ll ever come back. And I’m ok with that. Did you know that I’ll be riding camels in three different countries?</div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-75369797190757546472010-11-20T00:53:00.000-08:002010-11-20T00:53:25.126-08:00To TeachSince I was either 5 or 7 years old, I thought to myself, If I don't become a zoo keeper, I think I shall be a teacher.<br />
<br />
I began working as an ESL tutor at age 9. Special ed tutor at age 13. Nanny at age 16. Literacy clinician at age 18. SAT tutor at age 19. TESL certified at age 22.<br />
<br />
I enjoyed every one of my teaching jobs and was good at it.<br />
<br />
Yet, upon graduation from college, I was still not convinced of my career choice. I flirted with the idea of going back to school as an architect. It might have worked out...<br />
<br />
But then I came to Africa.<br />
<br />
And within one week, it all became clear. I must teach. It's too late. I am already a teacher. Nothing else feels quite as right.<br />
<br />
Even in our mock teach-backs during O-week before we started teaching in the schools, every lesson I was able to teach I wanted to make my students (mock or not) think about things they might not have thought about before. And through thinking draw conclusions they might not have realized before. I love to learn from them as they learn from me. I love to present ideas, discuss, think, analyze, problem-solve, learn. And I love making my students love to learn too.<br />
<br />
Being in front of a class room is one of the most comfortable places in the world to me. It's my work. I can get to know each face day after day and attach it to a personality. There are the know-it-alls, there are the ones who don't know it all but try really hard. There are the "I-could-care-less" kids. There are the kids that avoid eye-contact at all costs lest they be called on in class. But all those labels slip away when you interact one on one. Curiosity and thought exists in every student, regardless of their reputation or confidence level. I like to find that well of learning and help draw it out.<br />
<br />
Outside of class, I teach literacy one-on-one to Farajah who has struggled with reading for several years now. To teach Farajah requires that you not get sucked into the sob-story of an orphan who misses his mom. And that is the hardest part. To teach Farajah requires you to know how to wrestle a goofy and work-eschewing kid. To teach Farajah requires patience above all else. To teach Farajah requires you to know how to make him believe he can do something before you're even sure if he can do it or not yourself. Knowledge of literacy curriculum is the last, not least but certainly NOT most important, requirement to teach Farajah.<br />
<br />
Mama Jessica and I teared up a little while Farajah bounced beaming and shouting from room to room upon successfully reading his first ever one-page story all by himself. Farajah can read. =)<br />
<br />
I think when you find that occupation where you don't ever really feel like you're working that hard, where everyone tells you you are great at your job, where you learn new things every day, where every day feels worthwhile, where you know part of what you did will last forever in someone else's life...I think then you've found out just what you were meant to do.<br />
<br />
And so, I must teach.JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-91092959437552679732010-10-31T02:25:00.000-07:002010-10-31T02:25:16.544-07:00AIDSIt took a while for AIDS and its effect on this part of the world to unfurl in my experience and consciousness. And it is still an ongoing process of realization. The first people I met infected with HIV were some of the kids and mamas that live in the OHS house. Only one of the kids, however, is actually allowed to share her status with the volunteers. 4 year old Bahati who is the adopted daughter of our director, Hori, and his wife, Lena. Bahati is a diva, full of life, energy, sass, opinion, personality. She puts up with her pediatric AIDS shingles. She stoic-ly accepts injections and medicines. She is survivng and conquering. But she is only 4. She will battle for the rest of her life. And at some point, only God knows when, the quiet period of her virus will close. The virus will have killed enough immune cells in her body to leave her with a CD4 count of less than 200. She will have full-blown AIDS. And like millions of others, she too will be robbed of her precious life by a disease that cannot be cured.<br />
There are other children in the house who are also HIV positive. They dont know their own status though and neither do the volunteers. That information is guarded by the "parents" of the house. And all the children, positive or negative, take their respective medicines and vitamins without question as to who is taking an anti-retroviral and who is not. The kids are just given a chance to be the spunky, energetic, individual kids that they are and fully live a childhood that is not afforded to so many of their comrades in this part of the world.<br />
<br />
So HIV is here on the homefront, but day to day we see smiles and giggles and energy and tantrums and doggy piles and all the other elements one would expect in a house with 21 kids. The kids force their neighbor, the Virus, to take a backstage role while they all dominate the stage with their lively theatrics.<br />
<br />
<br />
We had an HIV testing day in the village where we teach HIV curriculum in the schools. We advertised the testing day for a week and a half prior. Posters in hand we walked mile after mile of dusty road, climbing hill after hill to reach one Masai boma (family compound) after another. We talked to hundreds of red and purple shuka robed Masai warriors, mamas, kokos and babus (grandparents), and their dusty children. Kokos and Babus laughed and said: Why would an old person like me test? I dont do anything like those crazy young people do to get AIDS. Mamas said: If i found out I was positive, then what? There's nothing I can do about it. Besides, Jesus is the only cure. The men said: We Masai have leaves to make medicines out of to cure anything. Many made empty promises to come test. But come testing day, not one shuka-wearing Masia entered our testing tents, despite our rebuffs to uniformed concepts, our urging that testing is the only way to prevent the spread of the disease, our insistence that the test was free, painless, and quick.<br />
<br />
Yet we tested 106 people that day. And I saw the glimmer of achievement to all that we do here in a sometimes seemingly hopeless situation. Our students came out to be tested. Masai all of them, but pursuing education, uninhibited by tradition and superstition, enlightened by not only our curriculum but their own experience and critical thinking. We tested 106. We had 106 negative results. We have a promising next generation. We have hope to end this cycle. We have individuals who care about their own health and care about the ability of their generation to stay healthy and strong. We have young people who overcome stifling fears and stigmas to take a stand against one of the biggest enemies to their countries success and prosperity.<br />
<br />
AIDS is a hopeless case if you only look at the ignorant, the unwilling, the victims, the surrenderers of the community. But if you look far enough down the road and watch this minority of enlightened and empowered young people carry their knowledge, conviction, and motivation for change and solution to region after region, year after year, you see hope and you see a way to end this cycle. JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-12895124259791296222010-10-24T01:18:00.000-07:002010-10-24T01:18:19.758-07:00SafariWe had our first 3 day weekend off this week. I went to Ngoro Ngoro crater and the Serengeti for the most amazing safari trip one could ever ask for.<br />
First ingredient: the best safari mates. My roommates and fellow volunteers, 5 of us in all, animals lovers and adventure seekers, campers and PB and J eaters.<br />
Second ingredient: the best tour guide in all of Africa, our friend and coworker, Rasta Reggie, funny, loving, dedicated, knowledgeable, and already a good friend of ours.<br />
Third ingredient: our own OHS safari land rover with a pop-up roof in order to stand our our chairs and have an unobstructed view of the landscape and wildlife.<br />
Fourth ingredient: DYI PBnJ's and spaghetti and tons of matunda (fruit).<br />
