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Third world loans


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Do It Yourself Foriegn Aid

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/24/magazine/24volunteerism-t.html

This is a profound and practical article. I've found this to be one of the most honest records of the reality that most social entrepreneurs experience. It can be glorious, but it is wrought with red tape and frustrations, for every success there have been not so fortunate endeavors attempted. But we must keep trying! There should be a more organized way to connect these individual entrepreneurs, combining forces and resources would make each plan more likely to succeed. Someone would present an idea for a project, and others could search for buzzwords of causes they are passionate about, and the two could communicate through messages, and potentially work together for the greater good! Sort of like a facebook/twitter for people passionate about getting involved actively to make a difference and develop an approach and solution together, instead of having each person "reinvent the wheel". Thoughts?

PS. HOW DO I GET NICHOLAS KRISTOFS JOB?! I want it! Thats going on the vision board :-)

This is an amazing song by an artist who really has a message

K'naan hails from Mogadishu, Somalia and eloquently presents the woes of the unstable and chaotic environment he grew up in. He proudly carries his experiences with him and has found an effective way of communicating his stories to the masses, fulfilling one of hiphop's original tenants; he provides a voice for people who are being oppressed.


 

Portrait of a Family, Zakhira, New Delhi, India, 2008

Child Family Health International

http://www.cfhi.org/web/index.php/


This sounds like a great opportunity, you apply and they will send you abroad to learn about public and community health in the developing world.


I want to do international social work!


I want to do big things!


I want to do small things!


I want to help the whole world!


I want to help one person


Clinical vs. Policy-we need to do both
bottom up change and top down change, and meet in the middle

A "New Man"

In my seminar yesterday the instructor, a gifted and experienced clinician from Puerto Rico, was discussing the couple we have been studying and observing him doing therapy with. The man, I'll call him Juan, is Mexican and a lot of the work over the past two years that him and his wife have been in couples therapy, has been working with him to teach him how to express his emotions. Many men in this world still are raised with the idea that to be a man they must never show emotion, expose themselves as emotionally vulnerable in any way and most of all, never cry. This has created an idealized image of a man, a rough and tough character that does not connect in any meaningful way with any woman besides his own mother. Even to a sister his role is to protect and scare off any unworthy suitors. This has produced a population of men who have trouble reaching inside themselves to understand what they are feeling. The most important part of a romantic relationship is communication. Women are socialized to cry almost too easily, to reach out to one another, but most of all to talk and express themselves. Women tend to be very verbal, hence the mockery of those that yap away and never stay quiet, but overall it is a benefit because it helps females get in touch with their emotions. Yes their hormonal cycles every month contribute to a constant ebb and flow of emotions but it is not just the experience of them that is important but rather their ability to identify and explain them to a friend, family member, or partner. The fear of homosexuality has played a pivotal role in lowering the socially excepted standard of being emotional and to be considered masculine. Most boys are teased at some point about being gay, even for the smallest expression of an interest or feeling that does not fit the masculinity definition. I have been surprised how constant of a role ensuring an image of being masculine plays in the lives of my male friends. They must avoid certain colors, certain movies, certain styles, certain activities, even the idea of carrying an umbrella on a hot summer day to protect the face from the sun, was deemed to not be appropriate for a straight man to do. What interests me is for whom is all of this carefully constructed behavior? I would venture to say it is for other men. Many women are attracted to men who are comfortable with who they are and straight men who do not feel their manhood to be questioned or threatened by what tv shows they watch or how they interact with a male friend. The instructor yesterday commented on how many young boys who are close friends at some point begin to receive a message that they are not to get too close with their buddy. Teasing comments about which girls they like are mentioned so as to quell the parental anxiety that their child may not be heterosexual. Hence rigid walls begin to form among male friends; physical interaction is reduced to stiff hugs and firm handshakes. Tears dry up when they are told by society that "boys dont cry". Their emotions are put under lock and key and their feelings which could be construed as weak such as sadness, undergo an immediate transformation into aggression and anger. One client we observed a video of, a middle aged man reflecting on the neglect he felt by his estranged father, actually became physically ill when prodded to get in touch with the sadness he had experienced. This situation where men are so out of touch with emotions and instilled with a deep seeded fear of expressing any type of vulnerability has been a huge disservice to society at large. In couples therapy, it is crucial that both men and women learn to access their emotions and express them coherently to a partner, and that they both are able to deal with painful emotions without sublimating them into other feelings. In the late 1970s the concept of a "new man" was born. Men for the first time were raised to believe that women and men are equal, that it is ok to have male friends and express feelings. In recent years the explosion of movies and sitcoms focusing on a "bromance" where male friends are very close without their heterosexuality being questioned have demonstrated a change in mainstream American culture. Even the increasing acceptance of gay men into society has made the threat and fears somewhat lessened. If a gay man is not afraid to come out and express his emotions and wear whichever colors he wants, and is still proud of who he is, then even straight men can express themselves. There is still a very long way to go for society in accepting homosexuality of course, as evidenced by the recent suicides and violence against gay youth, but things are changing. Hopefully there continues to develop the idea of a new man, one who can express his emotions, cry when he needs to and that this will help not only reduce the amount of needless aggression and anger which often leads to violence, but also contribute positively to the strength of relationships they are in, and the ability for men to create close emotional and meaningful relationships with both friends and partners.

Bikram "Hot" Yoga

I have been doing bikram yoga about 4 times a week for the past month. I am loving it! Its no doubt extremely intense, and you literally have sweat pouring off of you. The class ranges from about 8-20 people, and the room is about 105 degrees and very humid. The heat emanates from various lights on the ceiling and in the corners are hanging devices which blow air, I can never tell if its also hot or slightly cooler. I have an unusual tolerance for heat and don't mind the high temperatures, but if you asked me to stand in a cold room for 90 minutes I would cry.

Throughout the practice the instructor will turn the heat and air on and off, and occasionally open the windows and the waves of cool air flowing in feel heavenly. I always try to get a space near the windows to be privileged enough to get the full benefit of the open windows. The teacher will usually ask if its anyones first time or up to 10th class and if so, will focus extra attention on that student. The teachers learn each participants name and calls on them personally with suggestions and modifications during the class. It begins with a breathing exercise designed to incorporate a deeper use of the lungs. The class is always the same set of exercises, almost all of which are done twice. The first section are standing and balance poses, and the second half is done on the floor. The first part is just continuous pose after pose until around 55 minutes you get to lie down and take a 2 minute savasana, or rest. The second set involves poses where you bend your knees and sit on them followed by immediately lying down flat, so as to increase and improve blood flow to the legs. The class ends with a fast and invigorating breathing exercise where you fluctuate your stomach rapidly in correspondence with audible and forceful exhales. The class ends with another savasana where you just rest and absorb the class. I liked one teachers comparison of this final resting period to when you bake  a cake and you have to let it settle in the pan before taking it out, you are letting your body settle in its newly worked out form before going on with your day.

 Inevitably at some point during the class you're going to feel like you will just roll over and die. I was startled in the last class actually when a girl did briefly faint, she was fine, but I was a bit alarmed to see that it actually does happen. The teacher was calm cool and collected and lifted her feet up and told her to breathe deeply, redirecting the class to their postures and away from the passed out girl. It is exciting to see your own progress, the last class I managed to straighten my leg horizontally without falling over for a full minute. It is also important to see how different your body is on different days. Some days I feel like I have reached my threshold within the first 30 minutes and others after the 90 minute session I don't even feel that tired. It is helpful to have the teachers constantly pushing you and challenging you to reach your limits, reminding you of the benefits and supporting you when you feel worn out. After the class, you literally feel cleaner. It is as if someone wrung your body out like a towel and you are now refreshed and renewed. You don't feel sore as if you went for a run or lifted weights, rather just tired and a bit achy. You will eat more and sleep more due to your practice and feel much healthier and have more energy. 

