Please evacuate the airport immediately; the airport is on fire

When I was in the States for a brief period in January 2009, I planned to take a trip to Chicago, Grand Rapids, and Detroit. I wanted to visit my friends the Hunefelds in Chicago, then fellow board members from the Association for a More Just Society in Grand Rapids, and then my college roommate Mark Hakim outside Detroit. Mark and I got tickets for a Michigan basketball game.

I postponed the departure date for the trip because of bad weater in the midwest. Bad weather in the midwest in January means temperatures of minus 38 degrees F with wind chills bringing the feel down to minus 60. The cold temperatures also bring on ice storms, and difficult driving conditions. My grandmother, aunt, uncle, and sister prevailed on me to leave later to avoid the worst of the storms. Meanwhile, the weather in Oklahoma was up into the 80s.

Driving a rental car from rural Oklahoma to Chicago is not easy. The nearest car rental agency to my grandmother's house is two hours away at the airport in Oklahoma City. As my grandmother was 89 at the time, she doesn't like to drive, and we don't like her to drive, that far by herself. When she drives to Norman (outside of Oklahoma City and home of my aunt and uncle), her neighbor Catherine, age 77, often accompanies her, on the theory that they will keep each other alert and aware. My grandmother used to drive up to Norman fairly often for doctor's appointments, but she has found doctors in Ardmore (it is debatable whether or not this is a good thing). So her trips to Norman now are for the used book store, the Golden Corral, Dillard's, and my aunt and uncle.

To get to Oklahoma City, I planned a trip up to Norman, where my grandmother would pass me off to my aunt and uncle. They, in turn, would drive me to the airport to pick up my rental car. From there I would drive fourteen hours to Chicago.

My grandmother, Catherine, and I drove up to Norman to eat at the Golden Corral, a favorite for both of them. It is a treat for Catherine and grams to get to eat at Golden Corral because there is none in Ardmore, and my aunt and uncle do not like eating there. Oklahoma is a fat state and the customers at Golden Corral can remind my aunt and uncle of that fact. Trying to eat healthily at the Corral can prove challenging, but it can be done. Notwithstanding their preferences against the Golden Corral, my aunt and uncle met us there to enjoy lunch and then my grandmother and Catherine made their way back to Ardmore.

The next morning my aunt and uncle took me to the Oklahoma City airport. I had made a reservation for unlimited miles for a bit over a week for about $250. Though I use this agency often, there were some unexpected charges and terms with the rental. The most significant change was that I was not permitted to take a rental car outside a state that bordered Oklahoma. While Missouri borders Oklahoma, and I could get to St. Louis, that still isn't close enough to Chicago. The consequences of driving out of the approved territory were paying 75 cents per mile and getting put on the "do not rent" list. Knowing that the odometer and the GPS in the car would make it abundantly clear if I went over the state lines, I started calculating the real cost of the rental. With the out-of-territory costs, and the additional fees, the rental would cost me about $1000, plus gas.

$1000 for a rental is not an option for someone who is unemployed and homeless, who was renting a car to save money on the trip. So I declined the rental and checked down the aisle at the other agencies. Because it was a same-day rental, none of the other agencies were able to give a much better rate.

I went upstairs to the airline counters. I stopped at American Airlines to ask if I could use miles to fly to Chicago.
"I don't know - can you use miles?"
"Can you check to see if I can book an awards ticket for me?"
"We can't do that here. You need to call the AAdvantage number."
"Can you call that number for me."
"We don't have that number. You'll have to find it yourself."
"Can you check to see how much the fare is to fly to Chicago today?"
"That's $313."
"Thanks. Have a good one."

After this representatively unsatisfactory encounter with American Airlines, I walked down the aisle to Southwest, the other airline with direct flights to Chicago. Southwest had similar prices for flights to Chicago. Representatives from both airlines seemed quite surprised that I was interested in buying a same-day ticket. Apparently it is uncommon in Oklahoma City.

I went downstairs to the baggage claim area and called my sister to check online about redeeming my miles. As I was giving my information to my sister, the following announcement came over the speakers: "Please evacuate the airport. The airport is on fire. Evacuate the airport immediately." I continued to speak with my ssiter and paid little mind to the announcement as no one else seemed to be minding it. As my sister looked through the listings, an alarm continued to sound and airport officials started streaming out. The car rental counters emptied. Passengers flowed out of the airport. There were no airport officials directing anyone where to go or asking anyone to leave. There were just the announcements directing people to leave: "The airport is on fire." I told my sister that I would need to leave the airport. Outside I found out from my sister that it would cost $200 plus 25,000 miles to book the ticket. I decided to pass . . .

Although there were never any announcements, the airport apparently re-opened because people flowed back into the airport. The airport did not burn down. I smelled no smoke. But the airport had been evacuated - I don't know what happened.

At this point I called my aunt and uncle to pick me up. I figured that these were signs that I was not supposed to go to Chicago. The ultimate sign to me was the announcement: "the airport is on fire."

My aunt rarely brings her cell phone with her. My uncle brings his with him, but doesn't always turn it on, and even when it is on, he doesn't always hear it. I left a message on my uncle's cell and at their house. Then I got on the phone to let my friends know I wasn't coming. I called my grandmother to let her know I would be back - she was so happy because she was worried about me traveling in the bad weather, and she would also miss me. I rang back my uncle, who answered the phone, probably the first and only time that he has answered the phone. He and my aunt came and picked me up. Otherwise I would have spent all day at the aiport, until they got home at 5 pm. So I spent the night in Norman - and did not go to Chicago.

The Shooting at 4th and G SW

My grandmother's favorite movie series is Death Wish. In these movies, Charles Bronson plays a vigilante out to avenge the death of his family or girlfriends, or to rid the neighborhood of thugs. My grandmother appreciates the "justice" achieved when Bronson takes out the bad guys. She wishes that there were more vigilantes in the world today; it would be a safer place.



In the first Death Wish movie, the murderers follow Bronson's wife and daughter back to their apartment on New York City's Upper West Side and murder the wife and rape the daughter. Bronson's apartment is in 33 Riverside Drive, on the corner of West 75th Street, across from Riverside Park. When we first watched the attackers go into the building I thought it looked familiar. As the plot unfolded and we saw more shots of the block, I realized that I had been in that building - many times before. My Bible Study met there for several years and I went there every Friday night. When I told my Grandmother that I lived about half a block from that building and that I had been there many times she told me that she was so relieved that I was no longer in New York. Obviously I was living in a very unsafe place since Bronson's family was attacked a short distance from my house. I assured her that New York was very different now as opposed to 35 years ago when the first Death Wish movie came out. I had never been shot or seen a shooting in New York.