Fifth ingredient: awesome OHS tents--what i like to call "veritable palaces"<br />
Last ingredient: 2 reggae CD's played on repeat for 48 hours, courtesy of Rasta Reggie<br />
<br />
Loaded up and ready to go we set off for Ngoro Ngoro, a massive crater made thousands and thousands of years ago which is home to 3 kinds of life: the Masai people, the Masai livestock, and the wild animals (all sorts except for giraffes which cannot survive at the low altitude of the crater on account of their oversized hearts). The crater introduced us to tons of hungry hyenas which we watched rounding up herds of zebras and wildebeasts. Unfortunately we missed the take-down of one unfortunate wildebeast by the pack of hyenas. We came up close and personal with 3 baby jackals that suprisingly tried to climb into our car. Reggie said in all his safari trips he's never seen any animals get that close to the car. But the most exciting up-close encounter happened, of course, when we stopped the car for me to go use the choo. As Crystal and I were in the choo, reggie and the other girls walked over to a beautiful old tree right next to a hippo pond. (The bathroom was one of the areas where you were actually allowed out of the car.) As they walked over, they heard a weird growling sound. Reggie looked up and immediately shouted, "F***!!! it's a lion!!" A large female lion had been in the tree the whole time and as they got closer, she got ready to attack. She jumped out of the tree in Reggie's direction and landed only 2 feet away from him. He fell down on a tree root in fear and thought he was dead as the lion hovered above his face and growled at him. One of the girls ran, one froze, and the other probably saved his life by shrieking "REGGIE!!!" The lion turned and ran in fear as i walked out of the bathroom to a very rattled group of safari mates.<br />
I was very sad not to have seen it first hand but very glad that Reggie and the rest were still alive.<br />
<br />
My time is up so i must finish this post later.<br />
<br />
Badai!!!JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-50707966608934252002010-10-16T03:18:00.000-07:002011-05-04T18:33:45.756-07:00Tanzania<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have been in Tanzania for 2 weeks now. I live in a mud hut with a family that has 7 children though only 4 still live at home. I sleep on a wooden cot with a mosquitoo net hanging overhead from a branch that sticks out of the mud-daubed walls. I eat plain bread out of a bag with chai tea in the mornings. I take about 7 different pills and vitamins in order to avoid malaria, scurvy, and constipation. I eat one of 4 different meals for lunch or dinner: rice with beans, beans with potatoes, beans and corn, or a grits-like mash with spinach called ugali. I have lost what I estimate to be around 4-5 pounds judging by the expansion of my clothes around me and the degree that my ribs stick out. I work on site digging trenches, gardening, hoeing, etc. I teach HIV and AIDS prevention 3 days a week in a high school to a class of 40-50 16-20 year olds. I teach a class of elementary students in the local village twice a week.<br />
But the absolute joy of my teaching expereince is in tutoring 7-year old Farajah every day in our children's home. Farajah was orhpaned at 4. Both parents died to AIDS. He was the only person at his mom's side when she died. He has an older sister, age 10, who also lives with him at the OHS children's home. He is the sweetest boy, full of energy, physically talented, with the biggest eyes that show straight to the center of his little heart. He is in 1st grade but he cannot read. So I am teaching him. And he is learning and learning fast. I tell him I love him because I really do. And he loves me too. We get along famously.<br />
I am always dirty here. There is no way to avoid it. We live in dust and dirt and clay and sand and mud. Those "Save the children" spots on TV in the States show the kids looking so pathetic and dirty.Well we may not be living in luxury, but dirt no longer conveys a sense of helplessness to me. Dirt is merely a way of life.<br />
Africa is home to the most stunning vibrant and unreal sunsets in the whole world (at least the parts that I have traveled). I love to climb the hill behind our site and see the whole village sprawled out below and the mountains in the distance and the deep reds and fiery oranges washed with a rare purple.<br />
Everyone here is called "mama" or "baba" or "brother" or "sister". And we really do feel like family. We dont know everyone. But anyone is always welcomed to anyone's little mud hut for a warm meal, some hugs, and some belly laughs.<br />
<br />
More to come from the land of Safari, Mt. Kilimanjaro, Lake Victoria, the Masai Tribe, and AIDS.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKxVRH1nQri1kyGYgWWNrgfXzlsfZoCHM-glYsF1paxxEdknmj3WnZjGpQlBUVpxmcPuy9QCa4LEZZuqHgQscvz9dIYUySF2GQq1bJvGz22anDJE3dQlHaXzsnbl8CkPvF86uAW7toxQc/s1600/DSCN0998.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKxVRH1nQri1kyGYgWWNrgfXzlsfZoCHM-glYsF1paxxEdknmj3WnZjGpQlBUVpxmcPuy9QCa4LEZZuqHgQscvz9dIYUySF2GQq1bJvGz22anDJE3dQlHaXzsnbl8CkPvF86uAW7toxQc/s320/DSCN0998.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdi5RD72f_P9fqc0aCHjRgvT5lr2YFxfvu7AAp3n-9SREj0FwGxrf34d6-Hhw_GWOD1BPyoV_6l4Wb0Nh7fBQYZOQ3Sqogv30h3zvorU0Z85TGwZC_UCWgjS0gS0e0IXwyfT8xsZHhGWM/s1600/DSCN1008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdi5RD72f_P9fqc0aCHjRgvT5lr2YFxfvu7AAp3n-9SREj0FwGxrf34d6-Hhw_GWOD1BPyoV_6l4Wb0Nh7fBQYZOQ3Sqogv30h3zvorU0Z85TGwZC_UCWgjS0gS0e0IXwyfT8xsZHhGWM/s320/DSCN1008.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-72796212998022433972010-10-03T09:00:00.003-07:002011-05-04T18:11:03.286-07:00Taiwan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">So a month passes without any blogs. I am sorry my land locked friends. I momentarily forgot I was traveling the world with a loyal audience behind me. Arriving in Taiwan, I spontaneously slipped into “I’m at home doing nothing exciting but everything relaxing and fun” mode. </div><div class="MsoNormal">In telling you all about my time in my homeland, it would not be very interesting to keep a daily or even weekly journal. Days go something like this: wake up at 6:30 am when little cousin, Tommy wakes me up as he gets ready for school, go back to sleep until 8:30 am when Ah Po (grandma) calls me to eat breakfast, go do whatever activity my grandparents or aunts have arranged for me for the day, if no activity then help Ah po around the house, eat lunch, take afternoon nap, go for a stroll with Ah po and do exercises, go for a bike ride with the little cousins in the afternoon, have a shower, eat dinner, clean up, watch the news with Ah Gong (grandpa), play with the cousins, check email, go to sleep. Repeat the next day. Boring, you may think. But for me, what a balm to my soul!! To spend slow summer days with all my relatives, to talk in Hakka in large groups of chatterboxes, to eat all my favourite foods, to ride our bikes around for hours and hours, to visit night markets and cheap Taiwanese stores, but mainly, just to be with my family…I couldn’t ask for anything more.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">**************</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Instead of a run-down of activities, I offer you some reflections on my September in Taiwan as I sit at the gate in the airport waiting to fly to Hong Kong en route to Addis Ababa. It’s funny to think how apprehensive I have been all these years to come back to Taiwan by myself. I had always been afraid that on my own, I wouldn’t have enough to talk about with my family, my Chinese would fail me, I would get bored, I wouldn’t fit in, I wouldn’t know how to handle all the hard situations that come with being a member of the Liu family. Leaving Taiwan after living there for a year in 2006 was one of the hardest things I ever did. My sisters and I were a train wreck, bawling our eyes out as we walked through airport security. When we got back home, we cried and lamented for our perfect and carefree days back in our beloved little island. There was an ever-present fear too that upon returning to my little island, it would no longer be as perfect and carefree as memory would preserve it. