Balaban/Wergeles Journey

Masada

2007-07-11T12:53:00.000-07:00

I had long imagined that a peaceful, if hot and strenuous, hike up Masada with my family and then a lecture from Aloni about this heroic, if controversial, last stand of the Jews in the Roman period would be a highlight of our time in Israel. I was half right. As expected, Aloni’s lecture was remarkable—both in content and intensity. If Israel is Aloni’s classroom, Masada is the PhD program—as it represents to him, and to many Israelis, perhaps the defining moment of Jewish resolve that, together with the lessons of the holocaust, established that “Never Again” will Jews be confronted with a choice between enslavement or suicide or be unable to protect themselves. This was, and continues to be, the core raison d’etre of the State of Israel. Indeed, many Israeli soldiers are brought to the top of Masada, after long arduous hikes, for their swearing in to indoctrinate them into the critical importance of their mission.

First, however, we had to get to the top. The plan was to get up at 5:30 AM and make the 45 minute climb before it was too hot and just in time to meet my mom, Fern, Tina, Jessie, Rama and Aloni who were catching the first tram up. Aloni had told us repeatedly that walking is ridiculous—too hot and hard and that we should take the tram. However, we have walked our way through the Africa and South East Asia and we were not about to wimp out at Masada. Emma, on the other hand, was just not having it and before we had left the parking lot she started huffing, puffing and kvetching. So, the 45 minute walk turned into a one and a half hour torture session in which Emma dissolved into tears in a heap every 10 feet or so (see pictures) as though she herself had been walking through the desert for 40 years, rather than having spent the night in a nice air-conditioned hotel and spa. Good thing the young Jewish pioneers were not relying on Emma’s strength and fortitude as they built this county. Though, I hope that Emma would have risen to the challenge had the State of Israel been relying on her fortitude for its every existence. Fortunately, that hope will not need to be tested.

All was not lost as we still had Aloni’s lecture ahead of us and he did not disappoint. As with all of Israel, he knows the history in stunning detail—but for him, this place is personal and he shares it with a sense of purpose, and even a bit of dramatic flair. He took us to the various buildings where he described in great detail how the Jews lived there during the two year siege by the Romans, from the mundane aspects of everyday life such as eating and bathing, to the way they continued to study, learn and engage in their sacred ritual practices even as the Romans were a mere 1000 feet below preparing for their destruction. He described how his father led him, his sister and a couple of dozen fellow kibbutzniks to Masada when Aloni was a boy (maybe 6 years old) during the British mandate period when the entire area was still off limits to Jews. His description of the journey through the desert with donkeys carrying their belongings and camping at the top of Masada sounded almost biblical. At dawn, his father had them sit at the top of the mountain overlooking the sweeping view of the vast desert and the Dead Sea and remain completely silent. He told them to close their eyes, listen to the sounds and imagine what it would have been like to be the last free Jews in the land of Israel on the eve of their sure destruction by the Romans. He asked them to imagine what it meant for them to make the drastic decision to take their own lives rather than be killed or forced into slavery. While we had not walked for days through the desert (thankfully, as Emma would have been a camel snack) and were sitting comfortably in the shade having a snack, the intensity of the moment was not lost on us. One can spend years debating or wondering whether the suicide pack was the right decision—but no one can dispute the power of this story on the psyche of Israelis, past, present and future, who continue to live in a state of war and uncertainty and to Jews, generally.

Adventures with Aloni

2007-07-09T00:28:00.000-07:00

We feel incredibly privileged to see Israel through the eyes of Aloni, this remarkable man who has been part of our family for more than 30 years, but who is now a bona fide member since he became my mother’s partner (he really does not like the term “boyfriend”). He is a Sabra (someone who is born in Israel--literally the word for desert flower--prickly on the outside and soft in the middle) whose family has been in Israel for 500 years, a former frogman and Colonel in one of Israel’s most elite military units who fought in every war except the War of Independence (because he was 10 years old at the time), a poet, an artist, an avowed secular Jew and a steadfast Zionist. He has a gruff exterior that covers one of the kindest, sweetest and most thoughtful souls I have ever known. He also has a beautiful home in the middle of the German Colony--the hippest part of Jerusalem (not an oxymoron-I swear)--in which he has graciously allowed our family to stay and wreck havoc with the otherwise peaceful (and neat) surroundings.

Despite his antipathy towards religion, he reads the Bible every day and knows its contents by heart--and I mean that in every sense of the term. He also has a positively encyclopedic grasp of every inch of Israel’s geography and moment of Israel’s history, much from direct personal knowledge. It is in this context that he shows us Israel—the popular tourist locales with his personal insight (spin?) and the nooks and crannies nestled into various parts of this country that few have the opportunity to see, and even fewer the great fortune to see through the eyes and enchanting stories of Aloni. I know it sounds like a lame cliché, but he truly makes the Bible and Jewish history come alive.

These excursions require no planning on our part. Indeed, our input is neither sought nor considered. He usually says something like-“get ready, we are going somewhere very beautiful and special,” and off we go.

Nevi Schmuel was our first such destination. This is the tomb of the prophet Samuel who installed the first king of the Jews, King Saul. The tomb, considered a sacred site by religious Jews and Muslims, is nestled into a quiet Arab village about 30 minutes from Jerusalem. Aloni started by focusing our attention on the excavated site and noted the numerous and somewhat complex system of water collection and storage that was the key to survival in this country of limited rainfall. He then turned to the geography and topography and the strategic nature of the place which sits atop a hill with a view of Jerusalem and much of the West Bank—allowing residents to keep a constant watch for the enemy. He also pointed out that the site sits at the exact border between the dry, lifeless dessert and fertile valley with numerous fruit trees and other agriculture. He taught us to identify the various kinds of fruit trees and described how the bountiful harvests and ability of the residents to sell the fruit in Jerusalem kept the town prosperous. We could all imagine the residents piling baskets of apricots, almonds and olives onto donkeys and on women’s heads as they ascended the hills to Jerusalem to sell in the markets. As Aloni was talking, there was a group of young Arab girls with whom he engaged in discussion. They were sweet young girls who seemed to be typical teenagers—they asked us questions about where we were from and offered us a package of sunflower seeds. At that moment, the war that continues just miles down the road seemed particularly ridiculous.

After the history and bible lesson, we descended into the actual sanctuary, where men and women must pray separately. Adam and Aloni went one way, Emma, Maya and I the other. The girls and I finished fairly quickly, and waited for the men. Since praying is never on Aloni’s agenda, I was curious as to why they were taking so long. It turned out that Aloni had engaged one of the religious Jews (“black hats”) in a discussion about the Messiah. The Black Hat apparently asked Aloni why he did not pray for the Messiah—didn’t he want all Jews to be resurrected in Jerusalem? Aloni’s response: “Absolutely not—we already have too few parking spaces.” Even the Black Hat laughed.

We also went to Ashkelon, a beautiful seaside town—with a huge park (incidentally designed by Aloni’s father) containing fascinating antiquities, including those related to the story of Samson and Delila—which Aloni told in beautiful and illuminating detail.

One day, Aloni showed us the Russian Compound and Jerusalem Municipal Buildings—and pointed out what I suspect are often overlooked details about the gardens, the bullet holes and other battle scars of the various wars—and even the ancient tools that were hidden behind unremarkable walls that were used for pressing olive oil.

On another day, we had a delicious breakfast, with the best pita bread ever—at Bar HaBar and then an extremely cool excursion to the Sobeq caves where we saw the most amazing collection of stalactites and stalagmites—something that looked like a Disneyland exhibit—completely unreal.

Kibbutz Ramat Rachel was our last excursion with Aloni (besides Masada—see next post). This is a beautiful kibbutz just outside of Jerusalem, in truth a 20 minute walk from Aloni’s house, that he described at the last Israeli stronghold against Jordan before The Six Day War. He first showed us a unique and beautiful peace monument that sits in the middle of an olive tree grove, which consists of large pillars with olive trees on top.

We then stood on the ridge, looking over the West Bank and contemplated the magnitude of the battle in which Israel constantly exists. He also explained how much one can learn about history by examining the ground—where we found shards of clay that were once pots, pieces of flint that were once spears or knives.

Aloni also explained his theory of why the emblem of Israel is a menorah-while most nations choose some sort of animal (or scavenger, as he says). He explained that in biblical times, Jews worked from dawn until dusk to cultivate their fields so they had no time to study during the day. In order to study, an essential activity of Jewish life since biblical times, they had to do so at night. The menorah, of which they have found many ancient versions, provided the necessary light and helped Israel become a “light unto the nations.” This made an obvious impression as the kids now frequently repeat the phrase—“you need light to learn.”

In between all of these fascinating excursions, we had the pleasure of just being with Aloni-- eating, chatting, listening to him read and translate exquisite biblical poetry and sometimes just hanging out in his garden while Emma plays in the swing, There is no doubt that he has significantly enriched our Israeli experience immeasurably and for this we are exceedingly grateful.

Water Park Diplomacy

2007-07-02T10:22:00.000-07:00

Today, we started six days of travel around Israel. The first two nights are at Kibbutz Shefayim, where we are meeting good friends from home. The kibbutz, a wealthy kibbutz, is now known for its Water Park and relatively nice Kibbutz Hotel (it’s no Bel Air). As we entered the Water Park, this afternoon, I kept thinking of Golda Meir, whose autobiography I have just read. As a consequence, lately I tend to start every sentence with the words, “Having just read Golda Meir’s autobiography, I think Golda (I feel we’re on a first names basis) would feel. . .” this way about any issue we may be discussing. It’s admittedly fairly insufferable, but I can’t help myself. In any event, having just read Golda Meir’s biography, I could not help but wondering if the Water Park enterprise of Kibbutz Shefayim is the realization of Golda’s dreams for a socialist, agrarian collective. My first instinct is that she would find this a bastardization of all that is good with the Kibbutz system. However, on further thought, maybe she would be happy to see that in the midst of the chaos that is life in the Middle East, the Kibbutz has become a center for some plain old frivolous fun. Who knows?

The Water Park is the kind of place that I hate; it’s teeming with humanity, long lines, loud children and obnoxious adults. I have also never been big fan of fun. It’s too ephemeral. However, as I’m ushering my kids around the park, I noticed a couple of things. First, I was enjoying it. There’s something gleeful about sliding down water slides, being in wave tanks, shooting down slides in inner tubes, etc. It’s disarmingly fun. This brings me to my second point. In looking around at all of the annoying people, I noticed that there was a true diversity of people enjoying water park antics. Most interesting was that I saw a number of Muslim women fully covered, head to toe, prancing in the water next to their children. I also saw head-covered orthodox women doing the same. It seems that the joy of water park fun overcomes ancient hatreds and bigotry.

It got me thinking. Maybe had Yasser Arafat, Golda Meir, Gamal Abdel Nasser and Hafez El Assad gone to a water park, the Middle East would now be a peaceful place. After a day of splishing and splashing in the water, would they really want to blow each other up? Somehow I doubt it. As I continued in this line of thinking, I started wondering what positions the various world leaders would have taken on the water slides. My guess is that Golda would have sat upright and stared straight ahead unruffled as the water flew by. Nasser would have dove head first on his stomach. Assad seems like a guy who would have leisurely slid down on his back. Arafat’s easy. He would have started down head first on his stomach, become nervous and then turned over and tried to climb back up the slide.

The only problem is that a number of the water slides is off limits to those below 10. As a consequence, Emma is considering starting an Intifada. I guess you just can’t satisfy all of the people all of the time.

A Day of Volunteering

2007-06-30T00:42:00.000-07:00

A friend of ours had invited us to join them in volunteering for a morning to help put together care packages for Israeli combat troops with an organization called A Package From Home. I went into it with a very cynical attitude. “This is not real volunteering. It will be American Jews who give three hours of their time, so that they can go home and say that they volunteered. Etc. Etc.” I must confess that I was pleasantly surprised with the experience. There was definitely some of what Melissa aptly referred to as “Photo-Op Volunteering.” Indeed, a particularly funny moment was when a pushy father was videotaping, for posterity and his home synagogue, his freshly bar mitzvahed son (who, of course, was there for his bar mitzvah tzedakah (charity) project) putting together one of the care packages. At the end of the process, one of the organizers noted that the hapless bar mitzvah boy had put the package together entirely wrong and mildly chastised him for not paying attention. All of this was caught on video—not exactly what the father had in mind to proudly show his synagogue. More like an episode of “Bar Mitzvah Boys Gone Astray.”

Nonetheless, we arrived and we’re immediately put to work organizing the assembly line for the packages. The choice of products was what you would expect: towels, underwear, t-shirts, snacks, candy, toiletries and notes containing good wishes to the soldiers. However, some of the choices were kind of funny. For instance, I loved the image of dirty, hardened combat soldiers opening their care packages and seeing that they had been provided with a magenta towel. Or, imagine their glee at receiving pastel boxer shorts. Or share with them their joy at receiving scented body wash. After the assembly line was completed we went to work assembling the packages. I must admit that there was a degree of esprit de corps that developed as we all moved through the assembly line.

I and another guy (also from the Los Angeles area) were assigned the task of keeping the assembly line well stocked. Odd though it may sound, I found myself competing with him, and aggressively so. I wanted to be the one who first noticed when a particular stock was running down, such as the pastel towels, and be the first to restock. Whenever, he got to an area first, I felt as if I had personally failed. I guess it’s kind of like being in combat in Lebanon.

Midway through the process, the woman who originally organized the drive several years ago spoke to us about the program. She’s a lovely, gray haired elderly woman, originally from Chicago, but made Aliyah (immigrated to Israel) 15 years ago. She started the program many years ago in her home. She told us that the program was motivated out of a desire to do something tangible for the soldiers who put their lives at risk for the good of the country and the Jewish people. She was particularly touched by the “lonely soldiers”—non-Israeli Jews who come from all over the world to serve in the Israeli army, not because they have to, but because they feel a responsibility to the state of Israel. After hundreds of checks started rolling in from an email appeal to her friends that had managed to circle the Jewish globe in short order, she began to assemble packages and send them by mail to various units. One day, she was called in by a general who wished to talk to her about these packages and she thought she was in trouble. To the contrary, the general told her how important the packages had become to the soldiers and proposed an arrangement in which her organization would gather the items, assemble the packages, and a pair of soldiers from each unit would come to collect them. She told many moving stories about how the army and individual soldiers has fully embraced it. She was told that the soldiers taped the notes to the walls above their bunks. She also told us that during last summer’s war in Lebanon, that it was actually somewhat perilous for the soldiers to receive the packages. However, the packages were seen as so uplifting to the soldiers that the soldiers themselves felt it was worth the risk.

So while it may be the case that this was “Photo-Op Volunteering” (as evidenced by the attached pictures), it was still worthwhile, fun and even meaningful. If you're interested in learning more about the organization, click here.

Who Knew I had Israeli Cousins?

2007-06-28T23:51:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my Uncle David and Aunt Elaine Gill, we had the extraordinary opportunity to meet cousins in Israel about whom I was previously completely unaware. We were excited to be invited for Shabbat dinner (actually, the kids and I were excited—Adam, not so much), and were expecting a pleasant, if somewhat awkward evening of stilted albeit polite conversation. Our expectations were far exceeded.

We were warmly greeted and immediately embraced by a wonderful family who, thanks to a chart scratched out by Aunt Elaine on a hotel notepad, appear to be mostly 4th cousins. In truth, I didn’t completely understand the chart (in my family, family trees tend to be more like spread out bushes that one needs a PhD to figure out), but Elaine has promised to do a more complete version and it quickly became obvious that the official connection was irrelevant—really a happy technicality. My cousins are somewhere in between my age and that of my parents with kids in their teens and 20s. Two of the son’s are currently in the army, some of the children are currently living in America and one, who was there for dinner, works for the Israeli Prime Minister.

My cousins, like the majority of Israelis, are completely secular and the evening included no blessings, candle lighting or singing. Yet, there was something incredibly spiritual about this family gathering that happens almost without fail each Friday night with any family members who may be in the near vicinity. Indeed, in many ways it felt more spiritual than many extremely religious Shabbat dinners I have attended in my life time. This is clearly a sacred family time that they set aside each week—many travel more than an hour to do so—in order to stay connected, enjoy each other’s company, and, of course, eat delicious food. In my mind, this is the very essence of Shabbat. One of my cousins graciously offered to drive us back, practically an hour out of her way. We were all sad to say goodbye (even Adam managed to be a bit charming)—and thrilled to have found such wonderful new relatives. As we walked into Aloni’s that night well past midnight, Maya said “that was the most incredible family I have ever met.” I had to agree.

Despite the fact that they were thoroughly Israeli, they seemed entirely familiar. It occurred to me that we all started out in Russia—but their grandparents decided to turn South, and ours West. It is an interesting thing about being in Israel-on an hourly basis I pass someone who reminds me of someone with whom I went to Jewish camp or religious school, or sat next to in shul. In America we are among friends and compatriots, but here, almost everyone could be family in some way. The evening prompted me to imagine what my life would have been like had my great grandparents chosen Israel, or Palestine at the time, over America. I frequently find myself envious of those who grew up in Israel—living as one of the majority, directly supporting, perhaps even fighting for the Jewish state, and living in a place where being Jewish is just a matter of being rather than something requiring a constant affirmative commitment. This is not to glorify life in Israel. They face challenges that I can’t begin to imagine. Indeed I spoke to my cousin about how difficult it is to live with the fact that her sons, who currently serve in elite army units, are not only constantly in harm’s way, but are forced to work within, indeed support, a cycle of violence that they wish did not need to exist. I am not ready or even willing to make Aliyah (immigrate to Israel), but there is a part of me that wishes that my parents had done so and raised me in Israel, making it unnecessary for me to grapple with the decision.

Idle Musings

2007-06-25T01:28:00.000-07:00

Military Mobilization?

On June 21, 2007, I woke up, like any other day. Although, I always feel that it’s a good day, when I wake up. However, I digress. We walked to our ulpan and immediately noticed that the city was filled with soldiers. In fact, I was actually somewhat alarmed. Had the problems with Gaza spread to Jerusalem? Had the rumors of war with Syria come to fruition? Mercifully, no. It was merely the annual Gay Pride Parade. However, this is not an event to be treated lightly. The relationship between the hostilely secular (though, in fairness, in this instance the marchers were merely seeking tolerance and equal treatment for gays and lesbians) and the oppressively religious is a ticking time bomb. Last year, in fact, the Gay Pride Parade in Jerusalem resulted in stabbings of marchers by a religious nut and bags of urine and feces being tossed at the marchers. Of course, the religious believe that it is better to stab a gay guy, than be a gay guy, or even be friends with one. This time the authorities were taking no chances. Over 8,000 border police were called up to maintain order. There were literally troops on every corner that was even remotely in the vicinity of the march. Fortunately, the march went off without incident. Melissa and I noticed that, for the most part, the soldiers were sitting around eating sandwiches. It seemed fitting that Jewish soldiers would spend most of the day noshing. Melissa surmised that there must be Jewish mothers somewhere in the border police hierarchy who insisted on packing sandwiches for the soldiers. They should go hungry?

Diversity

After all of our travels, Melissa and I have come to the counter-intuitive conclusion that Israel is the most diverse of the many nations that we have visited. Of course, this is counter-intuitive in that it’s a Jewish nation. Therefore, one might think that the country is utterly homogenous. However, it’s just not true. There is great diversity between the physical appearances of the Sephardic (dark Middle Eastern tone), Ashkenazi (white European) and Ethiopian Jews (black African). Of course, when you add the non-Jewish elements, such as Arabs, Druze, and others, you have a true societal cornucopia. Along with the obvious physical distinctions of these various groups, they each bring with them a rich and vibrant cultural heritage. Walking through Machane Yehuda (the Jewish outdoor food market) on Fridays before Shabbat is a truly colorful experience, and not just because of the fruits and vegetables.

In contrast, all of the prior places that we visited were largely homogenous. Tanzania has tribal diversity, some religious diversity, but really no racial diversity. No one ever confused me with a Tanzanian, and frankly, we stuck out like sore thumbs. Southeast Asia, of course, possesses great cultural diversity, but very limited racial diversity. In Laos no one ever spoke to me in Laotian, assuming that I was Laotian.

In some ways, this realization was slightly unsettling. How could it be that the Land of the Jews was the most diverse place we visited? At the same time, it was another element that spoke to the miracle that is Israel. During Israel’s two year War of Independence starting in 1948, Israel not only had to fight against a much bigger and better armed Arab military, but also had to integrate a massive number of refugees from hugely divergent places, many of whom were broken people coming out of Hitler’s camps or were desperately poor or the subject of intense discrimination in Arab countries. Most did not even speak the language. Indeed, modern Hebrew was only a few decades old at the time. To put some numbers against this; when the war started there were about 600,000 Jews in Israel, by the end of the war there were 1,600,000 Jews. An extraordinary integration by any standard, let alone one done in the course of a war that the Israelis should not have won.

Separate But Equal Revisited

Melissa has taken the time in Israel to catch up on all of the religious services that she missed over the past five months. Notwithstanding our renewed closeness, Melissa’s exploration of the synagogue options has been largely a solitary endeavor for her. However, I have gone a few times with her and we’re both somewhat surprised, probably naively so, at the ubiquitous presence of the mechitza. The mechitza is the divider that separates men and women from each other during services. The alleged rationale is that men are unable to pray in the presence of women. Put another way, a man’s constant preoccupation with sex, makes it impossible for him to concentrate during religious services amid the presence of lovely beguiling young women, or even old ugly ones. At this Shabbat, I also learned that a married woman should never be alone with a man that is not her husband and vice versa, because inexorably that will lead to adulterous relations. If only it were that easy. I came away thinking that the Rabbis who put together these rules must have been the horniest guys alive. Horny, and frankly, a bit arrogant (like it would be that easy for them to get laid).

But now that I think about it, the Rabbis may have been right and perhaps did not go far enough. I think that it’s just not sufficient to separate men and women during prayers, or to keep married women away from men (and vice versa), but there should be separate places for men and women to work (how are men supposed to work when they’re just a wink away from a passionate embrace), separate public transportation to prevent the rampant sexuality for which our subways are famous, separate schools (does this even require explanation?). From America’s own history, we know full well that separate but equal works just fine.

If it’s good enough for our horny dead Rabbis, it’s good enough for me.

Remedial Hebrew

2007-06-14T13:03:00.000-07:00

Somehow, I thought after 12 years of religious school, 42 years of sitting in shul at varying levels of frequency, passively listening to my Israeli friends over the years and even learning to read Torah recently, learning to speak conversational Hebrew would be a breeze. Not so much…

The four of us started an Ulpan last week—which is essentially an intensive Hebrew course, usually designed for new immigrants to Israel who need to integrate fast. Most programs are five to six months long, but we found a terrific one that was willing to cater to our reasonably short time frame and varying skill levels. It’s a charming place—in an apartment with a young and engaging staff, run by an energetic religious woman who has eight children (all of whom seem to have some role in running the ulpan) and incredible enthusiasm for teaching Hebrew. The program is designed to be one-on-one for 2 half hour periods with some conversation with staff and other students in the interim.

The kids immediately took to the program which combines conversation, songs, games and other engaging activities, and they zoomed ahead. Adam, who spent a year and a half in Israel 20 years ago, seemed to pick up where he left off. My 42 year old brain, however, seems to be too full of lyrics to 1970 popular songs and show tunes to have any room left for Hebrew vocabulary or grammar. Besides, I went to private school where they did not see fit to teach English grammar—how am I supposed to understand Hebrew grammar?? I have always wanted someone to design a devise—like a flash drive—that would allow you to download extraneous items from your brain to make room for other more pertinent information. Such a device would serve me well right now, but Bill Gates seems to be too busy saving the world to do anything useful right now.

Per the Ulpan’s program, we have dutifully loaded the lesson CDs on our ipods and I listen religiously (no pun intended). Indeed, I listen repeatedly during my morning runs at the expense of my already dubious navigation skills. Fortunately, Sderot, the West Bank and Gaza strip are a little further than I am capable of running—so I should be safe. I do feel that I have become quite adept at asking for directions when I am hopelessly lost, and wandering around drenched in sweat. However, most Israeli’s quickly get bored suffering through my tortured syntax (not to mention the panting for breath) before they just answer in flawless English.

The rest of the homework is much more challenging and both Adam and I are noticing that the procrastination skills that we honed so vigilantly in college and law school are well in tact and we have a hard time keeping up with it all. One of the most amusing daily assignments of the Ulpan is that we are required to repeat the following sentence 12 times per day: “I enjoy studying Hebrew. I understand and speak Hebrew easily and fluently. I progress rapidly in Hebrew.” Needless to say, I can barely get this so called “affirmation statement” out of my mouth with a straight face. So--try as I might, my dream of speaking like Israelis do in three weeks will remain just that. A dream. But I am having a lot of fun trying.

L’hitraot.

Eilat and Petra

2007-06-09T09:23:00.000-07:00

To continue our whirlwind trip through Israel, we headed south to Eilat with our friend Scott Perlo, who has been studying here for the past year and has been a tremendous tour guide, translator and all around fun guy. The five of us made an odd group and no one could quite figure out the relationship. It was a little depressing when people assumed he was our kid—since he is 28—but I just went with it. The truth is, I would be proud to call him my son—even if he would have had to be an illegitimate child born to an unwed 15 year old girl. We all loved having Scott around—particularly Adam who appreciated a little male companionship after four and half months of being surrounded by pure estrogen. They even made a half hearted attempt to go out to a bar one night—but ended up home, and asleep, in less than an hour. The city of Eilat itself is pretty tacky and completely lacking in charm, with dozens of huge ugly hotels and loud Israeli families on vacation. Sort of a Jewish Daytona Beach. However, the beaches and coral reefs of Eilat are absolutely beautiful and we had a blast lazing on the beach and snorkeling through the crystal blue water and observing the spectacularly colorful fish and coral.

