Huehuetenango

So I don't have much to add about Guatemala. Work in Huehuetenango was busy but uneventful (though some weird little old man did kiss me in the middle of a pilot interview.) The only event of note was the trip back to Guatemala City through the mountains, which was stunning and heart-racing. Stunning because of the incredible vistas at sunset - which I didn't get any pictures of because we were whizzing by at Mach Two. Heart-racing because of the previously mentioned speed of the trip, and the drivers declaration as we flew down guardrail-less hairpin turns, what happened to the brakes?

In consolation though, I added pictures to the previous post. A million pictures. I am completely enamored with my new camera, and hopefully you notice an improvement in picture quality.

Wrath, Magma and Cake

Greetings from Huehuetenango, centrally located for your convenience in the mountains of northern Guatemala.

And affectionately called “Huehue” by the locals, which is pronounced “h-way-h-way” like a Hawaii floral arrangement.

Today is my first day of actual work here, though I have been floating around the country since Saturday. One of my Peace Corps friends, who for the sake of anonymity shall be known only as Adonis J, came down a few days early so that we could play tourist.

We met in the city of Antigua but my flight got in a few hours earlier than his, as I was lucky enough to be booked on the 2:45 am direct to Guatemala City from Dulles. As the hotel where we were meeting had a strict no check- in- until- the- maid- finishing- watching- her- Mexican- soap- operas- and- will- fetch- fresh- towels policy, I had the morning to explore the city.Antigua looks much like other 15^th century Spanish colonial cities, with arches and columns and pastel painted buildings, but also has an overabundance of collapsed churches. (Hazard of 15^th century building technology meeting a tectonic plate.) The largest of which used to be the biggest church in the hemisphere, with vaulted ceilings, a huge nave and 17 separate chapels. It is a testament to what can be done with solid faith in the Lord, the bounty of the New World, and 10,000 Mayan slaves. Unfortunately for the church, the lord does work in mysterious ways, as he sent earthquakes to severely damage it three times before just saying hell-with-it and knocking it (mostly) flat in the 18^th century. (This was probably not the ideal set of events for the resident missionaries. If I were an indigenous person, I would take this as pretty solid evidence that these Catholic characters were backing the wrong horse in the whole higher power thing.) In any case, the ruined church makes for a fun place to work out the new camera.

Adonis J arrived later that afternoon and we walked around town a bit more. We did the ruined church circuit and hit the main town square. The distinctive feature of the plaza is a large water fountain featuring mermaids squirting water out of their nipples. The good lord has chosen to leave this standing without so much as a stress crack.

That night we went to an excellent restaurant. Seated next to a pool covered in rose petals and floating candles with low lighting and fireworks in the background, it would have made the perfect place to have a romantic dinner after renewing wedding vows. Adonis and I had to settle for just a good meal.

Next day we were up at 5:30 am to hike the Pacaya volcano – billed as currently one of the most active in the hemisphere. The hike up to the crater ridge was pretty, though nothing particularly spectacular. From the ridge, you could look down and the steaming and cracking rock, and that the lava flowing in a glowing stream down the side of the crater.

Here is where the fun begins. As I have said time and time again, I love countries that don’t have liability laws. They let us hike down and *play* with the lava. I shit you not, we walked across the hot rock to the point where the lava was flowing, and then poked at it with sticks. The heat next to the crack was intense, literally burning the exposed skin on your face and hands. My feet were sticking to the rock as the soles of my shoes melted. And lava doesn’t have the consistency I thought it would. Much thicker and heavier and prone to breaking up when you poke it. We took turns trying to lift bits of it out balanced on the end of the stick. The heat was too intense and the lava too heavy for me to be much good at it, but some people were able to do it. Including one memorable American teenage boy that was a little to quick to show off those high school football guns, and sent a flaming piece sailing through the air onto the rock where we were standing. Good times…

After hiking back out of the volcano, (having a celebratory beer) and catching a ride back to Antigua, we ambled around town eating street food and drinking beer until it was time for our minibus to Panajachel. Pana is on the shores of a large volcanic lake, and is supposed to be one of the most beautiful places in Central America. We arrived after dark so that would have to wait, but, man, the street food was outstanding. (You will notice the common theme here…) For dinner we had mini super-tacos, papusas, and a mixed grill beef and sausage thing (which was impressive for the amount of butter, meat, butter, cheese and butter involved in its preparation.) We were bursting at the seams when we decided to head home. Then we met the Cake Lady. The Cake Lady will go down in the lore as one of the most magical creatures I have yet encountered on my travels. First of all, in a country of rampant malnutrition, she was the size of a middle aged rhino. And she just set up her table on the side of the road, and sold individual slices of a fantastic assortment of meringue covered goodness. The banana pie I had was the best pie ever after my grandmother’s lemon meringue. And the slice of oozing chocolate cake she gave Adonis was the size of his head. I don’t know who she was, or why she was selling cakes on a Guatemalan street at 9 pm on a Sunday, but may the good cathedral-shattering lord preserve here size 58 self long into the future. To the Cake Lady!