A few days after we watched a Death Wish marathon, my grandmother and I were sitting in her den in the small town of Ardmore, Oklahoma. It was evening and I heard voices in the front yard and looked out the windows. My grandmother lives on a corner lot and can get a large volume of foot traffic. I initially thought maybe children were playing in the yard, but I couldn't see anyone. I listened more closely and determined the voices were fighting men's. After some time the voices disappeared. My sister called and my grandmother and I got into a conversation with her.



Two loud bangs interrupted our conversation. I got up to look out the windows again. We both realized that the bangs were gunshots. I told my grandmother I was calling the police, but as I prepared to do so, we heard the first responders arrive. Out the window I saw two ambulances, two fire trucks, and about five squad cars descend upon our corner, lights whirling. I described the activities to my grandmother, who remained in her armchair, and to my sister, who was still on the phone. I watched neighbors walk from all directions toward the intersection. As is often the case at of accident sites or crime scenes, there is often a lot of activity, but little substance. The lights on the vehicles continued to turn, the neighbors moved back and forth to try to get more information, but at the actual site nothing much was happening, at least from our vantage point. From time to time a vehicle would leave. The fire trucks were gone. One of the ambulances left. Some of the squad cars departed. In the remaining ambulance I saw them load up something and peel away. But I could not see inside. A few police cars remained until late in the night.



Information was slow to be released. We learned from a neighbor that the shooting took place a few houses down. Though we don't know those neighbors, we believe that the women there were prostitutes and/or drug dealers. Apparently, two men came to the house and had a dispute with each other. That dispute carried over into our yard. One left (we had heard the quiet after the argument ceased). He then came back with a friend, and a gun. They shot the other man and then fled. The police got descriptions of both men, as well as their names and photos.



One of the assailants looked, according to my grandmother, like "a fine young man with his whole life in front of him." He was 19 years old, clean cut, white, and wholesomely attractive. She was disappointed that instead of getting a job and making something of himself, he was going and doing something like this. As far as we know, he has been on the run since the shooting occured in January. According to another source in town, he came from Texas. The local socio-political theory goes as follows: all problems in Oklahoma come from Texas. (As my grandmother's town is near the Texas border it often encounters these problems first.) In turn, all problems in Texas first come from Mexico. The exception is drugs. It is not fair to blame the influx of drugs from Mexico on the Mexicans because if there were no demand in the US, the Mexicans would not traffic the drugs.


The other assailant was a black man in his early 20s. We don't know if it was him or his friend the "fine young man" who was arguing in our yard. He fled the scene and the cops could not find him right away. However, a few days after the shooting, this assailant went to the Carter County courthouse for a hearing in an unrelated case. The court officials recognized him and thought that maybe he was the guy they were looking for - the one who fled the scene. He acknowledged that he was the suspect and they placed him under arrest. I guess he showed up to court with the optimistic hope that no one would recognize him. As it happened, no one in the court had made the connection beforehand; they were not waiting to bring him into custody. It seems almost by chance that the court officer recognized him, or otherwise he would have eluded detection. In a town of 25,000 people, it seems the police should be able to recognize people with prior arrests, and check to see if there are any current cases pending against them.

The victim of the shooting went to the hospital and the reports in the following days revealed that he was in stable condition. No other information was released - we don't know if he was a "fine young man," or his age, or why he was at the home of the suspected prostitutes. We also don't know if or when the hospital released him, but we never saw a death announcement in the news - we take that as a good sign.

The suspected prostitutes have moved out of the house. The owners have started renovations after they inspected the house and discovered that the toilet had fallen through the floor and the roof was not intact.

After all of this I pointed out to my grandmother that the only time in my life I had experienced a shooting outside my home was in Oklahoma - never in New York or anywhere else. So maybe Bronson's character had the misfortune 35 years ago to lose his family to violence in Manhattan. But my violent spot was Oklahoma. I do not plan on becoming a vigilante, though.

The Crazy Cow

I arrived in Lutina on a Saturday. To get there, you take a 12-hour ferry ride from Marseilles, on the southern coast of continental France. From the ferry dock in Bastia, on the northeast coast of Corsica you take the train a couple hours to Ponte Leccia, where the islands' two train lines meet. Forty-five minutes of driving through winding mountain roads brings you to the beautiful mountain town of 20 people.


It took me a month to realize that 20 people lived in Lutina. On my first day I met the Campana family: father Jean-Mathieu, mother Barbara, daughter Antonia, and son Francesco. I also met Felipe, the Colombian in charge of me and the other volunteers (known as wwoofers - the volunteers through worldwide opportunities on organic farms). After that, every few days I would find a new person - they appeared to emerge from nowhere. The French word "lutin" means "elf." Based on this derivaton and the mysterious emergence of the town's residents, my friends at the farm came up with the theory that the true residents of the town are elves who emerge from their underground homes.


One person who did not live with the elves was Paul. Along with Jean-Mathieu and Felipe, Paul ran the farm, but he lived 30 minutes away with his wife. It was not until my first Tuesday that I met Paul. Saturday and Sunday were days off and Monday we made "fromage de tete," a type of pate made from the bits of meat hanging on to the bones after the butchering of the pig. Tuesday brought us to the introduction of working with wood. Paul and Jean-Mathieu are experts in treating diseased trees, particularly chestnut trees. One method of treating the diseased trees is to chop off the diseased limbs. Paul and Jean-Mathieu sell the branches as firewood, which is a good commodity in Corsica, where it seems like everyone heats with wood. The farm had over 50 orders for the standard size of 3 cubic meters of firewood. (With 6-8 volunteers on the farm we were able to fulfill about 4 orders per week - gathering the wood from the forest and then chopping and cutting it.)


Paul is a delightful person. The morning we, the volunteers met him, he made sure to get to know a little about all 8 of us volunteers. He said that we would begin preparing the wood that day. Before we would be able to do that, though, there was a cow stuck in the cattle guard blocking the one-lane road into town. Although I was not quite sure what we would be doing, I jumped into the back of a pickup with half of the volunteers, the other volunteers jumping into the other truck. We drove a kilometer down the hill to the cattle guard, where indeed a cow had its hoof stuck in the cattle guard. On the other side of the cattle guard, waiting to come into town, were three cars from "France 3 Corse," one of the television stations. Wow, there is so little going on in Corsica that they send out tv crews to film a cow stuck in a cattle guard. (As I found out later, it turns out the tv crews were actually there to do an interview with the miller.) Behind the France 3 Corse cars was a pick-up. Behind the two wwoofer trucks, Felipe was driving one of the departing wwoofers to the train station. Behind Felipe were the baker, who made deliveries three times a week, the postman, and our neighbor Luc, who was taking his son to school. So, in this town of 20 people, at 9 am in the morning, there were 10 vehicles. Never before and never since did I see so many vehicles at once in Lutina.