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, as I sat on my flight from Beijing to Taipei, in one moment it hit me that I was finally going home. Four years I hadn’t seen my cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles who love me so. And now I was finally going home. Tears welled up unexpectedly as the man sitting next to me attempted to break through my bubble of emotion and excitement with his frivolous small talk in Chinglish about green cards and residency visas and things of that nature. In Taipei, I grabbed my baggage and ran to the exit. I set my camera to video and walked briskly to the pick-up area, scanning manically through the crowds. Not there, not there, not there, hmm….where is a familiar face? Where is my family? I reached the end of the line and very disappointedly turned off my camera and trudged to the pay phone to call my grandpa. It was midnight. He answered very groggily and told me it was my uncle that had picked me up. Just as I was about to dial my uncle’s cell phone I saw him running over with my aunt. In my excitement to see them, I left my little card wallet (containing not only phone card but also credit and debit cards) there at the phone booth, grabbed the rest of my stuff and off we went! ….To the hospital.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">My first stop after arriving in Taiwan was the hospital. One of my cousins had gotten into a motorcycle accident only hours before I landed and her mother, my aunt, found out en route to the airport to pick me up. I walked into the observation room and saw her lying there with a brace on her neck, blood all over her clothes, all her appendages in bandages and splints. When I walked next to her she opened her eyes and said “Jie Jie” (Big Sister). In Chinese culture, it’s really important for someone who is younger to immediately address an elder by their title when they see them. I was so touched that even in immense pain and shock and chaos, my cousin still made the effort to greet me. Looking at her wounds and not knowing the severity of her injuries, a sudden wave of nausea overcame me and I ran to the bathroom. What a wake up call. I had been traipsing around China and Mongolia with no worries and no responsibilities, spending money, laughing, and living it up with a good friend. Now I was home and life was abruptly raw and real. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I spent the next few weeks visiting my cousin (who lives just down the street) every day. She mainly slept while nursing her injuries which turned out to be a concussion, broken toe, whiplash, and a lot of road rash. So I spent a lot of time just sitting there chatting with my Aunt, finding out what had happened in the four years that I’ve been gone. All sorts of stories: cousin after cousin getting into accidents, marriage dramas, baby dramas, school dramas, aunts and uncles having health scares, hospital visits, lost jobs, bad jobs, money tight, arguments in the family. In short: the usual. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have always thought that my family could be the subject of a soap opera. Does everyone feel that way about their family. I don’t know if everyone is on their best behavior when I am around, but amidst all the drama and hardships (the stuff that I get to see at least), you can’t deny the feeling of family love. Our family is big and loud and complicated. We all are yellers and laughers. We yell one the one hand because we all think our way is best, on the other hand we yell because we care and we are dealing with people who are thick headed and don’t know how to take care of themselves (at least that’s how we feel.) Each of us think we are the strongest person in the world and don’t need anyone to take care of us but that doesn’t stop us from butting into other people’s lives and trying to take care of them. </div><div class="MsoNormal">When something bad happens to one of us (car accident, lost credit and atm card, lost job, get cancer, etc.) we try our best not to let the whole family know so that they don’t worry. But somebody always finds out and somebody always tells the rest (usually either my Second Aunt or Lizzy Liu). And then the yelling and opinion throwing begins but in the end it’s all out of love and in the end it makes us laugh because we all know that we gotta laugh our way through things because bad things are always gonna happen (especially to us) but if you can’t keep laughing and loving, then what’s the point?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Take my littlest aunt for example (one of my favorite aunts, by the way). A woman who knows what it means to say “Life is hard”. Pregnant and married at 16, three kids by 23, stuck with a drunken and abusive husband who just 5 years ago got into a motorcycle coma that left him in coma for 3 months. The cause for the accident? Driving drunk. The cause for that particular drunkenness? Drowning the sorrow of having a runaway daughter. My uncle is woke up and learned how to walk and talk against all odds. But now he lives at home with the mental capabilities of a 5 year old while my Aunt works to support all of them. One daughter with a high school diploma working in a factory. One daughter with only middle school education working in a hair salon. And a boy, the pride of the family, a freshman in college, majoring in Ship Building. When she started going bald last year, my Little Aunt went to the doctor and discovered she had cancer in her uterus and without so much as a blink of the eye, she asked the doctor to schedule surgery that very day. She went back to work the next week. As we sat and chatted today before I left my Aunt kept lovingly punching my leg and telling me I had to take care of myself when I went to Africa. I replied, “Aunt, don’t worry about me! I can take care of myself! You’re the one who needs to take care of themselves. Take care of your health!” (She was on her way to a doctor’s appointment that afternoon for a post-op checkup.) She looked at me with a twinkle in her eye, flexed her arm, and said, “I’m the strongest!” And she laughed and laughed. So I looked back at her, flexed my arm, and said back, “I’m the strongest too!” She nodded her head and laughed, acknowledging my claim. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">This time going back to Taiwan I feel like I was my opportunity to get initiated into the very special and exclusive club called “The Liu Women”. We are sisters, strong, stubborn, motherly, Hakka, independent, smart, funny, playful, loud-mouthed, hard-working, suffocating, nosy, unbearable, generous, dominating, and unshakeable. And we always cry when we have to say goodbye to one another. Lizzy Liu with her visit this past June and her news of her swanky job as Kitchen Manager of a fancy restaurant in Los Angeles is the newest member. Lizzy Liu is a rock star in the homeland. With her big hair, big personality, cupcake baking abilities, generosity, dimples, swagger, charm, and bangles, she has left our little island behind all abuzz with legends of her magnificence. I awkwardly failed my initiation test in 23 days. I came black as a barbarian still dusty with Mongolian sand. My acne scarred face and over-tanned skin became the main topic of conversation among the whole family. And with 20 women and girls in my family, beauty regimens and potions came flying my way as I was also pulled along to see one Chinese doctor after the other. Each medicine that was prescribed to me put me through different levels of never-ending diarrhea. In addition, I my body did not do so extraordinary at adjusting to 95 degree weather with 95% humidity after spending half a month in the deserts of Mongolia, so I just wanted to sleep all the time. Also, I am notorious for doing ditsy things like going the wrong way and clumsy things like tripping and breaking things. Thus, despite my best efforts to show my independence and grace, I was taken as the black, pimply, sickly, sleepy, klutzy, stupid one with never-ending diarrhea. And I thought I could handle myself in going to Africa??