The next morning, after a 9 hour food coma, Adonis and I set out on a boat tour of the lake, stopping at three picturesque lakeside tourist traps, er villages, over the course of the day. The second stop had a weird shine to a pagan god smoking a cigarette. Evidentially, if you want god to grant you something the Catholic Church might frown upon, you just had to pony up a bottle of rum and pack of smokes, and swing by the shrine. He also apparently has a soft spot for women of the night (as in granting them things rather than them being appropriate offerings.) As you can imagine, he is rather popular in town. And, you will note, untouched by earthquakes…

After leaving the shrine, Adonis and I had some time, so we decided to walk back to the boat. Anyone that knows Adonny and I knows that combined powers of navigation most closely resemble a drunken child playing pin the tail on the donkey. So we got completely lost. Not completely lost in the sense that we ended up on a street we didn’t recognize, completely lost as in we walked totally out of town and found ourselves standing on the lakeside in some poor Mayan woman’s yucca field. With 17 minutes until the boat left. (And this boat guy didn’t kid around, he left one couple running late and they had to chase us down in a motor boat.) I will save you the details of running across field and trail and street, we just barely made it.

Then play time was over. It was time to pack up and head down to a meeting point where my boss would pick me up on his way north to Huehue. You know you are in the right field when you boss tells you to jump on a chicken bus to meet him in the bar of a gas station at a truck stop on the Pan-American Highway. And now I am at work.

I will be heading out piloting in the mountainous indigenous communities for the rest of the week, so I will see what I can dig up as interesting blog-fodder, but, I’ll be honest, I don’t know if I can come up with anything on par with today’s wrathful- god, magma- poking, Cake- Lady, truck- stop- on- the- PanAmerican posting. Wish me luck…

The Secret Life of Expats

I have nothing interesting to report. After my purse got snatched the first weekend I was in Dili, nothing else exciting happened. I went in the office, ate out with my colleagues, worked late, headed out to the districts to pilot test, hit the beach on Sunday afternoons, frequented the local watering holes (where even the resident mercenaries were charming after drink number three or so...) And that's it. I don't even have a flat tired to report.

This is doubly bad because for the first time, I am talking up a charity and asking anyone that can contribute to contribute. The project is called "Lambs for Schools" and is run by one of the people I was a Peace Corps volunteer with Burkina Faso. The idea that a little girl (let's call her "Mary") is given a little lamb and money for one year's school tuition. Mary goes to school that year, and takes care of her lamb at home. The lamb grows up (fat and tasty), then Mary's family sells it at the start of the next school year to pay for school fees and another little lamb. Sustainable development at its tastiest (not to alienate any of our vegetarian donors.) So the Burkina volunteers are trying to raise money for the project. Global Giving, a online charitable giving site, it running a contest. The program that has the most individual donors by 3 pm (EST) on January 31st will get $50,000 from global giving. So if you have $10 that you aren't using, please contribute. This is the link: Education for 900 Rural Girls in Burkina Faso As I said, I don't usually do this, but I have something of a softness for education in Burkina. If we win, maybe I will even dig out all of my old Peace Corps posts and stick them on the blog...

Alright, I will leave you with a couple of pictures to try in some small way to make up for the lameness of this post.

Story of my Snatch

So I spend three days on a plane coming halfway around the world to help this glorified sandcastle of a country count its poor people, and what thanks do I get? Purse snatching.

I was sitting at a restaurant with two other women I work with. We had had a great Burmese dinner and where just finishing up our beers. I untied my purse from the chair (simple precautions) and set it on the ground to pay. At which time some asshole takes it upon himself to run in off the street, grab it, and take off.

When something like this happens, your brain runs through the options. Do I scream? Do I try to catch him? What if he is armed? Will anyone help me? Alas, while Brain was counting votes, Legs had declared martial law, and I found myself running full speed down a pitch black street in a dangerous third world country – chasing a potentially armed robber. (Security officer gave me holy hell for this the next day.) My determination was apparently inspiring to the otherwise unoccupied restless youth hanging about the area and they joined in the chase. Cheering me on in English, of course. (Theft! Theft! Catch him!) A guy took off on a motorcycle and just caught up to my little purse snatcher, just as he leapt over the seawall and disappeared. Brain was back in control enough to keep me from following him onto the beach. It was all over but canceling the credit cards.

In order to file an insurance claim, however, I would need a police report. The extremely nice and apologetic restaurant owner helped us call the Timorese police. Alas, as it was Saturday night, they were otherwise occupied. So we set about trying to contact one of the 1600 UN police occupying the city. The first number we were given was answered by an extremely drunk soldier, who apparently puked into the phone before his buddy, helpfully, took the phone and told us we were actually calling the New Zealand soldiers’ barracks on Saturday night. They won’t be of much assistance. Forty-five minutes had gone by and we were no closer to my police report. Fortunately we were right next door to a popular nightspot, so we walked over and found a couple of soldiers playing pool. They were nice enough to lend me a phone and call some more sober colleagues to take me to the police station. Poor Nigerians, they get screwed with the Saturday night peacekeeping shifts.