I would definitely recommend the practice to anyone who has a descent tolerance for heat. 

Here is a link to pictures of each posture and the associated benefits

http://www.bikramyoganyc.com/health_benefits.htm

A Few Photos from Rishikesh, India August 2010

WAITING FOR SUPERMAN

Everyone who ever was a child and went to school, or knows a child in school, or ever plans to have a child who will go to school, in the United States, needs to see this movie. Bring tissues because it will break your heart, and its not your average tearjerker because, it is Real. Please spread the word, spread the rage, and spread the change.

Blogging is Back!

I have been adjusting to my second year of grad school, new roomates, new internship and a new relationship. Now its October and I am ready to continue my musing here.


Some topics which have been floating around in my head are


couples therapy due to my class and work where I am learning about it, I know of some interesting exercises you can try with your partner, and also some just to ask yourself before getting into a relationship, its fascinating how the model is based on the fact that "there are 6 people in the bed" with you and your partner, the couple, and their parents. Each of us are raised in a separate culture, whether it be an ethnic culture, or the unique environment and traditions of your nuclear and extended family, so in a relationship its never just the two people, but an entire understanding about and approach to this world....


I am thinking a lot about a professional life, and the transition to and role of life after school, life as a working person. In what ways are you defined by your profession? by your job? What becomes your uniform? and your title? where is the line between those defining you, are you one way because of the work you do, or do you do the work because of who and how you are? When you work a 9-5 are you living to work or working to live? is anyone truly happy in a cubicle? Where does the power come from, how and when can you earn and gain power? I've spent my life at the bottom of the professional totem pole and next year is the first time I won't have some type of disclaimer to my name such as "intern"...


Many of my close friends have moved away this year, so I have been thinking about friendship. What makes you close to someone and lose touch? Is it based on physical proximity or is it about an emotional level of intimacy which especially in this day and age is easy to maintain with various technology. In this day and age, kids may become friends while they grow up, but then many people leave their home for college, you make friends there, but they may return to where they are from or more often than not head to a new city or even country to pursue their career. There is not in fact, any finalized period in time where everyone will come back together. Its difficult to reconcile the fact that the young men and women who I used to live down the hall from, will from now on be seen only on special occasions and short visits. This is also an age where relationships begin to take on a different type of priority to friendships. Our roles as young adults are changing within the context of our family and how are our parents reacting to that fact that we are no longer children but are adults in our own right? 


I also feel like a lot of my friends are doing big things. I have friends who are making it big in music, starting companies, starting non profits, designing and marketing products etc. and I want to do something big also! "Some day" has just about arrived and I wish I didn't have so much homework to do so that I could focus on accomplishing some of those plans because it doesn't seem like there really is much excuse to wait for a later date, when I graduate I suppose but still, I am getting restless and itchy to get started.


ok signing off but more to come and much to contemplate!

Kendra is amazing

I grew up playing soccer with Kendra and she is an amazing singer, please listen and enjoy! I wish I could sing, and I would wish I had a voice like hers

20-8-10 Afternoon in Rishikesh, India

Just had a wonderful afternoon and well really just an amazing walk back. The day had been a rainy one, and my walk there had been through clouds and the misting wetness which accompanies them. On the return journey the sun made a cameo appearance in the form of a spectacular exit. It shown through blue gray clouds, flooding its light on top and behind them to create a fabulous effect of three dimensionality. I walked along the recently constructed tourist walk which not many tourists seemed to know about. It was a cobblestone path with broad red steps leading down towards the bank of the Ganges river. Across the river was the other half of Ram Jhula, accesible only by crossing a small pedestrian hanging bride farther down. On the other side were many temples and I could hear the prayer chants echoing across the water. Behind the low buildings rose deep green mountains, the tops obscured by clouds. As I walked along the sun hurled its golden sunset light across the river and set the temples and mountains ablaze. They were illuminated both by the actual light of this world but seemingly glowing with the thousands of prayers which had been said in their presence. The usually muddy brown water turned an opaque gray with a silver sheen when the glitters of light shone upon it. A holy man dressed in white robes stood stoicly on the waters edge, gazing ahead at the mountains. An elder woman sat with a cane leaning against the bench, her hands folded in her lap, gray hair pinned neatly in a bun. I sat on a bench on the walkway, to enjoy this moment despite the droplets of today’s showers pooling on the wooden seat. Women in sari’s of blue with white flowers, green with yellow dots and red with different hued stripes trundled by, children weaving through the forest of their legs. One young boy stopped to stare at me, barely a foot from my face. His forehead was dabbed with a dot of yellow, a blessing, and his round deep brown eyes stared at me. It was a curious stare, as if he was trying to figure something out about me, it was not rude but it also was not kind. His mother called him to hurry and he sped off after the crowd, bare feet splashing in the muddy puddles on the stone.

                I found myself yet again, in an in between place. I wore an Indian salwar top, and my skin was a few shades lighter than most around me, but still brown. I had been told frequently that I look Indian, my naturally black hair I had streaked with light brown, but it was wet and tangled, dark and matted against my neck. I had never gotten comfortable in the matching pants of the salwar kamiz outfit, with its giant waist one had to pull with a drawstring and tie tightly, the thighs of the pants billowing around my body. Instead I wore leggings, gray cotton ones today, and I had on black close toed shoes, while most locals wore flip flops or went barefoot. But I wondered, when a trio of boys went past, around the daring and mischievious age of 9, and one said “hello ma’am, five rupees please” and was smacked on the head by his friends as they took off, laughing. I carried a black purse, that was another feature which set me aside, I never understood how the women in Saris, one long single piece of cloth wrapped around and around coupled with a short cropped top, carried anything with them. Maybe the reality is that they didn’t. I spoke a few words of Hindi, and had been around the language that the rhythm and form of the sounds were familiar to me. For all they know I could be Indian I said to myself, indignantly, and resolved to ask the next cheeky little boy his name, in Hindi. My friend Sunny I had caught staring intently at me the week before. Now, staring is a normalcy of life in India, but it was still unnerving when it was someone that you knew. “What?!” I asked him, annoyed that I had to endure the ogling and goggling of every person on the street and not wanting to have to accept it inside as well. “I’m trying to figure out what makes you look so Indian!” he answered. “I think its your eyes, they are unusual and not those of a gora, a foreigner, and the shape of your face generally” he concluded. “I see” I responded, wondering the same thing myself, what was it that made me look Latin American, to some, Middle Eastern to others, Indian to many more and just plain ambigious to the majority, prompting the usual question about my background.

              After a time of gazing out at the small town of rishikesh, taking in the suspended bridge with its two high peaks, metal wires which provided a most enjoyable jungle gym for the monkeys, and the leftover pieces of cloth from pilgrimmages which were tied to the supportive beams along the bottom, for continued good luck. I, too, was drawn to the river and descended the flat steps slowly, trying to avoid the piles of waste, mud, and water which had accumulated as in all the roads of India. I walked farther down from the Swami, not wanting to disturb his moment. I felt so small, taking up but a few square feet of space in this vast valley, surrounded by tall mountains which were covered in so many trees they appeared to be painted on. And yet, I felt powerful. The spirit of the Ganga river, my past week here of sitting with it every night, of sitting with myself in silence for several days, of living and breathing in its sacred energy, filled me with a sense of meaning. I was so pleased to be experiencing this moment, that is one of the advantages of going to a beautiful and holy space to do such self reflective activities as meditating, it is much easier than anywhere else to stay in the present moment. I stepped down to the last step, where the water, cooled by the glacial currents which streamed into it, swirled  over the stone. I reached my hand in, wanting to connect with the spirit I had been sitting near for these past nights. I watched my fingers disappear and return as the water consumed and then released them according to its churning current.