One reason we chose to go to Eilat was its proximity to an easy border crossing to Jordan, not far from Petra, an extraordinary archeological site. We crossed the border on foot—which was an experience in itself—Adam said it seemed eerily reminiscent of the dangerous and risky prisoner exchanges of the Cold War. I thought it was just odd to cross a border on foot. In any event, we grabbed a cab to Petra. The cab took us to a sketchy looking hotel that seemed miles from the center of town. We followed our instincts and left, only to hear later that it is a common scheme for taxi drivers to take unsuspecting tourists to that hotel where “terrible things happen to women.” Bullet dodged.

I had heard that Petra was incredible, but knew very little about it. Once again, the town itself was nothing special. At the very least we expected fantastic Arabic food—but in fact had the worst humus of the trip, and fairly mediocre pita. Nonetheless, the actual site of Petra more than lived up to its reputation and made up for the unspectacular town. This “hidden city” carved out of rose-red rock was always known by the locals, but was open to westerners after a Swiss explorer, disguised in Arab garb, came across it in 1812 and realized it was the “lost” city of Petra. It since gained considerable fame after being used as the location for one of the Indiana Jones movies. Indeed, we heard that several hotels show the movie every night—either to entertain visitors or pay homage to the Hollywood vehicle that turned this relatively dusty town into a major tourist destination.

You enter the ancient city through a narrow valley of red rock—which is quite magnificent in itself. Many people take donkeys or camels up through the canyons, but as has been our habit for this trip, we forced the kids to walk. The elaborate palaces, temples and tombs seem Roman, but, in fact, were carved by the by the Nabateans, a relatively cosmopolitan trading people who apparently had a taste, and talent, for Greek and Roman architecture and style. In addition to the elaborate and intricate carvings, the Nabateans also developed fairly sophisticated systems of water conservation and irrigation smack in the middle of the desert which apparently was able to support a far larger population than inhabits the area today and has been studied by modern agronomists. While my knowledge of architecture and engineering is reasonably limited, there is not doubt that they accomplished amazing feats with this city, especially given the remote and relatively inhospitable location. The remarkably beautiful structures are hundreds of feet high with incredibly elaborate and precise carvings that looked to us as though they were made by a 1000s of men with sophisticated power tools. The rose-red color of the rock further adds to the beauty and majesty of the site and the color changes as the sun moves overhead. Perhaps the most dramatic site appears quite unexpectedly. The ruins in the canyon are stunning and are impressive, but not anything to write home about. However, as you walk through a particularly narrow part of the valley, you see, as if through a key hole, this elaborate façade, for the Nabatean treasury, carved right into the face of the mountain. Michelangelo, it is said, once described sculpting as releasing the statue from the marble. This is what the treasury seemed like—as if the Nabatean workers simply released the structure from the mountain side. Just breathtaking.

In the evening, while the girls and I were passed-out in the hotel room, Scott and Adam took an evening walk though the canyon which was lit by hundreds of candles, giving the rocks and structures and entirely different look. In our travels, we have had the opportunity to see many breathtaking ruins. It was particularly interesting for us to compare Petra, which was built sometime around the first century AD, to the ruins of Angkor Wat and the other temples in Cambodia which were built in the 9th, 10, 11th and 12th Centuries. The entire system and style of building is completely different—but both astounding accomplishments. The precise lines and rose color of the Petra ruins, which takes on different hues at different times of the day, was, perhaps, more visually captivating. But the magnitude of the Cambodian temples and the intricate and huge carvings of Angkor Wat, in particular, were astonishing.

The next day the girls did the obligatory camel ride.

We then started the journey back.The border crossing back into Israel was surprisingly exacting. In all of our months of travel, no one has actually opened any of our bags. Here, the Jordanians searched in every nook and cranny—including taking apart my flashlights. We found it particularly amusing when a very stern looking Jordanian official was intently looking through Maya’s polka dotted backpack. When we expressed surprise that the Jordanian security was so tight going into Israel, our Jordanian cab driver explained that this is a particularly peaceful border and the Jordanians and committed to keeping it that way. The Israel side was not exactly a cake walk either. I think we all expected to sail right through-we’re Jewish, we’re in Israel, what’s the question? In fact, they seemed impervious to Scott’s charm and fluent Hebrew and asked us a series of pretty tough questions, particularly focused on what we were doing in Jordan. The most amusing aspect of the border crossing was the group of burly tattoo-covered, cross wearing, American men with southern accents, who we encountered as we were crossing through the Jordanian part of the border. We also noticed that they carried official passports. We assumed they were in the military, but when we asked, they gave us some vague answer about a temporary assignment in the Jordanian embassy and politely dodged the rest of our probing questions. It was hard to imagine that they were, for instance, the cleaning crew of the embassy. We concluded that they were part of some secret elite squad of Navy Seals and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to guess what or who they were here to blow up. Overall, the tight security was a bit surprising, but made us all feel very safe. It was a terrific trip, the Jordanian people could not have been nicer and more welcoming and the sites were spectacular. Nonetheless, we all breathed a sigh of relief when we walked back across the border and were safely inside Israel-even if it was the tacky part.

Grandparental Reunion and Exploring Israel

2007-06-09T08:56:00.000-07:00

Neither Melissa nor I have written for a while and the throngs have been demanding the next installment. Ok, we received one email from someone who derisively accused us of being too lazy to write. I think that there a few reasons that we have not written for a while. First, quite frankly, we have been somewhat busy. Second, it’s been more complicated for us to distill the essence of our Israel experience. After four and half months of traveling in places where no one would mistake us for locals (shocking, I know), now we’re frequently stopped and asked for directions. This is both good and bad. On the one hand, it’s nice to not feel like an outsider. Indeed, at the risk of sounding parochial, as a Jew, Israel is perhaps one of the few places where I feel an insider. On the other hand, once the actual locals hear my 3rd grade Hebrew (and that’s an insult to third graders), there’s no confusing my status. More importantly, though a Jew, as diaspora Jews, we are very much outsiders by our failure to contribute to the creation and protection of the state. Thus for us, or at least for me, in Israel, paradoxically, I feel both at home and like a foreigner. This schizophrenic state has created some degree of writer’s block in me, and I think Melissa, as well. That’s my justification and I’m sticking with it.

About a week after we arrived in Israel, my parents flew in to spend a week with us. We were all excited to see my parents after 5 months of traveling. It was a wonderful reunion followed by some great sightseeing around Israel. First, we hung out in Jerusalem. Ever since I lived here 20 years ago, I have loved Jerusalem. It’s truly a magical place. You feel the weight of history as you walk through the city. Indeed, the weight is sometimes oppressive, but mostly, I find it enthralling. You need only kick a stone to uncover some great archaeological find. However, once you do so, you will be attacked by various interest groups, whether crazy religious Jews, fanatical Christians or zealous Arabs attempting to prevent you from further digging. This is a microcosm of life in Jerusalem. It brings together three of the world’s major religions in a demented ménage a trois. Sometimes it’s exhilarating but mostly no one knows what they hell they should be doing.

On our first full day together, we visited Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust Museum. The name, Yad Vashem, comes from a passage in Isaiah, in which Gods promises to provide a “memorial and a name.” When I previously lived here, I visited it many times and each time I found it jarring and emotionally charged. I still retain vivid images of the pictures of children, whose bodies were lost to the Holocaust, but whose spirit is preserved at the museum. Several years ago, the museum was rebuilt. When I was originally there, the building was simple but the experience was intense. While, objectively speaking, the new museum is visually stunning, I was somewhat taken aback by the slickness of the structure. It’s a highly stylized and admittedly well thought-out building, but in some ways, the building, in my mind, distracts from the exhibits and the meaning of the exhibits. Though, I’m sure that many would disagree with me. Nonetheless, the power of the museum is huge and sharing the experience with my wife, children and parents was moving. As you walk through the museum, you are on a path that takes you from the early days of seeming happiness in pre-Nazi Germany, through the initial phases of terror and deportation, to the attempted implementation of the “Final Solution” to the birth of the State of Israel. As you walk through the museum it’s impossible to not feel anger, despair, horror and then, finally, pride at the birth of Israel against such extraordinary odds and coming off one of the greatest tragedies confronted by humanity.

Before we left Jerusalem to travel with my folks, Melissa came up with the stellar idea of going to the Kotel (the Western Wall) at 4:00 am for Shavuot. A brief word about the Wall: It’s essentially the sole remaining part of the Second Temple which was destroyed by the Romans in 70 AD. It’s not a wall of the actual temple, but part of the retaining wall that surrounded the Temple. It’s considered the holiest site in Judaism. However, over the Wall is the Dome of the Rock which is considered by Muslims to be the third holiest site of Islam, and parenthetically, where Abraham intended to sacrifice Isaac. In any event, Shavuot celebrates the day that God gave Moses the Torah. You’re supposed to pray all night until dawn, ostensibly the time of delivery of the Torah by God. So at 3:30 am, we got up and walked, first to the Conservative Yeshiva, where we met up with friend and future Rabbi, Scott Perlo, and then headed to the Kotel. The walk was amazing, as the dark streets were filled with Jews descending on the Old City. When we got there, we went to a special area of the Kotel, where men and women are permitted to pray together. As I’m not the best pray-er, I decided to head to the main area of the Kotel with Maya. It was spectacularly frenetic. The sun had started to rise and the sky was huge and brilliantly lit up and people were praying feverishly. I felt as if I had been returned to the time of 50 AD. Oddly (or maybe not?), among the thousands of Jews, we ran into the lovely Tali Stolzenberg-Myers, which was a pleasant surprise. Maya and I then headed back to Melissa and Emma, where we found Melissa deep in prayer and Emma whining about how tired she was. I joined Emma in whining. Though, while I would not repeat the excursion, it was certainly an interesting experience.

The next day we started two days of touring around Israel. My dad decided to hire a guide. When we met our guide, Meir, Melissa and I were initially a bit concerned. At the risk of sounding ageist, he looked as if he were 100 years old. However, he ended up being wonderful, in a grandfatherly way, albeit partially deaf and slightly forgetful. We started the day with a drive to Beit Shean, which is an amazing architectural site from the Roman period that was discovered only 20 years ago. As I said, all you need to do is kick some dirt to discover major ruins. The Cardo was so complete that it really made you feel as if you were transported back to Roman times. I felt that I wanted to try my hand at being a gladiator. I’m sure that I would have fared quite well as a gladiator.

Next, we saw Maimonides’ tomb. Quite frankly, and perhaps sacrilegiously, I’m not altogether into tombs and I’m more moved by Israel’s fallen military and political leaders. However, I guess it was a nice tomb, as tombs go.

From there, we went to our lodging for the next two nights, which was on a beautiful kibbutz on Lake Kinneret, known also as the Galilee. This kibbutz’s claim to fame is a fairly astonishing archeological discovery. A few years back some fishermen discovered an ancient boat in use at around the time of Christ. What’s most interesting is the different marketing approaches that the Kibbutz uses to attract visitors. For the Jews, it’s an ancient Jewish fishing boat, perhaps the remnants of a boat used at the time of the Bar Kokhba revolt. For the Christians, it may actually have been Jesus’ fishing boat. This brings us to another interesting fact about Israel; that, currently, a huge amount of tourism comes from Christian Evangelicals. Quite frankly, it makes me a bit uneasy in that I just don’t know where they stand. My understanding is that they see control of Israel by the Jews as the precondition to the final apocalyptic event, but I don’t think that the Jews come out of their apocalypse all that well.

The next day we visited the beautiful and ancient city of Tzfat. From there we went on the obligatory and moving tour of the Golan Heights. The Golan Heights was the setting of some of the most vicious fighting of the 6 Day War in 1967. The 6 Day War was the war that was supposed to finally push the Jews into the ocean. Instead, Israel obtained a military victory that was unprecedented, in the modern era, for its speed and scope. There has been much talk of the 6 Day War, as it is currently the 40th anniversary of the war. The legacy is complicated. On the one hand, it firmly established that Israel was a strong and self-sufficient country that was not going to quietly into the night and, for both better and worse, reunited the holy city of Jerusalem. On the other hand, the land that it captured, in particular the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, threaten Israel’s status as a democracy and pose thorny obstacles in its quest for peace. However, when you visit the Golan it’s impossible to not marvel at the victory against Syria, given the huge strategic advantages enjoyed by Syria. The Golan is sprinkled with various monuments to fallen Israeli soldiers. I felt both proud over the accomplishment and great sadness over all of the bloodshed. From there we went out for Chinese food, one of the few restaurants in Tiberias that is open on Shabbat.

The next day was more ruins: Acco and Caesaria, both of which are spectacular archeological sites. We had a wonderful day.

Finally, we ended up in Tel Aviv. Our final night in Tel Aviv was quite special and I’m about to name-drop, so take note. We had dinner with Ada Karmi Melamede. Ada, who I’ve known for about 20 years, is the mother of one of my closest friends. She recently won the Israel Prize for architecture, which is the equivalent of the Israeli Nobel Prize. Her work includes the Israeli Supreme Court, which, with her brother, she designed both the exterior and the interior. It’s a stunning structure. For more about her work, click here. Her family is the first in Israeli history to have three members win the Israel Prize, her father (who was the first recipient of the Israel Prize for architecture) and her brother also won the Israel Prize for architecture. We thoroughly enjoyed dinner with her, as her perspectives on Israel, architecture and everything else are honest, interesting and thought-provoking.

After dinner, we said a tearful goodbye to my parents, who were leaving at the crack of dawn the next day. It was great seeing them and enjoying the wonders of Israel with them.

Israel 2

2007-06-09T08:54:00.000-07:00

I have neglected writing in the blog since I have been in Israel—partially because we have been so busy, but mostly because the idea of trying to capture this experience in writing is just far too daunting. I feel like anything I say has either been said, or does not do justice to the experience. This is simply a magical and miraculous place that is utterly impossible to understand or describe unless you are here.

As you drive through the country (which you can do completely in less than seven hours), you see an unbelievably diverse array of sites: ancient ruins, desolate desert, rich and prolific agricultural fields, upscale wine vineyards, indescribably beautiful bustling cities, charming villages, sparking blue oceans and vividly beautiful coral reefs, the holiest and most important religious sites for almost every major world religion—and this all in a country that is smaller than New Jersey (an often sited, albeit incongruous, analogy). As you hike through the deserts and through some of the astounding archeological sites, you feel as though every spoonful of sand in this country contains the mysteries and answers of the thousands of years of questions. And, in the midst of all of the ancient ruins and rich history, is this incredibly cosmopolitan and sophisticated place in which cutting edge work in every industry and artistic discipline is occurring every single day. When we read about Israel in the papers from abroad, the stories are limited to the political upheaval and the many extremely problematic actions taken by Israel. While true, important and often disturbing, these stories miss the miracle that is Israel, built in just over 50 years essentially by refugees and Holocaust survivors. We spent a morning at the Theodore Herzl Museum, which included a slightly hokey if enjoyable and informative interactive presentation about the man who conceived of modern Zionism—the concept of a homeland for the Jewish people in Israel—and established the mechanisms for the creation of the state of Israel which was not to happen until 40 years after his death. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, this was an absolutely audacious, even ridiculous dream. Indeed, were it not for the Holocaust, it is likely that the State of Israel would never have come into being, despite the tireless work of this visionary man. The fact that it even exists at all is in itself a miracle. After spending the last four months in the developing world, and seeing the country that Israel has become, the enormity of this miracle is even more acute and it is hard as a Jew, not to feel incredible pride at the accomplishment.

After our first week of exploring Jerusalem, Adam’s parents arrived and we had a wonderful week during which we covered a fair bit of the country in a relatively short time. We spent time in Jerusalem (including a 4:00am visit to the Wall on Shavuout), saw some remarkable newly excavated archaeological sites, hiked in the Golan Heights with the Syrian and Lebanese borders in spitting distance, and enjoyed the beautiful, if packed, beaches of Tel Aviv (more details from Adam’s blog). It was absolutely terrific to be with Don and Nancy—and not just because Adam and I got a few nights alone. It was great to be all together after four months and we were all sorry to see them leave.

There is so much more to see, and we look forward to exploring it further at a relatively leisurely pace.

Arriving In Israel

2007-05-21T21:38:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Israel on May 15. Our arrival here carries significance for all of us for at least two reasons. First, when we started our trip, Israel seemed so far away. It felt as if we had so much to do before we arrived there. To be here now forces us to acknowledge that this remarkable journey that we have taken as a family is approaching its conclusion. While we miss friends and family, after this, it will be hard, I think, to return to our normal routine. In particular, it will be hard to return to a life, in which at times, we feel more like ships that pass in the night than a close knit family. Hopefully, we can figure out a way to make our lives back in LA a little less hectic. I’m hopeful but skeptical.

Second, since the time that I spent my junior year in Israel, the country has always held significance for me. I remember back during the summer before my junior year, I was living with a bunch of guys on the Cape. I fully intended to return to Hamilton for my junior year. I was being groomed for the auspicious role of editor of the Hamilton newspaper. Most of the guys that I was living with worked on the paper, and I was finding them thoroughly annoying, with rare exception. It occurred to me—what the hell am I doing? It was not as if the Hamilton College Spectator carried the prestige of the Harvard Crimson. I then decided I wanted to go abroad.

The next question was where should I go and what programs could I still get into given that it was so late? I decided on Israel, primarily because I did not want to be another one of those kids who went to England, Spain and France (no offense intended to Melissa, who went to France). We made some phone calls, and a few weeks later, I was on a plane to Israel. My experience in Israel was nothing short of spectacular. I made a great group of friends, learned a great deal about the Middle East, and, thanks to a girlfriend, began to realize that being religious or even simply believing in God did not necessarily mean abrogating rationality. Of course, as has been alluded to in the other blogs, as a Jew arriving in Israel, you’re inevitably struck with this wondrous feeling of not being in the minority, that Judaism does not have to be nerdy and that Jews, when necessary, can be tough SOB’s. Like Maya and Emma, I found myself consumed with the idea that everyone is Jewish from the prostitutes to the generals. In my more ironic moods, I used to fantasize about how my mother would react if I told her I was dating a Jewish prostitute. There’s kind of a good news/bad news aspect to that.

I so loved my experience during my junior year that I returned to Israel for another 7 months after graduating to see if I wanted to make Aliyah. My experience was not as spectacular, probably having more to do with my depression at the fact that my graduation signified that adulthood was approaching, than anything to do with Israel. However, after leaving Israel in January 1988 (as the Intifada was starting, although my departure was not the result of the Intifada), I have not been back to Israel.

As Melissa has indicated, even in these few short days, it has been magical sharing the discovery of Israel with the kids and for Melissa and me to share it with each other. My kids, at this point, come both with so much experience in seeing other cultures and a much richer understanding of Judaism, than I possessed at the time of my first visit to Israel, that they are already getting so much out of the experience. I look forward to having a wonderful experience with my family in Israel, while at the same time I am filled with some trepidation about our fast approaching return date.

From Bangkok to Jerusalem

2007-05-19T07:59:00.001-07:00

From Bangkok to Jerusalem

I must admit, as we were flying on a Royal Air Jordanian plane over Saudi Arabia along the border of Iraq (information I picked up on the cool little flight tracking screen airlines now provide) headed for Amman, Jordan (for a short stopover en route to Tel Aviv), I did think to myself, “are we %&@#$^ insane?” We decided to fly Royal Air Jordanian after determining it would save us over $2,000 and even a little time since El Al is prohibited from flying over “hostile airspace” and must take a more circuitous route. We even did a fair bit of “research” with some of the 1000s of Israelis traveling through Thailand, including parents of young children, who assured us it was safe, and even more comfortable than El Al (not a terribly high standard). But, at 2:00 am as we flew over the “hostile airspace”, it suddenly seemed like a very bad idea. In the middle of this mild panic, I did congratulate ourselves for the restraint we showed by waiting to share the information about our flight and routing with the grandparents until we were safely on the ground in Israel. My mild case of temporary insanity proved to be just that and we landed uneventfully in Amman, had a $10 Starbucks coffee, went through what seemed to me extremely lax security (what is that about??), and were safely ensconced in Ben Gurion International Airport within two hours.

As we have all noted to each other and in our various blog entries, arriving in Israel has been a mixture of conflicting emotions: absolute joy to be in the home of our people; trepidation that this portion of the trip will be so much different from the others; worry that our newly discovered family dynamic will be disturbed; excitement about seeing people who we have not seen in so long; relief to be able to brush our teeth with the tap water; sad that we are moving into the last leg of our journey; thrilled to be able to see and learn about Israel; anxious about trying to learn Hebrew; comforted to be safe to be a Jew; etc.. etc…

During our travels, there was an odd phenomenon when people would ask about our trip. Fellow travelers were always excited, bemused and maybe a little impressed to hear the story of how we quit our jobs, yanked the kids out of school and took off on this six month odyssey. Then there is this brief moment of truth when we go through our rough itinerary that seems perfectly acceptable in the world of leftie, hippiesh travelers who are out exploring the developing world--Africa, Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, Indonesia-- and then we mention that we will spend two months in Israel. We then either get an awkward pause with an even more awkward question about our religious background (my personal favorite—“oh, are you of the Judaic persuasion?”), a polite, “oh I hear it is a beautiful country,” a blatant, “why would you go there?”, a remotely judgmental nod and smile and even an occasional “where/what is Israel?” It is simply extremely comforting to be surrounded by Jews and Israeli flags unabashedly flying about, safe in the knowledge that we don’t have to have that conversation any more.

My last trip to Israel was nearly 20 years ago—practically half this country’s lifetime—and it has changed dramatically. In many ways, it feels like we are home. It is at once familiar and foreign. I don’t speak Hebrew, but unlike Swahili, Thai, Lao, Cambodian, Vietnamese, Indonesian and Balinese, I can read it (like a third grader) and understand a slew of words and even some sentences in context. The weather, warm and mild and even a bit chilly, as well as the plants and trees make me feel like I am in Southern California. We have friends that are like family and we are staying in Aloni’s house, where the walls and shelves are packed with familiar art and pictures of many people I know and love. On the other hand, I am surrounded by unfamiliar places, sounds, smells and it took me 30 minutes to find the vanilla yoghurt that my kids requested because I was trying to sound out the Hebrew letters (it was the “french” that threw me). I love the fact that I when I go running people yell kol ha kavod (essentially “way to go” in Hebrew) , instead of “mzungu,” (white person) “pole” (sorry) or just staring slack jawed in disbelief at the large white woman with big hips (not a particularly common anatomical feature in Asian women).

Within hours of getting off the plane, we walked through the old city and up to the Kotel. As I was seeing it all for the first time in 20 years and through my beautiful daughters’ wide eyes, I realized that we had spent the last 4.5 months learning about other cultures and now we have the great fortune to immerse ourselves in our own extraordinary tradition and experience it together as a family without the distraction of our daily lives. I am thrilled to be here and can’t wait to see what this part of the journey holds in store for us.

Who Needs A Pickup?

2007-05-19T07:22:00.000-07:00

One of the most charming and amusing facets of life in Southeast Asia is the use of motorbikes and regular bikes as the equivalent of a large SUV. When we would rent a Uhaul to move a lamp, the South East Asians manage to pile what seems like an entire living room on the back of a motorbike—along with their entire family. We saw: water jugs; coffee tables; huge mirrors; cages with a dozen live chickens; a large pig (still alive, but tied up and ready for roasting on the spit); huge baskets of flowers, fruit and all manner of food to be sold to passers-by; mattresses; several cases of beer; gas tanks(?!); building supplies—and these are just examples. We also saw families of four (and even one of five); mothers nursing their babies; grade schoolers doing homework; teenagers reading; mothers preparing and feeding snacks to their kids; and even kids napping. Anyway, we were not always able to get the pictures as they sped by, but here are a few examples.

Bali: Paradise Shmaradise

2007-05-13T03:31:00.000-07:00

Shortly before we left on our trip, as part of my job, I was subjected to a significant number of personality and behavioral tests together with the rest of my company’s management team (lest you think that I was singled out). It’s all part of this new approach to the softer side of management and team building. Needless to say, these are not my favorite activities. I’m sure that you’re wondering what does this have to do with Bali. However, bear with me. When I received the test results back, my abysmally poor score for interpersonal skills, was only exceeded by my complete and utter lack of aesthetic sensibility. Bali is a place that effortlessly harmonizes the interpersonal and the aesthetic. Accordingly, given the inviolate accuracy of the tests, I, of course, hate Bali. And, as you will see, who can blame me.

From the moment we arrived at the airport, I knew that we were in for trouble. We were greeted by a friendly driver, who asked how we were and, believe it or not, actually seemed to care about our answer. We then drove through appallingly beautiful scenery. Bali has not only world class beaches, but also has majestic volcanoes and rich forests. How the hell are you supposed to decide what to do or where to stay? We then made it to our villa in Ubud, considered the spiritual center of Bali. Our villa is a small one bedroom nestled in among the rice paddies. There are no 7-11s, no video stores, no Starbucks, no police sirens, no air traffic. The silence is maddening. Think Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

As you walk around Ubud, it is impossible to avoid noticing that every store, from the most high end to the lowest, is organized with great aesthetic sensitivity making you feel warmly invited into the store. Of course, this is simply a sinister effort to lull you into a sense of well-being that will compel you to purchase. As you walk around Ubud, you will also notice the ubiquitous spiritual “offerings” laid out on the sidewalks, in front of stores and homes, placed in cars, draped around motorbikes, etc. Every morning the women of Bali put these gorgeous offerings together, consisting of palm leaves, flowers and different grasses, rice, etc. as an offering to their ancestors. First, who has time to engage in such painstaking artistic endeavors? Second, the ancestors are dead—move on. As you walk around the streets the people are genuinely friendly, they don’t avert their eyes or give one word answers. They greet our children with genuine warmth and affection. It’s simply over the top.