And that is that. Spent most of my Sunday off trying to call and cancel everything that needed calling and canceling. Getting lectured by the security officer. Chase thinks that they can reissue my credit card in six business days. The nice phone lady also wanted to know what state East Timor was in. I’ll keep you posted on that. And sorry I have no pictures for this post, but you will be happy to know that I didn’t have my camera in my bag, so there will be future pictures to be had.

Day in Taipei

So I am back in Dili. The journey here is always a little bit epic. In this case with the assistance of inconvenient airline routing, freak storms, and the world’s most incompetent ground staff (I’m looking at you United-Dulles), this particular journey took a little longer. I got to spend a day in Taipei though, which was nice despite being a rather typical boring modern Asian capital. They have the standard temples and subways and skyscrapers (including, as they tell you ad nausea, the world’s tallest building.) Minimally boring highlights include the following:
(1) Body temperature scanners at the airport – After SARS, Taiwan is still a little nervous about commutable diseases. As you head towards immigration at the airport you pass through a thermal scanner. Should your body temperature pop up higher than it is supposed to, you can be hauled off into a quiet little room where airport security personnel will perform a routine physical. Think cool thoughts.
(2) Crossing Streets – The streets in Taiwan, much like DC, have countdown timers and little green man icons when it is “safe” to cross. The difference is that in Taipei, the little green man walks. He walks really slowly when you have lots of time, but by the last five seconds, he is hauling little green pixilated ass. It cracked me up to no end.
(3) National Palace Museum – So when Chiang Kai-shek was fleeing the advancing communists, he and his merry band of followers stopped by the palace museum in Beijing and took everything they could carry off. Turned out to be a pretty good plan from the antiquities perspective – that whole Cultural Revolution thing and all. China now intermittently asks to have their art back – to which Taiwan responds with universal snotty sibling tone of voice – “you broke yours.” The collection is impressive. Though I find it a little difficult to get all hot and bothered about plates, no matter how fine the porcelain, the miniature carvings and the silk painting were worth it.

(4) Asparagus Juice – They have 7-11s in Taiwan just like back on LI. The selection is a little more varied and exotic (Taipei teenagers can even talk bums into buying them scotch…). And I like to try new things. So I bought the asparagus juice. Maybe it was the packaging (what is up with that white chick on the side panel?). Maybe it was the appeal of the unknown. It was definitely the stupid god damned thing I have done in a long time. ~bleck~ Not recommended.

(5) The food – I love the Chinese. These crazy bastards will eat absolutely anything – preferably barbequed on little sticks. I had dinner at the local street market. I sampled the local specialty – beef with noodles – which was good and filling – but nothing to write home about. (That statement is completely contradicted by the fact that I am currently doing that, but on with the tale…) I walked up and down the street – surveying all manner of plants, animal and indeterminate life on display. What did I want to eat? Sweetened intestine? Weird colored snails? Something that might be a fruit or maybe a crab? I settled on a raw clam omelet served over wilted spinach with sweet chili sauce. Though admittedly it pushed the outer limit of my chopstick eating abilities – I definitely got my $2 worth. It was fantastic. And I totally beat the house on this one. I didn’t get food poisoning. Not a single cramp.

Next day it was on to Bali with my boss. She had never been to Bali before, so we did some of the things that I did on the last trip. We went to a cliff temple, saw the monkeys (which I definitely eyed a little warily after that incident last time with shopping bag – if one of those bastards went after my new camera, we was going to be a sorry little monkey), saw the dance show, went to a spiffy dinner. Next day it was back on the plane and on to Dili.

And that is that. I am back working in the office in Dili. I likely won’t be doing anything fun for awhile, we are running a training all next week. I will try to get somewhere fun on Sunday, but I have a workshop to give on Monday so it might just have to be the office…

Final note: You will notice as of this week that there are ads on my blog. They are currently just on the bottom but will soon be expanding to other places as soon as I figure out this HTML stuff. Yes, I do get paid if you click on them, even if you don’t buy anything. No, you are not in any way obligated to do that. All proceeds from advertising will be used to do insanely dangerous and expensive things that I will later write about on the blog. So there is something in it for you too. And to make up for my blatant step into commercialism, I added more pictures this time.

Doing the Camel Running

So, after the standard visit to the Jaisalmer fort, and a night of way too many Kingfishers, Bestman and I went on a camel safari into the “desert” outside Jaisalmer in India. I suppose that there may have been the requite amount of sand for it to be an actual desert, but after living in Mauritania, the bar is set a little high these days. In any case, the way out involved an extremely hungover me rocking back and forth on this great smelly beast and wishing I was dead.

Upon arrival at our sand dune that would be the camp for the night, we climbed up the dune (with the hoards of other camera toting tourists) to watch the sunset, while the guides fed the camels, set up camp and built the fire to make dinner. Eventually, the other tourists drifted away, back to town, or to luxury camps (places where the bathroom isn’t defined as “that thorn tree over there looks secluded” – pansies.) We sat with the crew as they were making dinner. They let Bestman try his hand at making chapattis (like Indian tortillas), which likely was a deeply moving cultural experience for him, but mostly just resulted in lumpy sandy chapattis for the rest of us.