</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well Lady Liu’s, to Africa I go. I will show you all that as awkward and clumsy and sleepy I might be, I am the strongest too. I already passed the first level in just making my transfer flight in Hong Kong to Bangkok. My flight from Taipei was late so I landed in Hong Kong while my flight was already boarding. I walked off the airplane to see an airport employee holding a paper sign with my name on it. I ran up to her and she directed me down the hall to the transfer station and told me to run. As I was running with backpack and carry-on suitcase down the endless, shiny hall I thought to myself, “Why are terminals ALWAYS a mile away from each other. I reached the transfer desk and asked how I could check in to Ethiopian Air because my flight was leaving in half an hour. The attendant of course took her sweet time in checking which desk my airline was at, and then informed me it was in the next terminal and to go down <i>that </i>hallway. <i>That</i> hallway went to immigration so I ignored her instructions and followed the signs, running to get onto a tram that I had to wait for anyways, then running to the check-in desk where my ticket was already printed and waiting for me. I handed the attendant my passport and she said, “oh you must hurry! Your flight is boarding!” And I thought to myself, “well you did see me run up to you didn’t you? You do notice that I am quite out of breath don’t you? And you do know that I can’t board until you return my passport don’t you?” Then she commenced to take her sweet time leafing through my passport, looking through my visas. She finally said: “You have no visa for Ethopia.” I said, “Yes, I know. I am going to purchase one upon arrival at the airport just as the Ethipoian consulate informed me to do.” She put my passport down and began to type on the computer. After a few minutes, she looked up and said, “you must purchase a visa.” Here? “No. when you get there.” Oh my goodness, I just told you that myself. She nonchalantly handed me my passport back and then looked at me as though I was wasting time and said, “You must hurry!” “Yes ma’am,” I mind saluted and dashed off to security and ran past all the duty-free shops to my gate. I pulled up much out of breath as the last of the boarding line was sneaking through the door. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am the strongest, I laugh to myself as I sit in my seat looking out at the Hong Kong harbor. Maybe I am not the strongest (I admit, I usually ask some guy onboard to help me put my carry-on suitcase heavy with books into the overhead bin.) But I just keep going. And I just keep laughing. I’ll get in the club one day. Black skin, pimples, and all. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I have written a month’s worth, I believe. Now rest your weary eyes and look forward to a picture edition of my time in Taiwan and stories from a brand new continent in my next few installments. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAwSyIIdjT4XTJ9uzdAI1ial7WQQYw3EY9pXw9r9cM9LZnRgJ81Ik6LBjbr7M_Dj4FVcBMj4H-k_DdufvPGFUp_fXfWiR5z5CnaSC0WN5TkKQ3P-m11fRjHrKIoPVqFj6WTebKlChwSwo/s1600/DSCN0443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAwSyIIdjT4XTJ9uzdAI1ial7WQQYw3EY9pXw9r9cM9LZnRgJ81Ik6LBjbr7M_Dj4FVcBMj4H-k_DdufvPGFUp_fXfWiR5z5CnaSC0WN5TkKQ3P-m11fRjHrKIoPVqFj6WTebKlChwSwo/s320/DSCN0443.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah-Gung and I with Cousin and her two children</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1aCzHHGbrj3PpEzNit0DqQ7O9r0E-DGHd1zhLKyQ3k0v8bUIOPiO82VjyYbAHktDkea_9YXWDblYimZVOBVNy-bwzNXVIHWoQRu85g-2RTa0u6YhiFNJaYEfWtTdE5gYmP8RD6Vgc69Q/s1600/DSCN0469.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1aCzHHGbrj3PpEzNit0DqQ7O9r0E-DGHd1zhLKyQ3k0v8bUIOPiO82VjyYbAHktDkea_9YXWDblYimZVOBVNy-bwzNXVIHWoQRu85g-2RTa0u6YhiFNJaYEfWtTdE5gYmP8RD6Vgc69Q/s320/DSCN0469.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah-Po, Ah-Gung, and Uncle on a hike in the mountains</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdrEmp4hR4Yp6-DxEj2eg4gQ9Vu97mfNYt3vuKIqYsp1q8ce59KKblh6mfBN8cUTs6kr-xuvYed1BzJLUobGDg7XvekHKh8DaNn7LvUaTFBIgUiqDNhBX0v4UgKjwuhh92MLQh9O-EUi0/s1600/DSCN0495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdrEmp4hR4Yp6-DxEj2eg4gQ9Vu97mfNYt3vuKIqYsp1q8ce59KKblh6mfBN8cUTs6kr-xuvYed1BzJLUobGDg7XvekHKh8DaNn7LvUaTFBIgUiqDNhBX0v4UgKjwuhh92MLQh9O-EUi0/s320/DSCN0495.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the Liu Girls</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6Cs_adPgnalwR1HFtB3hRpvr3cNu_QMKeu_9OGXj0UkzaaCFIMcjKBqk6Xfo_3mSjrzgcNDbw2lGLDvjiDuluuR5Bv1Y0ZVPGNyxnSy_ENCTeFbbNoOHotbKFZQ5TCyt6_lZvGBggyc/s1600/DSCN0504.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6Cs_adPgnalwR1HFtB3hRpvr3cNu_QMKeu_9OGXj0UkzaaCFIMcjKBqk6Xfo_3mSjrzgcNDbw2lGLDvjiDuluuR5Bv1Y0ZVPGNyxnSy_ENCTeFbbNoOHotbKFZQ5TCyt6_lZvGBggyc/s320/DSCN0504.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the youngest Liu grandkids and great-grandkids</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBsvBlrGM4FFBU2covVice4MOYsNo6Dmd7lpCCbgcZay8giMZrlESpN9YM6VFyVJ3jfHj3WZDD3xnjEs1yyHzDNe3gPIa5Dx2cTDcPbwFwk9A3-s_APjwI2WrV_7MaOcNaay_CqDEmrmo/s1600/DSCN0510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBsvBlrGM4FFBU2covVice4MOYsNo6Dmd7lpCCbgcZay8giMZrlESpN9YM6VFyVJ3jfHj3WZDD3xnjEs1yyHzDNe3gPIa5Dx2cTDcPbwFwk9A3-s_APjwI2WrV_7MaOcNaay_CqDEmrmo/s320/DSCN0510.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousin, former runaway, now hair stylist, responsible for my short do'</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_g16gbbLjRsD2ThpdzAYx08M0tPwzLP-7QPSVwDe3Ar81j_NCkB3IuwzuyBccqKQ3SsQ1mVIkQwe9oFW4fli4Msv01y5RdEQp0HGDYVvIk2CpZm7djpod9T052MutZIJZNDvMChu7X9o/s1600/DSCN0531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_g16gbbLjRsD2ThpdzAYx08M0tPwzLP-7QPSVwDe3Ar81j_NCkB3IuwzuyBccqKQ3SsQ1mVIkQwe9oFW4fli4Msv01y5RdEQp0HGDYVvIk2CpZm7djpod9T052MutZIJZNDvMChu7X9o/s320/DSCN0531.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah-Po, in her chair</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgD8ehursnGo_SduNcrsnk8iHYnTw4jIKVdg7q5-c-xGGUUGihHQwOJkZ3bzkdxg1R68_Ni-D7f77tNfCnFAIVD0TyfQU30tjbbvVd__QJc0MY3gDmk9muuAX5Jkx6GtyNAPTg6J6LiXE/s1600/DSCN0532.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgD8ehursnGo_SduNcrsnk8iHYnTw4jIKVdg7q5-c-xGGUUGihHQwOJkZ3bzkdxg1R68_Ni-D7f77tNfCnFAIVD0TyfQU30tjbbvVd__QJc0MY3gDmk9muuAX5Jkx6GtyNAPTg6J6LiXE/s320/DSCN0532.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah-Gung, assuming the usual position</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-S5kqtsntKKSOMgGrgi7fVnYLhu2OCFagj960xj1_4mvzNpjeWSTAh2iCOlygW3hyphenhyphena3Sf5N0Qr_WM6HCaKjGHbyhLppgwXD96iKDDr14qZNLMUWgftNeBd-Hv7JsElyGYU5iVojZ4Xk/s1600/DSCN0549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-S5kqtsntKKSOMgGrgi7fVnYLhu2OCFagj960xj1_4mvzNpjeWSTAh2iCOlygW3hyphenhyphena3Sf5N0Qr_WM6HCaKjGHbyhLppgwXD96iKDDr14qZNLMUWgftNeBd-Hv7JsElyGYU5iVojZ4Xk/s320/DSCN0549.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Autumn Moon Festival BBQ</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2c1syXmHKeUibVG5NWTdl4xJWrgBy5FF1oHtNFl1URbu6h2I2vKXrVjeudD74DT6SrT9BbXi_JvJMgYm2w8rxYYdXSmeTrBMC94D6-8-90Om1WaW9HiRvoTaALVimSuwewtXxQoleaVs/s1600/DSCN0602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2c1syXmHKeUibVG5NWTdl4xJWrgBy5FF1oHtNFl1URbu6h2I2vKXrVjeudD74DT6SrT9BbXi_JvJMgYm2w8rxYYdXSmeTrBMC94D6-8-90Om1WaW9HiRvoTaALVimSuwewtXxQoleaVs/s320/DSCN0602.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family biking holidays</td></tr>
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</div></div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-43688249617350986192010-09-05T07:01:00.000-07:002010-09-07T02:33:29.591-07:00Mongolia Part III<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">1.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>The Waterfall</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Our ger camp was right next to the second tallest waterfall in Mongolia. The waterfall was created by an earthquake that split the earth 70 years ago and forced the river to fall into the new crevice in the ground. We could hike down the ravine to the little pool that the waterfall fell into and Erdenhu would always go down to fish and once we went down to keep him company. Uka and our horseman brought out a rubber inflatable raft and decided to paddle to the backside of the waterfall. This incited a whole slew of eager Mongolian tourists to take the liberty to put on the nomad family’s extra life jackets and demand to be taken in the raft to touch the waterfall. And so they paddled boat load after boat load of screaming tourists through the waterfall. It looked interesting but I was too cold and too clothed that day to try it. And so I waited until the next morning. The water came down icy and sharp and knocked the wind out of my as we passed along the cliff on the backside of the waterfall. I felt like I was holding my breath until we came out the other side. When Uka said he wanted to go through again, I politely declined and decided to jump in the water for a swim instead which equally winded me and made my skin sting with iciness. I think sometimes I do these things just so I can say that I’ve done them, not caring of the pain that is involved. In any case, I have now seen the backside of a real waterfall.