Paul, Jean-Mathieu, and the wwoofers got out of the vehicles and Paul approached the gate next to the cattle guard to allow a path for the cow to exit when it broke itself free. Unfortunately for Paul, the cow broke itself free as Paul was opening the gate. The cow, disoriented, and none too happy at having been stuck in the cattle guard, saw Paul's movement and charged at him. And hit Paul and knocked him to the ground. Paul yelled, "povre moi, povre moi," and "allez-y." Seeing the raging cow, the wwoofers jumped back in the pick-ups. The cow charged into Paul again and Jean-Mathieu retrieved a sickle from the truck. The cow charged into Paul a third time and Mathieu came after the cow with the sickle and yelled at it to get away. The cow then charged at Mathieu, who backed away, and avoided the cow, which turned its attention to Paul, clutching his leg on the gound. Mathieu charged the cow again, which retreated and crossed over the cattle guard, without getting stuck. The cow passed behind one of the France 3 Corse cars and the reporter opened her door to block the cow from crossing over to Paul.

At this point, the scene seemed much safer and people emerged from their vehicles. Mathieu called his wife Barbara on his mobile phone. Felipe tended to Paul who was moaning and rocking on the ground. We moved Paul to the pick-up to clear him from he road. The France 3 Corse reporters started jaking and laughing. By this point Barbara had descended to the accident site and she let the reporters have it. This was not a joking matter - her friend was seriouly injured. She then started yelling for the cow to be shot. Although no one knew whose cow it was (there are no cows in Lutina, but most cows in the area are free range), it was clear to Barbara that the cow was crazy, dangerous, and needed to be eliminated. We held off on killing the cow, but Barbara still had fury to unleash on France 3 Corse. The reporters were out of their cars chatting and laughing, but their cars were blocking the road from the firemen (occupying the role of the American EMTs) driving in from La Porta, the "big" town of 200 4 kilometers away.

The reporters relented and backed down the hill following the pick-up. At this, the road cleared a little, and the cow started moving, approaching Lutina, and, us. By this time the cow appeared more subdued and it was not going to run up into the back of the pick-ups, the postal truck, or the bread-mobile. Anxiously, we waited in the back of our vehicles as the cow passed. It was at this moment that DeDe, the wife of the jam maker, the longest resident of Lutina, and big talker, decided to find out what the cause of the traffic jam. Seeing her approach, we all yelled get out of here, to which she responded, "quoi?" This went on for several minutes, she getting closer to us, we yelling louder. She finally heard us or saw the cow, and turned around.

At this time the firemen pulled up the hill and examined Paul. The diagnosis was that the cow was broken Paul's ACL (or another type of tissue connecting the leg muscles - my French skills were not quite good enough to figure this out exactly.) After about 30 minutes, the firetrucks pulled away with Paul inside, to take him two hours to Bastia. The rest of the vehicles dispersed and the population of Lutina decreased from about 40 down to 15.

I never saw Paul again. He was in traction for the next six weeks.

I also never saw the cow again. At some point it wandered off out of Lutina, without us noticing.

We did not start working with wood that day. Mathieu went to the hospital with Paul. Felipe had to drive to Bastia as well as Gonzalo had missed his train at Ponte Leccia and needed to catch a ferry.

Instead, I went on a hike to Ghiucatujhu, 2 kilometers away, with three other wwoofers. We needed to get away from Lutina, from the horrible site of a bloody man rolly on the ground with a cow charging at him. On our hike however, we saw cows eyeing us saw along the side of the road. We watched with anxiety. None charged at us. And so we had no more troubles with cows . . . that day.

To Kill A Pig

The main product on the farm in Lutina is chestnuts. However, Jean-Mathieu also has a herd of around 100 pigs. These pigs are "free-range," meaning that most of the time they roam the moutainside and they can disappear for days at a time. During those sojourns, the female pigs would mate with male sangliers. The half-breed babies born from the wild boar fathers sometimes join Jean-Mathieu's herd. If not, they remain in the woods with the sangliers and Saturdays and Sundays they have to avoid the hunters. It seems that every Corsican is a hunter - fatigues and shotguns are in everyone's closet and they come out on the weekends.


Slaughter season in Corsica lasts from November until April or May, occuring about once per week. I arrived a fews days after the first slaughter and a few days before the second. The first slaughter is a big occasion throughout the country. Corsicans wait months and months for the arrival of one of the types of sausages - figatelli - at the beginning of the season. Restaurants on the mainland bring in patrons by hanging the figatelli in the doorway and front window.


When it is time to slaughter the pigs, Mathieu rounds them up from the mountainside and gathers them into the pen. It may take several days to gather them all, especially if the sanglier are mating with the female pigs; the fierce sanglier are protective of their mating partners and don't let them leave. I got to be a pretty good pig caller at the farm. In the US, pig callers are known to say "soo-wee, soo-wee." In Corsica, there is no "soo-wee," but rather "caw-caw-caw," repeated multiple times until the pigs are rounded up to enter the pen. I mostly rounded up the porcelets, as the piglets were more easily able to stretch under the gates and were more adventuresome and mischievous. Also, they were incredible cute. The other volunteers and I tried not to get too attached to them - so we gave them names like Hitler, Pol Pot, and Sarkoszy.

After rounding up the pigs into the pen, Mathieu, his friend and neighbor Jean-Andre Lefevre, the volunteer head Felipe, and the farm oddball Gerard had to grab each pig ready for slaughter and tie it up. This was the hardest part of the slaughter process. The pigs fought against this, squealing, struggling, and running away. Although they might not have known they were about to be slaughtered, they naturally do not want to be restrained.

Once the pigs have been restrained, a process that may take 30 minutes, the actual slaughter is quick. The pig is tied up spread eagle with the legs above the head. Mathieu shoots the pig in the head from close range. Then he slits the throat and drains the blood, which he then uses to make blood sausage. The pig is then untied and brought to the ground. At this point the animal still looks like a pig. Then comes the flamethrower. The stench of burning flesh makes it clear that this piece of flesh before you is no longer an animal, but rather a piece of meat. One person holders the torch over the body, while another uses a shovel to scratch away the hair from the body. The nauseating smell pervades the air for what seems like an eternity, but eventually the animal is shaved and it can be restrung.

At this point Mathieu slices the belly down the middle from top to bottom and the innards bulge out. Over the next few hours he meticulously cuts, sorts, and cleans the organs. Some will be marinated, cooked, and eaten. This meant many meals of lung and testicles for me when I was on the farm. Other organs are used to make sausage - the famous figatelli. When the body is gutted, the head and legs are removed and then the cuts of meat are prepared. These are sold to friends and at markets, or bartered for other goods and services.

The next full day is spent preparing sausages, some of which are cured for days or longer.

In my last day on the farm we had a barbecue of pig ribs made from the pig slaughtered the day before. Even though I don't like eating pig, the fresh ribs were delicious. I had not eaten pig for about 10 years before arriving in Lutina. The taste of swine usually sickens me. In fact, after eating almost nothing but pig for several days on the farm I was laid out in my bed for about 24 hours. While the pig served on the farm was tasty, I do not plan on eating pig again any time soon. Daily helpings of pancetta and lung are too much for me.