After dinner, we were offered the choice of sleeping or “doing the talking-talking”. (They had set up bona fide beds in the desert for us, complete with frame and comforters. It looked a little out of place on the dunes, but made for an enjoyable night.) We opted for the talking-talking, and so we all sat around the fire and they told us a little about the life and times of a tourist camel guide. After a while, they packed us off to bed because tomorrow we would be “doing the camel running.”

Next day, sure enough, up at dawn and back on the camel. Today, we went on a longer trip, and I learned how to trot on a camel. I wasn’t very good at it because I didn’t like to hit the camel to make him go faster. (The little boy guide on the back of the camel in front of me kept screaming “Heeeet heem! Madam heeeet heeem!” when I fell too far behind.) But nonetheless, up on top of a camel, ropes in my hand, trotting across the dunes, felt pretty damned badass.

After a miserable overnight train ride in a freezing and dusty third class bunk, we arrived in the blue city of Jodhpur. A hike up to the fort confirmed that many of the houses were in fact blue. (This is due to the blue being the traditional color of the Brahmin elite, and because apparently the blue paint confuses the bugs.)

Then, after a little more of doing the drinking-drinking, back off to Delhi. The last day in India, I had been planning on maybe doing a little rug shopping, but that was not to be. I was traveling with an Englishman and it was the fourth day of the five day test match between India and Pakistan. We were going to the Cricket. (Definite articles must have been on sale this week because they are turning up everywhere…)

I have to admit, I was expecting something truly exciting. Cricket is the most popular game in this part of the world, and the India-Pakistan rivalry is comparable to the Yankees-Red Sox, had New York and Boston fought a couple wars against each other in the last 50 years. I was all jazzed up when we get to the stadium. But, much to my chagrin, cricket is *boring*. It’s boring to a baseball fan- with infinite patience for slow moving sports. They stop for tea, which is weird enough, but you wouldn’t know they stopped because the level of activity involved in drinking tea is about the same as that is required to play cricket. And people watch this stuff for days…

But all in all, a good cultural experience. And, if I ever need to pick an Indian up in a bar, I can tell him that I saw Sachin Tendulkar bat.

The way home was bit of a nightmare, as I flew from Delhi to Singapore to Jakarta to Tokyo to Washington. And I almost missed the plane in Jakarta because man made the factories, that heated the air, that melted the glacier, that fell in the sea, that raised the water, that flooded the road, that led to the airport. Yes, global warming’s first victim, the rising water level, coupled with a full moon and high tide, renders the road to Jakarta airport impassable. Fortunately, my driver knew a short cut through the ghetto (he made me lock my doors), and I just made the flight. About 60 out of 600 of us were on the plane when it took off for Tokyo.

But I am home now. Back to the daily grind in DC. I should be here through the holidays, so I wish everyone the best and I will be back in action in January.

Nuptials and Camels

The advertising slogan for India these days is Incredible India. And it certainly has been incredible. The noise, the dirt, the colors, the energy - it is all here in excess.

The first few days that I was here, I was in Udaipur, for the wedding of a friend from graduate school. This was the single most beautiful, opulent, over-the-top experience I have ever attended, bar none. The wedding was three days long, with the first and third days being at the City Palace and the second being at a white marble temple in the middle of the lake. These are places where Bollywood stars get married. Even the fireworks over the lake after the marriage was official would have been sufficient for the July 4th celebration at a mid-sized American city.
After the festivities ended, I packed up the ballgown and glitzy jewelry, picked up the ol' backpack and went to join a small group of wedding guests headed for the Pushkar Camel Festival. A yearly event in which the tourists are outnumbered only by the camels, Pushkar is a bit legend on the India backpacking scene. Thousands of camels and horses and all matter of things hoofed are brought to the town to be sold and traded. It coincides with a religious celebration at the town's sacred lake, so there are a couple thousand pilgrims in the mix too. All this, coupled with the magicians, stilt-walkers, snake charmers, acrobats, thieves and hustlers give the place the air (and likely approximate level of sanitation) of a medieval carnival. It was mayhem. One of the bridesmaid's and I walked around fair grounds to try to get some good shots, but it was difficult to capture the scope from eye level. Hmm... what around here is higher than eye level... Buildings (not tall enough)... cell phone towers (likely guarded)... hills (way too far)... half finished water tower on the edge of the camp (bingo). What are the chances that the workers speak enough English to tell us we can't climb up? Admittedly, they seemed a little surprised, but as long as we didn't step in the wet cement, they seemed pleasant enough about it. A couple stories up were some great views. (Again, I will post pictures as soon as I can.) And, as there have been complaints in the comments section lately that I haven't been engaging in an adequate level of death defying behavior, I made sure to lean out over the edge of the platform, holding on to the rebar, to get a shot of me with the fair in the background. (Editor's note: I had no idea actually how dangerous it was climbing up this thing until we started down. The steps were narrow and covered in loose gravel. They hadn't gotten to installing any handrails yet, and we had to climb over the horizontal waist-level bamboo support poles at each landing. I was happy to get to the bottom...)