</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">2.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>The Hot Spa</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">We said goodbye to our ger camp on the 9<sup>th</sup> day and headed for a little hot spa tourist camp nestled at the foot of the mountain. That ger was the most uncomfortable we slpet in the whole time with lumpy beds and I hole in the roof which made us freeze at night. But at least we got to have a refreshing bath in the healing waters of the hot spa and have a real shower for the first time in 5 days. </div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">3.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>The Little Gobi</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Our last stop before getting back to the city was at a tourist ger camp next to the “little Gobi” –a stretch of sand dunes that is farther north than the main Gobi desert. This was by far the nicest and most comfortable ger camp we stayed in and we enjoyed our cozy little ger with the colorfully painted traditional furniture. That evening Glo and I went for a sunset camel ride—one that we had been anticipating since the beginning of our excursion. Gloria had kept saying “I wonder if I will fit between the humps?” Our camels finally arrived and we estimated that she would in fact fit between the humps. Our camels knelt in front of us and I got on first. Once I was between the humps, my camel lurched forward to rise from its knees and let out a loud, startling bellow and the same time. Gloria is convinced that he also turned his head back to bit me though I am convinced that he did no such thing. In any case, Gloria was freaked out and now refused to get on her camel. We coaxed and pleaded with her to get on but to no avail. She said she was scared and didn’t know why the camel had made that sound and now would not get on. I said: Gloria it wasn’t even your camel that did it. Yours is just laying there patiently for you to get on. And she would kind of pet its hump and say ok and move forward to get on and then decide against it. After about 10 minutes of this, my patience had run out. We had both been so excited about our camel ride and now the sun was setting and our camels were waiting and the camel boy was confused and really just wanted to ride my camel. In frustration I told Gloria that I wanted to sock her in the face if she didn’t get on her camel. Not a proud moment. But she got on. And we had a nice ride to the sand dunes. Camels are such funny creatures. Their heads and eyes are huge. Their humps wobble like jello that has been turned out of a mold. They have these big thighs and knobby knees and then the littlest chicken leg calves. Their feet look like huge paddles that expand when it touches the ground. And I must say, camels are ten times more comfortable to ride than a horse. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">4.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Farewell dinner</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">When we got back to the city, we had a free day to ourselves that we used to shop for souvenirs at a leisurely pace. The last thing on our itinerary was to have a farewell dinner at a restaurant with our cook, Erdenhu, and Uka. We thought it was a little funny when they showed up at our hotel that they didn’t know where we were going to dinner. We expected that they would have been instructed by the company to take us to a certain place and we would have set meal options since the dinner was to be covered by the company. But we decided on the BBQ chicken place at the corner of the block (which Glo and I had already eaten at 3 times). We ordered our food, ate, tried to have a bilingual conversation about sports and Uka’s computer addiction, and at the end, Uka called for the bill and handed it to GLo and I. We both looked at each other in confusion and asked, “wasn’t this meal supposed to be included in our trip?” (I mean really, did they think that we had just treated them to a $50 meal). Uka said he had to call his manager to verify. She told him that the company was supposed to pay for it but the problem was that Uka had no money. Neither did the cook. And neither did we. So Uka let us go home and left the cook as hostage at the restaurant while he ran back to the office to get money to pay for dinner. What a disaster. One final note: At dinner, Uka decided to present us with some parting gifts. During the trip, Uka spoke a lot about his spiritual beliefs and we spoke a little about the fact that we were both Christian. So Uka decided that a nice parting gift for us would be a holographic picture of a very strange looking Jesus and Virgin Mary surrounded by angels and clouds, one for each of us. We weren’t sure how this was supposed to commemorate our time in Mongolia, but then again, it did come from good ol’ Uka.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">I thoroughly enjoyed my time in magical Mongolia. I had great company in Gloria, to whom I am eternally grateful not only for helping me realize a whimsical childhood dream by coming with me, but adding so many laughs and good memories along the whole way.</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><br />
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</div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-26407117712517503632010-09-05T07:00:00.000-07:002010-09-07T02:25:51.820-07:00Mongolia Part II<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">1.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Horse trek</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">We set out with two Mongolian Nomadic Horseman for our 5 day trek through the mountains. Gloria was a bit scared because her last time riding a horse (5 years ago) she had been thrown, but she was up for the challenge…as long as someone led her on a lead rope. Unfortunately, that person turned out to be Uka and unfortunately Uka turned out to be horrible at leading someone on a horse while he himself was on horseback and unfortunately Gloria got led into several trees along the way. =( poor girl was having a rough time. For me though, this was a dream come true. The horses were all so good and well mannered, stout and trusty. The scenery was so beautiful wide open grassy spaces that flowed right into rolling hills and then climbed into rocky mountains covered in fir trees with the sparkliest, flowing river winding its way along side us the whole time. The saddle took some getting used to since it was a lot harder and smaller than a western saddle. But at least they hadn’t given us the real traditional wooden seat saddle with iron stirrups that the horsemen used. We rode slowly and made camp for the evening. The next day we stopped by a natural hot spring and had a bath and washed our hair. So refreshing. The whole day as we got on and off our horses, Gloria always needed an extra boost to get up and there wound up being a whole lot of butt grabbing going on all for the sake of getting Glo on and off the horse. At one point, Uka was trying to help her get on and in a way that only Gloria Ibarra could pull off, she hoisted one leg over the horse’s back, wound up not upright but on her belly hugging the horse’s back, and the next thing we knew she had gone up and completely over on the other side. The horse in confusion stepped on Uka’s foot who then let out a loud scream and all of us spectators and Gloria included burst out into raucous and unending laughter. Gloria, still jolly, hoisted herself on again and almost fell off again because she was laughing so hard but we managed to get on our way…laughing all the while. But by the end of that day, Gloria had been led into one too many trees by Uka and had had enough of the horse trekking part of the program so we decided to head back to the ger camp early, where Glo could stay on her feet and I could go out and ride by myself.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">2.