Far worse than the slaughter of the pig was the castration. The males are castrated some time between reaching adulthood and slaughter. The castration makes them grow faster and improves the taste of the meat (as the hormones can alter the meat's taste). Also, it can lessen hostility among the male pigs. The process of castration is the same as for the slaughter up to the point of stringing up the pig. Instead of shooting the pig, Mathieu, takes a knife and slices off the relevant areas. This is done with no drugs for the pig, so it squeals and struggles during the whole process. The squeals make me squirm because I don't want to think about what the pig is losing and the pain it is suffering. Surprisingly, within 15 minutes after the pig is released it seems to have adjusted to its state, expressing no pain or discomfort and resuming its place in the pen.

The evening of each slaughter, Jean-Mathieu goes to the pub to celebrate. The pub is in the town of Ghiucatujhu, 2 kilometers from Lutina, and only opens for about four hours a night. Being in the pub is a true Corsican experience. Men and women of all age groups gather and discuter beaucoup. Unlike some areas in the Mediterranean, it is common for women to visit the bars. Amid the smoke and pastisse, four men play cards together. The game is not known to me. For four hours, the slaughterers drink together to celebrate, or perhaps to forget about the trauma of the slaughter. Mathieu is extremely professional in all he does. Regarding the slaughter he says, "c'est la vie." He understands that in order for us to eat, these animals will die. He kills the pigs quickly and with the least amount of pain possible.

Two famous Corsicans

The Mediterranean island of Corsica has two famous sons, one better known than the other. The lesser known is Pascal Paoli (pronounced "pow-lee"), the father of Corsican independence. Corsica was ruled throughout history by the French, the Genoese, and other Italians. In the second half of the 18th Century Paoli led the Corsican movement for independence from the Genoese. Paoli, from the town of Morasaglia, about 30 minutes by car from Lutina (site of my farm), was as much a political philosopher as a fighter. After obtaining independence from the Genoese, the Corsicans adopted Paoli's constitution, the most democratic constitution at that time. In fact, today Corsicans insist that Paoli wrote US Constitution. This is an overstatement, although America's founding fathers did look to the Corsican constitution for inspiration in drafting the US Constitution. Paoli's influence in the US is evident in towns named Paoli (pronounced "pay-oh-lee"), including the Paoli in suburban Philly near where I grew up and in Oklahoma not far from my grandmother's. Unfortunately, the Corsican Constitution did not last very long, as France took over Corsica ten years after it obtained independence from the Genoese. Genoa never acknowledged Corsica's independence, and in a political move transferred it to France. French troops moved in and Corsica has remained part of France for nearly 250 years.

The political moves that resulted in French rule in Corsica paved the way for Corsica's second and more famous favorite son. Napoleon was born in Corsica's largest town, Ajaccio. Throughout Corsica there are streets, plazas, and buildings named for both Napoleon and Paoli. For Corsicans, Paoli is the better regarded of the two. There are tourist sites devoted to Napoleon, but the island's relationship with the Emperor is conflicted. I was trying to figure out when Napoleon's birthday was and what festivals Ajaccio had for the anniversary and I was told that that day was a great day. I asked for whom that was a great day, and the Frenchman told me that it was a great day . . . for Napoleon.

Two babies

In leaving Asia I stopped in Singapore for a few days to visit some friends. I met Debbie Lee about 18 years ago at nerd camp - we spent one high school summer taking classes at a college campus. Debbie is Singaporean, but was living in DC at the time because her dad, a government employee, was stationed in the States. Since then we have remained friends, even attending University together for a year at University of Michigan. After Debbie's year in Ann Arbor she moved to London to attend medical school. In her studies she met a British bloke, Jon Gifford, who has since become her husband. After living and working in the UK for a few years after finishing medical school, she and Jon moved to Singapore in the last year. The move to Singapore coincided with the birth of the couples' first son James Gifford. James has large, dark, intense saucer eyes and soft brown hair. He lives with his parents and grandparents, auntie Pat and uncle Lionel in a three-bedroom flat in S'pore. This is the same flat I visited when I first traveled to Singapore in Christmas 1996 (breaking my mother's heart to miss Christmas with her for the first time ever). James is an adorable child and is fortunate to live with two doting parents and two doting grandparents.

Another friend couple of mine has a life course that has intersected with the Giffords. I went to law school with Matt Easter. During law school, Matt was dating Alice, whom he met in college. Matt and Alice married the week after we graduated from law school. After practicing in New York for a short time, Matt entered the foreign service and was sent to China. Matt and Alice returned to DC to work at the State Department, but have now been sent to Singapore, Alice now working for the embassy as well. Matt and Alice are both very interested in China and these assignments have been great matches for them. Alice arrived in Singapore pregnant, and slightly before Matt.

I put the Easters in touch with Debbie, whose pregnancy was slightly prior to Alice's. They are both Christian couples in their late 20s/early 30s, professionals, and have young babies. Sara Easter was born in Singapore a few months after James Gifford. Sara is a sweet little girl. The three Easters came over to the Lee-Giffords and we all enjoyed tea together thanks to the generous hospitality of auntie Pat and the household. Auntie Pat and uncle Lionel get very excited with the babies in the house and are very welcoming. My short visit to Singapore was a great time to visit friends familiar and new.

Luang Prabang

When I left Cambodia, I was thinking I should have scheduled my itinerary to give me more time in Cambodia and to skip Laos. I was really enjoying myself and there were more things Iwanted to see. After one day in Luang Prabang, I was sold on Laos. After spending 10 days there, I was still not ready to leave.

Luang Prabang was an old emperial capital and is still home to the largest number of Buddhist monks and monasteries in the world. Because of this rich heritage it is protected as a UNESCO World Heritage site. It is set on a peninsula along the Mekong River and mountain ranges ring the city. According to friends, five years ago Luang Prabang was untouristed. Today, there are plenty of Internet cafes, travel agencies, and English-speaking restaurants. However, the town still retains its charm and lovely, laidback pace. The Buddhist monasteries and the rivers give the town its character.

One friend, a Korean diplomat, recounts a saying from the region: The nicest Vietnamese is still meaner than the meanest Laotian. This is not to say that the Vietnamese are mean, but to distinguish the incredible hospitality of the Laotians. Little agitates the Laotians I met - smiles and patience are typical. Even in negotiating in the market, their character is quite distinguishable from their neighbors. In Vietnam, the vendors approach you and call out to you. The starting negotiating price is often at least twice the fair market value. Negotiations can be heated and confrontational. If you say no, the vendors will chase after you and give you a discount. In Laos, you have to approach the vendors. The starting price is about 30% above fair market value and if you walk away, the vendors wish you a good night, but don't try to press the sale.