              “Puja?” a high pitched voice appeared in my ear. I stood up to look down at a girl of about 7 years old, wearing a ragged yellow dress. Her skin was a dark brown, the color of coffee beans, and her hair was a lighter shade, cropped short to her chin and sticking out in various directions. She pulled a stray piece out of her face with her small hand, I noticed her nails with embedded with dirt. In her hands she held a tray heaped with small leaf bowls filled with flowers with a centerpiece of the flammable white tablets and a twisted piece of cotton soaked with natural oils. Two black sticks of incense crossed each bowl, covering the yellow and orange flowers in a protective manner. “Pach rupiah” she declared, when I smiled at her, five rupees. I fished into my pocket and withdrew twenty rupees and handed them to her. She beamed at me, and with a subtle glance over her shoulder, tucked the two ten rupee bills into her dress at her shoulder. I made a motion of lighting a match and she giggled and leaped towards me with a box in her hands. She attempted to light two matches but the box was wet. She babbled at me in Hindi and I wished I remembered how to say that I don’t speak it. I felt flustered, unsure how to explain that it was fine if it couldn’t be lit, and wishing I could speak to her. She produced another box of matches. I cupped my hands as she attempted to light the tablet and it caught a few times, but blew out by the time she held the incense to the flame. I was laughing, but she was determined. She turned and called out, and a girl who had her eyes and her lips as well as the same heart shape to her face, who looked about ten years old, came forward with a large black umbrella. She said something and the younger girl held the umbrella over us. The three of us huddled underneath it, and watched as the older sister expertly struck a match, holding it almost on the flammable head, and cupped her hand around the bowl, not flinching when the flame caught and the wind swept it over her palm. The tablet burned and the cotton also, she dropped the sticks of incense onto the fire at the center of the bowl and pointed towards the river. The three of us hobbled, bent over and connected by this burning prayer bowl, the umbrella, and our brown hands.

                  We knelt down and I set the bowl into the water, saying a prayer with my heart rather than my mind. The girls cheered and closed the umbrella, before they scampered off I grabbed my camera, and they froze obediently, a sheepish grin on their faces. Then they shrieked and pointed toward the leaf bowl and the flowers, no longer burning but floating downstream rapidly. I snapped a few photos as the bowl paused, momentarily caught back on the stairs as the water flowed away. The river snatched it back however, and ferried it to the edge of the submerged staircase. The bowl tipped, spilling the handful of yellow and orange flowers, the incense and the once burning tablet. The flowers held for a moment, in a perfect circle, before being dispersed into the whirlpools and flow of the Ganges. I was filled with an energy, warm and orange, I could feel it emanating from my center along the bottoms of my arms, dancing up towards my neck. I glanced back and the two girls had rejoined their family, and all were watching me, they were too far for me to read their expression. I wished I had given her 50, 100, 500 rupees! But no amount of bills would pay her back for the moment she had shared with me. For the prayer and the energy which had followed, overflowing me with love and appreciation for this and every moment, and these shared connections among humans, so different yet so profoundly identical to ourselves.

I thought about how I wished I had given her money, and I did. I wondered how much 500 rupees could have provided for her and her family. But I also knew that what she had given me, and that I wish I could give her in return, was love. In that burning bowl of flowers she had put her love, in the fire danced her dreams and her own devotion. I thought about how ephemeral money was. Money doesn’t make one mourn for you when you are gone. Money doesn’t make one hug you and hold your hand, it can’t pay for that secret glance exchanged between lovers, the bashful and yet powerful knowledge that one loves and is loved. I continued along the path and headed up the stairs. I passed an umbrella standing on the stone, covered with newspaper and a tarp. And I saw four scrawny brown legs sticking out of it, and wondered if the sisters who had helped me open my heart, if they too slept and lived in such a precarious position. Beside the makeshift shelter was another tray loaded with prayer bowls, sheltered by an umbrella. I turned back from the top of the stairs and saw this brilliantly spiritual mecca, with the power of the Ganges and the temples still blazing with the suns last stand, and saw the wretched hovel where children were forced to live, on the banks of the water which us famed to make every wish come true. 

Dame la bolsa, give me the bag. On not realizing I was being robbed in San Jose

 It was my last night in Costa Rica and I met up with my friends Eric and Chris. We wandered around the main square in downtown San Jose, catching up on our month apart. We had studied together in a course learning to teach English as a second language. They both had jobs lined up at a special school for underprivileged kids in a small town not far from the capital city. I was heading back home to start graduate school and had spent the past month in a spiritual community on the western coast. We chatted amiably and talked about how we would miss each other, reviewing the adventures we had had and characters we’d met during our time in this happiest of countries. We went to the central market, an enclosed labyrinth of every store imaginable. There were stalls selling fresh meat, cow hooves and pigs ears ostentatiously displayed with slabs of recently butchered animals. There were entire sections devoted to flowers, elaborate bouqets of dyed flowers decorated with glitter as well as the richest most vibrant roses and passionfruit flowers, lilies and flowers I had never seen before. There were a few diner style places to eat where men sat and downed beers and greasy foods. One store sold homeopathic remedies for any ailment possible, the man working there was chopping up stalks of aloe vera to extract the beneficial juice inside the plant. Vegetables and fruits of every variety were strung from the ceiling and piled into baskets, where motherly women selected the choicest pieces. There was a pet store where my heart broke at the sight of tiny puppies, way too young to be away from their mothers, that were locked in metal wire cages stacked one on top of another. Along the edges of the marketplace were the stores I was seeking, filled with souvenirs of every form. I entered one store and managed to find gifts for all my friends and family. A coffee strainer for my friend Geoanna, a beautiful wooden cutting board with a colorful parrot inlaid in mosaic for my mom, a box made of checkered wooden tiles in gorgeous grains and rich reds and browns for my father. A “pura vida” T-shirt for my brother and a selection of shot glasses with monkeys and palm trees on them for my friends. The final item I selected, at Eric and Chris’ suggestion of what to get my boyfriend, was a medium sized machete, a threatening wide silver blade with a leather case and handle, guaranteed they assured me to appeal to any guy my age. The woman at the register packed all of the items into a plastic bag and I carried it in my arms as we left the market.

San Jose is not a beautiful city, the country attracts tourists with its gorgeous beaches and preserved natural resources. The city is gritty and grimy and at night every block is a solid wall of metal grates and iron fences, often with barbed wire at the top. The buildings are rarely higher than two stories and are a jumbled mixture of brightly painted homes and stores with the names scrawled messily in paint above them. Deep lanes line every street to ferry the inevitable deluges of the rainy season out of the way of the incessant traffic. The occasional beggar or street person comes up shaking a tin can and asking for assistance. Most people find some way to get by however, selling newspapers (a day old) or hawking hand made souvenirs. People hustle around dressed nicely, the women almost always in blue jeans and high heels, a feat I admire in the cracked streets and sidewalks. Standing in the city it is hard to imagine the glorious natural richness of the rainforests and national parks which make up most of this small Central American country.

It was mid December and the Christmas celebrations were in full swing. We passed a group of singers on the corner who threw handfuls of little bits of white paper out over the crowd, the closest thing to snow they would experience for the holiday. I smiled as we passed palm trees adorned with wreaths and ribbons. As it was my last night I wanted a more authentic experience for dinner than was available in the touristy central plaza. There were brand name American restaurants such as TGIF and McDonalds, both considered a real treat for special occasions by local families. I balked at the idea of eating at such a brand name capitalized version of my country and the prices were exorbitant in comparison to the native selections. We walked a block or two out of the central area, where security guards in uniforms no longer patrolled every block. I had never felt unsafe in this country however, where the motto is “pura vida”, pure life which is used as a multipurpose phrase which generally means, life is good. We wandered around in search of a local place to eat but since it was a Sunday night, most places were closed.