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>The Fall</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">All of the horses were well-mannered except one, the horse that our young horseman rode. He was high-strung and temperamental and we were warned to stay away from him. My horse, well-mannered as he was, was what they called “a good Mongolian horse”…which meant that he was fast and that he loved to go fast. But for most of the trek, I made him go slow to stay at the same pace as Gloria’s slow-poke horse. On the last day, Glo decided to walk back, and I made my horse walk behind her. After a while he decided that pace was WAY too slow and he started getting antsy. At that point, the young horseman rode up and told me to switch horses with him so that he could let my horse run fast for a while. I was a little surprise3d since we had been told to keep away from his horse but I went along anyways…After all, I’ve never been scared of any horse before. The young horseman took off and I kept his horse going at a walk. Then I felt it coming. The test. Every high-strung horse tests a new rider for the first time. So I let him trot but at a controlled pace. One problem though. This was my first time in a traditional Mongolian saddle which literally looks like a small wooden seat with a wooden panel in the front instead of a saddle horn, and with iron stirrups. When the horse started to trot, my ankles were banging against the iron stirrups and my thighs hitting the wooden panel. Not comfy. I tried to adjust and figure out how to sit in the saddle when the horse realized his opportunity to break away. And so he did. And there we went galloping across the wide open Mongolian grass. Nothing in front of me to stop my horse. And what they say is true. Mongolian horses are fast and powerful. I’ve never gone so fast before. The wind ripped my baseball cap off my head even though it was fastened with a pony tail. I knew the horse would keep going until I was off it’s back but I was intent on staying on, bad footing and all. I pulled up as hard as I could on the reins and let out a loud and low “HAI” which means stop for Mongolian horses. Then I brought the reins up tight and yanked as hard left as I could to force the horse into a tight circle. Circles always slow a horse down. And sure enough, he slowed to a bumpy trot, throwing his head the whole time, and twisted into a small circle, for which my footing just wasn’t ready. I slipped slowly and gently off to the left, holding onto the reins the whole time. A painless fall and I jumped on my feet immediately and my horse was suddenly calm. I put my hand on its head and asked it to stop and it did. The young horseman came riding up at that point and asked if I was ok and I said yes. He went back to retrieve my hat and I got back on my horse. The test was over as soon as I got back on. He had to know I wasn’t scared of him if I got back on. And I wasn’t. Though there was adrenaline coursing through my veins from the thrill of riding that fast in a wide open space for such a stretch. My horse was grumpy but done with his antics.</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">I was a little embarrassed that the horsemen had seen me fall. But apparently I shouldn’t have been. Because the next day, the young horseman approached Uka and told him that he had fallen in love with me on account of my riding skills and was prepared to try to make me his girlfriend. Uka told him not to waste his time because I lived in America and we couldn’t even communicate in the same language. Too bad for the horseman but at least I felt like my riding skills had received the ultimate stamp of approval.</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">3.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>The Babies</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Babies in Mongolia are fat and beautiful. Nomadic children play all day outside and grow up in their family’s ger. They help with whatever they can…the girls washing and hanging the clothes by hand, bringing firewood into the ger, and other small tasks. Boys help the men ten the animals and we were impressed to see the ten year old boy of our host family working all day herding their goats and sheep. One day, three little Mongolian children who looked to be ages 3, 4, and 5 made our day as we watched them gallop swiftly across the plains, their little legs butterfly kicking their horses fervently even though their feet didn’t even reach the horse’s belly. One had a wooden paddle in tow and swatted his horse’s neck and we were pretty sure it felt like a mere neck massage to the horse. The other had a rope in hand and from time to time would swat his horses behind. The littlest rode in back and took care of yelling at the top of his lungs as the thundered around in great jubilation. It was clear how much Mongolian horses respect their tiny riders. A beautiful sight. Gloria and I made good friends with the two little girls that belonged to our host family. It’s amazing how little you actually need to know of each other’s language in order to be friends. Especially with kids. We dressed them up, shared our candy and cookies, climbed on rocks together, and they loved us.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">4.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Erdenhu</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">Our driver was called Erdenhu, though if you ask him his name, he will list a bunch of names in a language for each culture that he has met people from. Erdenhu was our anti-Uka and we were so glad to have him along. He daughters our age and he knew evry road in Mongolia and most of Russia and many parts in Northern China. He has been driving for 20 years. He is also a pilot and flies to see his daughter in Europe and his other daughter in Beijing. Erdenhu spoke very broken English but somehow we were able to communicate with him better than we were with Uka many times, granted it involved a lot of body language and laughing. Erdenhu was a jolly man and we all shared a similar sense of humor. He, Gloria, our cook (who spoke and understood zero English), and I all got along famously in the universal language of hand gestures, physical humor, and making fun of Uka.<br />
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</div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-85522065018699453862010-09-05T06:57:00.001-07:002010-09-07T02:41:53.468-07:00Mongolia Part I<div class="MsoNormal">Escapades of the Mongolian Kind:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Since I was a wee child, I dreamed of going to Mongolia. Not many do, but as a child two things greatly lent themselves to forming my identity: 1. Being supremely skilled at riding and caring for horses and 2. Being a hobo. Mongolia: the land of nomads and wild horses. Clearly, I belonged in Mongolia, I thought as a child.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So now 17 years later, with one jolly and long-suffering friend in tow, I venture to my Mecca. 12 days spent there and many escapades collected. Here is an assortment of anecdotes in chronological order to sum up our travels in the magical land of Mongolia.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">1.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Arrival</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Pulling into Ulaanbaatar felt a little like discovering an oasis in the desert. We had spent the last 15 hours looking at the same unchanging scenery of vast uninhabited grassland. Finally, here was civilization. Though as a city, it certainly was a different one. Gers (small, round Mongolian dwellings made of wood and sheep felt) surrounded and perforated the whole infrastructure of the city. Everything appeared grey and dirty except the brightly painted roofs of the one-level houses, making the city look like someone had dumped a box of crayolas on top of a concrete rubble pile. But civilization nonetheless and the beginning of our journey.</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"> Snafu 1. We were supposed to pay the balance of our excursion fee upon arrival and the plan was to just go withdraw the money and pay them. Who knew that withdrawing $2,000 dollars from a foreign bank would be so hard. Each bank had a $50 withdrawal limit so began the great tour of Mongolian banks, withdrawing a limit from each one, accruing tons of ATM fees, but an hour and a half later we came back to the office bearing over 2 million Tugrik..Mongolian currency (1,200 T = $1) </div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">Snafu 2. Then we were told that we would set out on our excursion that night, arrive in the countryside the next day, and embark on a 9 day horse journey with no showers and no sight of civilization the entire time….not exactly the itinerary we booked. Instead, we asked to be put in a hotel that night so we could straighten everything out and after getting back on track to our original itinerary we set out the next morning.