The location provides stunning sunsets and sunrises. Before sunrise, the monks gather at their monasteries. Each monastery then processes into town and joins a long procession of all of the monasteries. Each monk carries a food bowl and people kneel on the side of the street and put bananas and sticky rice in the bowls. Locals sell rice and bananas to the tourists and because of the large number of tourists the bowls overflow, so that the monks end up emptying out the entire contents of their bowls as they process.

Because of Luang Prabang's location, many of the activities revolve around the river and the mountains. My two favorite activities were riding the elephant and kayaking on the Mekong. The elephants have retired after 40-50 years of carrying cargo and now give rides to tourists. They are large, but still smaller than African elephants. I rode on the head, grabbing the ears, feeling the bristly skin, feeling every movement as it plodded through the jungle and the river.

In kayaking down the river I saw the daily life of the Laotians. Fishermen threw their nets. Families harvested rice in the paddies. It was so peaceful and lovely - each turn brought a new vista. There was no schedule, no billable minutes, no breakdown of the subway, no mobile phone. Only mountains, the river, the boat, and me. I enjoyed my last experience in Laos, but I didn't want my time there to end.

Plain of Jars

The town of Phonsavan, Laos has nothing of interest for the traveler. It is cold and gray (bring layers). The buildings are all concentrated on the town's two roads and have the unappealing architecture of the 1960s Communist style. There are two restaurants in town. The ATM went in just a few months ago and the Internet cafe stays open only as long as there are customers, closing usually by 5:30 (and not 10 as noted on the sign).

Just outside of town, though, are the visit-worthy collection of archeological sites known as the Plain of Jars. The "jars" are stone vessels the size of a man. I stood inside The jars are made from stone quarried five miles away. It is believed that they were hollowed out and decorated using stone tools, since metal tools were not available at the time of creation. There are three sites near Phonsavan that each contain hundreds of jars. These sites are collectively known as the Plain of Jars. Only portions of the sites are open to visitors because areas proximate to the sites contain unexploded ordnances. The approved path is lined with white and red markers: the white side indicates that it is safe to walk; the red side indicates that the area has not yet been deemed clear of live explosives left by US forces during the Vietnam War. There are other sites with jars that are currently closed to visitors because they have not been cleared.

The jars date back some 3,000 years, but their purpose is unclear. One theory is that the residents used the vessels to store rice. This is ridiculous because nomadic populations wouldn't store rice in enormous quantities in inaccesible locations in jars that would require enormous efforts to create. A second theory is that the jars were used for funerary purposes. Given the importance of funerary practices in human cultures, this is a plausible theory. However, there has been no evidence of human remains found in the jars. A third theory is that there was another religious purpose for the jars, which is another plausible explanation.

The jars are located in seemingly random formations. But they are set in lovely landscapes. Also, they are display interesting designs. It is worth the 10-hour one-way bus ride to Phonsavan from either Luang Prabang or Vientiane.

Languages spoken

On this trip I have spoken an impressive number of languages, sometimes out of necessity and sometimes out of courtesy, namely, the following:

Afrikaans
Bahasa Malaya
Breton
Corsican
English
Estonian
French
German
Italian
Ixil
Kakquichel
Khmer
Krio
Korean
Lao
Mam
Quiche
Spanish
Thai
Vietnamese

What language is next?

Siem Reap

The best thing I have seen so far in this set of travels is the Angkor grouping of temples. The Khmer rulers constructed these temples during the height of their power, approximately 1000 years ago. As Hindusim and Buddhism each enjoyed periods of dominance in the Khmer kingdom, some of the temples are dedicated to one religion, some to the other, and some contain imagery from both. The temples are particularly impressive because of they are largely intact and are mounumental in scale. There are dozens of major sites spread across approximately 60 kilometers.

Archaeologists have allowed the elements to take over certain sites. This practice is best known in the ruins featured in the movie Tomb Raider. The archaeologists made this conscious choice in order to show visitors the state of the temples when they were rediscovered in the last century. Silk trees are firmly rooted in the crumbling stone walls.

The best-known of the sites is Angkor Wat. It is the most visited site in Cambodia. You approach Angkor Wat by walking on a causeway over a moat. Beyond the outer entry temple are impressive gardens. Two reflecting pools in front of the inner area offer stunning views of the reflected towers at sunset and sunrise. At 5 am sunrise 500 Brits, Germans, Russians, and Japanese jockey for position in front of the left reflecting pool.

Beyond the pools, a set of stairs leads to the outer four sides of collonaded arcades with incredible relief sculptures from Hindu mytholody. It took me over an hour to make my way through the reliefs. The interior courtyard contains five temples, one at each of the four cardinal points, and one in the middle. This layout represents a complete realization of the geography of Hindu mythology. The stone towers resemble stylized beehives with incredibly detailed, ornate decoration.

My favorite temple was in Angkor Thom. It consisted of several dozen towers, the top of each which featured a six-foot tall human male head on each of the four sides. The heads are not immediately noticeable, but as I approached closer I saw them and became fascinated with them, spending nearly two hours exploring the site.

Along with the human heads I was particularly interested in the elephants, and soldiers in line on bridges before temples, found throughout multiple sites.

River festival

Each year in mid-November, Cambodia celebrates a three-day river festival. This festival follows the independence day on November 8, which marks the independence of Cambodia from the French colonial government. The main celebration takes place in the capital Phnom Penh and Cambodians come from all over the country to celebrate. The city of 4 million welcomes 2 million visitors for the river festival. During the day teams of men compete in boat races down the Mekong. The longboats are filled with up to 80 men, in two rows, all dressed in identical single-colored uniforms. These men come from the same region or village and travel with family and neighbors who cheer them on during the river festival. With the power of 80 men rowing in unison the boats move quite quickly through the water.



Along the banks of the Mekong hawkers sell balloons, toys, and food. On the first day of the festival I saw a military truck pull up to a group of hawkers and grab the wares off the back of the tuk-tuks (motorbikes with a carriage bolted to the back). Those who were able to get their bikes started rode away without suffering too much loss, but others with engine troubles saw all of their wares go to the thirsty soldiers.



At night, the river plays host to a parade. 20-foot tall floats of light power up the river to the delight of the millions of spectators on both sides. In the background fireworks light up the sky. Elsewhere in the city there are concerts and other celebrations. The first night I watched a concert presented by the Christian humanitarian organization World Vision. It seemed like the performers were well-known Cambodian pop stars. Since my Khmer language skills are poor, I couldn't really tell you much about the concert.

Day of the Dead

November 1 is Day of the Dead (Dia de los Muertos), celebrated throughout Central America with visits to cemetaries. One town in Guatemala adopted its pre-conquest celebration of drunken horse races, held at the end of October and beginning of November for centuries, to the European holiday. Todos Santos Cuchumatan is located in an idyllic mountain setting in the Cuchumatan Mountains in northwest Guatemala. Most of the year the town is sleepy, with some tourists coming to do treks or take classes at the local Spanish school. Most of the residents do not speak Spanish, but rather the Mayan language of Mam. The teachers at the Spanish school tend to be westerners for whom Spanish is a second language. However, the last week of October the town comes into its own.