We rounded a corner into a rather seedy area, the guys pointed out the infamous casino Del Rey where attractive young Ticas seduced wealthy white businessmen, for a price. We walked through it and I was both impressed by the pride with which the girls carried themselves, and saddened for what their circumstances had lead them to do for a living. The girls boasted curvacious figures stuffed into small dresses and tight stretchy pants while the clientele was made up mostly of middle aged, overweight white men probably many of whom were taking a sexual tour of latin america. We exited the place and walked towards a restaurant Eric was familiar with which he thought would still be open. He was a few steps ahead and Chris was to my left, walking slightly faster than me.

A big man with a bald head walked towards us and as he passed in between our trio he lifted his shirt to reveal the handle of a gun tucked into his pants. I was surprised but figured the best thing was to let him go on his way to handle whatever business he was after. He walked by me and I went to turn to Chris to ask if he had seen the weapon and to share my awe that this potentially dangerous fellow had been around us. Chris stopped to tie his shoe at that moment and I continued walking on past him at the rate I had been going, figuring he would catch up to Eric and I and aware of my grumbling stomach. I gazed around, lost in thought about my time here in this country, my fourth visit and undoubtedly not the last. I thought about how cold it would be when I got home, and how I would miss la pura vida when I was stressing my way through yet more schooling.

I became aware at that moment that the man who had walked past was now walking in the opposite direction, back the way he had come on the sidewalk with me. I thought that was odd but figured maybe he had forgotton something at home or had been heading in the wrong way. I noticed then that he was talking and I glanced sideways at him to see if he was on a cell phone, but both his hands were at his side. I continued walking a few steps and only then realized that he was saying something directed at me in Spanish. I am fluent but not a native speaker so I have to turn on my attention to the language or it floats past me as noises. I began to listen and understood what he was saying; “Dame la bolsa”, “give me the bag”. A wave of fear flowed over me and at first I was confused as to which bag he wanted; the plastic one full of souvenirs in my arms, or my purse hanging on the opposite shoulder from where he was. I considered, in the slowed down version of time which is common of traumatic situations, that he wouldn’t want what was in the plastic bag, he was Costa Rican, why would he want souvenirs covered in token mottos and symbols of the country, but thought maybe he could re-sell them to other tourists. Then I thought about what was in my purse; my cell phone which I , my camera with all the pictures from my trip, fortunately not my passport, but other keepsakes and valuables from my time in the country. My first thought was not “oh my god this man has a gun” it was “but I don’t want to give him my bag!”. This may have happened all in under a minute, or maybe it took 5, at any rate, my inability to understand that I was being robbed, and subsequent reaction which lacked what it should have in fear most likely saved my bag, and possibly my life. At that moment the man turned around, and walked in the other direction. Maybe it was because a group of people were walking towards us, or maybe it was because he was just as frustrated and confused that this girl he was trying to rob did not react as people usually do when they are being mugged, or maybe he just ran out of time and figured there would be other tourist prey to be found in the area. I caught up to the guys who somehow had managed to not have noticed that someone had just attempted to rob me and told them what had happened, in an calm yet tense voice, and informed them that we needed to get out of there as soon as possible. They reacted in disbelief and shock but crossed the street with me and we hopped on the next bus which arrived, not caring where it was going as long as it was away from that dark street and armed man. As we drove away I breathed a sigh of relief and told them the story, all of us laughing since we did not know quite else what to do at the absurdity of how I had been saved not by bravery but out of my own ignorance. I took the machete gift out of the souvenir bag and put it in my purse where the handle stuck out menacingly. The rest of the night I kept an eye out, waiting for someone to ask for my bag again at which point I would turn, show the giant knife and ask, “you want this bag?”. 

Take this poison and give me love. On asking the Ganges River to heal my heart in Rishikesh, India.

The river Ganga felt cold as it swirled around my feet. The chanting and singing surrounding me filled me with vibrations. The brown water roared underneath Lord Shiva where he sat on a throne of gray stone. The sun outlined dark clouds with a rim of brilliant orange as it lowered itself into the horizon. The mountains to the north reared their heads above the river, enormous and impressive with their presence. I sat on an outcropping of stone, fashioned into a hexagon ten feet out in the river, connected to the rest of the temple by a narrow path. All around me people, mostly Indian but with a few Westerners, their pale white skin standing out amongst the various browns of the local people, chanted and sang, some clapping along to the music at whatever rhythm they preferred. Teenage boys dressed in yellow robes and red scarves played various instruments while one sang into a microphone. I closed my eyes and everyone vanished. I felt the water lap against the soles of my feet and I asked the river to help me achieve the goal that had brought me back here, to the Aarti ceremony, to Rishikesh, to India. I asked the river Ganga, among the holiest bodies of water in the world, to open my heart. I asked the river to take away the poisons which were eating away at my most vulnerable organ. I asked the cold water licking at my feet, and the cold water to which I offered blessed flowers, to heal me.

            I pictured my heart, filled with the toxins of fear, pain, and anger, and prayed for the vast, timeless river to take them. I began with fear, for it is fear of pain which dominates so many of us and prevents us from living the life we want. I scraped the black paste of fear from the caverns in my heart. I shook each scoop into one of the delicate leaf bowls which all offerings are made in. I dug deeper into the space and tried to remove every spot of fetid, sticky, gooey fear, filling the bowl with the black mess. This fear had been oozing from my heart as soon as I got what I wanted back, for only then did I have something again to lose. This fear had seeped into my heart with every moment of anxiety and worry, with the helplessness and terror that came with relinquishing control. Each time I thought about the pain I might experience in the future, the black paste thickened within my heart. Each time I considered the worst that could happen, the fear further blocked the pathways. I tried to imagine the most scary events which could happen to me, in love, and as each drop appeared I scraped it up and tapped it against the side of the bowl.

            Next, I knew I had to remove the pain which had drowned my heart this year. I squeezed my heart in my whole hand, and like a sponge it released a thin, brilliant red liquid. The liquid poured into the bowl and sat on top of the black fear. I tried to feel all of the pain, considering each bout of hysterical crying, every moment from each morning when I woke up and remembered what had happened, and each minute sleep evaded me at night when the pain would burn me so I couldn't sleep. I squished my heart and the ruby poison appeared all over my heart. I wrung my heart out like a towel, ripping it opposite ways with both my arms, and the blood red pain filled the bowl beneath it. I remembered the first days of the pain, when it sat in my body and prevented it from eating, or sleeping and all it did was trigger endless tears with its acidity. The toxic pain kept me weak, and appeared unasked for at any moment of the day or night. Sometimes it filled my heart so thoroughly I was afraid it would stop beating altogether, for how could it continue when it was steeped in so much agony. I let my heart refill itself over and over and kept squishing all of it out until I couldn't force out another drop.

            Finally, there was anger. Green crystals of it had formed around and inside my heart. They flared up often these days, anytime the pain or fear flowed over them, burning with a toxic heat which singed the soft inside of my heart. The crystals grew like stalactites and stalagmites, getting longer and longer until they created bars across the canals within me. They broke off into pieces sometimes, and sharp fragments of the dangerous material stabbed the flesh of my heart as they careened chaotically throughout it. The anger formed arrowheads which were poised, eager to assail anyone or anything which tried to enter. Upon piercing a victim, they grew inside them, poisoning the courageous soul which braved their wrath. Anger was the weapon, the arsenal stocked and fueled by pain and fear. I turned my heart upside down and pieces of the green poison fell into the bowl. I poked and prodded the crystals, breaking them off the walls of my heart, splintering the bars which extended throughout the pathways. They plopped into the black and red substance with a menacing hiss. I gave a final shake and slivers of anger, drops of pain and blobs of fear dropped into the bowl, green, red and black simmering in a lethal mixture.