To make matters worse, Balinese massage is both extraordinarily relaxing and extraordinarily inexpensive. For $10, you can get the most sublime two hour massages that leave you feeling genuinely relaxed and stress-free. In fact, there is something about life in Bali that is generally stress-relieving. It’s as if the people, notwithstanding the myriad challenges that they confront, seem to have found a way to simply enjoy life. Indeed, that is the most unsettling thing about my life in Bali—that I’m without stress. How do people function like that? Without the constant stress that I proudly carry as a badge of accomplishment, I’m left feeling uneasy and out of sorts.

Mercifully, we leave for Israel soon. I’m sure that when we’re deeply ensconced in the conflict and hostility that is endemic to the Middle East, I will regain the cynical and pessimistic world view that is key and core to my personality and greater sense of equilibrium.

Tortillas and Triumph--or Nacho Mama's Vacation

2007-05-13T03:25:00.000-07:00

As we were toasting the four month anniversary of our adventure with club soda, nachos and guacamole at Nacho Mamas, the local Mexican restaurant in Ubud, Bali, Maya uttered a phrase I thought I would never live to hear escape from her mouth: “Mom and Dad,” she said, “these have been the best four months of my life.” I wanted to cry—or at least run and get a tape recorder. This is quite a departure from the dramatic scene of last September when, interestingly also in a Mexican restaurant (the Balaban/Wergeles equivalent to comfort food), we told the kids of our plans for this trip and she burst into tears. She then proceeded to weep for three solid days, refusing to speak to us except to procure the necessities of life (and then, practically only if a matter of life and death).

This moment at Nacho Mamas prompted me to pause for a moment and reflect a bit on what we have done over the past four months and how this trip has impacted our family. While I knew this trip would give our family a chance to be together in a way that we rarely have had the privilege to enjoy in the midst of our impossibly hectic lives, I don’t think I understood how profound the effect would be on our basic family structure and the way in which we function together. I have always felt exceedingly blessed to be part of this family and have felt some significant measure of pride in helping to create it despite the somewhat challenging odds I faced. What I did not realize was how many pleasures of this family I had missed while drowning in a sea of work, volunteer, school, obligations and extracurricular activities. I realized that even when we are all together at home, we tend to retreat to our separate corners and even when we are socializing with other families, the kids quickly disappear and leave the adults to their own “boring” conversations. This life “timeout” has allowed us to develop into a strong family unit and to discover in each other qualities and attributes that we didn’t even know existed and created a depth of relationships that we did not anticipate.

Each of our relationships has improved. Adam and I have become a more cohesive unit and have found a wonderful rhythm together as we wend our way through the logistics, challenges and surprises of the trip. Adam and I have become closer to each of our girls both separately and together. We have also noticed interesting patterns that have probably always existed, but are more pronounced because of the nature of this trip. For example, we have all observed that when the four of us are walking together Emma is always holding Adam’s hand, while Maya always gravitates to me. However, the most dramatic change has been the relationship between the girls. While our girls always loved each other and mostly got along, their relationship was laden with a significant dose of sibling bickering and sniping. Granted, Adam and I have a pretty low tolerance for this sort of thing, but we always noted that Maya reserved her small but wicked mean streak for her sister. This had already diminished significantly during the past four months—but it was still present enough to tick us off at least once or twice a day. After a particularly difficult day with the girls bickering on the bus from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh, I exploded at them. I was screaming while explaining how completely disheartening it was to hear them argue over who had the better view of the computer (when watching Freaks and Geeks) when we had just driven through the most desperate poverty I had ever witnessed. When I gained my composure, I more calmly discussed with them the many reasons for this trip and tried to impress upon them why arguing over such insignificant things made me think they were really missing the point. Furthermore, as sisters they should be each others’ allies not adversaries. By the end, we were all in tears and the girls locked themselves in their hotel room where they spent the better part of an hour hashing things out among themselves. The emerged contrite and seemed to have turned some sort of a corner. That night at dinner, in what in retrospect was a stroke of minor genius (albeit lifted from Ed and Wendy and the book One Year Off), we instituted a rule that for every two days they go without arguing they would each get an additional dollar toward souvenirs. Adam and I felt our life savings (such as it is after 4 months of unemployment and globetrotting) was safe. But we may have been happily mistaken.

The combination of these two events—my tantrum and the bribe—seemed to have had a profound effect on their behavior toward one another. To our shock and amazement before we knew it, they had gone for two weeks without a cross word between them (at least one that we observed). At first, their turnabout was clearly motivated by their pecuniary interest. We were both overjoyed and a little horrified that their crass desire for more useless tchotkes seemed to be the inspiration behind all of this good will and that we had come up with such strikingly capitalist ploy in the midst of communist South East Asia (of course, they have all moved to a market economies, so perhaps even they would approve.) But who were we to thwart this peaceful détente for some highfalutin principles? After another week of bliss, our cynical side was getting the best of us, and we decided to have a chat. What we learned was that their seemingly angelic behavior was initially economically motivated. However, after several days, they started to realize how much more pleasant life can be when they are able to refrain from bickering over something insignificant and work hard at getting along (a lesson from which Adam and I have benefited as well). In the midst of all this, they seemed to discover in each other best friends that they were not aware they had. Maya began to notice Emma’s innate charm and appeal and Emma’s love and idolization for Maya was finally being reciprocated. There have certainly been unpleasant moments since—especially when my mom arrived in Bali and they were competing for her attention--but really precious few, especially given the 24/7 nature of our experience together. This has truly been one of the many unexpected joys of this trip. And frankly, we are getting a little nervous about our life savings…

Getting Spoiled in Paradise

2007-05-13T02:46:00.000-07:00

Adam and I fell in such deep love with Bali when we visited five years ago that I was secretly bracing myself for serious disappointment during this trip. However, Bali has more than lived up to our expectations—and perhaps even exceeded them.

After my mom and Aloni left, we decided to take advantage of the time to relax, let the kids get caught up on long neglected school work and take a break from the hectic travel pace. We are staying in this charming cottage that belongs to a friend of my Dad and Carolyn’s. It’s situated in the middle of the rice paddies in a village called Penestanen—a 10 minute walk from Ubud, the artistic and cultural center of Bali. It has a beautiful coy pond and the kids sleep on the porch outside on a big bed with a mosquito net.

For an incredibly reasonable $100/week that includes the cooking and cleaning services of Ilhu, a lovely Balinese woman who often comes with her adorable three-year old son, it is the bargain of the century and we will undoubtedly have a hard time leaving.

Bali is blessed with astonishing beauty. Apparently, when Balinese people are asked what heaven looks like they always say “like Bali.” Though 95% Hindu (as opposed to the rest of Indonesia which is Muslim) their practice is unique and intricate, with rituals and ceremonies for everything imaginable. There are little offerings of flowers and banana leaves everywhere you go—even on the ground in front of some little snack bar and on the dash board of the cars. They believe deeply in reincarnation and the ceremony surrounding cremations is the most joyous and elaborate of all celebrations.

We had the great fortune of happening upon one as we saw hundreds of people marching in procession with elaborately decorated floats (oddly some with advertising for local merchants) down the street dancing and singing. The floats were carried on large bamboo sticks by hundreds of men dressed in sarongs who were singing and laughing and would occasionally stop and spray each other with water (apparently to confuse the evil spirits, but with 90 degree weather and serious humidity, there was an obvious side benefit). Upon arrive at the cremation site, there was a long and careful ritual in which offerings and blessing were placed among the body inside a giant paper mache bull (a black one because apparently the deceased was of a high caste). Then, the bull is set aflame and the crowd watches as the whole contraption is burned. This is no solemn funereal scene—it is a relaxed and joyous event in which the entire town participates and they didn’t even seem to mind the throngs of white folks standing around observing. One of the striking things about Balinese Hinduism is that, even though almost everyone you meet is devout and exceedingly proud of their religion, they are pleased to welcome foreigners in to experience it without any judgment or stiffness. It is as though they know they have found the answer to life’s mysteries and they are anxious to share it with anyone who is willing to experience it for themselves.

Bali seems to be one of the few places on earth in which I can truly relax. So here is my rough daily schedule: Wake up after a solid nine hours of sleep (unprecedented in my previous life in which five or six is normally my max); observe amazing view of the rice paddies; go to yoga class; kiss children and husband; have breakfast; make complex and vital decisions (which style two-hour massage should I get for $10? should the body scrub be jasmine or green tea? The flower bath frangipani or spice?); remind Adam to make sure the kids are doing their homework; have lunch; read a book; write some blog entries; eat dinner; sleep. Rough life, huh? I feel a little guilty about all of this indulgence, but it is all I can do to muster the energy to answer emails or plan a few days away at a beach. I am clearly a shadow of my former self.

Bali is not immune to economic difficulties and the tourist industry—their main source of income--took a huge dive after the bombs in Southern Bali in 2002 by Muslim extremists. Given the pervasive sense of peacefulness that exists on the island, the bombings left the Balinese in a state of shock and disbelief. Tourists are finding their way back, but one result of this is an over abundance of hotels and other amenities. This has led to the only small annoyance on this otherwise idyllic island--the transport “touts” who are positively ubiquitous. As you walk through town you are constantly greeted by smiling (presumably unemployed) Balinese men yelling “Yes, transport? Maybe tomorrow?” while making the apparently universal taxi signal (two hands pantomiming a steering wheel). This has actually become a family joke and we contemplated making and selling t-shirts which say “No, transport” on the front and “Not tomorrow either” on the back—which would undoubtedly sell like hotcakes.

We finally did manage to plan a little vacation from our vacation from our vacation and spend a few days on the East Coast of Bali in a sleepy little town called Amed. We found a little hotel called the Dancing Dragon which billed itself as a “Feng Shui boutique hotel” and I could not resist. It was a nice little place with bungalows over looking the Lombok Straight of the Bali Sea with great snorkeling directly off the steps from the pool and wreck of a WW2 Japanese boat just a few kilometers off for even better underwater sites. We watched the sunrise both mornings—a site that us Californians don’t get to see much. It felt like we were at the end of the earth and we were the first people to see the world come alive.

All in all, Bali continues to be my quintessential image of paradise. Adam and I have been plotting how we could possibly manage to come back here for two weeks every year. Then we woke up and realized we might actually have to get jobs at some point, unless of course, the t-shirt business takes off.

You Can Rest When You're Dead

2007-05-13T02:44:00.000-07:00

We just finished a wonderful nine days with my mom and Aloni visiting with us in Bali. “Relaxing vacation” is not a term with which my mother is familiar. Hence, her motto “you can rest when you’re dead.” So it was nine action-packed days--filled with from morning until night with activity.

When not involved in structured activities we spent our “free time” swimming, eating and shopping. For most people, shopping is a relaxing leisure activity, particularly on vacation, where you slowly stroll from shop to shop, observing the charming ethnic art and picking up a few souvenirs and gifts for family. For my mom, it is practically an aerobic sport. I must admit that I relished having the benefit of my mother’s seemingly preternatural ability to sift through the multitudes of junk and find the treasures. This is not really my skill set, and I had really been floundering in markets throughout Southeast Asia and Africa. With my mother’s “gift” and my penchant for efficiency, we managed to cover the town of Ubud in short order. My mom left me with a large duffel bag full of our spoils and marching orders, heavy on the specifics, to purchase the few things we had not managed to get during her time here—all to be shipped back to L.A. before we head off for a short stop in Bangkok and then Israel.

Among our many adventures was a glorious bike trip down Mount Batur. This was the most genteel of bike trips—starting with breakfast of banana pancakes and ginger tea on a terrace restaurant overlooking the extraordinarily beautiful Lake Batur. There was top notch equipment (including helmets and gloves), a van following close behind us, snacks and water always at the ready, and since the entire trip was down hill, we never actually had to peddle. The only exercise we got was for our wrists--from squeezing the break to avoid crashing into each other (mostly me avoiding crashing into my mother). Despite the lack of physical exertion for which I was hoping, it was a thoroughly enjoyable ride through Balinese rice fields, villages, temples and other exquisite scenery. Our guide was incredibly sweet—always making sure the kids (and my mom) were safe and happy. He also took time to explain many interesting facts about Balinese life and culture along the way. One stop was at a typical Balinese home which really consists of a series of buildings situated around an outside court yard. He explained that the front of the house (or the head) is the family temple in which the ancestors are worshipped. The oldest members of the household have the next most honored space, then the young adults (usually married), the kids and then the kitchen. The back of the house (the tush, I guess) is reserved for the animals. Even though each member of the family has some indoor place to sleep, the bulk of activity occurs in the center of the courtyard, from preparing offerings, to knitting to fixing the family motorbike. It’s seems like a lovely intergenerational way to live—sort of a Balinese schtetl.

The agenda for the next day included river rafting down the stunningly beautiful Ayung River. Our guide was a terrific, energetic guy who took the kids and Aloni’s Hebrew lessons (“say ‘kadima’ not ‘forward’”) in great humor and stride. It was not the roughest of rivers, but there were some exciting rapids, many opportunities to get soaked and great fun all around. It was the kids’ first experience with river rafting and it undoubtedly wetted their appetite for more (pun somewhat intended).

During their visit, my mom and Aloni graciously allowed Adam and I to take off for a few days—our first time alone in 4.5 months. We completely splurged on a spectacularly beautiful resort called the Oberoi on Seminyak beach. We truly relished the time alone together and utterly enjoyed every moment. Although, we did devote a significant portion of it to talking about our kids and acknowledging how much deeper our family attachment has become since spending 24/7 together for 4 months—much of it in a small room with bunk beds—and generally congratulating ourselves for taking this journey.

All in all, it was a terrific visit with my mom and Aloni. The kids had another tearful goodbye as they left for the airport on Monday evening, and we were back to our foursome. We look forward to seeing them in Israel in a month or so. Now, even though we are all still very much alive, it is time to relax…

Hanoi and Vietnam Concluded

2007-05-01T05:47:00.000-07:00

Hotel Hell

Perhaps, the gods were punishing us for our one night in splendiferous luxury (at least, relatively speaking), as Melissa described in her last posting. We took a late flight from Hue to Hanoi, where we would spend the last three days of our time in Vietnam. I’m not a big fan of late night flights as when you arrive, you have no ability to get any sense of where you are or what the environment is like. However, it was really the only flight that worked for us. We arrived in Hanoi at around 11:00 pm and we’re picked up by our hotel, The Hanoi Paradise. Suffice it to say, this was no paradise. Choosing a hotel continues to be a bit of a puzzle for Melissa and me. Certainly, it’s easy if you’re going for all five star locales. However, when you’re trying to find the more reasonably priced boutiques, it’s a bit more perilous. It seems that the best thing to do is really to show up in a city and then look for a hotel. However, that’s simply not workable when you’re traveling with four and you have enough stuff to clothe Vietnam. So when we found a place in Hanoi that was ranked extraordinarily and consistently high on TripAdviser.com, we thought we had scored. Trip Adviser is a site where travelers rate their hotel experiences. We have learned that TripAdviser is only useful as one of many data points, it’s not to be relied on alone. There are a number of problems with it. First, there seems to be some risk that an unscrupulous hotel could find shills to throw up a bunch of bogus reviews. Second, there’s no baseline, meaning that you have no way of knowing if the reviewer is an 18 year old accustomed to austere accommodations. What may be excellent to the 18 year old backpacker may be sorely lacking for someone else (such as Melissa and me, and apparently, our kids). We arrived at the place and it appeared dreary to begin with, but we did not have much choice. We went to our room, which was also dreary and dirty (eg. footprints on the bath mat). However, the clincher, was when Maya exclaimed that there’s a rodent on the floor. This was troubling for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that it was not a rodent, but, in fact, a huge cockroach. Not sure which is worse. The hotel’s explanation was that “there are cockroaches in Vietnam.” I immediately got on the phone and called every five star hotel in Hanoi to no avail. So we had to suck it up, and spend the night. Melissa was annoyed at me, because I was so unable to hide my distaste that I was freaking the kids out. I could not sleep the entire night as every time I experienced any bodily sensation, I was convinced a cockroach was crawling on me. I guess I’m not quite as adaptable as I thought as I was. Oh well. Breakfast was not much better as there were an army of ants frolicking in the sugar bowl, and another infantry division of their compatriots marching up the wall. Needless to say, we got out of there quickly, and found a great little boutique, for $45/ night and we were all relieved.

Hanoi

Hanoi may be my favorite among the major cities that we have visited. It’s a compelling combination of Asian and French influences. This, of course, is true of much of Indochina, but the French influence, to me anyway, seemed the most prominent. The old quarter is a colossus of activity, with small maze-like streets containing everything from five star restaurants, to street vendors, to silk merchants, to old men sitting around smoking pipes that look awfully like bongs (or so I have been told). When you leave the old quarter, there are huge boulevards with wide sidewalks, dotted with cafes, very reminiscent of the Champs Elysee. The streets themselves are packed with cars and the ubiquitous motor bikes. The city has all the passion and dynamism of New York, without the claustrophobic feel, with, however, considerably more pollution. This is illustrated by the fact that almost all the locals wear face masks as they travel via motorbike, looking like they’re either rushing to perform surgery or about to hold you up. To our kids’ credit we basically spent three days walking all over the city, experiencing the sights, smells, sounds and tastes of Hanoi. We loved it.

Uncle Ho Under Glass

One of the most unusual things that we did was visit the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. We had tried to go the day before but learned that it’s only open from 8:00 to 11:00. I only mention this because it’s one fact, among many, that Melissa used to support her conspiracy theory, which I will describe a bit later. When you arrive at the area of the Mausoleum, which is a huge, foreboding gray building, you immediately notice the military presence. We were sternly instructed that we were not permitted to walk where we were walking and were directed, by severe humorless soldiers, where to go. We found the line and were amazed to see how long it was, at least a ¼ of a mile. It was also very diverse, including both Western and Eastern tourists. When you’re about 1/3 of the way from the entrance, you are instructed to leave large bags. Since, we did not have any, we were pointed toward security, equivalent to airport security. I was asked by a female security officer to tell her how many cameras we had. I showed her our camera and Maya’s camera, but I forgot that I was also holding Emma’s camera. When she discovered Emma’s camera in my bag, she looked at me incredulously, as if she thought I was trying to pull a fast one. We were then told to drop off our cameras. We did so and returned to the line. At this point the line was moving pretty quickly. We then approached the entrance to the Mausoleum. At this point, there was even more military presence. People were instructed to remove their hats and sunglasses. Melissa and I had to explain that our “very hip” transition glasses were necessary for us to see. I was instructed to remove my hands from my pockets. It was all so odd. However, none of this compared with the strangeness of the actual viewing. You enter the viewing site behind and to the right of Uncle Ho. The room is quite dark. The first thing that you see is a ghoulish, yellowish glow on his hands. As you walk further down the aisle, you see the same yellow glow on his face. You then take a left which essentially puts you right in front of him. And there he is, looking like an odd combination of your kindly uncle and something out of a Friday 13th movie. As I walked to the spot right in front of Uncle Ho, I stopped for a moment to take a closer look and was immediately and not so gently pushed forward by one of the guards. You then take another left, putting you on the other side of Ho and you move on and exit. The experience takes less than two minutes and has the feel of a Saturday Night Live skit. I kept waiting for Ho to stand up and say “Smile, You’re on Candid Camera.”

Melissa, as you may know, has some tendency towards conspiracy theories and she is convinced that the Uncle Ho on display is a wax figure. In fairness to Melissa, there is ample evidence to support this and she is not the first to suggest it: the Mausoleum is open for limited hours to keep the lines long; the light in the mausoleum is low; the security far exceeds what one would think necessary under the circumstances; once you’re inside, they keep the line moving quickly; and they push you along if you stop even for a brief moment while viewing Uncle Ho. It seems to suggest that “they” have something to hide. Who knows? who cares? Nonetheless, it was certainly an interesting morning.

An American In Vietnam

I was confronted with two sets of feelings as I traveled around the countries of Indochina: Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam.

First, it’s impossible to travel around Southeast Asia and not think about the US’s checkered past with respect to the countries of Indochina. The more I learn about US policies with regard to the countries during the Cold War period, the more disgusted I am. While Vietnam had removed the Khmer Rouge from power in 1979, until 1982, the UN continued to view the Khmer Rouge as the legitimate government of Cambodia. The Khmer Rouge was perhaps the most genocidal group of thugs since the Nazis, but because they were aligned with China, as opposed to the Soviet Union (and it’s ostensible puppet, Vietnam), the US refused to do anything even in the face of incontrovertible evidence of their atrocities. Our war in Vietnam, much like the current war in Iraq, was initiated on the basis of lies and factual manipulations, predicated on a theory of communist world domination that would be funny, if not so many people had died in furtherance of such theory. Cambodia and Laos had essentially become the region’s whipping boys, used and manipulated in any way that the stronger powers felt was appropriate. I certainly understand, indeed grew up experiencing, the fears associated with the Cold War. However, US action in furtherance of its Cold War strategy was so perversely Machiavellian as to be simply horrifying.

Second, as you travel through Vietnam, you see significant amounts of Vietnamese propaganda trumpeting their various military victories, including their victory over the United States. It is worth noting that the Vietnamese, themselves, are extraordinarily warm and friendly. You only see the propaganda relating to the war at official sites. The visit to the Cu Chi Tunnels, near Saigon, is a particularly stirring experience. The Cu Chi Tunnels are these vast networks of underground tunnels used by the Viet Cong to attack US troops. The area is now one of the top tourist sites. First, you see this grainy, circa 1975, movie, which is just a bad propaganda film that I found somewhat laughable. However, you are then shown the various instrumentalities of death used against the American GI’s. There are also many photos, with captions such as “American GIs running from the victorious Vietnam Army.” At the same time, I recently read Tim O’Brien’s stunning Vietnam memoir, “If I Die in a Combat Zone.” The horrors that our GI’s suffered both in Vietnam and upon their return to a largely ungrateful country were innumerable. Having grown up with a vaguely arrogant sense that “people like me” did not join the military, I came away with not only a renewed sense of horror over America’s behavior in Vietnam, but also a profound sense of guilt about my arrogance and a greatly enhanced gratitude for those who serve their country.

Our only regret about Vietnam is that we did not get to spend more in this amazing country.

Next up—Bali.

It's Saturday it Must be Saigon

2007-04-28T04:26:00.000-07:00

We just finished a whirlwind tour of Vietnam and I think we all left wanting more and wishing we had allocated more time to this beautiful country. The past few weeks was the first part of our six month journey in which we were in constant motion—changing cities every few days and covering a lot of tourist ground. We enjoyed it all—but the pace was a bit exhausting and didn’t allow much time for any real cultural exchange.

Vietnam is a remarkable country—distinct in so many ways from all of the other South East Asian countries we have visited. The image of Vietnam mired in a brutal and complicated war (the American War, as they call it) is so deeply imprinted in my psyche that I had to keep reminding myself that this vibrant and dynamic place was indeed Vietnam. Our introduction was Ho Chi Min City (formerly, and still unofficially, known as Saigon). Much to my surprise, HCMC seemed the picture of urban sophistication albeit with a strong sense of history and the perspective. Or, as one guidebook put it—and interesting combination of pagodas, shrines, miniskirts and motorbikes. Indeed, crossing the street through the sea of motorbike traffic was among our most daunting adventures. You quickly learn that there are no traffic signals (and the few that exist seem to be mere suggestions rather than commands) and there is no way 100s of motorbikes are going to stop to let a bunch of white folks cross. So you just have to confidently wade into the traffic and hope the cars and motorbikes will avoid you. Our first strategy was to find a local to follow (and hang on to our children’s hands tight enough to cut off their circulation), but we got bolder as the days went on (Adam in particular) and were soon crossing like the locals.

I did note that with all of the modern conveniences in HCMC and the rest of Vietnam, the only American chain that exists in any significant way was KFC. According to one book, this is perhaps because the Vietnamese think that Colonel Saunders looks like a Caucasian Ho Chi Minh—and when you look at it that way, he actually does.

You get the distinct impression as you walk through the various cities that unlike Cambodia, which seems to be still struggling to emerge from it’s recent and brutal past, Vietnam has moved on, and at blinding speed. Everyone seems to be in perpetual motion here. In Africa, everything was pole pole (slow)—part of its charm and appeal, but also perhaps a cause for its continuing economic struggle. No grass grows under the Vietnamese and you can see why theirs is currently the fasting growing Asian economy.

I also had the impression that Vietnam has been far more successful in moving on from the war than America has. The resentment toward Americans that I anticipated from the Vietnamese was simply non existent. This may be explained by the fact that they actually won the war—and have garnered a great deal of pride and respect from their peers by kicking our asses. It is also possible that the war, though so formative in the American social and political conscience, is simply one of many conflicts of which the Vietnamese have been part for the past 1000 years—with China, Cambodia and France. I found it interesting that the first question they ask when they hear you are American is “what do you think of Vietnam?” It always seems infused with a solid sense of pride and satisfaction with how they have not merely survived, but succeeded. I always chuckled when this is inevitably followed by them excitedly telling you of their uncle in Santa Ana or cousin in San Francisco.

While in HCMC (the name one must use for government with government officials—but not widely used by locals), we did the typical tourist thing—a trip to the Mekong Delta with the requisite stop at the coconut candy making factory, a photo op with the resident cobra and some music and dance from the locals. Nothing terribly scintillating but a pleasant enough day.