</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">2.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Uka</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Our tour guide/ translator is called Uka. His English can be hard to understand. Yet he is somehow a professional English teacher at a University. Glo and I are worried for the condition of Mongolian’s education system. Uka calls himself “Strong Arm”. Uka is 26 but he lied and said he was 24. Uka runs around and jumps like a child. Uka makes very exaggerated facial expressions. Uka consideres himself to be the best English teacher at his university, but we have to repeat ourselves 3 times before he understands us and Gloria has to translate for me when he talks. Uka thinks Glo looks Mongolian therefore they must be distant cousins. Uka wants to know if Glo speaks “Mexican”…”Do you mean Spanish?” ….”No. Do you speak the traditional Mexican language called Mexican”…………………..”No, Uka. We speak Spanish in Mexico.”….”No, I believe you should speak Mexican.” Sigh, the world according to Uka is a world in which people speak Mexican and want to kill each other and still subject the whole African race back into slavery, and where the Black Death was started by Mongolians throwing sick marmots into European castles. Also it is a world in which blue Dragons rule the rivers and the black birds are trying to give us messages from Hell. Uka perpetually confused us and annoyed us. We tried to be patient with him until we realized that he got on the nerves of the entire normal Mongolian population too. And in the end we discovered why Uka is the way he is: Uka used to do nothing but play video games and once he spent 36 hours straight in front of the computer screen without realizing how much time was passing, completely absorbed in his world of CounterStrike. Congratulations, Glo and Joe, for surviving 12 days with the maniac known as Uka whose email is: <a href="mailto:Doyouknowme@yahoo.com">Doyouknowme@yahoo.com</a>. </div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">3.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Passage to the Ger camp<br />
Glo is a little new at camping and trekking and a little freaked out by bugs. Nontheless, both of us were enjoying our jeep ride into the countryside, passing by beautiful pristine nature and all sorts of animals right outside our windows: sheep, cattle, goats, horses, yak, and marmots. We rolled down the windows to get a better view and fresh air when I grasshopper flew inside and Gloria freaked out. She was screaming and trying to crawl over me to switch seats with her. The whole car (me, our driver, our cook, and Uka) were all just watching her be a spectacle. As soon as she calmed down we went over a huge ditch and somehow just Gloria went airborne and smacked her head on the top of the roof. She screamed and then broke out into hysterical laughter and we all followed suit. 5 hours later, we arrived and settled into our ger.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><br />
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4.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Shaking the eagle</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">Before getting to the ger camp we stopped by a monastery where there were two tame eagles outside. Before we even realized we had consented, I found my hand shoved into a thick leather glove and a man putting a huge 20 pound eagle on my right wrist. And then I had 3 people crowd around me and me new eagle telling me to “Shake it! Shake it!” …..what? shake the eagle?...before I had time to figure it out the man had grabbed my wrist and started shaking the eagle. It spread its large wings and posed for a picture. For those of you who have never shaken a 20 pound eagle, it is no easy task. That bird was heavy!! Glo followed in similar fashion but with more giggling, per usual.<br />
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</div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Ger Camp</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">We stayed with a Mongolian nomad family in our own ger. Each ger has an iron Russian stove in the center to heat the ger because nights on the Mongolian step get quite cold. I spent a lot of time honing my fire making skills. Often I would get such a crackling fire going that I would overheat the ger and then we would have to open the door anyways to let some cool air in. One night I overheated the ger and in impulsive frustration I decided to open the stove door and pour water over the fire, ignoring Gloria's protests, and sending plumes of ash out into the ger and all over our beds and belongings. We woke up the next morning coughing and smelling like we had spent the night in a campfire.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-24122268951349524162010-08-22T07:35:00.001-07:002010-08-22T07:35:47.538-07:00The Journey Begins: The Asian Part<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I am writing this from my berth on the Mongolian railroad. It has been an interesting 3 days out of the country so far. Gloria and I almost didn’t make it to China on Sunday night on account of me forgetting to get a Chinese visa. We showed up at the airport and we not allowed to board when the airlines discovered were visa-less. Monday was a whirlwind 24 hours of Joe-doing-work-to-rectify-her-grave-error. Starting at 5am I began frantically making phone calls to change our ticket to the next night (and was told it would cost 1,000 for both of us to change it) then racing to the airport to talk to the airline ticketing (who thankfully changed our reservations for only a fee of 100 each), then racing downtown to the China consulate to beg for rush same-day visas, only to be told that I needed to present my birth certificate to prove that I was born in Taiwan as my passport indicated. Of course my birth certificate was neatly packed away in a box of stuff in orange county so we raced off to retrieve it raced back before LA traffic and processed our visas 40 minutes before the consulate closed. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Glo and Joe leave for China, version 2.0: we said our tearful goodbyes Monday night, not Sunday. Had a smooth flight to Beijing by way of Korea. I lost the bottom of my super cool zip-off convertible pants on the first airplane. I was starting to doubt myself and my capacity to be a world-trekking hobo. But there’s no time for self doubt. And I had to stay cool or else what would Gloria do? She was already quietly freaking out inside. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Our first day in Beijing made us want to hang ourselves. After the crazy 36 hours we had just been through, we were in the worst shape to deal with being ripped off by the first taxi driver that took us from the airport to pour hotel, having to wait 20 minutes to get into our hotel room, warding off a bell-boy turned stalker, dodging piles of (I kid you not) human feces on the sidewalk, being pushed by a crowd of gangsters wielding huge sticks being chased by the police, squeezing our way through massive hoards of sweaty and rancid people in the Forbidden city, walking for 4 miles in poor footwear, being accosted by a crazy roadside saleslady, and finally having a downpour of polluted rain dumped on us with only one broken umbrella to shield both of our tired bodies as we made our way through foamy yellow puddles back to our hotel room. Not to mention the thick layer of fog that refused to retreat leading us to believe that we were walking in a haze of perpetual grey pollution. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">In the hotel lobby, a very uncomfortable Gloria uttered my most feared statement: “this trip wasn’t for me.” I had dragged my poor dear unassuming friend half way across the world and was subjecting her to a vacation from hell all because of my folly and wanderlust. And I was starting to think that this trip wasn’t for me either. So we showered and went to bed at 5pm.