Other than that, not too much going on. I am currently in Jaisalmer, up north near the Pakistan border, because I apparently haven't gotten enough camel yet in my life. I will be camel trekking in the desert tomorrow night with the Bestman. And now, if you will excuse me, Pushkar is a pilgrimage site, meaning no meat and no booze. I have some catching up to do...

Dili to Delhi, by Way of the Incredible, Edible, Singapore

So I am on vacation (finally!) in India. Things in Timor finished up mostly uneventfully (though we did get to dash through an angry crowd under the cover of Australian UN police with automatic weapons at the ready. Fortunately the crowd hadn't turned violent yet, so it was more dramatic than dangerous.)

From Dili I flew to Jakarta, checked into a 5 star hotel to enjoy the last night of my WB expense account, swam in the pool, and had dinner with a friend from grad school at a posh Italian restaurant. Early the next morning, I was off to Singapore for a couple days of concentrated shopping and eating before heading to India. I have two friends living in Singapore, one of which was generous enough to have a spare bed and one of which was generous enough to be a government employee for the tourism board with a free museum pass. So it worked out well for me.

The first day the friend I was staying with took me on a walking tour of the major sights in the city. Singapore is a somewhat strange place. Despite its fairly long and colorful history, it is a completely created place. Most of the the people (at some point in their history) immigrated from somewhere else (more than half from China), the land is mostly reclaimed, the buildings are all new or recently remodeled. The two newest additions are a giant ferris wheel and a theater house that looks like a pair of giant sleeping metallic hedgehogs. For a number of reasons, this is likely not the place to try psychotropic drugs.

That night we went out to the tourist beach island to drink beer and watch the sunset. (Island entirely created as well, down to the imported and bored looking peacocks.) And behind the planted palm trees, cargo ships and super tankers filled the horizon. But the beach was nice and the beer was cold, so the combined experience was quite enjoyable.

Over the next couple days, I also did a walking tour of Chinatown, a visit the Asian Civilization Museum, and some shopping in a few of the thousands of stores and malls in town. Blah blah blah.

But let's get down to the real business of Singapore - eating. The food there was out of this world. A perfect storm of Malay, Indian and Chinese cuisines merged into one place. Singapore had been known previously for its street food, but the government decided that that wasn't in keeping with the image of the new Singapore. So the street vendors were rounded up and places in "hawker centers," which probably damaged the culture a little, but they are convenient for us. The first night we had sitay and stingray accompanied by noddles and rice. I don't know why the rest of the world doesn't eat stingray, it's delicious. Next day it was fried tofu for lunch, and then "steamboat" for dinner.

Steamboat is a cousin to Mongolian and Schezuen hotpots, with dinners selecting raw food from the buffet and then boiling it at their tables. The guys were nice enough to get a half spicy and half broth hotpot, because spicy in Singapore would actually probably prove lethal to my bland American palate. It occured to me that there was a chance that the open air collection of meat, fish, vegetables, etc might not be the most hygenic thing in the world, but, as the wise-but-insane Peace Corps nurse Molly once said, "Boiling continuously for one minute kills anything. Bacteria, germs, pathogens, ants, mice, anything." So I loaded up a plate with clams and made sure they were in the pot for at least one minute. If I am going down with food poisioning, I am going to earn it. Street shellfish in a tropical climate, here I come. And this may be blasphamy to many on this list, but clams do not necessarily have to be eaten with lemon and melted butter. They are also quite tasty with a mixture of soy sauce, garlic, cilantro and green onions. Many other things went into the pot that night, crab, shrimp, meat of all forms, mushrooms, but those clams were really good.

The next day I went shopping for clothes for this wedding I am in India to attend. (The groom is a friend from grad school. In typical male fashion, he didn't think to mention to me that the three day wedding was black tie until the night before I left. Consequentially, I was shopping for my life in Singapore.) Grabbed a flight that night, and here I am in Delhi.

It has been over three years since I have been here, but the place is generally the same. Same crowds, noise and chaos. They have since added a subway system that I have yet to try. It somehow though seems calmer and cleaner here than last time. I must be getting older and more mellow. I guess we will see if I still feel that way after being here for two weeks.

One last thing before I go. My friend that was nice enough to take me to the sites works for the tourism board and his bonus depends on how much tourists spend in the country. To thank him for his hospitality, I am starting a grassroots internet campaign to encourage tourism in Singapore. (Hey, if it works for Ron Paul, anything can happen...) So if at all possible, please visit Singapore in the next six years.

All Quiet on the Eastern Front

So I have been in Dili about 10 days and nothing has happened to me. But that doesn’t mean that things have been quiet! Last Wednesday, a boat carrying smuggled gasoline caught fire in the harbor right outside the office. As I drove by a lunch, the explosion had just happened. Huge flames and black diesel smoke was pouring out the left side of the big wooden fishing boat. There was still a guy standing on the very tip of the bow though, staring at the flame, hands on his hips, and a look on his face that could best be described as “Hmm. Guess they meant that bit about the no smoking…” The fire burned almost 24 hours. Coming home from a video conference just before midnight, the fire was still lit up the harbor. Fun stuff.