We also visited the Cu Chi tunnels—also extremely touristy, though a bit more complicated. The propaganda film they show is actually disappointing as the quality is horrendous. It seems like a real missed opportunity that they could not scare up a quality film maker to make a decent film about this subject. I don’t think I ever enjoy seeing the instrumentality of war (war movies etc…) or the gleeful descriptions of creative ways enemy soldiers were killed, but it is particularly unnerving when the objects of these creative killing mechanisms were my fellow citizens—albeit in a war that I firmly believe we had no business fighting. I did find myself quite annoyed when I overheard an Australian woman tell her Vietnamese guide that while many Australians and Americans were protesting the war, most of the protest came from Australia She clearly missed the part about the Vietnamese War tearing the fabric of America apart—but we all come at it from our own perspective. Again, I am glad we went and the visit sparked some very interesting conversations with our kids about the Vietnam War and, among other things, the parallels with the current mess in which our country is mired in Iraq.

We switched gears and our next stop was a charming little fishing village called Hoi An. It was nice to have a few days to relax by the pool, go running on the beach (the first time in a few weeks!), and stroll through town. Hoi An is known for clothes making, so Maya, Emma and I did as the locals do and had dresses made. The other shopping was actually tempting here, but I am still reluctant to add any more to our already heavy load, so we wandered, window shopped and ate. The food in Hoi An was fabulous. We had dinner in a tiny little restaurant along the river and for less than $15 (for the 4 of us) we had our best Vietnamese meal.

From Hoi An, we took at bus to the ancient capitol of Hue (pronounced Huway), known as the intellectual heart of Vietnam. The bus ride was very pleasant, much more so than our Siem Reap-Phnom Penh experience. We met some interesting Brits and enjoyed seeing the beautiful countryside roll by. Planes are quick and efficient, but you really do miss a lot.

In Hue, we signed up for a excursion on a large dragon boat down the Perfume River and noted that while the river did not smell like perfume, at least it didn’t stink like many of the other rivers on which we have traveled. As we slowly floated down the river, we stopped to see some wonderful temples and shrines and learned about the history of this fascinating city. Along the way, we met a very interesting young German traveler with whom we discussed politics of all sorts. He was hesitant at first to discuss American politics as a previous discussion with some red neck American landed him in a fist fight, but once we assured him of our solid anti Bush bone fides, he willingly discussed the fact that Germany was “thunderstruck” that George Bush had been reelected and we had a very interesting discussion. We were all still so consumed by what we had learned about the Cambodian genocide that Maya asked him what Germans thought of Hitler. He gave the right response (“we learned the history honestly and are horrified that something like this could have come from Germany”), but I was pleased to see the kids starting to make these important connections.

Throughout our trip in Vietnam, I was struck by what appears to be an exceedingly strong sense of family among the Vietnamese people. All businesses seem to be family run. While on the dragon boat down the Perfume River I noticed that it was really the family houseboat. So, as the captain steered us down the river, his wife was nursing the baby or rocking him to sleep in his make-shift cradle (a basket hanging from the ceiling by ropes), while the toddler sat in her father’s lap proudly helping him steer the boat. The rest of the crew seemed to be made of up siblings and cousins—from the food preparers to the souvenir hawkers—just all a family affair.

While in Hue, we also visited the Citadel—the old walled city. In addition to being beautiful, I was immediately struck by how peaceful it felt to be inside (even if it was 100 degrees and intensely humid). Interesting since Hue, being just a few kilometers from the DMZ, was the target of intense violence during not just the American war, but most of the international altercations in which Vietnam has been involved over the past 1000 years.

As we did in HCMC, we found a nice little middle of the road hotel in Hue. However, they were oversold for our second night and rather than waste time searching for something similar, we got lazy and extravagant and checked into the local 5 star hotel. At $150/night (with the 4 of us in one room), we all enjoyed a little luxury break--money well spent for fluffy towels, sparkling clean sheets, comfortable beds and a great pool.

We planned to take the train from Hue to Hanoi, but when we discovered that it was 14 hours long and arrived at 4 AM, we chickened out and decided to fly (oddly—the price was practically the same). After a rather unpleasant first night in a filthy, cockroach-invested hotel in Hanoi (in particularly harsh contrast to our previous night), we all fell in love with Hanoi—a city of wide tree-lined boulevards, lakes, parks and freshly baked baquettes on every corner—an enchanting combination of French and Asian style. We did some of the tourist things here—Ho Chi Min’s body under glass being the most bizarre--but mostly enjoyed wandering through the city and soaking up the energy and culture (see Adam’s next blog for more info). As we chilled out in a beautiful park by one of the lakes and observed the throngs of contented locals running, playing badminton, and engaging in the variety of carefree leisure pursuits, there was no sense at all that these relaxed, content people were suffering under the yolk on any kind of repressive communist regime. The only inkling you get that you are indeed in a communist country is the ominous looking military folks posted in various places, applying what seem to be relatively arbitrary and nonsensical rules about where you can walk and what you can photograph. The government officials seem to be an odd combination of extremely serious and completely ineffectual. However, this is truly the only hint you have that you are in a communist country.

We were sorry to leave Vietnam—but there is no doubt we will be back. Besides, we were all looking forward to some time to chill out in Bali and to see my mom who was on her way.

A Tough Day in Cambodia

2007-04-16T01:22:00.000-07:00

It had always been our plan to visit, as a family, both the Killing Fields and the Museum of Genocide in Phnom Penh, which relate the horrific events surrounding the Pol Pot regime (1975 to 1979). I can hear now, the voices of many of our friends gently inquiring as to the wisdom of such a decision (Paulette’s voice-not so gentle). However, after being warned by our guide in Siem Reap and reading a bit more about it, Melissa and I decided that the kids might not be up to it. So, Melissa graciously offered to let me go on my own. Yes, we can exercise parental judgment from time to time.

Melissa, Maya and I had all been reading memoirs of accounts of life during the Pol Pot reign. We read “First, They Killed My Father” and “Stay Alive, My Son.” Both were extraordinarily moving accounts of the horrors of life under the Khmer Rouge. I strongly recommend both books, in particular, the first one. While, of course, familiar with the name Pol Pot and the evils of the Khmer Rouge, my knowledge of this episode in human history was sadly limited. It has been eye-opening to learn a bit about this cataclysmic event.

It is not inaccurate to say that during the four years that the Khmer Rouge ruled the country, the Cambodian people were enslaved in hell. In April 1975, as the Khmer Rouge soldiers marched into Phnom Penh, they were initially greeted as saviors having brought to an end years of civil war and bloodshed. Incidentally, it’s not clear how much credit that they deserved for that. However, shortly after marching into Phnom Penh, they ordered that the city be vacated. Think about that. Phnom Penh was not some small backwater city, even in 1975. It was a huge and thriving, relatively cosmopolitan city. Pol Pot and his henchmen, adhering to a particularly radical form of Marxism, believed that the only way to create a true communist state was by rapidly establishing a purely agrarian society. Therefore, all city dwellers called “new people” were sent to the countryside to become farmers and to be “reeducated.” It is this same zealousness that ultimately led the Khmer Rouge to conclude that all of those with education were not susceptible to “reeducation” and were risks to the revolution and should, therefore, be killed. Imagine the impact on a country of murdering all of the doctors, engineers, scientists, teachers and anyone else with any education. Indeed, the Khmer Rouge killed those with glasses, believing they were indicia of education. Breathtaking, not just in its wickedness but also in its colossal stupidity. While the numbers are not entirely clear, by 1979, the Khmer Rouge had murdered approximately 2 million people and another 1 million had fled. To put this in perspective, this reduced the population of the country by between 40% and 50%.

It was with this admittedly limited historical knowledge that I visited the Killing Fields and the Museum of Genocide. I hired a Tuk Tuk driver to accompany me for the afternoon. First, the Killing Fields. Located a few kilometers outside of Phnom Penh, it is a fairly desolate place. After paying a dollar or two to enter, you are immediately accosted by a person offering to be your tour guide. I hired a guide for $5. His English was not great, but it would have been really hard to piece it all together without a guide. The first thing that you see is a three story monument, reminiscent of a small Buddhist temple. As you walk in, you immediately see hundreds and hundreds and skulls. There’s something oddly banal about seeing skulls. Skulls, at least for me, do not conjure up horror. They conjure up Halloween and science class. However, my guide pointed out to me the various cracks and indentations on the skulls that were the cause of death. He explained to me, and I had also read, that, to save money, the Khmer Rouge would not “waste” ammunition for these killing sprees, instead opting to use blunt or sharp objects to bludgeon or stab their victims to death. He later told me that they also used the jagged edge of palm leaves to decapitate victims. I felt these jagged edges and while somewhat sharp, this would not have been a quick death. Initially, you see only the hundreds of skulls, but then when you look down, you see the discarded clothes of the victims. This was very reminiscent of Holocaust exhibits that I have seen. The exhibit is a square room and you walk around the square, but largely you see the same thing from every angle, acres of skulls and the victims’ clothing. You can only exit from the same side that you enter, so once you start the walk inside, you’re stuck. It’s very hot in there. Just as I was about to exit, there was some hold up, and I felt myself momentarily panicking that I was never going to get out of there.

After finally getting out of the exhibit, my guide walked me through the Killing Fields. These Killing Fields are one of many throughout Cambodia. Over 80,000 people had died at these particular fields. Throughout the fields, you could see deep indentations where bodies, some still alive, had been dumped. He explained that some were found naked, some were decapitated. Babies were found dead, having been smashed against trees like some sick sport from hell. The events are still so recent that when it rains bones and clothes of the victims are revealed and are just left there as potent reminders. After my tour ended, I walked a bit around the fields conjuring up images from the past. Imagining the horror of being buried alive under a pile of dead or mostly dead bodies, or the horror of the mother watching her infant killed for sport, and on and on.

I then left and headed to the Tuol Sleng, Museum of Genocide. This former high school, located in the heart of Phnom Penh, was converted into a prison and torture chamber. From 1975 to 1979, approximately 17,000 political prisoners, mostly ordinary citizens, but also senior officials deemed to be traitors, were killed. As with the Killing Fields, I hired a guide for $5.00. The guide related to me her own story, as a seven year old, of fleeing to Vietnam with her mother and sister. Everyone has a story. It seems that if you survived the Khmer Rouge siege, you have an extraordinary story of determination and survival. No one received a free ride. The museum is a grim place, largely unchanged from its former use. I saw the prisons where they held the prisoners. The prisons were smaller than most closets. They didn’t have doors as they chained the prisoners into their cells. The guide showed the various instruments of torture used by the Khmer Rouge. There were pictures of the countless victims as well as the monsters who tortured them. However, the fact that the whole place is largely unchanged from 1979 is what gives it its ominous sense of horror.

After the tour was over, I continued to explore the building. On the upper floor, there’s a very interesting photo exhibit of former Khmer Rouge soldiers. Each display contains three elements: a picture of the man or woman as a Khmer Rouge soldier, a picture of him or her in their current lives, and a quote explaining why he or she was with the Khmer Rouge. The exhibit was very successful in conjuring up a variety of feelings. On the one hand, you see these severe photos of the subjects in their Khmer Rouge uniforms and then you see these pictures of them in very ordinary activities, fishing, taking care of their children, etc. The quotes are tough to take and eerily reminiscent of Nazi Germany. Comments such as (and I’m paraphrasing), “I was just following orders.” “If I didn’t do what they said, I would be killed.” “I didn’t do anything, they should go after the really bad people.” And so on and so on.

As a Jew, it was impossible for me to not compare the horrors suffered by the Cambodian people with the horrors suffered by the Jews in the Holocaust. Both Melissa and I wrestled with the ultimately pointless question of which was worse the horrors visited upon the Cambodians by the Khmer Rouge or those suffered by the Jews under the Nazis. However, I got to thinking about this Jewish tendency to assert that the Holocaust is the worst genocide in human history. Indeed, Jews take an almost proprietary interest in the words “genocide” and “holocaust.” It’s as if the “reward” for thousands of years of discrimination in various heinous forms is that we have the right to declare that the Holocaust was the worst catastrophe in human history and everything else pales by comparison. I certainly grew up thinking that way. Much of my reading about the Cambodian genocide suggests the same parochial thinking on the part of Cambodians. Indeed, I bristled at an exhibit at the Killing Fields that stated, as if undisputable fact, that the cruelty suffered at the hands of the Khmer Rouge was greater than Nazi cruelty. I guess this is merely a symptom of human behavior to assume that one’s own tragedies are greater than all others. However, putting aside parochialism, I think the main risk of this kind of thinking is that it permits us to ignore other atrocities, whether in Darfur, Rwanda, N. Korea, etc., because such atrocities, while bad, were certainly not as bad as “our” atrocities, whoever the “our” may be.

Certainly, it was a tough but stirring day.

Cambodia

2007-04-13T20:39:00.001-07:00

Siem Reap was our surreal introduction to Cambodia. We arrived at the brand spanking new international airport and into the City of Siem Reap which is literally filled to the brim with huge, luxury (mostly tacky) hotels with others springing up on what seems to be an hourly basis. It felt to me more like Orlando, Florida than Southeast Asia. There is clearly no city plan in mind, just a feeding frenzy to capture the staggering and growing amount of dollars (and I do mean dollars—the currency is widely used, including in the ATMs) brought by Western, Japanese and South Korean tourists who flock to this city at a rate of almost two million a year to view the magnificent temples and then immediately fly out. The city is entirely devoted to catering to the seemingly gaudy taste of wealthy Asian and Western tourists and seems to be devoid of anything authentically Cambodian, at least on the surface. Indeed, our guide told us that most Cambodians have had to move out of the city because of the skyrocketing price of land, affordable only by wealthy Asian and Western Hotel developers. Yet, at the same time, the people of Siem Reap and its environs have clearly benefited economically from the influx of tourists.

The temples are located a bit outside of the city and our first glimpse at Angkor Wat quickly revealed why the tourists flock there in droves. It is the most extraordinary architectural site I have ever seen and, as long as you can see past the bus loads of tourists, it truly takes your breath away.

While we have tended to avoid guides in most places, preferring to explore places on our own, a guide was really a necessity here as we would have missed the myriad details and fascinating stories behind the art and architecture. We were fortunate that my friend Karen Lash hooked us up with a phenomenal guide named Kao Samerth (Sam for us lame Americans who cannot properly pronounce Cambodian names). His English is terrific, as is his air conditioned van and cooler of water awaiting your return from the heat and dust of temple viewing. Most importantly, however, is that his enthusiasm for the temples and the rich history of the Cambodian people is positively infectious. He told us of his frequent dreams about the beauty and glory of Angkor Wat and the other stunning temples. His knowledge is incredibly comprehensive and he shares it with such a sense of love and almost duty. As is the case with every single Cambodian over the age of 27 or so, Sam personally experienced the brutally of the Pol Pot regime, including loosing his father and his oldest brother. He spoke openly to us about his horrific experiences during that time and willingly answered our many questions. It was absolutely heart breaking to listen to his stories and hear not just the personal horrors, but also how raw and open the wounds still are for him. His sadness is just palpable. In one story, he described working at a labor camp as a 16 year old boy and crying inconsolably in his bed at night—but quietly to avoid being discovered, and likely killed, by the Khmer Rouge. He seems to find some solace in the fact that he can teach foreigners about the positive aspects of Cambodian history. Adam, Maya and I have been reading books about the Pol Pot regime and he seemed heartened by our desire to learn more. In fact, on our last day, he gave us a book to help fill in some of the political and historical gaps we have been trying to understand. From someone who is struggling to survive and support his entire family (including siblings and his mother), this was an extraordinary and generous gesture.

Sam was only able to actually accompany us on one of the days, but he planned our entire stay for us in a wonderful manner and set us up with another terrific guide, Pep, for the time he was unavailable. He also just set a great tone for us to explore the temples. In our three days of touring around the temples we learned volumes about the complex mathematical formulations that went into designing and building these architectural wonders, the religious and historical context, the myths and stories behind the intricate wall carvings, and what historians were able to learn about the lives of 9th, 10th and 11th Century Cambodians from it all. Angkor Wat itself is overwhelmingly beautiful and the many pictures I had seen of it simply do not do it justice.

However, my particular favorite temple is called Banteay Srei—known as the female temple because it is smaller in scale than the others and the carvings and detail are much more intricate (apparently Cambodians believe that women are more patient than men). The kids were absolute troopers as we schlepped through the hot ruins 7-8 hours per day (with a very welcome lunch and swim break mid day). One of the most enjoyable parts of viewing the temples is that you are able to climb all over most of them and touch many of the carvings and treasures. Of course, this is also somewhat disturbing because you wonder how many more years the temples can survive this.

So, the temples are indeed extraordinary, but there is something profoundly depressing about the entire Siem Reap experience. It is heartening and just that Cambodia can finally reap spiritual and financial benefit from these national treasures. However, I left wishing the government, or someone, would engage in thoughtful planning and preservation mechanisms to ensure that these sites will be preserved into perpetuity so that future generations, Cambodians and others, may enjoy and benefit from them.

One afternoon, we took a boat trip on the Tonle Sap Lake to see a floating village. It was absolutely devastating—some of the most profound poverty I have ever seen. As our boat approached the village, it was quickly stopped by several local boats with young kids trying to sell us souvenirs and drinks and ask for money. The kids are so aggressive in their selling and begging tactics, I often just wanted to run away. It’s also impossible to know whether it is right or wrong to give them money. When I asked Pep, he told me that when they become successful at begging or hawking tchotchkes (my word, not his), their parents insist that they leave school to do so full time and support their families. I had my answer—but it is still hard to walk (or float) by knowing that the dollar you give them could actually mean the difference between them eating or not that evening.

From Siem Reap, we traveled to the capitol city of Phnom Penh by bus. It was certainly not the most comfortable 6 hour ride-but I appreciated the opportunity to observe more authentic Cambodian life as we drove through. As I sat on the bus, I recalled observing that the poverty in Tanzania, while profound, did not have a sense of desperation about it. Not so in Cambodia. The desperation here is so palpable that it is unnerving. The pain of watching all of this was enhanced by the fact that so many of the faces I saw reminded me of my niece and ex sister-in-law. It was simply impossible not to think about what Borany and her family’s lives could have been like had they not been able to escape the war.

Our first impression of Phnom Penh was rough. As we exited the bus we were accosted by what seemed like hundreds of taxi and tuk tuk drivers begging for us to use their services. We chose one and made it to the hotel, but once again, that sense of desperation from these drivers was just heartbreaking. We then stupidly decided to walk into the downtown area from our hotel. It was overwhelming, loud, and you literally take your life in your hands to cross the street or even walk along the sidewalk. Traffic rules, if they exist at all, are completely irrelevant. Cars and motorbikes seem to be going in any direction they find an open space. It makes New York streets look positively orderly. We all went to bed that night feeling relieved, and a bit guilty, to be safely ensconced in our quiet hotel. The next day, we saw the gentler more promising side of Phnom Penh from the (relative) safety of a tuk tuk—with it’s large sweeping boulevards, beautiful architecture and expansive and welcoming gardens, you can clearly see the French influence. We would have loved to visit with some of Borany’s relatives, and gotten a more local perspective but the few that survived the war were traveling and we could not connect.

Overall, Cambodia seems to be a place with a (constant) undercurrent of sadness. The history of war and genocide is so recent, brutal and dramatic that, as my friend Karen aptly put it, a huge portion of the country seems to be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. There is clearly economic progress being made, but it seems it will take many more decades to overcome the ravages and destruction that the Pol Pot regime wrought on this country. Some of my discussions with Pep really underscored this for me. He is clearly a smart and interesting guy, but when he had the opportunity to go to university, he had no interest. His brother actually went through medical school, but is now a driver for private tours (such as ours) because he could not get a job as a doctor unless he paid a $4000 bribe to some government officials. He also described a typical evening for Cambodians in his town, about 7 kilometers outside of Siem Reap. They are too far out of town to have electricity, so they use car batteries for lights and any other electrical needs. They do not have refrigerators, but they all have televisions and watch each night from 7:30 to 10:30. I found this depressing. Of course, many Americans do the same, but there was something profoundly sad and defeatist in his description of his life. Though, in fairness, I may be viewing this through the prism of how I think that I would feel being among the first generation born after Pol Pot.

Luang Prabang, Laos, Israelis Galore and Pesach

2007-04-07T08:56:00.000-07:00

As Melissa mentioned in her prior posting, after Chiang Mai, we flew to Luang Prabang, Laos. We have now flown a number of local airlines, Precision Air (Tanzania), Nok Air (Thailand) and Laos Airlines. Maya and I noticed that on one of the Nok Air flights, Emma was studiously reading the safety card. Emma, who almost never follows instructions, dutifully adhered to the flight attendant’s request to read the safety card. However, not only did she read it, she committed it to memory with an earnestness, which, if she applied to her school work, would make her Harvard bound. Upon seeing this, Maya and I quizzed her on her knowledge of the safety card: What’s the crash position? Where are the exits? What position do you assume if you have to evacuate the plane from one of the slides? Emma scored a 100% on the test. Moreover, not realizing that Maya and I were teasing her (just a bit), Emma answered the questions with a seriousness of purpose, again generally absent from her prior academic pursuits. Maya and I were hysterical. Our poor little Emma is definitely a bit of a worrier. However, after I read that Laos Airlines did not have some FAA certification, I thought Emma might be the smart one.

Prior to two weeks before we left for our trip, I had never heard of Luang Prabang. Quite frankly, I had heard of Laos, but certainly did not know much. Thanks to a farewell lunch with a buddy of mine, I learned about Luang Prabang. Melissa and I put it on our list of possible places to visit and when we learned that Chabad would be offering a Passover Seder there, the decision was made. We arrived slightly battered and bruised, Maya literally, the rest of us emotionally, having just come off dealing with Maya’s injury. Indeed, we were still somewhat obsessed with figuring out how we were going to deal with getting her stitches removed. However, more about that later. After a short, mercifully uneventful flight, we arrived at the Luang Prabang airport and after a brief 15 minute ride, we were at our hotel. Choosing hotels is always a bit of risk, when you’re opting for something less than top end. Given the length of the trip (and our lack of employment), cost is definitely a factor, but we’re also not backpacking 22 year olds anymore. However, we picked well this time and ended up in a lovely little guest house, on the Mekong River.

After dropping our bags, we began to explore Luang Prabang. Luang Prabang is an enchanting city, a charming mix of Asian and French style, both architecturally and culinarily. Laos had been under French control for half a century and the French influence is manifest. There are essentially two main areas where tourists hang out. The first is on the road where our hotel is. Hotels, shops, internet cafes, etc. are located on the side of the street opposite the river and various restaurants are located on the river side. The Mekong is wide and breathtaking—particularly from our hotel breakfast patio. Although, the river was quite low, apparently due to both the dry season and some temporary Chinese hydroelectric need. We strolled along the river a bit and then headed away from the river, several blocks up to the other main road, which runs parallel to the river. This road also was filled with restaurants, guest houses, boutiques, stores, travel agencies, internet cafes, etc. While all of this was quite common place, the architecture, the generous sidewalks, the wide roads, gave it a very inviting, indeed an almost magical, feel. As you walk down the street, you eventually hit the night market (which starts opening at around 4:00 pm). The night market is a gorgeous and colorful display of crafts, all meticulously and beautifully organized. There were bags, scarves, statuary, skirts, tschotkes galore. Melissa quipped that she would like a Lao woman to come organize our house. Also, the market had a very pleasant feel. The Lao people are pretty laid back and are not constantly in your face beseeching you to purchase, as has been the case in many other places that we visited. We ended up spending a significant amount of time strolling up and down the night market and made our first few Southeast Asian purchases.

Also everywhere you go, you see folks on motor bikes. Indeed, they use motor bikes in the same way we use compact cars—it was not uncommon to see a family of four on a motorbike, usually with the toddler up front, sometimes with an infant nursing in the back with mom. The only mildly unpleasant aspect of Luang Prabang was caused by the ubiquitous burning going on in the region. In Northern Thailand, Laos and Burma it is common for the villagers to burn their refuse during the dry season, which pollutes the air. Indeed, you can see ash falling from the sky. This put a haze over the city. However, even this could not diminish the charm of the city.

We immediately heard the familiar tones of Hebrew as were walking the streets. It seems that Luang Prabang is a very popular destination for Israelis. We also learned that, like us, many Israelis had descended on the city to enjoy a Chabad Passover. Since it was Friday evening, at Melissa’s insistence (no big surprise), we decided to look for the Chabad House. Finally, after some help from Israelis, we found it. Much to our surprise, packed into a small room was a group of 60 or so people, mostly young Israelis on their post army travels, but some Americans, Canadians, and others as well, celebrating Kabbalat Shabbat. Melissa and the girls went inside. I, and this will surprise you, decided to grab a beer at the bar across the street. We then decided to stay for Shabbat Dinner. Despite the fact that it was sauna-like in the sanctuary/dining hall (I don’t know how the Chabad can live in Luang Prabang and still adhere to their austere dress code), it was quite a nice experience. The kids felt like they were at camp. And, of course, it was only a matter of time before Melissa was trying to recruit the Americans to join IKAR, notwithstanding the fact that not one of them lived anywhere near LA. Some habits die hard.

The whole Chabad thing was interesting to me. Clearly, the Israelis, both religious and irreligious (the two primary Israelis approaches to religion) found Chabad to be a home away from home. I can understand why—they seem to make it such an inviting and comfortable place to hang out. Indeed, I think that’s why the kids felt like it was camp. There was singing, there was dancing, there was comradery, there was joy. I had a tough time reconciling my comfort hanging out at the Chabad house, with my knowledge of their hard line views on Israel and their maintenance of a non-equalitarian approach to religious observance. Yet, I must say, there were many Israeli woman there (again both religious and irreligious) who seemed perfectly comfortable. Interesting.

As we were leaving Shabbat dinner, we asked the Rebbetzin if she knew of good doctors in the Luang Prabang area. We figured that the Jews must know where the good doctors are. Through the help of Chabad, a few days later, we ended up finding a Chinese doctor, who had the warmth and bedside manner of an ashtray. However, the day of the Seder, he checked out Maya and told us that he would remove her stitches the next day. We were not altogether thrilled, but did not have a lot of options. However, we hoped that maybe we would meet a nice Jewish doctor at that evening’s Seder.