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Day 2: We saw a more agreeable side of the city today. After a local poor man’s breakfast we headed out to downtown to find the office where we needed to pick up our train tickets. Afterwards, we treated ourselves to a luxurious lunch at the most famous Peking duck restaurant in Beijing and to an exquisite Haggen Daas dessert in a cute sit-down haagen daas café. We spent the rest of the afternoon shopping and flexing our bargaining muscles. We made a good tag team and got most of our gifts for 400 RMB less than the quoted price. I also managed to navigate the entire city today and got us around by foot and subway using my trusty map. I was starting to regain my confidence in the prospect of being a world-trekker. Feeling better about ourselves, we went to bed at 8pm.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Day 3: We embarked on a guided tour arranged by our hotel at 7am. We filled a small 12 passenger bus and joined a hodge podge of other foreign guests who all wished to see the Great Wall of China. For $40 US we got a 12 hour tour that included much more than just transportation to the Great Wall. We drove through many famous areas of the city and got some brief descriptions. Our first stop was the Ming tombs, burial place of the emperors. Then we visited a jade factory before stopping at what is claimed to be the most beautiful section of the Great Wall. Glo and I opted to ride the gondola to the top of the Wall. I would have probably attempted the climb if I was by myself but considering the heat, I was very grateful to have taken the ride. The view of the Wall from on top of the Wall was truly spectacular and thought-provoking. Watching the masonry slither precariously up the steep slopes of the rocky Chinese mountains and watching tourists like ants haul themselves up the countless steps of this huge piece of architecture, my mind was in awe that this could have been built by hand, brick by brick, each piece dragged up the steep mountain and carefully laid by a young worker who received no compensation for this toiling and often fatal work. And 5,000 years later, I along with thousands of other visitors from all over this world walk on theirs (not the commissioning emperors’) handicraft, taking pictures as though we were at Disneyland. I just hope that as this monument stands as a drawing factor for people of all nationalities and cultures, sufficient thought is given to the work and lives put into this otherwise purposeless structure. After the wall, we were taken to a Cloisonné factory and then fed a huge Chinese family-style meal. We thought our tour would be winding down as we headed back into the city but it continued with two stops to a silk factory and a tea shop where we saw silk being taken from actual silk worms and spun into thread and we learned about traditional tea making and tasting customs. Finally we were given one last surprise stop to the Olympic village and were treated to a foot massage by a team of Chinese medicine interns who had also served the Olympic athletes 2 years ago. The massage was great but we were also subjected to an hour long lecture in very poor English about the ideas behind Chinese medicine. Then a Tibetan doctor entered the room and Gloria was hand-picked for him to read her palms and diagnose her with heart and respiratory problems. He very dramatically told her that if she didn’t buy a certain medicine (which of course cost a couple hundred US dollars) that she would eventually die. No duh. I had to translate for a perpetually-giggling Gloria during this whole melodramatic exchange and it was certainly one of the most interesting experiences we have had. We finally got back at 7pm and Gloria wouldn’t let me rest because it was our last night to see the night market. I had thought there would be cheap clothes and products along with food stalls like the night markets are in Taiwan, but there was only interesting Beijing style-snacks including live wriggling scorpions on a stick. Tired and hungry we ate a big meal at McDonalds and went home. It had been a full and good day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Day 4: We barely woke up in time to pack, check out, and get a taxi to the train station by 7am. Of course it’s pouring rain today and of course I would have taken my medicine on an empty stomach making me vomit several times as soon as I got out of the taxi and of course there would be a traffic jam in front of the train station causing the taxi driver to leave us on the opposite street from the station and of course there would be a sky bridge instead of a cross walk….after lugging all our belongings up the stairs and down the stairs and going through the security, we got to the platform on time, albeit soaking wet and a little tired. So it was a very pleasant surprise to find how cute our train was. We are in a private berth where the “hard sleeper” bunks are actually softer than our hotel bed. We have a little breakfast table between the beds, a tv installed on the wall of each bed, reading lights, blankets, pillows, towels, and slippers. We were served tasty coffee by our nice Mongolian train attendants and we are now looking out at the beautiful scenery of mountains and rivers that look like they came straight out of a Chinese calligraphy painting. I am sitting here with the quiet excitement that comes when two of your childhood dreams are in the process of being realized: riding on an overnight train and going to Mongolia. I hope Gloria has a good time along the way. I cannot express how greatful I am to her in helping me realize my quirky dreams. She’s put up with a lot and though I know we have had some less-than-fun moments on the trip, we’ve had some nice times and laughs too and I hope it only gets better.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I will have no internet for 10 days as I will be on horseback in the Mongolian country. Stay tuned for Joe’s Odyssey: the Mongolian chapter, coming to you the next time I reach civilization.</div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3347807146296105667.post-27531577084186184192010-04-01T08:52:00.000-07:002011-05-07T13:37:32.080-07:00What's the Deal?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPOzoZEgOiOToUOdvGKCX7ziu2QOI719t2b-_V9B0HbRLRDNofEIhQXHAIRBSoGHn6EiFDId_SZ0t6wh7r4dfwJFL6J35MN2fuFBXNtu8v_Sy_HaA-9JX-7kEyDtelgSrsQ_q3bba24zI/s1600/splash_sustainability.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455198030942073170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPOzoZEgOiOToUOdvGKCX7ziu2QOI719t2b-_V9B0HbRLRDNofEIhQXHAIRBSoGHn6EiFDId_SZ0t6wh7r4dfwJFL6J35MN2fuFBXNtu8v_Sy_HaA-9JX-7kEyDtelgSrsQ_q3bba24zI/s320/splash_sustainability.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 66px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; color: #0000ee; font-size: 16px;"></span></span></span></div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5RxI8pcEOz0FYxOJBHxcW1vrMxOni8wjbuEvsw_UVphVp1OLQmvjD2H1JlP5-BvTKJmvk8EdNS61pbNjIYKD720pJhcUjCMzXarXbwZeujkfRGbAONxAK1LMK3JeOBYRiBj7gg9s_3wU/s1600/splash_press_room.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPOzoZEgOiOToUOdvGKCX7ziu2QOI719t2b-_V9B0HbRLRDNofEIhQXHAIRBSoGHn6EiFDId_SZ0t6wh7r4dfwJFL6J35MN2fuFBXNtu8v_Sy_HaA-9JX-7kEyDtelgSrsQ_q3bba24zI/s1600/splash_sustainability.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>2/3</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> of all people infected with HIV live in sub-Saharan Africa. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455199025821269922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5RxI8pcEOz0FYxOJBHxcW1vrMxOni8wjbuEvsw_UVphVp1OLQmvjD2H1JlP5-BvTKJmvk8EdNS61pbNjIYKD720pJhcUjCMzXarXbwZeujkfRGbAONxAK1LMK3JeOBYRiBj7gg9s_3wU/s320/splash_press_room.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 66px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Yet sub-Saran Africa makes up only<b> 1/10</b> of the world's population.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><b><i>There is NO CURE for AIDS. This is why we must PREVENT it to stop it. </i></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div></div>JoAnnaLynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01534953805889881300noreply@blogger.com0Anaheim, CA, USA33.8352932 -117.9145035999999933.788977700000004 -118.0859991 33.8816087 -117.74300809999998