A week before the holiday the ferris wheel and arcade games come to down. The locals set up food booths and open their homes to the tourists.

All of the men in town wear modified jean jackets and red pants year-round. For Day of the Dead they get new outfits and shine their shoes. The men in town also start drinking in preparation for Day of the Dead. For seven days, the men will have a bottle of alcohol with them at all times and will drink generously. At night the men will gather and enjoy their drinking together. Additionally they will dance together. This is not the type of cultural dancing that will be performed at Hill Auditorium or Avery Fisher Hall. It is simple - the men bounce from one foot to the next in time with the marimba (Guatemala's ubiqitous instrument). I joined in with the local men and they loved the fact that a gringo was dancing with them. Actually, they loved it a bit too much and started fighting over who got to dance closest to me. Given that they had been drinking for about 5 days straight by that point, I decided it was best to quietly back away before a fist fight broke out.

On the 30th, the town announces who will be the festival queen for the year. She is accompanied by her court of two princesses. Queens from other towns come from around the country to bring their good wishes to Todos Santos and its queen. This is a rather interesting portion of the festivities because each queen delivers her remarks in her native Mayan language, none of which are understandable to Mam speakers. Also, 16-year-old girls don't have much to say and the Spanish portions of the speeches were all identical: 'I am very proud to represent my town. Guatemala is such a wonderful country because it is multiethnic. I bring the best wishes from my town and hope that Todos Santos has a great festival.' The ceremony also loses something when the electricity has gone out and no one can see or hear very well. After the speeches, the outside queens dance (the same hopping dance) in a circle around the Todos Santos Queen.

On the 31st, the horses are brought into the town square and introduced. The horses are rented from outside town and cost each team approximately $30, a large sum for a town where most of the people do not have formal employment but rather subsist off the land. Everyone gathers in the town square to get a look at the horses and riders this year.

The festivities continue the night of the 31st with marimbas playing throughout town and a big party at the captain's house. The captain is not elected or appointed. Basically, it is one of the wealthier men in town who says that he wants to be captain and he gets the honor of presiding over the festivities. The drinking continues through the night and intensifies.

The riders go to the race track (a strip of road about a 5-minute walk outside of town) at 4 am to participate in a Mayan religious ceremony. The origin of the races is from the Mayan religion, but much of the mythology has been lost, and the rituals are often not open to outsiders.

After the ceremony the men eat and prepare for the races. The men are dressed in their red pants and jean jackets. Additionally they are wearing headgear that looks like feathers. They also yelp in high voices. They have stayed up all night drinking. About 8 am, the races start and every one from town descends on the track. When I say races, keep in mind that the track is maybe 400 meters long and the riders are drunk. The object of the race is to last, not to finish first or fastest. In order to last, you have to stay on you horse, drunk, for 7 hours. (You can switch out with a teammate from time to time).

Falls are common. The track is narrow and horses bump into each other. Also, some riders fall off simply because they are drunk. The drunkenness is obvious. Riders are red in the face, the eyes are low, and they lose their balance. In the course of the two hours I watched, there were a dozen falls, but no deaths. It is considered bad luck if none of the riders dies. The previous year no one died. In 2008, prior to the races there was already at least one death, as during one of the pre-parties a local thug was stabbed to death by some other youngsters.

2008 marked the appearance of the first female rider. None of the teams would let her ride with them, so she formed her own team. In the end, though, I think she was pressured out of riding, as I didn't see her on the horse or in the staging area. I didn't stay all day, though, so she may have appeared later.

There is only so much drunken horse racing that I can take. Plus I had to get to Huehue in order to make it to Guatemala City for my flight. Since it was a national holiday and in particular the local holiday of the year, there was no bus service from Todos Santos. I hitched on the back of a truck after hiking for an hour. It was a lovely ride through the mountains and I had a great conversation with the members of the local film crew from Huehue who were riding in the back with me. It was their first visit to Todos Santos as well. They got the footage they needed and then headed out of town.

Nebaj

The town of Nebaj located in the Cuchumatanes mountains. It currently has about 25,000 residents. The population increased greatly during the civil war in the 80s and 90s. At that time the military moved the residents of nearby, smaller villages into Nebaj, so that it could have better control over the people. Four or five families would live together in each house. Many people died of illness at that time because they were exposed to new diseases and poor living conditions.

The guerrilla forces also had a significant presence in the area around Nebaj. They would camp out in the forested hillsides and antagonize the military, which had difficulty locating them. The guerrillas gained control of the road leading out of Nebaj. The military ended up building a new road that they could control and that is the road that is used today. The residents of Nebaj came to tire of both the military and the guerrillas - it was not their fight, yet both sides demanded support from them.

I hiked from Nebaj to the nearby town of Acul - a muddy, but beautiful 4-hour hike. Acul was completely rebuilt during the civil war. The military installed it as its first "development center." This meant that residents were not allowed to leave Acul, as it was run like a concentration camp. The military forced all of the men and most of the women to serve as a civil patrol over Acul. They were given weapons, but only billy clubs, and were expected to follow the orders of the military in keeping control in the town.

In one famous incident, the civil patrol saw flashlights coming down the mountain. Since no one was supposed to be approaching town at that time, and the civil patrol had orders to protect the town, the civil patrol used the few guns they had to defend against the intruders. It turns out that the intruders were part of the military, who had to return to Nebaj. The military was going to attack the town and massacre the people and make it look like the guerrillas had done the attack. But the people of Acul were too proud and brave to allow themselves to be massacred.

Today Nebaj and Acul are quiet towns set in lovely mountain settings. They are healing from their recent past and moving forward.

Chichi to Nebaj

A common method of transportation in Guatemala is the mini-bus or the 15-passenger van. When I say 15-passenger van, I give you this reference because this is how car rental agencies in the States refer to them. This does not mean that there are 15 passengers in them in Guatemala. There were 25 in one I took yesterday - this not uncommon. There are two people working on the vehicles - the driver and the helper, who collects the fare, stores the luggage, and tells the driver when passengers need to make stops.

I left Chichicastenago yesterday and was so happy, because it had not been a pleasant stay for me. So when I got on the mini-bus and it rolled through the arch at the north end of town, I smiled and said a prayer of praise. While I was excited to be leaving town, there were some problems with this trip. When I found the vehicle going to Quiche, I asked the helper what the fare was. He said USD1, which surprised me because I had paid 32 and 39 cents respectively on two trips of similar duration (30 minutes) earlier in the week. I asked him if he was serious and he said yes, rather snottily, so I asked him what to do with my bag. This vehicle was different from many vans in Guatemala where you throw your bag on top and they strap it on. This was a mini-bus with seating for about 30, similar to car rental shuttles if they took out the luggage racks. This mini-bus had rows with four seats, an aisle, and then a single seat. In the aisles were half seats that could be folded up or down as necessary. On the side above the rows of four seats there was a luggage rack. The helper told me to put my (50-lb.) framepack up there. I pushed it snuggly into the rack in the only space available. I took a single seat across and back from the bag. The helper checked the bag.