            The concoction emanated heat, and the stinking odor made me wince. The substance turned a grotesque shade of brown, brewing and stewing with its own toxicity. I flung the bowl into the Ganges. It floated for a moment on the surface of the water, taunting me and threatening to survive. But the holy river kept its promise, to answer whatever wish was asked of it in prayer. The bowl was pulled under by the current, and I watched as the bits of angry green began to sink, as the sinister red pain was dispersed by the water, and as the thick black gunk of fear dissolved into this holiest of natures temples. The substances which had caused me so much negatvity and nearly consumed my faith, were no match for the mighty Ganga. They were but a sip for the eons of spiritual goodness which flowed in that water. The river flowed, my fear, pain and anger dispersed into powerlessness and were carried endlessly away from me by the current. The river hiccuped an orange marigold flower at my feet, a token from some devotee further upstream, a gift of reassurance from the spirits.

            I dipped my heart into the river and the cold water cleansed it, scrubbing and rinsing any remaining bits of poison. I asked the river to open my heart and the water refreshed it, renewed it, removing the crust of toxins which had accumulated inside it. The pathways were open and clean, the flesh soft and fresh. The holy water which had cleansed thousands of souls over thousands of years extended its power to me, to help me, to heal me. My heart was open again, saved from being deformed by the poisons of fear, pain and anger. All was forgiven, the past whisked away by the current, the future filling it with each new drop which passed through. I bowed my head and held my hands together in prayer as hot salty tears erupted in my eyes and streamed down my face. My own tears of gratefullness did the final soaking of my heart, dissolving any last particles of dangerous emotions. "But they will come back" a voice argued in my head, "then I will cleanse myself again" my hearts voice responded, stronger and more present than I had heard it in months. I would never again let them build up to be such a powerful force, I would be sure to rinse them out regularly.

            And now there was one final act remaining. To fill my newly opened heart with love. I dipped my heart again in the holy water of the Ganges, and asked it to fill me with love. Being simply open was not enough, for open but empty was nearly as bad as filled with poison. The cold water revealed its warmth, its depth, its endless supply of the most sought after energy in the world. The love which filled my heart, seeking out each opening and filling in each crack, was the same love which inhabited all the energy of this universe. It is eternal, boundless, all encompassing love which connects every object in this and every realm. And I filled my heart with it, thanks to the love poured into the river by devoted believers all around this planet. I let that love in until my heart couldn't hold even one more drop. And I scooped it up, and placed it back inside me, where it felt heavy but comforting, new but familiar, chilly at first, but soon acclimating to my body until I could no longer tell it apart from my own blood. I thanked the river with another offering of marigold and purple flowers, a leaf bowl this time filled with positivity, and watched as the Ganga accepted this as well, spilling the petals onto its surface and carrying them along in its ceaseless flow.

You can’t help them, only watch over them. On the lessons of the sea turtles in Ostional, Costa Rica.

My alarm went off at 4am and I stumbled around my cabin with a flashlight. I gathered my camera, shoes and granola bar and headed out into the jungle. I followed the almost invisible path down to the central area of the village and looked around. I checked my watch and it was  4:30, the scheduled meeting time to go see the Arribada. The sign had appeared the evening before, since no one could predict when the turtles would arrive, and they only came during the night. I was so excited that my time in the small town was granted with the arrival of the sea turtlesto lay their eggs and signed up immediately for the ride to the beach. I expected many people to take the opportunity but it was just myself and a German family with two young, blond-haired children, one of which was a girl and the other one I wasn’t sure of its gender. We piled into the pick up truck and Videep took off rambling down the dirt road.

He parked the car and we ventured down the road which lead to the beach, just barely able to see the ground in the early morning light. Many of the villagers were walking to and from the beach, adults and children alike, wide awake as if it were a usual time to be up and about. A black pick up truck had its back facing the beach and young men were heaving potato sacks filled with something into the bed of it. We were told to remove our shoes and left them waiting at the edge of the sand. The twilight was tinged blue and we walked out onto the beach. Dark shapes covered the sand ahead of us but I couldn’t make out anything more than round, two foot shadows. I followed Videep towards the ocean and minute by minute the darkness was pushed away by the arriving dawn.

As my eyes began to identify what was in front of me I was struck with awe. Sea turtles covered the beach, ambling awkwardly through the sand away from and towards the water. They were grayish green and their large flippers left an odd track in the sand. Their hard shells were shaped in hexagonal tiles and their heads were curved at the snout and held one big black eye on either side. I nearly stepped on one as she bumped into my ankle, as if annoyed that I was in her way. The turtles made their way anywhere from 20 to 50 feet up onto the beach and then began to dig a hole. The holes were about a foot deep and wide and the turtles would scoot themselves up a bit and begin to lay their eggs. The eggs looked like ping pong balls, only the shells were soft, and dented with pockmarks where they fell. The mother turtles would flap their back legs in an effort to cover the holes again with sand, but did not do an effective job. Then they would pull themselves tediously around and inch back towards the water.

No one knows when or why La Arribada occurs. Experts speculate it has to do with the moon, somehow it calls out to the turtles and they all know somewhere in the depths of their beings that no matter where they are in the vast ocean, that it is time to return to the beach. It happens once in awhile, and the hundreds of turtles begin appearing, swimming until they are forced to pull themselves through the sand, vulnerable, out of their element. They do not seem to interact with each other, each one arrives, does its duty for the species of laying eggs, and returns to the water to continue its life. Some of the turtles ran into obstacles in the form of logs or large stones. They continue churning their short limbs through the sand, making no headway, for quite awhile. I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw one such turtle that was stuck and determinedly trying to force its way through a large piece of driftwood. I was tempted to move the branch to help it out but it then turned sideways and scooted over and began to dig its hole there. Some of the turtles ran into each other and climbed right over one another, tipping forward into the sand before continuing on their way, unabashedly kicking sand in the lower one’s face.

I looked out over the beach for it was now light enough to see farther. The sky was streaked in different shades of blue, some of the turtles were heading out to sea. They seemed to be filled with life again as they touched the ocean. The waves washed over them, parting at the top of their backs and cascading over their smooth shells. The turtles increased their pace, eagerly pushing the last steps through the sand until they reached water deep enough that they were free. Their limbs became powerful in the deeper water and they quickly vanished into the blue black sea. And still new turtles arrived. They emerged out of the ocean with an entrance worthy of a movie star and their dark shapes took form as they waded out of the surf. I marveled at this epic occurrence, honored to be a witness to this natural continuation of the species.

The villagers were now filling the beach with potato sacks in hand. They reached into the holes and scooped out hundreds of the eggs and put them into the bags. I felt so indignant even offended that these people would undo the hard work of the turtles. I literally felt embarassed when some of the people would start removing the eggs while the turtle was still right next to their hole! I asked Videep what was going on. He explained that only the locals of this small town were allowed to collect a certain amount of eggs. He assured me that it did not hinder the turtle population because the reason so many eggs were laid was because only one in one thousand survived to become an adult turtle. The villagers removed only a portion of the eggs which wouldn’t have all hatched anyhow and definitely would not all have survived to become grown turtles. The villagers wanted to make sure that the turtles survived as well, it was a symbiotic relationship. Turtle eggs were believed to be an aphrodesiac. According to tradition they supposedly acted as a male enhancement and were sought after delicacies in the country. The eggs could be consumed in a single shot but also commonly were used for turtle egg soup. The village exported the eggs around Costa Rica and shared the profits to benefit the entire town, it was and always had been part of their livelihood.