Before the Seder, we went on a boat trip up the Mekong River in a long boat. Since, in view of Maya’s accident, we had cancelled our boat trip from Thailand to Laos, we thought we should take a trip on the river. We decided to visit some caves that have been used for centuries as Buddhist shrines. The Rabbi had informed Emma that she would be the youngest at the Seder, so Melissa tutored Emma on the Four Questions as we were chugging towards our destination (see the photo below). It was a lovely day.

Then the Seder. Much to our surprise, there were over 200 people (mostly Israelis). We were placed at a table with a dozen or so other North Americans. We were joined by a young Chabad Rabbi (he’s actually one class short) from Seattle, who translated for us (it was all in Hebrew) and explained what was going on. Emma, with another young child, read the four questions, albeit quietly and shyly. The Seder was festive, joyous and exciting—with people singing dancing and standing on chairs. There is something magical about seeing young, hip, interesting Israelis singing Jewish songs with such gusto and joy. A Seder that we will definitely remember.

We thought we hit pay dirt, when we learned that a French obstetrician was attending the Seder. Melissa, who had been chatting with his wife, asked if he might be willing to remove Maya’s stitches. She asked her husband, who politely declined saying that he did not have the right materials. Once again, the French declined to get involved. Oh well.

The next day, the Chinese doctor came and, not very gently, removed Maya’s stitches. Maya was a bit unhappy with his lack of gentleness, but we were all relieved to have the stitches out and to see that the injury looked pretty good. By the way, for the two house calls, we paid 100,000 Kip, which is equal to $10.

The next few days were a bit tough, as all of us, except for Maya, thankfully, were hit with traveler’s tummy, so we confined our diets to mostly matzoh (that we had been able to procure from Chabad). We initially thought that maybe it was something that we ate at the Seder. The thought of surviving three months in Africa and Southeast Asia, only to have our first serious bout of traveler’s tummy at the hands of the food provided by Chabad, is ironic, to say the least. However, the morning prior to our departure, I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30 to see the morning processional of the monks. Each morning the monks line up and walk down the main road and receive donations from people lined up on the street. The process is known as "Making Merit." The idea is that by giving to the monks, the people are essentially doing a mitzvah (pardon, the unholy mixing of religions) which will increase their chances of being reincarnated into a higher station. It was quite a beautiful scene.

Finally, on our last night, we attended a traditional Lao/Hindu ballet, which was beautiful.

All in all, we had a wonderful stay in Luang Prabang.

Next stop—Cambodia.

We Hit Pai, and Pai Hit Back, AKA What Would We Have Done Without Ed and Wendy?

2007-03-31T07:00:00.000-07:00

You can’t help but be taken in by the charm of Pai as soon as you drive in. Of course, some of it is simply relief from making it to the end of a three hour (north of Chiang Mai) endlessly winding uphill journey. Besides that, you can instantly see why so many expats make Pai their home, or at least get “stuck” there for a while. It’s beautiful, friendly, cheap ($2 dinners and $6 massages) and just seems to exude relaxation from its pores. The focus is definitely on living in the moment—generally not my long suit, but I am improving a bit every day. One expat (coincidentally from Connecticut) made the cynical if incredibly astute comment that they are all so busy living in the moment that no one actually does anything. Hence the town motto: “do nothing in Pai.” We stayed at a cute little bungalow resort with natural hot spring showers. The guy who ran the place was kind of an interesting fellow—the son of a patient of Ed’s. He was from Greenwich, CT and had left to live in Thailand 6 or 7 years ago.

We did our best to get into the spirit of Pai. For a new adventure, we rented motor bikes to tool around town (note to grandparents—we went slow, wore helmets and, no, the kids did not ride their own—OK I did wipe out once, but I was barely moving and just scraped my knee). Then, we decided to have an afternoon at the waterfall…

It all started out well. The kids tore off their clothes and jumped in as per normal. The adults had just settled in for a few minutes of peaceful conversation when we heard panicked screams from Emma and Jessica that Maya had fallen. Both girls are slightly prone toward histrionics and we had been through this drill with them before on many occasions, so we weren’t especially worried, but, in an abundance of caution, we ran to where Maya was. Not such a false alarm this time—Maya had slipped at the top of the waterfall and slid 20 or 30 feet down on her stomach before bumping her head as well as several other parts of her body and landed in the water at the bottom. Ed, thankfully a doctor, got down the slippery rocks to where Maya was first, did his best to calm her and assess her condition. Emma was hysterical—completely freaked that Maya was seriously hurt—so I stayed with her while Adam slid down to Ed to attend to Maya. There was a fairly large cut above her eye and Ed immediately determined she needed stitches. We quickly gathered our stuff, hopped back on the motorbikes and headed toward Pai Hospital which we had fortuitously passed on the way up (I actually recall making a mental note when we passed it that I hoped not to see the inside of it—oh well).

I was still so focused on calming everyone down and making sure Maya was OK, that I didn’t have time to freak out myself. I think the reality finally hit me when I was holding Maya’s hands as the seemingly competent (if completely devoid of any bedside manner) doctor was stitching her up (8 stitches). I had been feeling a bit under the weather that morning anyway and was suddenly drenched in sweat in the midst of a wave of nausea and light headedness. It must have been the combination of intense heat and stress—but I sat down and managed to keep it together while the doctor finished. Fortunately, Ed was there to talk us through it all—assuring Maya and I that the doctor was doing a great job and all the right things. The hospital was not nearly as bad as I had expected and I was particularly pleased when Ed noted that they were employing all of the appropriate sanitary and sterilizing procedures. I recall noting the nurse taking the suture kit out with tongs and gloves and being incredibly grateful that we were not in Africa. I had the opportunity to witness a procedure in the hospital in Tanzania in which no gloves were used and there was blood all over the floor and did not relish the thought of having to avail ourselves of their services.

Maya was understandably shaken up so we got her some Mexican food (her idea of comfort food) and had the kids relax and watch a movie. She spent the next few days in pain, looking like she had gone a few rounds with George Forman and discovering new scrapes bruises and aches on various parts of her body on almost and hourly basis. Despite that, she was in reasonably good spirits and had a healthy sense of humor about the whole thing once the original crisis was over.

The next day we all (except for Adam, who was making travel arrangement) went riding and swimming with the elephants. Maya had to refrain from swimming with the elephants (we both sat on ours and thoroughly enjoyed watching the others as they frolicked in the river with the enormous and playful pachyderms), but other than that, she has managed to continue with our adventures. She also had us eating out the palm of her hand for the first few days and has managed to procure soda at every meal since the accident and a foot massage (she kindly got her sister in on that deal as well).

All in all—it was a bit more excitement than we were planning for the trip, but it could have been a lot worse. Our plan was to leave Pai for a 7 hour car ride and then a 2 day, somewhat rugged boat trip down the Meekong River to Luang Prabang (Laos). Under the circumstances, we decided to skip the boat, head back to Chiang Mai to have another doctor give her a look and then fly to Luang Prabang. In retrospect, it was a good move as the boat would have been very uncomfortable for Maya and the medical system in Luang Prabang appears to be non existent. In fact, we are likely to have an Israeli medic who we met at the local Chabad Shabbat remove the stitches rather than brave the “hospital” here.

We are all exceedingly grateful to Ed and Wendy. They were unbelievably helpful and reassuring throughout. It feels like an odd stroke of luck (for us-not them) that it happened the day before they were leaving. They changed and cleaned the dressing for Maya, evaluated the medicine she was prescribed and got all of our questions answered—even when it required calling the states and various doctor friends and family at all hours. I am actually not sure what we would have done had they not been there (other than call them every 5 minutes with questions). I am sure they could have thought of a million other ways to spend their last days in Southeast Asia, but their deep care and concern for Maya was unreserved. Adam and I both felt that they were caring for Maya in no less the manner than they would have cared for their own children. On our return to Chiang Mai, we dropped Ed and Wendy, and their kids, off at the airport for the beginning of their return trip home. We were very sad to see them go, not only for their medical oversight of Maya, but also because we knew we would miss them greatly. Traveling with friends is a risky proposition (especially for five weeks), but, in this instance, it only served to further enhance an already close and important relationship. We look forward to many more adventures together—to places other than the ER.

Chiang Mai

2007-03-31T06:48:00.000-07:00

Given the lackluster experience we had in Trang, we were not especially sad to leave and begin our next adventure. We had a week left with the Levines to explore Northern Thailand together and headed for Chiang Mai. Chiang Mai is the second biggest city in Thailand, with a laid back, yet somewhat cosmopolitan and sophisticated vibe. We found a charming little hotel with a pool, in walking distance to most of the action and settled in for a couple days of eating, shopping and relaxing. I am still torturing my children by limiting our purchases to nothing larger than a pack of gum since I can’t imagine adding anything else to our already overwhelming amount of luggage. I keep promising a shopping spree in Bangkok, right before we leave for Israel, so we mostly took notes while the Levines made their purchases.

We did the requisite visit to the exquisite Wat Phrarat Doi Suthep, where we climbed 300 hundred steps, rang the bells, viewed the spectacular architecture and received a blessing from a monk. We have had so many of these blessings that by now we have probably unwittingly converted to Buddhism. We can’t understand a word they say during the blessings, but I’ve got to assume they are positive and I am loath to turn down anyone willing to give me a blessing. Ed, assuming the “Jew light” had gone on when we walked into the Wat, had a more sinister interpretation of the monk’s words which caused me to giggle uncontrollably and inappropriately throughout. I just hope the monk was too focused on wishing us luck, happiness and prosperity to notice. Of course, in retrospect, Ed may have been correct, or perhaps he was offended by my giggling (see “Pai” blog entry).

My favorite Chiang Mai experience was the evening cooking school. We started by selecting our dishes and then shopping in the local market for the ingredients with an adorable Thai women who was passionate about her cooking and food. By the fifth hour, the kids (and Ed) had enough, but we all had blast cooking, eating and learning the secrets of Thai cuisine—all of which I can’t wait to bring home and share.

We all loved Chiang Mai and felt we could have stayed for much longer, but Pai was awaiting… so off we went. Little did we know we would be returning.

Conclusion of Thailand Volunteering

2007-03-29T22:25:00.000-07:00

On March 22, we concluded the volunteering portion of our time in Thailand. It was a nice day. We brought in donuts for the kids. We have found that they like us more when we give them things. Go figure?! After an hour or so of English, each of the boys lined up and offered roses to Melissa and me. Each approached us individually and handed us a rose, gave us a short bow and said, in English (kind of), “thank you.” It was a touching gesture, even though it was clear that the boys were merely doing this at the request of the administration. This was followed by lunch with the Director of the facility. He barely speaks a word of English, so there were many awkward silences, but that too was a sweet gesture on his part. We then returned to do our final English class for the staff, and were then given a warm farewell. We seemed to spend hours taking photos with every possible combination of students and staff—many more than seemed warranted given we had spent a total of seven days with them. It was as though we were foreign dignitaries and they needed to document our visit for posterity.

Melissa and I ended up enjoying our placement at the juvenile detention center. Although, I think I enjoyed it more than Melissa. Melissa felt, with some justification, that teaching English to the juvies was not really a real value-add to the juvie’s lives and that they found the placement to make sure we had something to do. She may be right, but I see it a bit differently. I think they enjoyed their time with us and, while learning English is not (as it was in Tanzania) a true prerequisite to economic advancement, it certainly has some value and I also think that, at a minimum, we’re positive role models. If nothing else, they saw it as a fun break from an otherwise dull routine.

During the last few days of the placement, one of the staff members, who had been on vacation when we started volunteering, joined us as prime liaison between Melissa and me and the kids. This woman seemed absolutely psychotic to us. Indeed, she seemed to be possessed of the stalker personality. She would continually interrupt us, as we were teaching the kids to offer us food or to simply chat with us. It was very odd. She also fashioned herself as a competent English speaker. Now, in fairness to her, her English was better than our Thai, but that ain’t saying much. But even this was a source of irritation to us. As we were working with the kids, she would give them the answers to our various questions (she did the same when we taught the staff). It was very annoying and completely bizarre.

Also, the Thai people have a tendency to not want to admit when they don’t understand something, which is both funny and frustrating. This behavior seemed even more pronounced in our psychotic administrator. She would continually say “yes” to questions that she either did not understand at all or required a more nuanced response. For instance, at the class with the staff:

Melissa: Will you please ask the Assistant Director (one of our students) to describe her role here.
Psychotic Administrator: Yes (smiling widely).
Melissa: Great. [But the Psychotic Administrator did not say anything to the Assistant Director].
Melissa: So please tell the Assistant Director to describe her job duties.
Psychotic Administrator: Yes (still smiling) [again nothing happened].
Melissa (her patience beginning to fray): So you will ask the Assistant Director to describe her job duties, lplease?
Psychotic Administrator: Yes (still smiling) [Again nothing happened.]
Melissa then jumped across the table and slowly strangled the Psychotic Administrator, while I and the other staff smiled widely. Okay, that part did not happen, but that was my consistent fantasy.

While, I ended up somewhat enjoying our volunteer placement, our experience in Trang CCS paled by comparison to our experience in Tanzania. Melissa and I are still frustrated and extremely disappointed in CCS Thailand, particularly given how much we paid to volunteer. Besides having absolutely nothing for us to do for our first week (1/3 of our time there) we are now even more frustrated that CCS has not offered us anything other than platitudes for the failure of the organization to provide what was promised. Our kids continued to do their separate placements at two local pre-schools and they seemed fairly happy with the opportunity and enjoyed experiences with Thai children. However, somewhat like our own placements, it felt as if they were just thrown into an environment irrespective of actual need. Feeling unneeded can be demoralizing. While the needs in Thailand in general are clearly not as great as in Tanzania, it’s hard to imagine that our time (including the kids’) could not have been put to better use.

The experience at the CCS home base was also very different than the experience we enjoyed in Tanzania. I know that our friends, the Levines, are sick to death of hearing us drone on and on about Tanzania, but the fact is that, but for the Levines being there, the experience simply paled by comparison. Melissa and I have talked about this and have concluded that there are a number of reasons.

First, as we have already discussed, the failure to have a placement when we arrived was irksome. It was even worse having to experience the Levines lack of placement for much longer, and even once their placements were supposedly set, it was still very much day by day for them.

Second, the community that we had here in Thailand was simply not what it was in Tanzania. We really made some good friends in Tanzania, both Tanzanian and Western. There are many people that we will endeavor to keep in touch with, who we want to see again. They embraced us and our kids with warmth and generosity. Indeed, many of them are wonderful role models for our daughters. In my view there were three factors contributing to the lack of community in Thailand (the first two of which I think are the direct fault of CCS). First, the staff at Tanzania CCS worked extremely hard to establish community. It was clearly a priority. One simple example is that we had all of our meals at the same time. For instance, at 6:50 pm or so, people would start lining up and at 7:00 the bell rang and dinner began. As part of this, we also had the benefit of eating our meals with the staff and their children. In this way, not only were they fostering the community of volunteers, but were also fostering organic connections with Tanzanians. In contrast, the leadership at CCS Trang did nothing to cultivate friendship among the volunteers. Using the meal example again, at 6:00 pm or so, the staff at Trang would put dinner on the kitchen table and we could eat whenever we wanted. So people quickly siloed into their own groups and there was very little interaction. Moreover, we did not eat meals with the staff, so that we did not even get the benefit of that experience. We learned that one aspect of Thai society is that it is very hierarchical, which probably explains the CCS Thailand rule that staff and volunteers had to eat separately. CCS Trang’s idea of cultural exchange was, for instance, setting up a Thai cooking class or taking us to see a Thai boxing match. While such activities are fun and even interesting, it is hard to feel part of the community when you are acting as little more than an attendee at a lecture. I think that this is, in part, explained by the fact that the leader at Trang (who, incidentally, seems to have either quit or been fired before the conclusion of our time there and disappeared one day without saying a word to anyone, including the rest of the staff), was a tour operator. While, in stark contrast, the leaders in Tanzania spent many years working with the Peace Corps.

Second, the location of the homebase was not ideal. It was far outside of downtown Trang and there was very limited public transportation. Therefore, it was very difficult to just stop by a bar or a restaurant to hang out with local Thais. In Tanzania, the homebase was close to local artists and a bar, where we could go and hang out with locals, in a very casual, comfortable manner. The consistent evening activity in Trang was the ride to Tesco, which is essentially a Wal-Mart. Thrilling.

Third, the bulk of our fellow volunteers were, shall, I say, limited. I realize that I cannot blame CCS for this. Although, as noted above, their efforts to cultivate community were non-existent. While it may be impolitic to write about our fellow volunteers on a public blog, I feel no constraint with regard to our Trang compatriots. The likelihood that they would look at our blog is small and, if they did, they might even benefit from the forthcoming constructive criticism. Despite my inclination to give you their names, the lawyer in me knows that’s unwise. So the following are my assessments:

The Love Birds. These two post-high school kids are quite the couple. He is of average height, very thin and I don’t believe that he has yet sprouted facial hair. Neither Ed nor I have seen him shave (we all share a bathroom). Despite occasional attempts at conversation with him, in the three weeks, that we have been here, I believe that he has not said more than 50 words to us. No exaggeration. I can’t figure out if he’s actually unfriendly are merely extraordinarily shy or socially awkward (this coming from a person, who brings social awkwardness to new heights). Ed and I are convinced that were we never to say hi or good morning or whatever, he would simply never speak to us. I tested that theory before we left and sure enough he would walk right by me without saying a word. Keep in mind, that we lived in relatively close quarters. I actually kind of like his girlfriend. She’s clearly smart, interesting and is much more personable. However, I think she’s so consumed with their first love (I’m assuming here) that it seems to hinder her sociability. Perhaps I’m going out on a limb here, but I think they are of the view that they are intense and complicated people, who we, as old and uncool 40 year olds, simply cannot comprehend.

The Sorority Girl. Without intending this to be a full broadside attack at women who join sororities, there is no better description for her. She’s taking a brief break from a small East Coast liberal arts college to do this program. That I applaud. However, she seems extraordinarily preoccupied with perfecting her tan and limiting her volunteer obligations, to the greatest extent possible. Indeed, her failure to take her volunteering seriously is almost admirable in its sheer audacity. One weekend she and a few other volunteers went up to Bangkok. After missing the first two flights back for questionably legitimate reasons, she missed the third flight because she was out partying. Indeed, her traveling companion was quite concerned because that night the sorority girl left her saying that she would be right back and never returned, which also resulted in her traveling companion missing the third flight. At times, I wish I felt unconstrained by responsibility and obligation.

The High School Girl. This young woman came to Thailand for two weeks of volunteering during one of her school breaks from her senior year at boarding school. She’s seems fairly smart and reasonably well traveled. However, she is what I will refer to as aggressively granola. She has this judgmental manner, thoroughly consistent with the vast amount of experience and wisdom she has gained in her 18 years on the planet. As an example, we attended a Thai Boxing demonstration, which was both fun and interesting. We all got into the ring and were taught some basic moves. Melissa asked her whether she was going to join the demonstration, to which she haughtily responded “I don’t do violence.”

Now, off to Northern Thailand.

Tsunami Tourism—Off the Beaten Path

2007-03-29T22:21:00.000-07:00

After two relatively uninspiring weeks in Trang, we decided we needed a little adventure and Wendy found an organization, called NATR (North Andeman Tsunami Relief) that is dedicated to helping tsunami ravaged communities rebuild, in part through non impact tourism (started and run by a Cal grad—Go Bears!). We arranged the five hour car ride to a town called Kuraburi where we stayed in a motel-like place before setting out in the morning for the small fishing village called Ban Tale Nok where we met our Muslim homestay family and began our short, but enlightening and thoroughly enjoyable adventure. I must admit that I was a bit apprehensive about a homestay, particularly given the language barrier (no real progress on Thai, even if they do act ecstatically when I manage to speak the five words I know) and what I expected to be reasonably primitive facilities. I quickly realized that my apprehension was unfounded. What it lacked in creature comforts, was more than made up for with the warmth and generosity of the people and the incredibly rich experience. I also was pleased to learn that I can happily survive two days with a squat toilet and a bucket of cold water in which to shower. The former is really not so bad once you get the hang of it and you bring your own TP. The latter I actually found quite refreshing, particularly given the heat.

Our trip was organized by a woman named Kelly, who works for NATR and speaks fluent Thai. Kelly is a British ex pat who has been in Thailand for several years and was working in Bangkok in the publishing business when the tsunami hit. She immediately went to the effected area to help in any way she could and quickly became indispensable in the unenviable task of helping locals identify the remains of their loved ones since she could communicate to the foreign doctors, aid workers as well as the local Thais. This was truly a gruesome task as the bodies were quickly decomposing in the Thai heat and humidity and for the first weeks, she lacked even the most basic protective equipment. I consider myself a fairly charitable person, but as I heard her describe the work she did without even a hint of hesitation, I just don’t think I could have done what she did. She returned to Bangkok but promptly determined that she needed more fulfilling work (she had been working for a Bangkok celebrity magazine) and moved to Kuraburi and joined NATR to continue her tsunami aid work. She is a remarkable woman and we were very fortunate to have gotten to know her, and have her serve as our translator and cultural advisor.

Despite all of the detailed news reports we saw of the devastation wreaked by the tsunami in December 2004, seeing it first hand and hearing the personal stories is entirely another matter. Ban Tale Nok is a small Muslim village with a current population of 180 after they lost 47 people, including 16 children in the tsunami. Half of the village homes were literally swept into the sea along with the children who were at school practicing their New Year’s dance. What little is left in that area is a stark daily reminder of the destructive power of nature. We heard that before the Tsunami hit, the tide had receded dramatically. Indeed, the vision was so dramatic, that it drew people to the beach to see this unprecedented site. This curiosity, sadly, contributed to the death toll.

Not surprisingly, the homes that were destroyed were rebuilt on much higher ground, beyond the line the tsunami reached, and few villagers ever venture to the beach any more for anything other than business (mostly fishing, the predominant source of income and sustenance for most villagers). We learned that after the tsunami, millions of dollars flowed into the area and was spent somewhat recklessly and with very little regard to the actual needs of the community or the boundaries of local cultural and religious practices. One particularly amusing example is the big shiny bakery that Coca Cola built in the middle of the village, without considering the fact that Thais neither bake nor eat baked goods. The other less amusing example is the tsunami warning tower that was built by some well meaning but misguided westerner. Despite its impressive stature, the signal and speaker systems are not loud enough to be heard by a large portion of the village, or even by those who might be on the beach. Needless to say, both structures sit vacant and unused--monuments to the genius of Western Civilization.

Since we were a group of nine (five adults and four kids), we were quite the spectacle in the village. We stayed with one family along with one of our fellow CCS volunteers (named Maia), and the Levines stayed in another. As has been our experience with most Thais, they love to eat almost as much as they love to feed you. Each meal consists of six or seven dishes, which they seem to throw together effortlessly. Just one dish would take me an hour to prepare, and that is with the help of modern appliances and pre-chopped vegetables. We mostly ate our meals on the floor, as they normally do, which was enjoyable if a bit hard on the knees. The family was remarkably gracious and eager to share their culture and learn about ours. Maya taught the father a card game, which he seemed to thoroughly enjoy. Kelly, when she walked in and saw the card playing, was a bit concerned that we might have caused an international incident, as many Muslims consider card playing a sin. However, the father reassured us that it’s only a sin when playing for money. After dinner, we all got out our photo albums and learned about each others’ families. I can only imagine what they thought of our lives, and I am sure the pictures only added to the mystery.

One of my favorite parts of the weekend was the afternoon aerobics session. Apparently, the King (who is much revered and beloved in Thailand) is encouraging physical exercise and the village women have decided to organize daily aerobics classes in their community center. I was somehow appointed guest instructor even though I have not been to an aerobics class since 1992 (right around the time the John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis movie came out). I did my best with the few steps I happened to recall, pathetically appealing to Wendy for step suggestions when I quickly exhausted my limited knowledge. The class got quite a turnout—from the middle age moms to the little girls, and we all managed to have a blast and work up a sweat. Of course, sweating is not much of a challenge in this weather.

Traveling is fun and exciting, but being tourists can be exhausting after a while. The two days in Ban Tale Nok went very quickly and we were all thrilled to have had the opportunity, albeit brief, to get to know the people, the village and learn about their lives in a reasonably authentic way.

English With Juvies

2007-03-15T19:30:00.000-07:00

After an incredibly disappointing week with no volunteer placement and wasted time going from meeting to meeting while frustrated, if exceedingly kind, Thais tried to figure out how to put four reasonably well educated American adult volunteers to any use, Adam and I were finally assigned a placement on Sunday evening when as we returned from a relaxing island weekend. Our task-- to teach English to 14-18 year old boys in a juvenile detention facility. While it may sound intimidating, Adam and I were incredibly pleased to have a placement and intrigued by the different challenges we would be facing. My guess was less snot, dirt, cuddling and songs, more attitude, edge and apathy. We spent Sunday evening racking our brains for activities that might engage teenage criminals, a task that is perhaps even further out of my range of experience than teaching 50 preschool students. In general 16 year old boys are as much a mystery to me now as they were when I was a 16 year old girl. At least I have had kids in preschool and so far, and with continued good fortune, I have and will continue to avoid first hand parental experience in juvenile prisons.