Other highlights: Food shortages are anticipated in some of the IDP camps around town. Some have already turned violent, throwing rocks and occupying roadways with their tents. There are rumors of renewed guerilla activity in the mountains, new government slightly shaky. Politician’s house on the same road as I live, though on the other side of town, raked with gunfire on Friday night, man stabbed in neighboring IDP camp… Etc. etc. etc.

And yet, I was sitting in yesterday’s security briefing with this nagging sense that something was missing. It just didn’t feel right, you know, just not quite… complete. Then, as if to answer my dark prayers, here he was! PESTILENCE! Galloping across the metaphorical World Bank parking lot to join his brothers Famine, War and Death, the Fourth Houseman of the Apocalypse finally arrived! In the form of an anthrax outbreak on a neighboring Indonesian island no less! I relaxed and smiled, as the security officer sternly warned against importing livestock from the affected areas, knowing that Dili was packed and ready for the second coming.

It’s not all bad though. [If there is any country in the world where the Ministry of Tourism has enforcers, it’s here. I have to make sure to offer balanced coverage.] I got to do some touristy things this weekend. I haven’t had a day off since I went to Bali, working straight through the weekends, so I decided that this week, I was leaving at 5 pm on Saturday and not coming back to the office until 7:30 on Monday morning. Drawing a line in the sand.

Saturday night I went with another of the visiting consultants to climb Jesus and watch the sunset. You always have to be careful of the guys that are the same age as your parents and want to climb things. They are in dizzying shape. The run-up to Jesus was a long series of steps climbing the hillside, with distance intervals marked by the stations of the cross. Finally a practical use for something I learned in St. Pat’s. “Oh thank god, Jesus just met the women of Jerusalem, more than halfway there…” The view from the top was nice though. Dili, which despite being the capital has a population of less than 100,000, looked like a tiny fishing village on the edge of the sea. We had just enough time to make it back down the hill, take a quick swim in the ocean, and walk about to a beach bar for a beer and sunset.

The sunset was spectacular yes, but it was definitely the secondary show that evening. There are 1600 UN police patrolling Timor Leste, most based in the capital, it was a beefcake convention on the beach. This guy running, that guy swimming, this guy lifting something, someone doing push-ups, someone else doing one-armed push-ups, a beach volleyball game likely to induce combat trauma. A Creatine circus at its finest.

The next day I truly took a day off and went diving. You can dive straight off the main beach road in the capital here, but I decided to head a little further a-field to the volcanic islands about an hour’s boat ride north. Highlights of the trip out include: meeting hundreds of dolphins who raced along side the boat and generally did the SeaWorld thing until they grew bored of us, a pod of pilot whales lazing about on a sunny Sunday afternoon, and a splash way off on the horizon that might have been a humpback whale (or dynamite fishing.) It was a much needed relaxing day on the water.

I am here until the end of the week then *I am on vacation*! Provided that I can get out of Timor. But really, what are the chances of the airport being closed because of riots at the nearby IDP two Fridays in a row?

P.S. I am trying the new video blog feature. The fish video itself is nothing interesting, but if it works, I can shoot better things. Like fires.

What the Dili yo?

So I am in Dili. Dili is the capital of the world’s newest country, Timor Leste (established 2002). You probably have older things in your refrigerator.

I haven’t seen much of the country yet, as the hotel is right next door to the office and I spend most of my time in one of those two places. I will give you a little bit of fun background on things that I have learned in my security briefing yesterday. (Delivered by the biggest Ken doll I have ever seen.)

In addition to your general corruption, pollution, poverty, power cuts etc. problems of a standard developing world city, Dili has a smidge of a problem with politically motivated riots and gang violence. Though the curfew has recently been lifted (you can now go out after 6 pm), it is recommended that people don’t travel alone at night and that women don’t take taxis after dark. (We just fit so easily into the trunk.)

The World Bank office is directly next door to my hotel on the road that faces the beach (great sunsets apparently). It is safe to walk between these to places, and to any nearby restaurants in the direction of Jesus. (Catholics. Always with the giant Jesus overlooking the city.)

Do not, however, walk towards the restaurants in other direction late at night. While the WB building is on one side of the hotel, the other next door neighbor is a particularly militant IDP camp. [IDP means Internally Displaced Person, UN lingo for refugees.] And once the IDPs get to a-drinkin’ all hell can break lose.

Arriving at the WB building, there is a concrete slab and with a simple metal cross on it just outside the gate. I thought it was a just remnant of an old fence, but apparently it is marks the site where someone was killed.

World Bank Timor Leste: “No one killed out front since May!”

And I have this great driver named Ano. He looks like the guy that your mother won’t let you go out with in high school. Sunglasses all the time, tattoos, tricked out black Nissan… It even has one of those weird ultimate-spoiler things on the back, like the cars in Jersey. I felt like such a badass rolling up to my meeting with the UNDP.