I turned away from the villagers collecting eggs on the beach and ambled toward the water where a small crowd of children was gathered. I peered over their heads to see what they were watching. A tiny baby turtle from the last round of laying was making its way towards the ocean. The miniature turtle was no bigger than a cracker, it would have fit with room to spare in my palm. It was a dark green almost black and had a thin shell. Its tiny flippers pulled it centimeter by centimeter forward. A bird flew overhead and one of the little boys shouted at it and threw a fistful of sand upwards. I imagined that for the bird this baby turtle would be a tasty and easy snack. The little creature continued trudging towards the water, unaware of the dangers which lurked above. It looked so miniscule compared to the vast ocean laying ahead of it, but flipper after flipper it moved itself closer. It finally reached the wet part of the sand, and moved more efficiently on this smoother part. It progressed a foot then two as we watched when a wave lazily swept the ground and sent the tiny turtle five feet backwards. Unphased, the baby continued trekking on its path and another wave, stronger this time, lifted it off the sand and it disappeared from sight. As the water receded, we saw its tiny body ten feet over to the right where it had been left and I worried it had not survived. The little troup of Costa Rican children and myself scurried over to it and one little boy bent over to examine it. “Esta viva!” he shouted; “its alive!”. Sure enough, the little turtle picked up one flipper and the other and continued on its seemingly impossible quest to reach the ocean.

Videep arrived and I asked him why people didn’t just pick it up and put it in the deeper part of the water. I lamented that it would never get there with each wave sweeping it backwards, concerned that it would become lunch for some eager predator or give up in exhaustion.  It would be so easy to gently scoop it up and deposit it a feet or two into the ocean. “You mustn’t do that” warned Videep. “The turtles instinct is to go towards the ocean from the second they are born. But they are unprepared to survive in the water. They have to go through these trials or they will not develop the instincts and skills they need to become a grown turtle. If you ‘help’ the baby, it will never learn to return to this beach for the Arribada, to lay its eggs. It is a challenge yes, but it has to go through it or it will not survive, so although you think you may be helping it right now, in reality you would be doing it a disservice” explained Videep, wisely. I considered the plight of the baby turtles, and my own instinct to help them. The lesson I learned from them I have applied in many areas of my life. Sometimes you want to help someone, to tell them what to do or how to do it, to take their hand and make it easier for them, but that may be a disfavor. Some lessons have to be learned through first-hand experience. You can tell someone the lesson over and over but without learning it for themselves, they may not be prepared for the next trial life throws at them, when you may not be there to hold their hand. As easy as it would be for you to pick them up and carry them over the obstacle, they may not then know how to survive when they get there. All you can do it watch over them, scaring away the birds that may want to eat them, and ensuring that they are ok after each wave sweeps them back. But you cannot do it for them, some lessons you have to learn for yourself, the hard way, in order to know how to survive on the other side, and to know how to come back, to pass on life for the next generation. 

“Oh I have that…at my apartment.” On the persistence of Italian men.

 Three of my friends and I were going to Italy as a celebration of graduating from our intensive boarding high school. Two of us liked to stay in, two of us liked to go out. Christine and I were eager to explore the fabled night life of Italy, where we were of age to drink and party. We wandered towards the main square and were almost immediately swarmed by eager Italian men. Two of them suggested we go to the club with them and we nodded politely but whispered to each other how we were going to ditch them. We excused ourselves to the bathroom and went inside a restaurant, fixing our make up and chatting for about fifteen minutes. We were sure the men would have moved on by now and headed out only to see them waiting together on the other side of the square. They tapped their wrists and gestured with their heads for us to come on. We stared at each other and turned around to look carefully at the large collection of gelato available in the restaurant. We kept glancing at the men as time wore on until even the waiter asked us if we were trying to get rid of them. We nodded and said a few words in Italian such as “why wait?” and wondered what we should do, sure that they would follow us wherever we headed. An American couple was getting some gelato and they noticed our dilemma. They offered for us to join them and walk in the other direction which we gladly did, refusing to look over our shoulders at the men.

The next night we devised a system, that if men approached us who we were not interested in we would babble in other languages to ward them off. Christine studied Chinese and I spoke Spanish. We would immediately both start rambling at each other in these different languages if men came up to us. Some of them literally grabbed our wrists and tried words in a few different tongues. I found out quickly that most of them knew Spanish and resorted instead to mumbling gibberish with a lilting rhythm. It was surprising how many languages the men would try to engage us in but we kept looking at each other, nodding enthusiastically and cracking up at the ridiculouslness of our scheme.

The biggest problem was of course, when two men approached us and one was attractive and the other was not. On one evening a gorgeous dark skinned light eyed man came up to me, while his pudgy hairy friend courted Christine. We sat on the banks of a river and I batted my eyelashes at this gentleman while Christine rolled her eyes at me when she caught mine. My new friend and I intertwined our fingers and smiled at each other, as Christine coughed loudly and complained that she was tired. She told the man that she was tired, and he quickly offered her to come sleep at his place. I continued flirting with the blue eyed specimen as Christine next explained that she really didn’t know much Italian. He answered “I have a dictionary…at my apartment”. She tried saying she was sick at which point he obviously offered medicine which he had, at his apartment. I had played along with some uninteresting men while Christine was enticed by their more attractive friend, an inevitable piece of female friendship sacrifice and she was generally willing to do the same for me, but this case was excessive. She apologized but said she really had to get out of there and I was disappointed but realized how outrageously persistent her guy was. We explained that we had to meet our boyfriends, a generally good excuse to keep them from following,  and wandered away laughing as I kept looking over my shoulder at the good looking man. We shook our heads and headed to a discoteca to dance the night away.

Hola, I hope you enjoyed my beautiful country on your “visit”. Now you're coming with me! On being suspected of smuggling drugs in Colombia.

The first time I left Colombia, they had overbooked the flight to New York and I elected to wait a day and take a voucher for a round trip ticket on Avianca airlines. It had been nearly a year and I hadn’t yet used the ticket. I was participating in a Latin American cultural show at my college and mentioned to some acquaintances that I had this free trip to somewhere in central or south America. Carolina, a girl I had been friendly with over the year, exclaimed that I should come visit her at home in Panama that summer. I enthusiastically agreed and spent a week with her and her family seeing Panama City and spending time at her beach house. My flight went through Bogota since that’s where the ticket had been issued and I had a four hour layover at the airport.

            I was not yet twenty-one and took the opportunity to purchase some alcohol, a typical Colombian type called aguardiente. In my teenage rebelliousness I figured I might as well get a little tipsy to help the time go by and assure that I would sleep on the flight home. I bought some orange soda and combined the liquor in the bathroom. I smirked, pleased with my audacity although a bit surprised at my own daring. I returned to the waiting area and sipped my orange sodaa while watching people bustle along through the halls. After an hour or so of people watching I hadn’t even gotten through half the bottle of spiked soda, I felt nervous and a little guilty for drinking, even though I was of age in that country. I figured there were no rules against drinking in the airport since they sold so much alcohol there and also on the plane. I knew my friends had downed plenty of wine on fancy flights and said it made them fall asleep until they landed. I went through my digital camera, reminiscing about the trip and looking forward to printing out the photos when I got home. Unfortunately my boyfriend at the time had not been too happy with my going away to a foreign country alone and I was eager to get home to him. I sipped my soda and willed the hours to pass faster.