Adam quickly zeroed in on the need to appeal to male adolescents’ attraction to competition and we have been devising games, with candy as rewards for the successful teams. Fortunately, the effects of the sugar high is someone else’s problem. We have taught them greetings, numbers, calendar words, fruits and vegetables, always in the context of some team competition. I came up with the idea of playing music from our ipods and have a competition to see how many words each team could identify. Choosing songs appropriate to this activity was a tall order. The songs had to appeal to 16 year old boys (my ipod was useless, but thankfully, we had Maya’s), be devoid of swear words and be clearly enunciated. Good luck. We settled on “Celebration” (they all got “Yahoo”) and “Respect” and “Cha Cha Slide.” It didn’t take long before I had all of the boys up and dancing to the simple and clearly communicated cues of the Cha Cha Slide (two hops this time..slide to the left…) These Thai juvies had no idea that we were unwittingly preparing them for the American bar mitzvah circuit. Fortunately for Maya and Emma, their placement is several kilometers away because they would have been mortified beyond belief. No worries, even though Adam was subtly averting his eyes and pretending to no avail not to know me, the students seemed to have a great time, as did I.

I have worked with adult prisoners and I was prepared for a somewhat similar experience. This is not at all what we got. If I had not been told that there kids were delinquents, or had failed to notice that we were surrounded by locked gates and barbed wire, I would have never known. These kids are polite, well-behaved, eager to learn and an absolute pleasure to teach. Most of them are covered in tattoos at least one of which is a swastika, but they just don’t seem remotely menacing. In the week we have been there, we witnessed one brief, if aggressive, fight. However, instead of the other boys joining in, they helped break it up and restore calm. Hard to imagine a similar scenario at juvenile hall in Los Angeles. But, again, I have never been, so what do I know.

I have noticed many things about these boys that distinguish them from their American counterparts. First, they appear extremely respectful to their minders, as well as each other. Perhaps it is the Thai custom that requires people to greet each other by bowing slightly with hand in prayer pose that sets the tone of mutual respect, but it seems genuine to me. The competitions with the language games are genuinely good spirited and they all help each other along—even if they have something to lose. Their meals together are another interesting sight. Before anyone sits down, they work together to carefully and neatly set a table that would put most American families’ dinner tables to shame. They then do a brief ritual which appears to be some combination of prayer and military chanting, and then eat quietly and clean up as just as efficiently. Adam and I were particularly amused that we were placed between the healthy kids and the two who were “quarantined” because they had a contagious disease. If we correctly interpreted the translation, they have chicken pox, so no real risk, but humorous nonetheless.

I also love observing how the boys touch each other. They hold hands, caress each others’ arms and faces and seem to really take care of each other. There is absolutely nothing sexual in these actions—if it was I am certain they would do it in a more clandestine fashion given the social climate here. It just seems to be genuine affection between friends without the burden of societal shame they would suffer in our culture for expressing it so openly and physically.

We finish teaching at 11:30, and then stay, have lunch with the boys, have a break for an hour and then teach the staff conversational English. As with most Thais, the staff members know much more English than they are willing to share because they are confounded by the pronunciation and embarrassed to make a mistake and sound silly. Of course, they could not possibly sound sillier than I do in Thai, as evidence by the fact that they break into uncontrollable giggles whenever I try to pronounce a word. Needless to say the “tonal” thing with the Thai language is completely lost on me. I consider myself a fairly musical person, but my brain just can’t seem to synthesize the fact that one word can have five different meanings depending on the tone. Adam is even more useless than me in this department, so at least I look good by comparison,

Overall, Adam and I are thoroughly enjoying the placement. We love the kids and they seem to genuinely appreciate the lessons as they ask each day if we are coming back. I love having a completely different experience than I did in Tanzania. Adam and my divergent pedagogical strengths seems to complement each other and we are thrilled to have the opportunity to work together, particularly because we are back to sharing a small room and bunkbeds with our children and appreciate the time together. We have to rack our brains each evening for activities that will keep them engaged for two hours, but so far, the time has passed relatively quickly with the kids remaining focused. We are not changing the world, but we are happy to participate in what seems like a mutually beneficial relationship.

Friends, Frustration, Folding Chairs and 44th Birthdays

2007-03-12T06:48:00.000-07:00

I have not posted anything for a little while. Simply put, I have not been terribly inspired. After our experience in Tanzania, perhaps it was hard to avoid a bit of a let down. Certainly, Bangkok was fun and interesting, but being a tourist in a huge, relatively modern, and very frenetic metropolis was not wildly inspiring. That said, we were all looking forward to the next phase of our volunteering. With the same organization through which we had volunteered in Tanzania, Cross Cultural Solutions, we were going to volunteer in Trang, a town on the southwest coast of Thailand. Even more than the volunteering, we were looking forward to seeing our friends, Ed and Wendy Levine, and their kids Jessica and Corey. We and the Levines had been discussing doing some serious travel for quite some time now and they decided to join us for our 4 weeks in Thailand. Melissa and I were both looking forward to hanging out with our old friends from Connecticut. As great as it has been meeting wonderful and interesting people along the way, we were both hungry for the warmth and easy comradery that comes from old friends. Ed and Wendy are both doctors. So, as an aside, I have been able to indulge all of my hypochondriacal concerns. After two months, without an outlet for that particular bundle of neuroses (Melissa has no patience), it has been quite a relief to unload on Ed and Wendy. So we arrived in Trang on March 2, the Levine family arrived the next day and the reunion was terrific, as anticipated.

Starting that Saturday (March 3), we had orientation and learned a bit of Thai. We all have found Thai to be largely indecipherable. Not only is the language in a different alphabet, but it’s tonal, meaning that the same word can have multiple meanings depending on the tone. To the untrained ear, these tonal distinctions seem nebulous, at best. Melissa has for years, unfairly, claimed that I’m tone deaf. However, in this instance, I’m more than willing to rely on my alleged tone deafness as a defense to my inability to speak more than two words of Thai. On a positive note, as a male, essentially every Thai sentence needs to end with the word “krap.” Therefore, I finally have the justification that I have been long been seeking to end every sentence with “crap.”

Tuesday rolls around and we’re all scheduled to start our next phase of volunteering. We were all really looking forward to beginning and have seen these volunteer portions of our travels as the anchors for the trip. All I can say is that the first week was very frustrating. All eight of us (with the Levines) were put at the local Nursing College. The kids are volunteering at the day care center and are happy there. However, as wonderful as our kids are, it’s not clear that they’re absolutely necessary as the ratio of the child care providers to children is absurdly high and the facility would give Maya and Emma’s pre schools a run for their money. This is no Kigongoni pre-school. However, since the kids are reasonably happy, we're going to let it go. On the other hand, for the four adults, there was simply nothing for us to do. There was some thought that Melissa and I would be teaching English to Thai nursing students (a somewhat appealing thought to me, for a myriad of reasons (ok, maybe only one reason)) and Ed and Wendy we’re going to be doing something that would employ their medical backgrounds. However, the nurses all seem to be on vacation or about ready to graduate so there was simply nothing for any of us to do. This is all the more frustrating in that we paid a significant amount of money to CCS (yes, we paid to volunteer) to make all of these arrangements. While, we expect to face challenges in volunteering, we did not expect to face the challenge and boredom of nothing to do. Basically, the four of us spent hours checking email. It was quite maddening. We were promised that everything would be in order next week. We’ll see. While this was frustrating enough, that same week our PC died and my watch stopped.

As a side note, Thailand is much more advanced than we anticipated. Certainly, we expected Bangkok to be somewhat advanced, but we thought that as we left Bangkok, we would see greater need. While undoubtedly, there is significant poverty and problems in Thailand, relative to Tanzania, Thailand is a veritable super power. However, you would think that there would be many valuable things that volunteers can do here if the right opportunities are found.

In the Trang program you work longer hours but have Fridays off. So we decided to plan a weekend excursion. Trang, is a great starting off point for the many beautiful islands off the west coast of Thailand. This time we decided to go to Koh Ngai (aka Koh Hai), a relatively undeveloped (other than the various resorts) island about a 40 minute car ride and a 45 minute boat ride from our home base. The boat ride to the island was interesting. We decided to opt for the less expensive long boat to the island (as opposed to the bigger (and quicker) motor boats). We got in a charmingly simple boat (there were no chairs) and started on what looked to be a placid jaunt through the Andaman Sea. We were wrong. We had not been advised that we were leaving at the time of the roughest seas. The swells bounced us all over the place and we got soaking wet. We enjoyed the ride, in this kind of so-long-as-we-don’t-die-this-will-have-been-lots-of-fun way. I kept considering whether we were in swimming distance from one coast or the other.

However, when we arrived, the beach was beautiful. Our rooms were a bit smelly and bit far away from the beach, but were fine. We then proceeded to sit down in folding chairs on the beach prior to dinner. My buddy, Ed, sat down and his chair immediately collapsed with his pinkies (yes, both of them) stuck in the folds. Initially, Melissa and I did not realize what was going on and then Ed, politely and calmly asked, if I could help him remove his crushed fingers from the folds. If it were me, I would have been screaming like a stuck pig and then would have passed out. Indeed, when I saw his right pinky, it was gruesome, looking as if it had been amputated. It was really quite traumatizing for me. But, of course, Ed received all of the attention as my emotional injuries were given short shrift next to his “real” injuries. To Ed’s extraordinary credit and given the joint medical attentions of him and his wife, he treated and dressed his pinkies and was prepared to continue with the weekend activities. Again, I would have called Medi-Jet and had myself evacuated to Cedars Sinai.

The rest of the weekend was really quite nice. Saturday was Wendy’s 44th birthday and we had a great day. We went on this wonderful, if touristy, boat excursion, where we went through this water cave. All of us tourists, dressed in blue life vests, were in the water in a congo line of sorts, as we went through the cave, which at times, was pitch black. Very exciting. The cave then opened up to this beautiful beach surrounded on all sides by severe cliffs of vegetation. It was a magical place. It seemed like the kind of place where the Lord of the Flies may have been set. We then went snorkeling and saw some beautiful reefs. Finally, we ended the day with a great dinner. I think Wendy would say that she had a pretty special 44th birthday. I will note, for the record, that the Levines timed this trip so that it included both Wendy’s birthday and their anniversary. Need, I say more.

We returned to our homebase and learned that Melissa and my placements are now all set. However, Ed and Wendy’s are still up in the air. Melissa and I have been moved to a detention center, where we’ll be teaching English to 16 to 18 year old boys, who have had some scrapes with the law. Now. . .having hours to check our email doesn’t seem so bad.

That’s it for now.

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

2007-03-01T08:55:00.000-08:00

I had yet to experience the culture shock that I was expecting while in Africa—until I hit the Dubai airport at 1 AM. We stepped off the plane in Dubai expecting a typical middle of the night airport scene—most things closed with a few tired concessions open—and instead found an upscale, high tech shopping mall teeming with 1000s of people shopping and eating at what seemed like a fevered pitch. I have truly never seen anything like it and the juxtaposition of the abject poverty in Africa to the pinnacle of conspicuous consumption in less than 5 hours was quite astonishing. We walked wearily around as we waited the three hours for our connecting flight to Bangkok—a bit overwhelmed by it all especially given where we had come from. We bought nothing except a Newsweek magazine, some drinks and a muffin. I’m pretty sure we are not their target market.

Arriving in Bangkok was similarly surprising. I suppose I was naïve to expect Bangkok to have the flavor of a city in a developing country. Indeed, that was Adam’s recollection of the city from his visit nearly 20 years ago. In fact, it feels more like New York—but with nice, Thai people. It’s incredibly sophisticated, clean and easy to get around with fancy brand new malls and multi screen cineplexes everywhere we go. I am usually not a big fan of bustling cities, but I am thoroughly enjoying it here. I think I am welcoming the change of pace after being in a small village for so long. We went to a supermarket the first day and I spent 30 minutes just wandering around with my mouth open, stunned and overwhelmed by the vast variety. Adam said he had never seen me so indecisive. Our plush accommodations are another plus to our Bangkok visit. Our friend Kevin heard we were coming on this trip and very kindly set us up with a friend of his who has an apartment here. We were feeling very lucky to even have a place to stay, and then we walked in to this beautiful two story penthouse (on the 33rd floor) apartment with 5 or 6 bedrooms (I haven’t counted them all yet) and a rooftop pool. Quite a departure from the 8 x 8 room with bunk beds in which we have resided over the past month or so. It’s so big, Emma actually gets lonely at night because she is not used to sleeping in a room by her self (the rest of us insisted). The owner’s sister, Sally, has 4 kids right around Maya and Emma’s ages, and lives in the same building (with 3 full time nannies and two drivers) so the kids have been endlessly entertained. Sally (who is Thai despite her American sounding name) and her husband also took us out to dinner and showed us parts of Bangkok we wouldn’t have seen on our own. Getting to know them has been a nice treat—even if the whole experience is a bit far a field from the intended purpose of the trip.

In addition to just exploring the city, we have been doing many of the usual, can’t miss tourist things—visiting the palace, temples and museums, boat rides along the river, etc… The boat ride was a bit touristy, but interesting because you see that along the canals (ostensibly beach front property), people leading quite modest existences.

The temples are as astonishingly beautiful as everyone says. I particularly loved the Emerald Buddha (actually made of Jade) whose clothes are ceremoniously changed by the King each season to ensure that he is appropriately dressed (for the weather I guess—though the long gold cape he was wearing wouldn’t be my choice for 98 degree weather with 90% humidity). With the intense heat, there is only so much touring we can do each day without all of us melting, but we are all enjoying ourselves immensely. We have been eating well, as usual. We have had delicious Thai food everywhere, bad Chinese food in Chinatown, and surprisingly delicious Mexican food at a big Western Hotel that caters to German tourists. Odd, I know. Adam and the girls had all been hankering for Mexican food, so it was a nice change of pace.

We are also taking advantage of some of the modern conveniences we lacked in Africa (such as high speed internet) to get some business done—make travel plans for the rest of Southeast Asia, pay bills and a few other miscellaneous things that simply could not happen during the previous leg of our journey. We also engaged in some indulgences-albeit cheap ones. Adam and I had two hour Thai massages today for which we paid $20 total ($10 each!). This is not your typical relaxing Swedish massage with muzak Indian music, aromatherapy and incense. These women knock you around pretty well and even seem a little angry (of course, I may have done something offensive—who knows). Painful, but really enjoyable and you leave feeling oddly rejuvenated. We even managed to sneak in a sappy American movie (Music and Lyrics) in one of the brand new fancy cineplexes that make the Bridge in LA seem positively downscale. The most interesting part of the movie was when everyone stood during the Thai national anthem (or King’s Anthem) during what was essentially a public service announcement for the universally revered Royal family. Fortunately, Adam had read about this practice in guidebook, so we complied and did not cause any cultural offense. We leave tomorrow for Trang to meet up with our friends Ed, Wendy, Jessica and Corey (who have been traveling in Cambodia and Vietnam) to start our next round of volunteering. We are looking forward to the next adventure.

Farewell to Africa

2007-02-28T18:54:00.000-08:00

When I started this posting, I was smugly sitting watching the sunset over the Indian Ocean, from our hotel in Zanzibar. Who says that? Who does that? But the reality is that is precisely what I was doing. I was considering the then coming end of the first leg of our journey. Fighting through the engrained cynicism and curmudgeonly persona that I wear like the OJ glove, I was struck by this feeling that I may be the luckiest man alive. You know that’s not an easy admission for me. Happiness was always a state of modest discomfort for me. It required an admission of sorts that I was not prepared to make. I remember when I arrived in LA for law school, I used to relish in my reputation as the disaffected New Yorker. The Woody Allen of the latter day (before his marriage to his step-daughter). Oddly, one of my proudest moments in college was when the editor of my college newspaper referred to me as the “acerbic fuck.” That, to me, was the realization of my objective of escaping from being the nerdy Connecticut kid, the wannabe New Yorker, who never did anything wrong. Fast forward a bit, and there I was sitting watching the sunset on the Indian Ocean from Zanzibar.

Why am I the luckiest man alive? I’m certainly not the wealthiest nor am I the smartest or the most successful. I have, however, been able to live out a dream. It was my dream with Melissa to take a moment, maybe only a brief moment, but a moment nonetheless when I could, with my family, step off the treadmill to experience life in a different way. The reality is that there were a million reasons that we might have rightly decided to not take this opportunity. It did not come at the right time for us, financially. We both had to leave good and respectable jobs. We had to temporarily say good bye to a community that, more so in any time in our lives, we love. Our daughters were utterly opposed to the trip. And the list goes on and on. Over the years, when Melissa and I had talked about this trip, it always had the feeling of the what-would-we-do-if-we-won-the-lottery conversation. It never seemed real. Yet, I have won some lottery-if not the kind that pays the bills. Of course, part of me feels that it will all come crashing down in some awful sordid fashion and turned into a made for tv movie. I only hope that one of our friends makes the movie. However, in those rare moments, when I can push aside the moments of self-loathing or doubt, I cannot escape feeling. . .happy. Please don’t tell anyone.

Now, here I am on a plane en route to Dubai on our way to Bangkok. We are flying Emirates Air. Needless but embarrassed to say, I had some misgivings about flying Emirates Air and landing in Dubai. A friend of mine in college, who was an even more assimilated Jew than I, told me once that when he walked into one of the fraternities at school, the red “Jew light” went on. That’s a bit how I felt walking onto the Emirates Air plane bound for Dubai.

In reflecting on our time in Africa, I have found that I have fallen in love with Tanzania. Africa was always a place of romantic moment to me. It seemed truly foreign and exotic. Our blogs have discussed at length the challenges confronting Tanzania, the myriad differences between life in the US and life in Tanzania, etc., so I will not repeat. As we have said, people don’t avert their eyes as they walk past each other, people greet each other as if they really care about each other, the elderly are revered and respected. All of this in the context of indescribable poverty.

Tanzania has touched me in other ways that I did not anticipate. As a good liberal, I always mouthed the right words about racism and considered myself on the right side of the issues. Yet, I have always surrounded myself with people who act and look much like I do. In Africa, no one looked like me, except for my family and they usually cross the street when they see me. Here I never felt apprehension. Indeed, I felt that I made connections with Tanzanians that I simply would/could never make in LA. As I considered that, it occurred to me, in a real way for the first time, that racism cheats both the victim and the bigot. I certainly don’t think that’s a profound sentiment, but it provided me another prism though which to consider race in America. I also felt, again for the first time in a meaningful way, how crippling entrenched racism can be.

Finally, the relationships that we made in Tanzania with the locals, the other volunteers and the staff have been profound. I hope that we will be able to continue to foster these relationships as time goes by. Long distance relationships are tough, but these are worth preserving.

Now. . Thailand.

Zanzibar

2007-02-28T18:33:00.000-08:00

As our final adventure in Tanzania, we decided to visit the island of Zanzibar. For whatever reason, Zanzibar struck both Adam and me as this fantastically exotic locale. Why it would seem more exotic than Tanzania, generally, I don’t know.

The transition from our home in Rau to Zanzibar was both easy and hard. It was easy in that Zanzibar is a lovely resort island where we largely relaxed and swam. Our hotel consisted of a series of beach bungalows that have wonderful views of the Indian Ocean. We had two bungalows, so Adam and I even got a bit of privacy, which after 4 weeks in bunk beds was a welcome change of pace. The woman who runs the place is an interesting old bird—a white Kenyan who decided to stay after Independence and make a life, when most the Brits were running for the hills.

One of the most amazing things about the place was that the tides were dramatic. Neither Adam nor I had seen anything quite like it. Note the boat below.

The challenge was the abrupt transition to tourist. One of the benefits of volunteering is that, in a small way, we felt like members of our community, even if we did stick out like sore thumbs. No hope for that in Zanzibar. Like many tropical Islands, their livelihood is derived from tourism, so the locals focus almost completely on catering to the hordes. Even when we tried to use our pigeon Swahili, the locals always answered in English, with a slightly bored tone. In some ways, if you were magically dropped into this island it might take you a while to figure out that you’re in Africa. It really seems like any resort island in the Caribbean or South Pacific. The biggest difference between Zanzibar and another island resort, and even mainland Tanzania, in the strong Arab influence. It’s 90% Muslim so everyone in town is covered from head to toe, while the tourists are sunning themselves in postage size bikinis. The architecture, design and art also seem much more Middle Eastern than African. It’s really quite beautiful, but in a completely different way than the mainland.

We spent the first morning in Stone Town, the center of town, consisting of narrow maze-like roads, with stores, open markets, hotels, and apartments, interspersed throughout. It reminded me a bit of the Arab quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem. It was teeming with life and a bit perilous as cars that really should not fit down most of the roads, bikes and motorized scooters, etc. fly down them at break neck paces. You had to flatten yourself against the wall to avoid being road kill. Our most frequent comment during our self-guided tour of Stone Town was, at the top of our lungs: “Emma, watch out!” I like to joke that our main goal of the trip is to return with the same number of kids as we left with. We survived Stone Town with both of the kids that we came with, a sure sign of a good day.

The next day we went on this highly touristy, but very fun, aquatic safari. There were about 150 of us wazungu (white folks) put on about a dozen traditional Zanzibar boats called Dhows. The first stop was a deserted island reminiscent of the island from the movie Castaway, with lovely white sand. We went snorkeling in the crystal clear water and were able to observe thousands of beautiful fish and other sea creatures. The water was bizarrely warm—almost too warm, but exquisitely beautiful. When we returned to the island, we ate fresh coconut and drank coconut milk, and tried desperately to avoid burning to a crisp. The served us a delicious lunch on another uninhabited island, the highlight of which was an in-depth explanation and tasting of all the island fruit. My favorite was the red banana, which they call the “mzungu banana” since the white people turn red after a few days on Zanzibar. So true! I am as white as ever as I cower from the sun per normal, but the kids are actually starting to look African despite the gallons of sunblock we go through on a weekly basis. We did a few other touristy things—like a highly forgettable spice tour, but mostly we relaxed, swam, ate and read in preparation for the next leg of the journey.

Last Few Days in Rau

2007-02-23T12:04:00.000-08:00

Leaving Rau was disquietingly reminiscent of leaving Los Angeles in January. There were lots of tears, in many ways more poignant tears because we may never see many of these people again. In a relatively short time, we created what appeared to be long lasting friendships—even if most will be long distance and facilitated only via email. As we were leaving, Adam and I realized that deciding to volunteer was the best decision that we made with respect to this trip, both because of the extraordinary experiences we have already had, but also because we have been able to forge lasting friendships that would have been impossible if we had traveled only as tourists for six months. Of the growing list of things I did not consider when we set off on this trip is how hard it would be to create connections with people in the places we visit and then have to say goodbye. Particularly for the girls.

Truth be told, Adam and I are also a bit puzzled over how much of an impression our family seemed to have made. I think having a family at the home base altered the dynamics in many ways for both the other volunteers as well as the staff. To our fellow volunteers, I think we became a combination of parents, friends, playmates and (bizarre as this sounds) maybe even role models for what they can do with their kids when they have them. More touching and wholly unexpected was the way that the staff saw us. In Tanzania, they seem to have such a strong sense of family and obligation. Indeed, Adam and I often felt that there was much we could learn from them, not vice versa. Therefore, it was with both surprise and chagrin that we learned that they saw us as this extraordinary family. I was particularly amused, and pleased, when Edward, Mama Grace’s son and a terrific young man, apparently remarked that our family would serve as a model for what his would be. If they only knew… Even so, we were surprised and extremely touched by the fuss that was made for us as we left. We received incredibly thoughtful gifts from the staff—works of art that were created for us about our family. Stephen and Farahani gave me a wonderful bowl that they had shopped for and chosen carefully (and filled with chocolate). I was particularly taken by a wonderful party given by Stephen, his mother (Mama Change) and Farahani. All parties in Rau, it seems, are not just about eating, drinking and small talk. As with the extraordinary birthday party we attended the week before, they use the occasion to speak from the heart about the honored guests. Shockingly, in this case, us. They took turns speaking about each of us and our family and what we had meant to them during our reasonably short stay in Rau. It was hard for me to grasp what was happening and I was focusing on taking in every moment, even as I sat on the sofa and cried. We then (including Maya and Emma) were each asked to say a few words. We stumbled through and thanked them for opening themselves up, resulting in a profound connection that will not soon be forgotten. We had made some cd’s for Stephen and Farahani –a bizarre combination of Beatles, Black Eyed Peas, Queen and Motown—and the party ended with all of us dancing—everyone including Maya, Emma, Mama Change, the 17 year old boys and even Adam! A fabulous party by any measure—one I will never forget.

Another challenge of leaving, albeit less profound, is the nuisance of packing and the constant nag of feeling like we have too much stuff—but can’t figure out what to get rid of. Finishing a book and even a tube of toothpaste is a triumph because it lightens our load by a few ounces. None of us have an extraordinary amount of stuff. In fact, when compared with most other volunteers, ours was an average, if not moderate, amount. But in the aggregate and when we pack it up and pile it in one place it seems overwhelming.

Soul or Efficiency

2007-02-23T12:02:00.000-08:00

I had, of all things, a pedicure on our last day in Rau. One of the housekeepers in our home base, Mama Judith-who essentially adopted our kids as her own grandchildren (she actually cleaned their shoes when I wasn’t looking one day)—has a granddaughter, Lulu, who does massages, manicures and pedicures and comes to town periodically to provide these services to the volunteers. Given the level of ground in dirt that had been residing in my feet for the past four weeks, the $8 seemed like a worthy investment despite the incongruousness of it all. Of course, I could rationalize it by saying that I was helping to support this young woman, particularly because her grandmother has been so kind to us, but let’s be real. It felt great, I enjoyed every moment and she did a fabulous job. Lulu is an extraordinary young woman. She is twenty one, the eldest sister of a family of 11 kids. Her father is a former Maasai who is now a Muslim (a rather unique combination) with a moderately successful car service business, but likely not successful enough to comfortably support a family of 13. She is an industrious woman who is determined to be independent and successful and not a burden to her family. She also speaks impeccable English and was fascinating to talk to about Tanzanian life and her view of how it compares to life elsewhere. She expressed what I have come to believe is pretty standard among the Tanzanian people—a matter-of-factness about the way things are—they have little, we (Americans/Europeans) have a lot, life in Tanzania is very challenging, but while they wish they were not so poor they are ambivalent about changing the character of their lives. She reiterated the common theme that family, respect for elders and close relationships with friends and members of the community are paramount above all else in Tanzania.