After we left Chichi, we slowed down and a guy on the side of the street threw a bag of garbage at the helper. This I had not seen before. I´ve ridden with live chickens, but never garbage. But, if we were going to stop at a landfill on the way, I figured that was an efficient use of resources. We did not stop at a landfill. About five minutes down the road, we passed a beatiful mountain valley. Ten paces in front of the 30-foot sign that said "Nature reserve. No littering - Q500 ($70) fine," the helper through the back out the window. Maybe I am too Western. Maybe I am a hippie raised in Oregon. But I thought that was appalling. The 30 other people on the bus had absolutely no reaction - as if it hadn´t even happened.

10 minutes later, the driver slammed on the brakes, which caused bumped everyone up in the air a foot or so, as well as forward. This happens fairly often Guatemalan roads. The sudden braking also dislodged the luggage, sending some things flying. I saw a bag hit the aisle. It looked it might have touched the arm of the woman sitting across the aisle from me and one row up. I asked the woman if she was okay and she nodded. No one else had any reaction at all - none. They just kept looking forward, silent. This included the seven women traveling with the woman, one of whom seemed to be her mother.

Trash thrown in a nature reserve. Bags flying through the air. No reaction. It was like the NYC Subway. There was the time I was on the subway and there was a woman about 22 standing a few feet from me. She wore heavy make-up that made her look 35 and I thought, "wow, she looks really old with that make-up." It was only after that thought that I noticed that she was wearing a black leather tutu with her underpants on the outside of the tutu. On the NYC subway this is not considered weird. Maybe that would have elicited a reaction on the mini-bus to Quiche, but I´m not sure.

I realized that the bag was mine after I spoke with the woman. The seats across from me were empty then, so I moved the bag there.

The ride continued in silence for about five minutes, until the woman turned around and said that the bag had hit her and she had a headache and she should get some money for that. I said that it was terrible how the driver had stopped like that and that she should talk to him. I thought she was commiserating with me her fellow passenger, but then after she looked back at me a few times, I realized that she was asking me for money.

I was very cash poor at that point and had nothing to offer her, but more than that, what responsibility did I really have? The driver had stopped short and violently and he was ultimately responsible for the vehicle. The helper had told me to put the bag there and had secured the bag. The woman herself had not tried to move or protect herself.

In any event I just wanted to be done with the trip. The woman started talking with her compansions and that was not a good sign because I was behind them and would not be able to get out quickly with my bag.

Indeed when we descended in Quiche I was the last one out. I paused a bit before leaving to give them time to clear. I asked the helper where the bus to Nebaj left from and he, quite uninterested, said it would pass by where we were. This turned out to be untrue and I think he was in a way out to get me because he wanted to absolve himself of guilt for the bag. I aked a man waiting outside where we got dropped off and he told me to walk two blocks to get to the Nebaj buses, which was correct. In walking there I came across the women from the bus. They began hitting me. But, I am two feet taller than them and just walked away. I didn´t want a confrontation and just wanted to get out of Quiche.

The next ride, from Quiche to Sacalupas, was much less eventful. I spent most of the trip translating Spanish phrases into English for the guy sitting next to me, who was really interested in improving his English. My bag was strapped to the top of the van and caused no problems. We stopped to help two vans that had been in an accident; no one was hurt. I also learned a local legend about a spot where landslides had covered the road. Every day the debris on the road grows and the locals say that a dragon lives under that spot and pushes the ground up with his head.

The final leg, from Sacalupas to Nebaj, had no problems. Except that in the 15-passenger van there were 25 of us, including seven in the back seat, one of whom was me. One woman was particularly interested in me as an American and engaged me with questions that made me an American ambassador for the entire van. When she asked where I was from, the helper, wearing a T-shirt from the 2006 Delaware cheerleading coaches association (it is common for extra or used t-shirts to wind their way down here) said that he was from France and had just flown in from Paris that day. Everyone loved that.

I was so happy to get to Nebaj - after three hours.

Lago Atitlan

Lake Atitlan is a beautiful lake ringed by volcanoes located in the southwestern part of the country. It is heavily touristed because it is so beautiful and locals claim it is one of the wonders of the world. It is indeed an impressive sight. Lake Atitlan is a great place to just sit out and watch the water. I also enjoyed jumping into the water, swimming, kayaking, and horseback riding.

I had the pleasure of spending one night at La Casa del Mundo, a notel on the north side of the lake. The facility is accesible only by boat or foot path, and is not really in a town. Casa del Mundo appears to hover above the water. The views at sunrise and sunset are spectacular as you see the colors of the changing sky through the mists on the volcanoes. It has a lovely dock and hammocks set in idyllic seclusion.

I also spent three nights in the large town of San Pedro. San Pedro is also beautiful and is located at the base of the San Pedro Volcano. San Pedro is very much a tourist town and also has many re-settled hippies offering yoga classes, massages, and art classes, along with "really good weed."

The differences between the tourists in San Pedro and Casa del Mundo are striking. In San Pedro, you run into the typical backpacker groups, which this time of year in Guatemala means they are about 80% Israeli, along with the random Irish, Australians, Brits, Canadians, Swedes, Kiwis, and Italians - they are not Americans; they rush to the same hostels, the same restaurants, the same bars; they switch between the three outfits they have in their packs, but often wear the same clothes days in a row; the day´s budget is about $7 for lodging and $5-7 for each meal, plus $5-7 for the day´s activities; the average age is about 23.

Casa Del Mundo is not a destination for the typical backpacker - the cheapest room is $31 per night and is a private room with shared bath (my choice). Such an option at a hostel would probably cost $7-10. At Casa del Mundo, 90% of the guests were Americans. In all of my travels in Guatemala, for 16 days now, I had met only four other Americans. The guests tended to be older married couples and the average age was over 50. The couple across from me talked about their love for Antigua and their multiple trips there to take Spanish classes. They bragged about finding a hotel room for $50 per night - I mean have you ever heard of a room as cheap as $50? The other guests were enjoyable and it was a nice change of pace to have a dinner conversation with other Americans.