I am making it sound worse that it is. Mostly to get a reaction out of my mother who has been in full blown panic mode since I arrived. Don’t worry Mom, I will be fine.

And happy Halloween to everyone. (I am sort of hoping they don’t celebrate it here.)

Coming Soon to a Tsunami-Affected Islamic Separatist Province Near You!

So I am at the end of my time here in Aceh. Nothing too thrilling happened here this week, most the usual drill of survey piloting. I don’t even have any pictures. For those of you looking for excitement, this is not the posting. For those of you that just want an update, I will offer a typical day here in Aceh.

At 4:45 in the morning the mosque next to my hotel window starts the morning prayer call. Normally this doesn’t bother me, I actually think for the muezzin that do well it is really beautiful. This one, however, is bone-jarringly loud and goes on for a half hour instead of the usual few minutes. I roll over and eventually get back to sleep, until the alarm goes of at 6:30.

I walk into the bathroom to use the squat toilet. I dump a scoop full of water from the tiled basin to flush, then dump the second scoop over my head to wash my face. I brush my teeth from my water bottle, then take another scoop of water to wash the soap and toothpaste down the drain in the floor. I put on a full length skirt and long sleeved button down shirt, my wannabe Mormon missionary get-up from Tajikistan. I twist my slightly greasy hair into a bun, liberally apply sunscreen, grab my hijab and head to breakfast.

Breakfast is leftover rice with too much chili. Normally I won’t eat much, but I skipped dinner the night before to get a couple more hours sleep. (We didn’t get in from the field until after 10.) Chili rice it is. Over breakfast we de-brief our survey team from yesterday and set out the plan for the day. Load the bags, pile into the Kijang 4x4, and head out.

The first interview I observe is with an ex-combatant from the Aceh independence movement. The top half of his arm is completely scarred and he carried a photograph of himself topless in his shirt pocket. His back looks like thatch because of the scars from a whipping he received from soldiers when he was caught as a rebel. Our survey indicated that his faith in formal government systems of justice is somewhat minimal.

Second interview is with a widow in a bamboo house. Since I can’t understand the language being spoken, I spend most of the time making faces at two little girls playing on the floor next to us – both of us trying not to get caught. When they are chased out, I spend the rest of the interview trying to figure out whether the tickling on the back on my legs is sweat or ants.

Lunch was served on the floor of the unfinished mosque. It was rice and sauce, with a piece of chicken – take-out from a nearby town that came wrapped in a banana leaf. I showed my usual dexterity eating with my hands (plus my headscarf kept falling when I leaned forward to eat.) I spend five minutes outside picking the bits of rice off of my scarf and skirt.

At the interview immediately after lunch, Dad was stuck watching the kid during the interview. Little boy was about three and his father was one of the richest and most educated people in the village. Boy starts out by knocking the tea glasses down because he doesn't have one. Then he screams and hits Dad's leg until Dad forks over what even I consider an obscene sum of money to give to a toddler. Then Boy discovers the cigarette lighter, which he is obviously an old pro at because he knows how to turn the flame all the way up and singe an eyebrow. Grandma comes home to see Boy sitting on the rug, having removed his pants, drinking a cup of ultra-caffeinated sugar tea, and trying to light the money on fire with a small blowtorch. In another testament to the universality of humanity, her expression was vintage "I can't believe my daughter married this bonehead, no matter how much money he has..."

We push through with the rest of the surveys, and just after dark, load up the car to head back to the main city, about two hours drive. We stop for duck and shrimp dinner at a roadside joint. Back in Banda Aceh, we check into a nice hotel and crash. Back up at 6 to incorporate the edits from the day before and head out to survey tsunami-effect areas.

Yeah, like I mention, not every day can be an adventure. I am heading down towards Timor Leste tomorrow (I saw towards because the Indonesian low cost carrier I am flying was naughty and customs impounded six planes from its fleet this week – throwing a bit of a wrench in the schedule…)

Islam and Kristen

So I spent the last week on the Maluku islands, out near Papua. You generally know that when you are headed to a place described as “out near Papua,” it is going to be an interesting week.

A brief history of the Maluku islands: They were commonly known in the 17^th century as the Moloccas, or the original Spice Islands. They are the starting point for things like cloves and nutmeg that were eventually grown in tropics around the world. The islands are divided between Muslim and Christian populations (“Islam” and “Kristen” as it is in local language) and a few years back there were riots between the two groups. Now, the World Bank is doing a program to increase access to justice in these areas, and I am here to write and pilot a baseline survey.

My partner in crime for this little adventure was a Jakarta-based Australian who, for our purposes, shall be known as Captain Kangaroo. The two of us, plus three local consultants from main city of Ambon, one happy-go-lucky chauffeur (who was a terrible driver), and a Kijang 4x4, set out the next day to cross the bay for Serum Island, where we would working for the week. As with all best laid plans, the hope was to start out early. That was over before it began when we hit a snag at the ferry dock. After the “troubles” a couple years back, NGO workers descended on the province to do post-conflict reconciliation work. I will reserve my judgment if their programs had any lasting effects beyond firmly establishing the precedent that white people pay more for the ferry. As it is against World Bank official regulations to bribe the harbor mafia, and therefore a complete bitch to expense, we weren’t going to do that. After a few hours squabbling, we were finally off.