In talking to Lulu, and in considering my time in Rau (the village in which we are living) and Tanzania, I am constantly contemplating the question of soul vs. efficiency. I have frequently had the thought that if I only had the time and resources, I could inject efficiency into the system; help increase productivity, and perhaps, prosperity. That’s not to say that efficiency would cure all ills here. Corruption is widespread. Healthcare is inadequate. Education is spotty. HIV/AIDS is widespread. Nonetheless, you don’t have to participate in many transactions in Tanzania before it becomes painfully obvious that a little efficiency and process could go a long way. Really—give me an hour to organize a store, or train employees or set up a logical process to allow business to operate more effectively, and you would see profits increase. It’s all I can do to walk into a store and refrain from offering to just organize the shelves for them.

At other moments, I wonder what near perfect efficiency has done to the soul of our country. For all of our effectiveness in business, agriculture and information technology, we fundamentally lack the kindness, warmth, generosity and genuine sense of community that permeates everything here. It is incredibly difficult for me, as an American (an anal one at that) to grasp that people would not have a more burning desire to improve their economic circumstances. At the same time, I have no doubt that most of our Tanzanian friends would be horrified to observe the fever pitch in which we (I, in particular) generally operate and how much of our lives are dedicated to planning for the future, often to the complete exclusion of appreciating the present. As we have described in our blogs previously, during the amount of time that Tanzanians spend greeting each other, an industrious person could have solved some number of the world’s problems. The question, of course, is at what cost? The Tanzanian people are true examples of how to live in the moment. There is a sense among Tanzanians that if someone needs something—that they give it, regardless of how little they actually have and whether doing so will hinder their ability to even feed their own family. I have had many debates over the years with people over why mega rich people, like the Bill Gates’ of the world, continue to work so hard to increase their wealth—when they already have enough for themselves and their family to live the most lavish and extravagant of lives into perpetuity. The opposite principle is at work here. While there is certainly a desire to succeed and improve their lot through education, the pervasive drive to maximize wealth and plan for the future is simply not the motivating force of their lives.

Perhaps, it is somewhere betwixt and between that lies the answer. Clearly, enhanced efficiency could increase the financial performance and well being of Tanzanians. It is equally clear that deemphasizing efficiency, in favor of community, patience and kindness would be a welcome contribution to American society. But really, could I just organize a few shelves before I leave??

Forward Progess. . .and Loss of Yardage

2007-02-23T12:00:00.000-08:00

The volunteering experience continued to be a bit of a roller coaster until the final day. There were days that we would walk home elated because the kids seemed to be making progress—recognizing letters and numbers in a context other than sequential order, identifying colors, singing the English songs we taught them and generally falling into a routine that had some resemblance to a proper preschool . I was also pleased that we managed to learn almost all the names (from the oddly normal—“George”, to the truly bizarre “Godbless”), and, from time to time, the kids would even call me “Melissa” or Mwalimu (“teacher”) instead of “mzungu” (which I actually found quite charming). And, I was proud and slightly bemused that I managed to learn most of the Lord’s Prayer in Kiswahili, a somewhat useless skill in the context of the rest of my life. Other days, it seemed like we were back to square one, with even the seemingly brightest kids struggling with the most basis application skills, and us struggling with keeping the kids from just running wild. Also, as the days went on, random new kids, some with severe disabilities, started showing up—perhaps because word got out that there was a mzungu teacher around—even though I was even less equipped to handle that. There were days that my mind was numb from the repetition and monotony of our routine (the same thing 4 times with different groups) that I would look at my watch expecting that an hour had passed when it had only been four minutes. One day, it was pouring rain so hard that we could barely hear each other speak and, since the school is essentially a roof, a few walls and dirt floor, it was all we could do to keep the kids from just rolling in the red clay mud all day. I suspect that all teachers have similar experiences of sensing accomplishment one day and defeat others (one reason I could never actually be a teacher), but in this context it is hard not to feel as though you blew one of the few chances that these kids will ever have.

On our last day, I left with very mixed emotions. I became so attached to these kids and I was genuinely thrilled each morning when the kids heard us coming up the path and ran out to grab us with so much enthusiasm, we had to brace ourselves to avoid falling over. I also felt some sense of accomplishment that we were able to inject some sense of order into an otherwise completely chaotic and ineffectual learning environment, and even observed the kids making some progress. On the other hand, I was shamefully grateful to be relieved of the responsibility for this challenging task of teaching, and engaging these kids without the language, the teaching skills or the resources to do so in any legitimate way. I was pleased that new volunteers showed up before we left so we could orient them to the job and they could continue where we left off instead of starting at square one as we did. Stephen and Farihani, our 17 year old local volunteers actually volunteered to continue until their school starts in a few weeks—so that also gave me some measure of comfort.

Overall, I am grateful for the experience of operating so far out of my comfort zone for a month and living to tell the tale. I also continue to believe I learned more from the experience than the kids did—but I am hopeful that I added some value to their lives and educations. At one point, I was so troubled over feeling useless that I spent a Saturday in the CCS office with Sarah, another volunteer, creating blogs and for all the placements to allow the volunteers to enter information about their experiences and help future volunteers prepare before they come. It was one of the rare days in Tanzania where I was feeling incredibly efficient and almost back to my old Melissa self (Emma was a bit scared). I hope it will be helpful, but perhaps I was just feeding my own selfish need to feel productive.

One aspect of this communal volunteering is hearing heart wrenching stories from other volunteers on an almost daily basis. One was a story about a women—a widow-- who is dying of AIDS. She is so convinced (probably rightfully so) that when she dies there will be no one to care for her kid, that she has started poisoning and burning her son so he will not be left alone. It’s hard to imagine anything more horrifying, particularly when it is likely not a unique story.

End of Tanzania Volunteering-Adam

2007-02-23T11:55:00.001-08:00

This past Tuesday (Feb. 13) was my last day volunteering in Tanzania. It was a bittersweet day. Frankly, the volunteering was hard, both from a teaching standpoint and an ego standpoint. The fact is that teaching English to really poor kids who have very limited English is very challenging. I taught three groups of kids, Form 1 (11-13), Form 2 (14-17), Form 3 (18-19). I think that I did ok with the Form 1 and the Form 2 kids, but I don’t feel that I ever succeeded in reaching the Form 3 kids. In the Form 3 class, I always felt like the ignorable substitute teacher. In that regard, I hereby apologize to all of those substitute teachers who I played a part in harassing over the many years of my education. In the Form 3 classroom, I seemed to be largely talking to myself. Of course, I generally find myself scintillating, but not when I’m actually trying to talk to others. And the thing is that learning English is actually important. The economic opportunities for fluent English speakers in Tanzania are much greater than for those who do not speak English. There’s nothing more disheartening than feeling that you’re not reaching your students and that the subject matter is actually important to their lives. I think I’m being a bit hard on myself, but it was definitely tough.

In terms of the Form 1 and Form 2 kids, I felt somewhat differently. The kids seemed to really like me and I really liked them. Many of them were quite smart and seemed eager to learn. To my great surprise, they seemed sad when I told them that I would not be returning. I’m not sure how effective I was, but I think a bond was created. On the last day, I took pictures and videos of the students, which I showed them, they seemed to enjoy that.

All in all, I really enjoyed the volunteering. I relished being confronted with challenges so different than the challenges I face at home. While it was tough, I feel that my confidence has grown such that I feel more certain that I can conquer different and foreign challenges. I also felt that the relationships that I developed with both the students and the faculty were rewarding. Certainly, were we merely traveling from locale to locale, I would never have had the opportunity to make these types of connections.

In ending the volunteering, I have been giving considerable thought to what I can do on a going forward basis. It seems that all I can really do is give money and/or help raise money. But the question is for whom and how to do it effectively. Throwing money at problems is not always the solution. Indeed, it is a key part of the laudatory credo of Cross Cultural Solutions not to give in a way that engenders dependence. I have been considering a number of options. As indicated in a prior blog, I really admire the mission of Second Chance (the name of my school) to provide another avenue for Tanzanians, who have been left out of the system, to further their education. Clearly, they need money for everything from hiring teachers to buying books to improving their facilities. Another possible recipient is one of my students, Evance, who is in the Form 3 class. Evance is from the poor of the poor. Indeed, as a little kid, he would haul bricks for 1,000 schillings (less than $1.00) per day. He is very smart. On my last day, we talked at length about his desire to become a doctor so that he may work on the HIV/AIDS issues in the country. Fortunately, Second Chance has identified him as a top student, which should help, but that, by no means, guarantees him the ability to obtain the education he deserves and needs. I have been thinking that maybe I should give him a few bucks here and there to help him out. Similarly, as also reflected in my prior posts, I have become entranced with one of the neighborhood orphanages, which is so profoundly desperate for resources. Unfortunately, I cannot give to everything and so I’m torn about which if any of these are the right beneficiaries of my small donations or should I be doing something entirely different.

Also, Melissa used to joke, much to my irritation, that it was her objective to return home with an orphan. While I am quite satisfied with the size of my family, it’s hard not to think about how such an action could so transform the life of one of the orphans. Tanzania makes it nearly impossible for foreigners to adopt. I will guiltily confess that I am relieved by this administrative burden.

Nonetheless, it’s hard to not have your heart touched by this place and I feel a real need to maintain a connection that’s both useful and thoughtful.

It’s so hard to figure out, yet I am committed to figuring something out.

Maya at Matumaini

2007-02-23T11:44:00.000-08:00

As Adam has previously described, Matumaini is an orphanage we visit many afternoons to play with the kids who live there. It is both a desperately sad and deeply inspirational place. The “facility” is nothing more than a ramshackle structure, the kids are the poorest of the poor, rarely have enough to eat, no toys to play with, no family to care for them, and no one to even care what happens to them. Yet, they are full of joy and love in way that inexplicably transcends their circumstances. A volunteer who visited for the first time remarked that they have nothing we have and everything we don’t. I thought that was a profoundly true comment. While we all enjoy playing with the children and can’t help but be touched by their circumstances, Matumaini has struck a deep, and likely lasting, cord in Maya.

Most first timers at Matumaini, myself included, have a moment or two of hesitation or apprehension over their dire circumstances, or even how to communicate and engage with them. Terrible as it may sound, there’s also a moment of concern about what diseases one might get from hugging or even just touching the kids. Maya has none of this. She seems to be possessed of this empathy that relieves her of all concerns. There is something about the experience of being there with the kids that touches her in a place that I don’t think I completely even understand. Indeed, I suspect she does not even fully grasp—or could even clearly articulate why it means so much to her. I think she intellectually understands that these kids have so little, particularly in comparison to her own life. Indeed, this trip was inspired at least in part by our desire to expose our children to situations like these and instill a sense of responsibility to the world beyond ourselves (as she reluctantly, yet eloquently, stated in her Bat Mitzvah d’var Torah). However, her response to these children clearly transcends a sense of duty, pity, empathy or even guilt. Watching Maya with the kids there is absolutely stunning and I am frequently fighting back tears as I watch her engage with the children in such a kind, open and intensely genuine manner. The moment she walks up the path, the kids flock to her and you can almost observe Maya relaxing into what seems to be her most natural element. She plays hand games with them in Swahili, hugs and cuddles them and never lets the language barrier—or any number of other potential barriers, inhibit her. She is just so at home playing with the kids, making them feel special and loved in a way that they rarely get to experience, except with other volunteers (specifically Kim and Erin who originally “adopted” Matumaini and made it an integral part of the CCS Rau volunteer experience).

One afternoon, Maya insisted on going to Matumaini even though it was late and almost time for dinner (and she had yet to do any of the school work she was supposed to do). I let her go (can you really tell your kid that she can’t go visit the orphans), but told her that she needed to be back by 7:00pm sharp (mostly to ensure her safety)—and if not, she would be punished. As I was walking her there, I asked her what the worst punishment would be and suggested taking her computer away. She was hesitant to tell me what the worst punishment would be, but finally admitted that the punishment she dreaded the most would actually be forbidding her to go to Matumaini because she can’t stand being away from the kids. I cried. On Monday, as we tearfully left our volunteer compound in Rau for our next adventure (more on that later), Maya unequivocally stated that of all the extremely close friends she made during our time in Rau, she would miss the Matumaini kids the most. I know it is a cliché, but she is actually growing up before my eyes and I feel so proud and fortunate to be able to observe it all at such close range.

What Has Been Done With My Wife

2007-02-17T09:28:00.000-08:00

With Cross Cultural Solutions, you don’t really have a choice as to where you volunteer. Certainly, they take into account your preferences and skills and, in our case, they had to take into account what would be appropriate for the kids. In any event, as we previously posted, Melissa and Maya ended up being placed at Kigongoni pre-school. Melissa’s already gone into detail about the placement, so I won’t bother repeating. However, this past Wednesday, I went with her and Emma to the school just to get a sense of what she’s been doing the past four weeks.

Suffice it to say that I learned that Melissa was so firmly thrown out of her comfort zone, that it was kind of funny. A brief recap on Melissa: She’s a neat freak, she’s impatient, she’s driven, she cannot stand repetition, she prizes efficiency over almost all else and, let’s be frank, Melissa would not normally choose to surround herself with 50 pre-school kids, even under the best of circumstances.

So, I was truly amazed to see the transformation of my wife. We arrived and all of the kids ran to her like she was Mary Poppins. They fought to grab her hands and just to touch her in some way. Melissa, as is typically the case, arrived before the teacher got there. Yet, there were already 15 to 20 kids running all around the “facility.” After an initial group meeting, which is really the only time that the actual teacher does anything, Melissa takes kids in groups of 10. With each group of kids, she leads them in such classic activities as singing Who Has Come to School Today; Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes; Mister Clown; the Hokey Pokey and then playing Chui, Chui, Simba (Cheetah, Cheetah, Lion which is Tanzanian Duck, Duck, Goose) and Red Light, Green Light. Even more remarkable, after the singing and the games, Melissa had an art project prepared for the kids. To put this in context, I think I can safely say that in the 13+ years that we have had kids, Melissa has not done one single art project with our kids. As a side note, the art project was to create Valentine’s Day cards. Yes, they celebrate Valentine’s Day in Tanzania. Odd. But if this was not enough, Melissa had to repeat this set of activities four times. After the first two times, I wanted to blow my brains out. Yet, Melissa was the picture of patience and equanimity. I can only conclude that someone has kidnapped my wife.

I became certain of her abduction, when she proceeded to take pictures of all of the kids and spent hours assembling the pictures, stickers, pencils, notebooks, etc. as a going away gift for the kids.

A whole new softer side of Melissa. Of course, this only serves to further highlight my own deficiencies in this regard. Oh, well.

PS: We just returned from a small party, where we were the guests of honor. Really, it was Melissa. As Melissa mentioned in one of her postings, two local boys assisted her and Maya at her placement. She became great friends with the boys, who adore her, and with their mothers. At this party, they went around the room and each person told us (Maya and Emma were with us), what a great family we were and how glad they were that we had come to Tanzania. It felt a little bit like the IKAR board “surprise” party. I credit my wife for bringing such warmth and love into everything she does.

The Massai, the Poet-Tour Guide and the Guitar Playing Warrior

2007-02-15T09:59:00.000-08:00

This weekend, we decided to go on a cultural safari to learn more about the Massai tribe. I love doing these cultural safaris, but it also always makes me a feel a bit uncomfortable, as if we’re going to a zoo to look at the interesting people. However, it seems that the tribes that we have met are comfortable with the arrangement, which does provide some economic benefit to the tribe. The four of us traveled with two of our fellow volunteers who Maya and Emma have adopted as their personal camp counselors, Jenny and Sarah. After a few stops, first after the radiator exploded, and then in Arusha for supplies (including shoes for Emma who thought flip flops were appropriate for long hikes and visits in villages made of cow dung), we headed to Longido, which is an hour north of Arusha. Longido is an area where a significant number of Massai live. As I related in a previous posting, the Massai are a regal people that lead semi-nomadic pastoral lives, largely unchanged for thousands of years. Core to the Massai belief system is that all cows are the property of the Massai. As you can imagine, this can be a source of some conflict with those who do not share those beliefs. Indeed, back in the day (maybe a 100 years ago or so), they were fierce warriors. Cows have a central role for the Massai. They’re the source of all wealth. They are accumulated, milked, sold and eaten. Milk is a key part of the diet of the Massai. (I could not help but wondering what happens to a lactose intolerant Massai. Maybe, Rake/Light, there’s a series in that?) When slaughtered, the cows are suffocated, so that no blood is lost. The reason for that is that Massai drink the blood, either alone or with milk. The blood is considered essential for their nourishment –particularly for the warriors.

The Massai have a very rigid caste system of sorts where boys, first become junior warriors, then warriors, and then elders. The stage from junior warrior to warrior (usually at around age 15 or 16) is accompanied by a circumcision ritual that, quite frankly, makes Jewish circumcision look downright benign. The women, of course, are subservient and are expected to produce many, many children. Also, while now illegal, the Massai still secretly practice female circumcision. This is apparently because Maasai men have many wives, and are concerned about being able to satisfy all of them if they are capable of experiencing sexual pleasure.

Abbas, our tour guide, is an interesting fellow. He’s 41 years old and is from Kenya. He’s both an artist and a tour guide. He speaks English very well. He has the feel of a zen master or guru. He’s always dispensing life wisdom and, unlike me, people listen to him. Having grown up in a huge family (I think 20 children), with a father who had three wives, he’s particularly concerned about the plight of the African family and African women. In this regard, a lot of his painting pays homage to the tremendous burdens placed on the African woman.

After the drive, due to the muddy conditions, we ended up setting up camp in what seemed like someone’s backyard. Yes, I camped ending my 25 years of assiduously avoiding sleeping in a tent. After 9 weeks in a tent as a 14 year old, I felt that I could move on to more permanent accommodations. As the tents we’re being set up, we met Robert, our Massai guide, who was also a fascinating guy. Robert is a member of the Massai tribe, who has chosen to lead a more modern life. This is a very rare decision for members of the Massai tribe. To be clear, he’s still fiercely proud of his Massai heritage, but has elected to live in an apartment, instead of with his Maasai family

The first item on the agenda, after setting up our tent, was to visit a Massai Boma, essentially a fenced in corral, where a number of Massai families live. Out of respect, we dressed in the traditional Massai shuka.

I’m thinking that it’s a good look for me.

As we walked to the Boma we were accompanied by a number of Massai children on their way back from school. The government has been engaged in a concerted effort to get the Massai to send their kids to school. Many of the Massai elders were initially reluctant to send their kids to school, preferring to not disrupt the Massai lifestyle. It seems that, after many years, the government effort is succeeding. More and more kids attend school. One of the things that we noticed on the walk is that as the kids joined us, they would all go up to Robert and put their heads down waiting for Robert to touch their heads. It is a very simple but touching gesture. The kids started to put their heads down to us, as well.

We shortly arrived at the boma. The outside of the corral is fenced off with various plants, in particular a prickly plant that is kind of like barbed wire. As you enter, you see that on the outer circle are three or four sets of circular huts. The huts are made of grass and cow dung, with thatched roofs. Each set is for one family and the number of huts depends on the number of wives. Each wife gets her own hut. The husband rotates from hut to hut, on no particular schedule, as far as I understood. The other sets of huts are for other families that are all friends. The central area of the boma is for the cows and goats. Each morning, the Massai take their herds to find the best grass and then return to the boma at night.

As you approach, the Boma, as with so much in Tanzania, you are confronted with a sensory bouillabaisse. In the distance, you see the brilliant and regal clothing adorning the Massai. They wear brilliant wraps, in various shades of red and purple. The women wear huge and beautiful jewelry. The men also have pierced ears, with piercings that are big enough to put a coffee cup through-literally. They are really a stunning sight.

The next sensory experience is smell. As you can imagine, with cows living in the center of the boma and huts made up of cow dung, the smell of crap is, well, pervasive. Accompanying the smell are the flies, flies as far as the eyes can see. As you walk in, you’re simply assaulted by flies. In addition, the little children have a moustache of flies around their mouths, eyes and noses. It’s hard to not run away in horror. But, at the same time, the Massai that we met were extraordinarily warm and gracious. Therefore, the emotions are swirling: On the one hand, I had a desire to head for the hills to relieve myself from this sensory assault, and then, on the other hand, I felt crushingly guilty for being so incredibly uptight.

In any event, we entered the boma and then we were escorted into one of the huts. The huts are dark, cramped, dusty and smelly.

As I was sitting there, in the dark, we were invited to take pictures. Imagine my surprise, when I just pointed and clicked, with my flash, and realized that I had taken a picture of a breast feeding Massai woman. It was so dark, I simply did not know that she was there.

After a few minutes in the hut, I had to get out for fear of anaphylactic shock.

At this point, the warriors started to return. They are stunningly attired and carry knives and wood sticks used to prod the cattle. They all gathered together and allowed us to take many pictures. Standing there, they had this air of supreme confidence and certainty. In some ways, they seemed like young men, anywhere, convinced that they’re invincible, that the world is theirs for the taking. Perhaps, this was enhanced by their fierce pride in their heritage.

They then started this interesting dance, where the men essentially jumped as high as they could.

The children stood transfixed, watching the warriors.

The cows then came home and filled the center of the boma. At that point, we were told that we would have the opportunity to milk the cows, which is considered woman’s work. That being the case, I had all the excuse I needed to avoid the opportunity. Yet, of course, my wife took her turn. Let’s just say that if the Massai had to rely on Melissa’s cow milking technique, they would now be extinct.

We then headed back to the camp site, where we had a great dinner. Dinner was followed by an unusual surprise. Robert, our Massai tour guide, pulled out his guitar and started singing, everything from Bob Marley’s Legend to Peter, Paul and Mary’s Leaving on a Jet Plane. He was surprisingly good. He reminded me of a less well trained Hillel, with far less command over popular lyrics.

We went to sleep, where I had an atrocious night’s sleep. I really don’t understand the ostensible charms of sleeping in a tent.

That next morning, we headed to a cave that is used by the local Massai men for a variety of different purposes, training, healing, ceremonies, etc. When we arrived, there were two Massai warriors with two boys. Apparently, the boys were there because they were sick. While the Massai will, from time to time, go seek conventional medical care (such that it exists in Tanzania), they still largely rely on traditional healing techniques.

In this instance, one of the children was sick so a cow was sacrificed and special meals were being prepared to heal the child. By the time that we had arrived, they had been there for a few days already and the child seemed fine. As we arrived, they were preparing another meal. There was meat being grilled and some kind of soup, the color of mud, was simmering. When I peered into the soup pot, it was all I could do to not throw up. In addition, to the “standard” parts of the cow was the stomach and the intestines.

Looks yummy, huh!? I’m all for cultural sensitivity, but it would be a cold day in hell before I ate that. Maya and Emma were great, but were clearly fighting the gag reflex.

The last activity of the day was visiting a foreteller. Quite frankly, other than shaking and pouring out stones, I really had no idea what he does. Apparently, women that cannot conceive go to him to find out if they’ll ever have kids. I’m not sure what else he does. Nonetheless, he was kind of a stunning presence. Interestingly, he had five wives and 20 kids.

Finally, we bought some tchothkes at a small Massai market, which had been assembled for our benefit.

Thus, ended another weekend adventure.

Extraordinary Birthday Party

2007-02-12T10:12:00.000-08:00

To assist in my placement, two local 17 year old boys have mercifully agreed to work with me. They are terrific, warm boys. I’m constantly remarking that it’s hard for me to imagine 17 year old US boys agreeing to help out a 42 year old woman at a chaotic and ill-equipped nursery. Yet, they do so and they do it with great love and concern. I have become quite close to the boys and I have had the great privilege of being invited to their homes on a few occasions for tea and just hanging out—sometimes we even watch videos of Tanzanian hip hop artists. Their families are so unbelievably warm and welcoming that the few awkward silences that accompany these encounters are well worth the experience.

One particularly remarkable experience was a 21st birthday party for the brother of Steven, one of the 17 year old boys. His mother, Mama Chenge, happens to be the women to whom many of the volunteers send out their laundry, and is the landlord for a few of the CCS staff. She has also graciously showed a few of us around town and helped us avoid the mzungu prices when making some local purchases.

It is hard to describe what an extraordinary party this was—but I will try.