            A security guard approached me and asked if I was alright. He appeared to be in his thirties and wore an intimidating dark green uniform with a gun at his waist. He spoke in Spanish, a language which I had recently attained fluency in and I responded that yes I was fine, just waiting for my flight to New York after having been to Panama. He asked me about the trip and I told him I had gone to see a friend from college, he was surprised I had only gone for a week and I explained that my summer job was starting soon at home. I’m sure the nervousness of having been drinking showed through, although he didn’t seem to notice and I didn’t feel the effects of the alcohol. We chatted a few more minutes in Spanish and I was pleased at how I was able to keep up the conversation. He then asked to see my passport and ticket. I rummaged through my purse and handed over the documentation. He asked where my Colombian passport was, since my American one said that I was born there. I was used to this question when I was traveling and told the usual reason which was that I had been adopted as a baby and only had American citizenship. He looked at me sternly but closed the passport and handed it back. He asked me why I was going to New York and I answered that my family lived there, not wanting to go into the details that my parents lived an hour north in a smaller city. Whenever I traveled I told people I was from New York since it was somewhere everyone was familiar with. He asked me how I had paid for the ticket and I explained that I had a free voucher with Avianca.

            His attitude had been friendly and he had talked with me in a carefree chatty manner. Now his face was stern and his voice serious. I wondered if I was going to get in trouble for drinking the alcohol and almost confessed to it but reminded myself that there was no rule against having a drink ifyou were of age and taking a flight. He suddenly began grilling me with questions like a drill sargent. “Who bought you this ticket? Who sent you? Where are you going? What are you carrying there?” I was frozen in shock and had no idea what to say or how to respond. I repeated my story to him again but he was angry now. He said “we’re going to find out what you’re carrying there and you will tell me who sent you and who you are meeting, come with me”. I stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified. “Ven! Vamos!” he repeated; “come on, lets go”. I was shaking as I gathered my purse and backpack and threw the orange soda in the trash as we walked through the hall. I wondered what he was going to do to me and I wished fervently that I had not been so stupid as to have bought and drank alcohol in the airport! “Why did I do that?! Who drinks by themselves? I didn’t even get drunk or anything! I’m such an idiot, my parents are going to kill me” I yelled at myself in my head. We walked through the airport halls until I had no sense of where I had come from. We walked through doors labeled “security only” and I was about to cry only  I was too tense to let even a tear out.

            “Enter” he commanded me as he held open a door to a small dark office. “Sit” and he pointed at a chair in front of a small table. There was another security guard in the room and he gathered some papers and put them in front of me. It was all in Spanish and at that moment my language abilities failed me and I couldn’t understand more than a few words of what was written. “Sign” he pointed at a line, I signed. He held out an ink pad and took my thumb and forefinger in his own and smushed them into the black ink. He slammed my fingers down on the paper and my smudged fingerprint remained. He took my backpack off and held my purse as he pointed to a door to another small room. There was a big machine in there, which reminded me of the one at the dentists office when they take an X-ray to see your teeth. A lead apron hung against the wall. He instructed me to stand in front of the machine and it dawned on me what was about to happen. I cried out that didn’t I need to wear that apron? He shook his head. He stepped out of the room and closed the door. I found myself laughing in shock and fear, not knowing what else to do I just could not believe this was really happening. A high pitched beeping sound went off and he came back into the room. He turned me around and left again. Another beep went off and I tried to take deep calming breaths, reminding myself that I had nothing to hide, at this point I was pretty sure they didn’t care about the alcohol. He opened the door, nodded and apologized for the inconvenience. He handed me my bags and held the door open.

 I walked out, numb and confused, and wandered aimlessly, just trying to get away from that office. Eventually I found a pay phone which charged nearly two dollars a minute, and called my parents. I explained what had happened and now the tears began to flow freely. My parents were furious at what had happened and were very concerned if I was ok. I explained that I was alright, just shaken up and that my flight was leaving in an hour. They exclaimed that I should not have let them X-ray me but I pointed out that if I had done that they would have detained me and I would have missed my flight. All I wanted was to go home. I boarded the plane, shaky and exhausted and fell into an anxious sleep. I noticed other young females on the plane, some of them looked as shaken up as I felt. I shuddered, wondering if they were carrying drugs. I considered the question which resurfaces in my life time and again, “what would my life have been like if I wasn’t adopted, if I grew up living the life I was born into?”. I realized with a shock that it was entirely likely that I could actually have been a drug mule. Girls were paid thousands of dollars to swallow condoms or balloons full of cocaine and carry them in their stomachs to another country. There they meet up with men who wait in hotel rooms as the drugs go through their digestive system. If so much as one bursts or tears, she will undoubtedly die from an overdose. If she fails to produce every single packet, she may be killed, suspected of trying to keep money for herself. If she dies from a burst package, she is cut open and the rest of the drugs removed. This all only happens of course, if she does not get caught and sentenced to prison, at which point no one will save her or help her and her family probably won’t even know where she is. She could be tortured as well, to get information about whoever sent her, which she would not want to reveal for it would be putting her family in danger.  If she makes it through immigration and survives delivering the drugs, she is given a plane ticket back to Colombia along with cash and is often expected to make the treachorous journey again. The drug dealers who employ these women keep tabs on their families and threaten to hurt them if she tries anything suspect. The security guards X-rayed anyone who fit the description. The mules were often attractive young women, traveling alone, to New York city. They were given fake passports and identities and instructed to tell a specific story about where they were going. These girls do this job because they have no other options. They carry drugs because it is the most high paying opportunity for them and their families. I knew that had I grown up there, I would more than likely have been in that situation, and knowing my own ambitious personality, I probably would have taken that risk. I hoped at least that having been checked by the authorities could have saved another girl from being checked. When I landed, I watched a few girls who were by themselves collect their bags and look around uncomfortably. As I walked easily through immigration and customs on the American side I said a prayer of thanks and a prayer for any of these young people who were forced to do such a dangerous job.

Take your clothes off and keep your mouth shut. On going to a Moroccan bathhouse.

Simo had invited us for a lunch at his family house after we met him on a tour of a carpet factory in the medina of Fez, Morocco. He had studied for a time in the states and was eager to practice his English and show us his country. I found out later he also had decided I was an angel upon meeting me and wanted to show me the life he could offer should I decide to marry and settle down with him. We arrived in his neighborhood, a modest but clean section of apartments in the newer part of the city. We entered his home and gasped our admiration. It was a large room broken up into sections by low benches, the walls were decorated in every inch with elaborately patterned tiles, all in blue and white. The benches and two tables were covered in incredibly detailed graphic designs sewn by hand on white linens. A vase of yellow flowers was the centerpiece of the room standing proudly on the back of the bench facing us. Simo encouraged us to sit down around one of the tables and began to bring out a feast. His mother came out and greeted us by taking each of our hands in our own and nodding enthusastically and smiling. His grandmother also brought out plates heaped high with various types of Moroccan delicacies, seemingly excited that she had guests to serve. We were not allowed to raise a finger and his family seemed disappointed that we were not immediately devouring what was put in front of us. The tagine, the cone shaped ceramic piece in which the food was cooked was filled with a piece of chicken on a bed of delicious cooscoos and vegetables, overflowing with flavor. We mopped up every drop on our plates with the soft, circular bread until our stomachs couldn’t take anymore. Then we were served another round of the sweet mint tea which I could not seem to get enough of, even though it went straight through me and caused me to make frequent trips to the bathroom. After Simo’s mother and grandmother cleared the entire table refusing our attempts to help, his older sister arrived. She brought her five year old son and Simo’s shy younger sister, an adorable girl with glasses which kept falling down her nose. She giggled as she met us and promptly ran into her room. The little boy began drawing proudly on everything he could with a black pen and was only distracted by a commercial jingle on the tv at which point he would loudly sing along in a mixture of gibberish and arabic. His older sister Lubna proudly brought out pictures from her wedding. She pointed out the five different outfits in various colors and mimed how much work it was to constantly change. Her hands were painted elaborately with henna and her face was painted with so much make up it looked like she was wearing a mask. In all of the photos she had a serious face, even as she sat next to her future husband. In some of the photos she sat like a queen on a chair which was held up by the men in her family as the women danced around her. It wasn’t until the end of the episode that we realized that it was an arranged marriage and that she was most glad because he was a tall man which meant her son also would be tall. This whole time was punctuated with elaborate gesticulations and lots of laughter and ooing and ahhing since we had no language in common.