With this delay, the first day was sort of a wash. The second day we decided that we should go to a remote indigenous village. The survey we were testing was designed to assess the impact of access to justice programs for vulnerable groups, included in which are both remote and indigenous populations. Fine. I guess we need to go there and figure that out.

The night before we got out the map and selected a village that looked to be about an hour drive followed by an hour walk. Seemed remote enough to suit our purposes but still within reason. We set off the next morning at 6:30 am. (Again, best laid plans…) The drive takes about an hour to get to the small village where we pick up a guide. Always a bad sign, he carries a stout and well-used walking stick. We drive another hour as the road steadily deteriorates.

Eventually we run out of road and hop out to start the walk. We are informed at this point that the walk is actually 2.5 hours. Shit. We are past the point of no return in terms of having time to go to another remote village so there isn’t much choice but to go anyway. We walk up a hill through thigh high grass to top of the first hill. The guide points to where we are going. It is a tiny wisp of smoke rising from the thick forest. The good news is that it is about the same elevation at which we are currently. The bad news is that the only way to get there is to walk into the valley then back up the other side. We are informed at this time that the walk will actually take 3.5 hours because 2.5 is the time that is takes the locals to do it. (We are not locals, Captain Kangaroo and I are foreigners and the other three are “city people” from the thriving metropolis of Ambon.) I look down at my collared shirt and full length sensible skirt, already dark with patches of sweat. Then it starts raining.

We climb to the top of the hill, then start down the valley. The going is slick as the dirt trail becomes mud. Even though I wore my most sensible flats that day, they are not meant for this. Passing the other direction are a steady flow of people from the village carrying sacks of cloves – the major crop of the village where we are headed. They shake their heads and tell us to be careful. Grabbing on shrubs and long grass, I skid down the path to the bottom of the valley.

Here is where it gets interesting. The fields are behind us and we are standing on the edge of a dense rainforest. The only way to the other side of the valley is to cross the river about one kilometer through the forest. The only way to get to the river is to follow the stream that cuts a path through the trees.

I look down at mud-splattered leather shoes. There is no way I can walk through the river in these. The others are rolling up pants and sticking shoes into backpacks. Well, I guess some part of me always wanted to walk barefoot through a jungle. I un-strap my shoes, hitch up my skirt, and step in. (Worker’s Comp covers bilharzia right?)

The rocks are sharp and we pick our way through the calf deep water. We walk intermittently through the stream and on the path beside it. The path is nice because it is just mud and therefore soft, but I am constantly worried about stepping on snakes, spiders, centipedes or any other jungle-dwellers that might be hanging about the place.

We eventually make it to the river. The water in the center was up to my thighs (no hitching the skirt high enough here) and the current was fairly swift. More than once I stepped on something sharp and almost lost it. Relieved to make it to the other side, I wrung the river out of my now quite-bedraggled sensible skirt and strapped my shoes back on.

The walk itself would have been pretty had it not been almost completely vertical. The trail wound through the forest, through pineapple patches, thick undergrowth and past giant drum trees. As the hours wore on and we got higher, we passed people up in the trees harvesting cloves. Finally, after nearly three hours, soaked through with sweat and rain, we arrived in the village.

The village chief was surprised to see white people. Apparently we usually think this is too hard and turn back at the water. Captain Kangaroo and I also were the only ones in our group that kept pace with the guide the whole time. We arrived 15 minutes ahead of the rest of our team.

First off I drank a half a pitcher of water. We hadn’t anticipated the hike and didn’t have a half liter between all of us. It was untreated local water – which had the distinctive flavor of smoked gouda cheese – but at that moment I more than willing to trade dehydration now for dysentery later. Properly hydrated, we went to work, spending the afternoon walking through streets covered with cloves drying on palm mats, and testing the surveys. At three we had to call it quits to make it to the car before dark. Back down the mountain and across the river we went.

The driver was waiting for us with bottles of water when we got back to the car. Captain Kangaroo and I were the first ones to arrive – 2.5 hours flat. The driver had said that he had met some of the villagers walking with the clove harvest. They told him about the two white people on the mountain. They were amazing! They were able to walk just as fast as the villagers and the lady was even wearing a skirt! Major street cred for the World Bank.

The rest of the week was much tamer. The Captain and I decided that one remote village was plenty and stuck to places that can be driven to. The days are long, we work from usually 7 am (we stopped doing that up-at-dawn thing because it always seemed to backfire) and we have gone to midnight almost every night. But the food is good. Pretty much the only thing to eat here is fresh fish (and shrimp and squid) grilled on a coconut husk fire, which is pretty much okay with me. We were even able to find a Christian place for dinner one night that served alcohol. (Those crazy Kristens and their beer.)

Now I am back in Jakarta, desperately trying to fit a week of work into a couple of hours. Headed out to Aceh in the morning...