Pacaya Volcano

Probably the biggest day trip from the old colonial capital of Guatemala, Antigua, is the trip to the Pacaya volcano. It is a two-hour drive followed by a two-hour hike to the summit. The hike starts like a normal mountain hike through rocky, muddy paths (and above and below some barbed wire). But about 30 minutes from the end of the hike the ground turns to black volcanic rock. There was a large eruption about five years ago and it left the black rock in its wake. This is harder to walk through because there is no firm footing and it proves quite slippery. As you are walking, the black rock gradually becomes warmer. Then you see smoke coming up from the ground. And suddenly you see lava beneath your feet and then you see a huge flow of lava. There is no barrier - you can stand close enough to put a stick in it. And it is hot (2000 degrees), which feels good because it has been cold and rainy the trip up the mountain. This would never happen in the States, where you could get so close to the lava, where you are standing on cracking, crumbling rocks, with lava beneath your feet. (Although maybe in Hawaii on the big island you have close access.) In fact, in Costa Rica, the closest you get to Arenal Volcano is several miles away, where you stand behind a railing several miles away. Walking down the volcano after sunset I turned back and saw the red flow glowing against the night darkness. The descent was otherwise not that much fun because it was a cold, rainy trip in the dark, through the muddy rocky path (and the barbed wire). Not bad for $10, though.

Context

As way of context, in case you don´t know, I quit my job as a lawyer in New York and left New York on September 8. I spent the rest of September in Oklahoma with my grandmother, followed by a quick trip to Toronto with my sister. I am now traveling in Central America. Come November, I will be traveling in Southeast Asia. I will spend December in France, working on an organic farm on the Mediterranean island of Corsica. When I return to the States I will move to Seattle and I plan to work as a lawyer there.

Travel companions are welcome.

Indigenous Peoples´ Day

October 12 is celebrated worldwide as Columbus Day or Indigenous Peoples´Day, depending on which historical narrative you embrace. At the Mayan ruins of Tikal in Guatemala, the day is definitely Indigenous Peoples´Day, or Dia de la Raza.


I awoke at 2:30 am and met the transport at 3 am in the city of Flores. After a drive through the dark jungle, we arrived at the entrance to the Tikal Park. From there it was a 30-minute hike with headlamps past the Great Plaza and on to Temple 4. You climb Temple 4 using a wooden staircase constructed by the archeological teams working on the site. At the top of Temple 4 at 5:30 in the morning, you hear the jungle waking up. The howler monkeys make their jaguar calls that can be heard for miles. The birds respond with their calls. The sun rises behind the mist and as the light increases you see Temple 3, and then Temples 1 and 2 emerge through the mist. It is at that point that you begin to understand the scope of Tikal - a city for hundreds of thousands of people with temples larger than skyscrapers in many US cities. It was constructed using no wheels or beasts of burden and the limestone was transported by hand from miles away. And now it is abandoned, slowly being excavated by international archeological teams.

Except that on indigenous peoples´day every year, hundreds of Maya come from all throughout Guatemala to celebrate their heritage at Tikal. Men and women dressed in traditional Mayan attire, they enter in single file to the Great Plaza and circle around an altar in the middle. Throughout the entire ceremony. musicians play the marimba. After all have gathered around the altar, a leader takes the megaphone and gives a speech telling the people how they have been abused - how their land has been taken, how their grandfathers were killed, and how they were once warriors and kings in this land. After the speeches, the people put their offerings in the circular altar on the ground: primarly candles, but also tortillas, sticks, and anything else they have with them. Then, one group remains at the altar, while four other groups depart single file. The leader of each group carries a flag and the color of the flag corresponds to the direction he leads his group. There is one flag for each of the cardinal points and a fifth flag remains at the altar - the center of the world and the middle of the Great Plaza in the historic center of the great city of Tikal. For at least one day the land is reclaimed and the Mayas have a great city to call their own and to be a source of pride.

The Dedicated Maya

I went on a hike to Actun Tunichil Muknal, caves discovered in eastern Belize in 1986. To get to ATM you drive about an hour from the town of San Ignacio and then hike for an hour. You then dive into the river flowing out of the cave.

From the cave entrance you hike in your swimsuit helmet, and headlamp, through rocky water. Because it is the rainy season the water levels are high and the caves have been closed often recently. After trudging through this for about an hour you reach the first of the caves that contain remains that the Mayans left from 700 to 900 AD The Mayans traveled hours by foot carrying ceramics which they deposited in the caves. Almost all of these are in fragments because the Maya would chip a piece away at the cave as a symbol of sacrifice.

The Maya also brought people to sacrifice. There are several full and partial skeletons visible in the caves. The belief was that the sacrifices were necessary to appease the gods. Because life originated in caves, sacrifices in caves would bring them closer to the gods. Because the caves were undiscovered until the 80s, the remains are in excellent condition.

Este Cuerpo Es Mio

Friday night I went with my colleagues from the board of the Association for a More Just Society to a training in the poor neighborhood of Villa Nueva in Tegucigalpa, the capital city of Honduras. Before arriving at the training we knew that there would be two workers from the Gideon Project, a program offered by the Asociacion para una sociedad mas justa, a Honduran social justice organization. Gideon operates four neighborhood centers and offers psychological and legal services for a nominal fee. The services typically relate to child support, domestic abuse, and child behavioral problems.

We didn't know the topic of the training or the audience. As we climbed the hill in Villa Nueva, we heard a loud worship service, and JoAnn, one of the AJS board members, jokingly said that she wondered if we were going there. Turns out, she was right. Because we were 45 minutes late, the members of the congregation the ASJ workers were giving the training to had started a worship service. So, we joined the pentecostal congregation in jumping, dancing, screaming, and overpraying. The locals moved out of the front rows and gave up their seats for us in the capacity-filled space.

After the pastor finished the singing, he introduced Esmirna, and Yessy, who started a training on sexual abuse of children. The reaction of the congregation was silence and a certain amount of unease. But Esmirna and Yessy are fantastic and jumped right in with the them of "este cuerpo es mio." After asking all of members of the congregation to repeat that phrase and to instruct their children to say that their bodies were their own, the trainers also instructed us to teach them to say "don't touch it," "don't violate it," and "don't kill it."

These were tough things to teach, but Esmirna and Yessy had great activities and sketches to get the congregation involved. Esmirna asked three volunteers to come up and show what to do if a stranger came up to them. A male volunteer put his hand on the back of the female volunteer, who was then instructed to (1) say "no," (2) scream, (3) run, and (4) tell a friend. Esmirna then asked for three more volunteers. I went up, as did Sharon and Jotham from the board. This time Esmirna asked for a male victim and a female attacker. So Sharon was supposed to attack me. This didn't come through so clearly to Sharon though, because the instructions were all in Spanish. So we were ready to do the demonstration and she starts laughing, "I'm the attacker?" When she put her hand on my shoulder, I said no like there was no tomorrow, I screamed with my hands around my mouth like I was lost in the mountains, and I ran like I could see Tavern on the
Green and it was the first Sunday in November. Jotham was a great friend and consoled me when I shared what Sharon had done! Our board impressed the crowd a lot and by the end people were sharing personal stories about why this was such an important topic. The only downer was that in photographing the congregation I dropped my camera on the jagged stone floor and it ended up breaking. A small price to pay . . .