            Lubna only spoke French and Arabic, Renee and I only spoke English and Spanish, and Krista spoke these as well but fortunately also a smattering of French. Now that the meal was over it was time to head to the local bathhouse. We were particularly excited for this experience since we had not bathed in five days due to the unusual cold occupying Morocco which extended to the hotel rooms which had no heat and the bathrooms which ran with freezing water.  Lubna was to take the girls in and Simo would take Krista’s boyfriend to the mens side. Since it was not at all a place for tourists or foriegners we were under strict instructions not to say a word. As Simo’s grandmother tied our scarves around our heads to help us blend in Simo translated that Lubna was going to arrange everything in the bathhouse and we were to just copy whatever she did. We gave her the money ahead of time, less than three dollars in their currency and headed out into the evening air. When we got within a block of the house we were hushed into silence. Renee, Krista and I fortunately were various shades of brown due to our mixed heritages and could feasibly pass as Moroccan. We were instructed to bring a change of clothes and a towel and nothing of value. I was excited as we were ushered upstairs into the concrete changing room, not sure what to anticipate but thrilled by the fact that we were entering a completely local place in disguise. We removed our tops with an awkward grin at each other, silently acknowledging that we were all about to get a lot closer as friends. We were told to strip down to our underwear and as I began to take off my pants I gasped and paused. I had completely forgotton that I was wearing a thong. I whispered in horror my dilemma to Renee, wondering if I should fake sick and run out of the bathhouse right then and there. I was so ashamed and embarassed at my revealing undergarments that I suddenly felt like an overly promiscuous American, fulfilling all of the cultural stereotypes. Renee saved me by handing over her clean change of underwear, appropriately covering boyshorts and I slipped them on over my thong with a relieved whisper of “thank you”. Fortunately Lubna had missed this near disaster as she was speaking hurriedly in Arabic to some women she knew.

            We followed Lubna into the main room of the bathhouse and were overwhelmed by the hot steam in the dark room. Women of all shapes and sizes sat and stood in the three rooms of the sauna, scrubbing, laughing and rinsing. In one corner was the source of the hot spring and thick women in large white underpants hoisted buckets of steaming water and hauled them around the room. A few dim lights in the ceiling gave the steamy room a yellowish glow. From another corner came buckets of cold water and the women who worked there mixed the two until they reached a tolerable temperature. Lubna lead us into the farthest room and we tried not to gawk at the strange environment we found ourselves in. I smiled. I was thoroughly enjoying the way the women were comfortable with their bodies and with each other. I considered the irony that in this much more conservative culture, people were undisturbed by each others nakedness, wondering if this situation would ever occur in the U.S. and concluded that despite the tiny skirts and revealing tops, women would never openly walk around in front of each other in just underwear. There was a sense of comaraderie in the room and women helped each other wash their hair, pre-teen girls squatting on overturned buckets while they brushed their friends’ hair. The concrete walls absorbed the heat but bounced back all of the chatter and laughter emanating from the women around us. A jovial buzz pervaded the rooms and nods and shouts of greetings were exchanged consistently among the women.

            Lubna left the three of us girls standing awkwardly in one of the rooms with a terse reminder to not say a word. I wasn’t sure what she was telling people, maybe that we were mute, or deaf and dumb to explain why it was that we couldn’t speak. We looked at each other, unsure what to do, and decided to mimic what the other women were doing. Lubna had left us a crate with brushes and various oils to hold and we sat down on the small plastic seats, barely large enough for our behinds and began to scrub ourselves like the women we had seen. The floor of the room was a constant flow of water, no doubt including dead skin and loose hair, careening among the buckets and feet towards a drain somewhere. I tried not to think about the amount of dirt and bodily waste swirling around my feet. We shared one bucket of water and alternated putting soap on our arms and legs and rinsing it off with a small plastic cup. Lubna returned and exclaimed loudly, chiding us and taking back the brushes and oils. Apparently we were not supposed to have done that. She pointed at her head and then around the room and we realized that the women in this section were all washing their hair, not their skin. We smiled nervously as she pulled Krista’s seat in front of her. Krista is of ethiopian and native american heritage and her hair is of the typical African type which she wore short and free in an afro. She tried to complain as Lubna dumped a handful of oil on her head and looked at us helplessly, and we understood that her hair required a different type of shampoo. Lubna vigourously massaged the oil into her hair, trying in vain to smooth it down but the wiry curls continued to pop up despite the water. Renee and I suppressed smiles and looked away until it was our turn to be washed. Lubna rubbed the oil into my hair, scrubbing my scalp and pulling the oil through the long strands of my smooth black hair. It felt nice, I realized no one had ever  washed my hair since I was a child and my mother did it for me. When the last cup of hot water cleansed my hair she deftly tied it up in a knot on top of my head and ushered us into the next room, outfitting us with buckets, combs and brushes.

            Lubna motioned for us to come sit against one of the walls and not to move or touch anything until she came back. I scratched my arm where a mild itch appeared and was shocked to see that the skin rubbed off entirely, leaving white rolls like lint on a sweater in my hand. I showed Renee who tried rubbing her arm and was disgusted yet fascinated to see a layer of skin come off as well. I barely put any pressure and the pieces of dead skin appeared on my arm and I tried to shake it off since we had no water to rinse. Lubna returned with a stout woman armed with a square brush that had a handle attached to the back and instructed Krista to lie down as the woman sat at her head. She took the brush and began scrubbing Krista’s long lean body with the brush and Renee and I gawked at the scene. She attacked Krista with the brush with the same vigor with which one beats a dirty carpet, and rolls of dead skin fell off of her. She grimaced but tolerated the washing as the woman turned her over and to the side to cover her entire body with the brush. She then poured cupfulls of the hot water over her until she was gleaming even in the dark sauna. Renee was next in line and was subjected to the same hasty yet thorough cleaning. A woman came and said something to Lubna who spoke to Krista who translated to me that Simo was done and therefore we better hurry so as not to keep him waiting. I was taken aback that we were expected to be done, the 4 of us in the same time it took Simo and Krista’s boyfriend to be bathed. I also was pretty sure Simo was not the type to mind waiting, he seemed to be a very sweet and patient man. Lubna must have told the scrubbing woman to hurry because she brushed me so intensely I thought surely I would have no skin left. The brush was rough and almost hurt but settled instead for a tickling sensation. There was barely enough water left to rinse me off and I shuddered to think of leaving with rolls ofdead skin clinging to me. I wiped my body down and poured a few final cupfuls over me as Lubna gathered her supplies and lead us out of the room.

We marveled at how clean we felt, our skin glowed in its freshness. I realized just how ineffective taking a shower and rubbing shower gel around my body was and told myself I’d get one of those scrubbing brushes when I got home. But it was impossible to recreate this experience in my apartment in the states in my private bathroom. This Moroccan bathhouse had allowed me to be part of something, to experience a tradition which had been in place for centuries, to cleanse myself fully and embrace my woman’s body and be part of a culture so unlike my own. We left the secret world of heat and naked women, one of the few places where gossip could be freely exchanged and bodies openly revealed. In this culture where women were often forced to be concerned about covering themselves and behaving in deference to men, the bathhouse was a haven for self expression. It was a space they could call entirely their own and interact without having to adhere to any social norms which constricted them in the outside world. I felt privileged to have been part of this place, and was thankful that my skin tone allowed me to blend in enough to be accepted into this feminine sanctuary.