The house is what I suspect is a fairly typical middle class, village Tanzanian home. The main room is about 150 square feet with simple furnishings, reasonably sparse decor and immaculately clean. There were about 30 people there—though it was not clear to me whether they had planned a much smaller celebration that had expanded due to their extremely welcoming nature. It seemed as though the entire community was in attendance—the local artist/tour guide, the bartender from across the street, most of the CCS staff who live within a few hundred meters of the home base. In many ways, it reminded me of my extended family—long time friends that become indistinguishable from blood relatives. The party started as parties typically do—people sitting around drinking soda and beer and making small talk. Then, the official celebration began. The birthday boy is a cute, hip looking guy—as are his brothers. One of the local guys, Abbas, who is apparently like a son to Mama Chenge, served as the MC. Abbas asked the big sister to start the evening with a prayer that was in Swahili. While I did not understand it, it was clearly very welcoming and sweet. He then asked the birthday boy, to cut the cake into tiny pieces and feed a piece to each of his dad, his mom, his big sister, his brothers and his adorable two-year old nephew. Once the family was fed and shown the appropriate respect, he went around to each of the guests and fed us each a bite of cake. Then, the speeches. Certain people were asked to give the birthday boy some words of wisdom. Many of the speeches were given in English, presumably to make the few mzungus in attendance feel welcome, even though it was clearly a challenge for many of them. Abbas translated the few that were in Swahili. Each speech was a sweet, heartfelt, sometimes funny, sometime serious bit of advice for a 21 year old boy who had so many choices and challenges in front of him. He was told to finish his education, to be careful about the choices he makes, to always keep God first, to always be grateful for what you have, to keep the good friends you have and choose new ones wisely. I was a bit horrified when, after several family members spoke, I was asked to speak, apparently because I had been working with Stephen and I am considered a sort of elder here among the volunteers, thanks to my status as the mother to the two volunteer watoto (children). I managed to string something together, between my own tears, about how fortunate he was to be part of this family and community and how privileged we felt to be part of the celebration. The most emotional moment was when the birthday boy finally spoke. He thanked his dad in a fairly perfunctory manner which I later learned was because Mama Chenge is his second wife and this family is somewhat neglected by the father. He then spoke to his mother in the most profoundly beautiful manner. He spoke of how his mother had sacrificed for him and how fortunate he has been for all she has done for him. He promised to make lots of money and take care of his mother—even to buy her a new Rolls Royce when his ship comes in. There was truly not a dry eye in the house. Indeed, he even left in the middle to compose himself from the tears flowing. I inquired as to whether this was a particularly special celebration because it was his 21st birthday—but learned that this is how they celebrate all birthdays in this family.

My description fails to capture the true sense of community that permeated the entire evening, the genuine love and devotion among everyone in attendance and I was even touched by the way all of the 20 something boys played with their 2 year nephew. My description also makes this all sound a bit formal, when it was in fact incredibly casual and warm even as everyone was intensely focused on the proceedings. We mzungus should have felt like outsiders—but instead, we were treated like honored guests and warmly embraced. In fact his father commented in his speech that he is so special, even the mzungus came to his party. It is impossible for me to imagine a similar celebration in the States. I imagine most boys in their early 20s would have some cake, thank their mom and run out to hang out with their friends at some much hipper venue. Truly one of the most touching experiences of my trip thus far.

From Zen to NY in 6 Seconds Flat

2007-02-12T10:07:00.000-08:00

For all my talk about enjoying the pace of life here in Tanzania and the de-emphasis on the material side of things, my baser instincts came out a few days ago. Melissa and I decided that we wanted to change our travel plans a bit. We were scheduled to leave from Kilimanjaro to Nairobi on Feb 23. However, we decided, instead, that we would go to Zanzibar for a few days and wanted to change our flights so that we would fly to Kilimanjaro then to Zanzibar thenn to Nairobi. We assumed that since we had fully refundable tickets and were proposing to use the same airline, Precision Air, this would not be a problem. We were sorely mistaken. After trying to work this out in our nearest “city,” Moshi, we were advised that we had to go to the ticket office in Arusha, a bigger city about an hour and a half away. We planned to go to Arusha to observe the UN Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, so it was not terribly inconvenient. As we were walking into the ticket office, Melissa gently reminded me that I should be nice, to which I hostilely responded: “If you don’t like the way I deal with this, you do it.” A nice beginning to the morning. First, we tried to convince Precision Air that they could apply what we paid for the prior ticket to the new routing. Initially, the agent simply said no. We pressed the issue a bit which prompted the agent to engage in several drawn out conversations in Swahili with other employees. I was getting more and more frustrated. At one point, as frequently happens in Tanzania, they lost electicity, bring the whole matter to a complete halt. After the electricity was restored and after going back and forth for over an hour, we gave up and decided to simply buy the tickets and deal with the refund at a later time. They calculated the amount owed on the new tickets, which was about $1,400. We then offered to pay in credit card and then traveler’s checks—both of which they rejected. Cash only. Understand, this is an airline—not some fly by night operation (pardon, the pun). It appears as though the entire Tanzanian economy is run in cash. The fact that the highest denomination available is 10,000 shillings (about $9) is a reasonably good indication of the dire economic situation this country is in . Needless to say, we were not walking around with $1,400 in cash. At this point, I wanted to fly across the desk and slowly strangle the ticket agent, but I realized it really was not her fault. Nonetheless, I took off, in 5,000 degree sun, looking desperately for a place to cash our traveler’s checks. I found a place that must have been for idiot travelers, because it offered the worst exchange rate that I have seen in my entire time in Tanzania. Substantially worse. Having no options, I cashed our traveler’s checks. I ran back to the ticket office, with a dangerous amount of cash-dodging a multitude of souvenir hawkers along the way. I made it back to the ticket office, drenched with sweat. At this point, Melissa and I were dangerously close to being late to meet our group, at which point our ride home would have left without us—with our children. The ticket agent proceeded to count the money (a mixture of US$ and Tanzanian schillings) at a snail’s pace while applying some incomprehensible exchange calculation. Of course, the first time that she counted the money, she made an error and the whole excruciating process had to start over. At this point, my calm and collected wife was ready to burn down the ticketing office.

I guess the moral of the story is that you can take the kid out of the West, but you can’t take the West out of the kid.

Running in Rau

2007-02-12T10:03:00.000-08:00

I heeded my mother in law’s repeated advice and refrained from running while on Safari to avoid being a lion’s breakfast-even though we were sitting in a Landcruiser for 10 days straight and it was hard to restrain myself. After a few days in our volunteer home base where we eat 3 huge meals a day—heavy on the carbs (no such thing as Atkins here, trust me), and sitting on my tush for the rest of the time, I decided it was time to get some exercise. Fortunately, I had some other willing volunteers to venture out with me on my first few runs, but as I am an early riser, and most of the rest of the volunteers are in their 20’s, my 6AM run soon became a solo affair. This is actually fine with me. At home, my early morning solo runs are one of my great pleasures—allowing me to think quietly before I begin my day. Even with the slower African pace here, I still appreciate the quiet time.

Beyond lung and muscle capacity, there are several other challenges to running in Rau. There is, of course, the need to avoid the goats and chickens crossing the road (and it is really hard to avoid thinking of the joke every time). In addition, I must do this while intensely concentrating on the placement of my feet to avoid falling into one of the ubiquitous pot holes, mud puddles on just uneven patches of “road” so I don’t break my leg—or neck. It is some comfort to know that if I did fall, I would undoubtedly have a troop of villagers ready and willing to escort me home.

Another aspect of note when I am running through the village is that I cut quite a figure. Obviously, there is the fact that I’m wearing running shorts (not commonly worn here) with my lily white legs and Jewish hips. As if that were not enough, Tanzanian women simply do not run (and very few men run). At this point, they have seen enough running mzungus to know that I’m not a fleeing felon or running from a lion. However, it’s still a somewhat unusual sight and I am an object of some curiosity to everyone I pass.

In Tanzania, the greeting ritual is an essential and constant part of life. This is one of the many charms of the people of Tanzania, but it does raise some logistical challenges during my morning runs. First, there is the challenge of figuring out which greeting is appropriate. If it is someone older or of higher stature than yourself, you say “shikamoo”, if not, you just pick from one of the variety of greetings—mambo, jambo, nipe tano (give me five), etc… Honestly, it’s hard enough to make these distinctions when I am standing still and focusing completely on the task. Ages are very difficult to discern here, at least for me. Indeed, the teacher with whom I work is insistent that I am 28 (one very good reason to stay in Africa….). So as I am running, without my glasses and doing my best to navigate the above mentioned physical obstacles, I am probably offending everyone I run pass. The other amusement is that Tanzanians customarily say “pole” (sorry), when they greet someone who has engaged or is engaging in difficult labors—or really anything that seems remotely exerting (e.g. walking slowly up a hill). For instance, kids walking home from school will be greeted with “pole.” So are mzunga runners. I only recently learned that the appropriate response is “asante” (thank you).

The 100s of kids I pass also never miss an opportunity to greet me as I run by and often start running with me—grabbing my hand and then dropping off as I move on. I particularly love it when a kid is trying to practice English and s/he yells “What is my name Mzungu,” making the same grammatical mistake that I am certain I make on an hourly basis with my remedial, pidgeon Swahili. Somehow, I suspect my butchering of Swahili is far less charming than when done by the adorable Tanzanian kids.

So, my runs serve a multitude of purposes—exercise for me, English practice for local kids and the endless amusement of the locals.

Random Thoughts (in no particular order)

2007-02-06T03:20:00.000-08:00

Trip to a Market:

This past Wednesday, all of the CCS volunteers had a field trip. We visited a number of different sites. It was all very touristy, though interesting. The highlight for me was visiting the Kisombo Market, an open air market. It was amazing. The place had the feel of a Jackson Pollock painting come to life. The smells, the sounds, the colors were like nothing I have ever seen. The market was divided up into rickety wood stands. Everything was sold there: baskets and baskets of different types of beans, fruits, vegetables, brilliant fabrics, shoes, fish. At the back of the market, they were grinding corn into corn flower, which will be used to make Ugali, a staple of the Tanzanian diet (a stiff porridge like substance that takes on the flavor of whatever sauce with which it is served). The women were all wearing brilliantly colorful wraps and head coverings. Some were traditional tops, while some wore American t-shirts (eg. I saw one woman wearing a shirt Daring Me to Stay Off Drugs and another was wearing a Cleveland Indians Jersey). The place was just a kaleidoscope of color and activity.

Existential Considerations:

My mom, when she was deep in her studies for her masters in marriage and family therapy, related to us that there is a theory that says that human beings are generally preoccupied with one of four areas of concern: fear of death, fear of being alone, free choice and the meaning of life (the existential). Clearly, for me, I have always been preoccupied with the existential. I remember that even as a kid, I was always thinking about the existential crap shoot that is life—I was a very cheerful child. Lest you think that I was overly morbid, upon hearing that humans only use a small percent of their brains, I was also obsessed with obtaining super powers through the use of the rest of my brain. It’s a wonder I was not more popular. Nonetheless, it is impossible to not consider existential matters living here in Tanzania. The wealth disparity, the education disparity, the lack of real opportunity for change are inescapable. In contrast, I look at my children and see that they’re only limited by their own imaginations. It’s impossible to not think about the unfairness of the world.

However, on the other hand, there’s an openness and gentleness to the Tanzanian people that seems to belie their circumstances. Starting with our safari, we were struck by the friendliness of the Tanzanian people. They greet us with genuine warmth and openness. As you drive by, people wave to you—yelling out Mzunga. When we walk by, kids grab our hands, adults shake our hands. Can you imagine that in LA or NY? As Melissa said, they seem to live in desperate poverty, but not in desperation. While there is nothing noble about poverty, it is clear that poverty is a relative concept—resulting from a comparison of the haves with the have-nots. Here the vast majority are have-nots, thus rendering the comparison less obvious than it is in, say, Los Angeles or New York. Does the lack of material things, the lack of materialism generally, explain their openness? Maybe without the compulsion to compete or amass property that is endemic in the West, humans have a greater capacity for warmth and contentment. I don’t know, but I hope that when we return to our “real” lives, we can retain some of that openness. However, that said, conspicuous consumption can be fun.

Mzunga Pricing:

We were warned that when purchasing things there would be two prices, one for Tanzanians and one for Mzungas. We were told that we should endeavor to the get the local prices. Indeed, getting local pricing seems to be a proxy for how well you’re assimilating into Tanzanian society. It recently occurred to me that this was a ridiculous way of thinking about this. As a matter of fairness, shouldn’t those with more, pay more? My good friend, Kirk, is a tax law professor at UCLA law school and we frequently discuss tax issues (much to our wives’ dismay and boredom). There is a theoretical approach to taxation, known as an endowment tax, which posits that people should pay taxes based not on their incomes, but rather on their native abilities to earn. Clearly, with all due deference to Kirk, this is an example of an academic theory with virtually no application in real life. However, in thinking about this Mzunga pricing issue, it occurred to me that this was kind of an endowment tax. As a reasonably well-educated American from an affluent background, my earning capacity is great, therefore, maybe I should pay more. Separate and apart from arcane tax theory, there is the reality that you find yourself getting into an intense negotiation and then, when you take a moment, you realize that you’re negotiating over the equivalent of $1.23. What’s the point?

Matumaini Orphanage:

In one of my prior posts, I talked about this orphanage. From time to time, I will walk there with my kids and other volunteers. As the pictures from the prior blog show, the orphanage is in dire straits. It too looks like a crack house. The kids are dressed in tattered and filthy clothes. One or more of the kids often has some injury or open cut. Some of the kids may have AIDS and many are HIV positive. The kids are responsible for walking a 1/4 to 1/2 mile to collect water and are responsible for doing their own laundry, all of which they do with a smile on their beautiful faces. Yet, for reasons that are not clear to me, visiting there is simply uplifting. Seeing the joy on the kids’ faces when we arrive, playing soccer with them, watching my daughters play hand games with the kids, watching the kids run into Maya’s and Emma’s arms, feeling them grab my hands—it is simply inexplicably moving and inspiring.

Coke Is It, Really

One of the first things that we noticed upon arriving in Africa was that every store front sign is essentially split screen with one side advertising Coca Cola and the other side stating the name of the store. These signs are ubiquitous. In one five minute interval, Emma counted 40. You even see these signs used for such non-commercial enterprises as hospitals and even some churches. My speculation is that Coke gives away the signs for free for the sake of spreading its brand. Odd and slightly disturbing.

Julius Nyerere (known as the “Teacher”):

He was the first president of Tanzania. I have only learned a bit about him, but he seems to have been an extraordinary man. If you consider Tanzania’s neighbors, such as Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, you can’t help but wonder how Tanzania became this oasis of peace. This is particularly extraordinary when you consider that Tanzania is made up of over 120 tribes and is relatively evenly split between Christians and Muslims, both recipes for internal strife, if not outright civil war. It seems that everyone agrees that Nyerere is to be credited with this stunning achievement. I have not yet been given a completely persuasive answer as to what Nyerere did, but here are a few factors:

1. He managed to effectuate a reasonably peaceful transition from British control to independence.
2. Based on the African values of community and family, and influenced both by Marx and the Chinese, he advocated communalism, which placed the vast majority of Tanzanians on reasonably equal footing with one another.
3. He adopted Swahili as the national language, which was a unifying force among the 120 tribes.
4. He made sure to appoint ministers from the various tribes in his government to communicate that no tribe was being preferred over another.
5. A couple of years after independence, he managed the delicate combination of Tanganyika and Zanzibar, resulting in the country of Tanzania. Among the many challenges was that Zanzibar was almost completely Muslim, while Tanganyika was primarily Christian.

Clearly, this is just the tip of the iceberg and I want to learn more about this amazing figure, who is really universally revered in Tanzania.

Kilimanjaro

2007-02-04T05:09:00.000-08:00

We had a terrific, if harrowing, weekend excursion to a great a little lodge about 9000 feet up Mount Kilimanjaro, roughly the halfway point to the summit. At roughly 19,000 feet, Kilimanjaro is both the tallest mountain in Africa and the tallest free-standing mountain in the world (meaning not in a range with other mountains). We arrived in the rain after an hour an a half ride on a bumpy road that made some of the safari roads we had previously bounced along seem like the Pacific Coast Highway. Bone jarring. We actually did not make it all the way to the lodge. The car spun out on the mud, narrowly missed going down the embankment, and crashed (gently) into a tree. We weren’t far from the lodge, so we happily walked the rest of the way. The kids, who were completely freaked by the drive, did not even complain about the .5 kilometer walk straight up hill in the pouring rain. Some local children ran out with umbrellas for us (indicating that our experience was not particularly unusual) and women from the Chaga tribe greeted us with a beautiful dance. At 9000 feet, the weather was cooler than anything we have experienced thus far in Africa—and no mosquitoes! The mountain was covered in clouds when we first arrived, but then the rain stopped, the clouds parted and we were treated to a magical view of the snow capped peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. It’s quite extraordinary to see this majestic mountain covered in snow rising from the dusty African savananah. I have truly never seen anything like it and it was immediately clear why so much literature has been inspired by the sight.

We had the lodge to ourselves and, after a lovely one hour walk in the rain forest on the mountain, we were treated to more Chaga dances, drumming and even a sing along. This was clearly a bit of a show for the mzungas (white people), but unlike similar scenes I have witnessed in other countries where they seem to be going through the motions, there is a sense here that the singers and dancers are genuinely enjoying sharing their culture. Nonetheless, the whole scene reminded me of IKAR. The women started dancing, the men slowly joined it and soon the entire place was swept up in the joy and rhythm of the dance, including me (of course), Emma, Adam and, briefly and exceedingly reluctantly, Maya. Adam displayed his usual facility with rhythm and vocal abilities and we all, including the locals, had a nice laugh. Adam and I enjoyed our first evening alone together since this adventure started and we awoke to a glorious view of the mountain.

We hiked to a beautiful waterfall called Mnambe, apparently a sacred and spiritual place for members of the Chagga tribe. The walk there was easy and pleasant, if somewhat slippery and muddy. The return journey was straight up hill in the blazing sun for 2.5 hours. The kids kvetched and begged us to call a car (as if we could) but they persevered and made it up, and were both pleased with their accomplishment.

If the trip up the mountain was bumpy and slightly jarring, the ride down was absolutely terrifying. A few minutes into the trip, the rain started again and our minivan slid around the road like an out of control beginning skier on an icy black diamond run. Or, perhaps, like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride—without the track…or seatbelts… or risk of death. Indeed, we learned that slick mud can be every bit as hazardous as snow. Much to my irritation, Adam kept looking back at me with a panicked look, which made it harder for me to assure the girls that all was fine. The driver seemed reasonably unperturbed during the most treacherous parts so I chose to believe that this was not particularly extraordinary. However, when the rain stopped and the road evened out a bit, he turned around and said “we are safe now” ominously indicating that we had not been for the previous 30 minutes. Needless to say, the familiar sight of our little village of Rau was a welcome one.

Volunteering Week 2: Adam--A New School

2007-02-04T04:40:00.000-08:00

Week 2 of volunteering presented both new opportunities and challenges. Needless to say, I was very glad when Friday of Week 1 arrived. Certainly, that, in and of itself, is not a novel sentiment. However, as Melissa pointed out, a week of volunteering feels a bit like a month of 70 hour work weeks. This is particularly odd given that we’re only working from 8:00 to 12:00 or so. However, the work is challenging, the conditions are challenging, the language barrier is challenging, etc. Also, while I have always endeavored to excel at what I do, the pressure that I put on myself here is much greater. This, I think, is the way it should be.

As I indicated in my last posting, I decided to change my placement. I just felt that being at a private school, teaching well-off (by Tanzanian standards) kids, was not the best use of my time. Moreover, as I also mentioned, I was taking time away from more talented teachers. Though, given Melissa’s experience, I was somewhat concerned about moving away from a relatively easy placement to a potentially more difficult one. Nonetheless, in the spirit of doing things outside of my comfort zone, for week two I moved to a school called Second Chance. Let me briefly share my understanding of the Tanzanian Education System (which may only be partially correct). There are government schools and private schools. Generally, all kids will go to primary school (some will go to private primary schools). It is worth noting that even the government schools have fees, which while low, present obstacles for the poorest among the Tanzanian children. After completing primary school students are required to take the Standard 7 exam. Only if they pass, will they be permitted to attend the government secondary schools. The primary schools essentially go up to age 11 or 12, but the age ranges vary within each level as the students must develop competency in a given level before moving up. Therefore, Tanzanian teachers are confronted with the additional challenge of multi age classes. Students who fail the Standard 7 exam are in a difficult position. Students who are more well-off may attend private schools. This is where Second Chance comes in. It is for those students who have failed the Standard 7 exam, want to complete further education, but do not have the resources to do so. Many of the students are orphans, living with extended families, with ages ranging from 12 to 20. The school desperately needed English teachers. Therefore, its mission met my objectives of working in an environment that had a broader social objective.

So, I showed up on Monday to a school in disarray. They rent one building that looks a bit like a crack house. There are water stains on all of the ceilings, the walls are pock marked. On my first day, I merely observed. The class rooms are small and have nothing. Indeed, that first day we had to pass back and forth the rag that was doubling as the eraser. Chalk was also in short supply. The students were in uniforms, somewhat. Somewhat because they were dressed in a hodge podge of ripped hand-me down clothes. There was definitely a bleak feeling to the place. Moreover, the school does not have sufficient faculty. Indeed, as I walked around the school, there were many points in time where the students were left alone. However, the students were of good spirits and seemed eager to learn.

On Tuesday, it was time for me to teach. While I was somewhat less intimidated by the teaching because of my prior experience, quite frankly, it is terrifying the first time. When I taught at USC Law School, which was terrifying enough, I had all the resources in the world and the invaluable support of my teaching colleague. Here, I was teaching a bunch of desperately poor kids, who speak very little English, with barely enough chalk to go around. My choices were to teach English and/or Math. When I realized that the math involved teaching quadratic equations, I opted for English. It went ok As I said, the kids are good kids and seem eager to learn. However, I was still struggling to teach English in the manner that they were used to, very grammar and rule bound. Really boring.

The next day, I decided on a new game plan. I determined that the best thing that I could do for my remaining time at the school was focus on conversational English and teaching a bit about America, particularly because the other teacher was going to focus on the grammar anyway. I discussed with him and he thought it was a good idea. The next two days went better, as a result. The kids really enjoyed asking questions about me, my family and America and were practicing their English at the same time. I also cut out pictures of Americana from various magazines to use to initiate discussion. I asked them to guess my age. To my great delight, their guesses were all in the twenties. A nice change of pace from the States, where everyone generally assumes that I’m ten years older than I actually am. The funniest moment was when I also told them Melissa’s age. They literally gasped. They explained that it is simply unheard of for men to marry older women.

On Thursday, I was also invited to join a faculty meeting, which was an interesting experience. The meeting was called to announce the hiring of a new headmaster. The school had never had a headmaster before and this was seen as a very positive step. The meeting was conducted professionally, in English for my benefit, with a thoughtful presentation of the problems facing the school: insufficient resources, insufficient faculty, inconsistent schedule, etc. The teachers there were very committed to the mission of providing the students a Second Chance and were impressive both in their dedication and their knowledge. It was very uplifting.

As the week ended, I felt pretty good about what I was doing, while at the same time feeling pressure to be better prepared for the following week.

Volunteering Week 2: Melissa

2007-02-03T22:33:00.000-08:00

The volunteering continues to be extremely challenging. Perhaps I have said this before, it makes being an assistant dean at USC Law and the start-up president of IKAR (combined!) seem like a walk in the park.

We have gotten to know most of the kids’ names at our school placement—though with 50 of them, and so many coming in and out on random days, we are still working on it. It’s hard to know whether this preschool is a good example of the way the educational system works, but if so, I can see why so many people struggle. The focus is clearly on rote memorization without any focus at all on teaching application skills. The teacher spends day after day forcing them to recite and write the numbers 1-10 or a-e-i-o-u (not sure why vowels and not the alphabet). Besides being hideously boring for the kids (and us), it clearly is not working. If you point to, say “9” they have no ability to identify it correctly. We have been attempting to devise activities to do that to help them learn to identify and use the numbers and letters. Some have been successful and some, not so much. For example, the charm of Dr. Seuss is clearly lost on them. Between their extremely limited English skills and the fact that it is so outside their normal learning process, it’s just a stretch. We are really learning as we go and trying to do the best we can. Of course, the introduction of more active lessons has substantially exacerbated the dust problem in the classroom. I can only imagine what the inside of our lungs will look like after two weeks—not to mention the lungs of the kids who are there all the time.

One fortunate devolopment in the volunteering arena is the addition of two 17 year old local boys, Steven and Farahad, who have started to accompany us to the school to help translate. They are terrific kids--completely different from any 17 year old boys I have met in the States. They are both waiting for their exam results to see if they will be able to proceed to the next level of school and seem to have nothing else to do. They do not seem to be plagued with the need to be cool as their American peers would be and, shockingly, don’t seem to mind hanging around with a middle aged woman and a bunch of kids. Spending time with them has been a highlight of the volunteering for me, not only because of translation assistance, but also because they help me get a more complete picture of life in Rau, Tanzania—everything from Bongo Star Search (essentially Tanzanian Idol), to the process of the school system and the favorite local hang outs. We have visited one of their homes a few times and even got a cooking lesson from Momma Changa, Steven’s mom. Of course, I had to fight my anal retentive chef cooking instincts—but once I got past that, it was fabulous experience and quite delicious (green bananas with meat, carrots, onions, tomatoes—really delicious).

Emma has started to come to our placement with us and it has been an interesting change. In many ways, it is very helpful to have her around—she is another pair of hands to help bring order to the chaos, she loves the kids and they adore playing with a Mzunga who is closer to their age. On the other hand, she is nine years old, and from time to time, it feels like I have another kid to keep track of and entertain. In addition, she and Maya bicker from time to time, adding another layer of challenge. I have tried to impress upon them that among their many roles as volunteer teachers is to set an example of appropriate behavior. For the most part, they get it, but they are kids and siblings and a few unpleasant moments are impossible to avoid. Another interesting wrinkle of Emma’s presence is her, shall I say, slightly disheveled appearance. The Tanzanian people are very conscious of presenting themselves in neat and professional fashion and, as anyone who as ever met Emma knows, she does not set the greatest example in than regard. As scruffy as she can look at home, the addition of the dust, dirt and camp atmosphere, has made her less than a shining example of a clean and well turned out American kid.

I am still really struggling with even the most rudimentary Swahili. Each day, the teacher has them go through this routine in Swahili to welcome me. They say “Shikamoo Walimu” (essentially, “teacher, we give you our respect”) and then some other things that I can barely catch. It’s been two weeks and I still don’t think I am responding appropriately. The teacher probably thinks I am a complete idiot. You would think that my 17 plus years of education, much of it at fancy private schools, would be of some use. Not so much. My Swahili needs serious work. Of course, it is hard to imagine any practical long term use for this new found knowledge, albeit limited. With two weeks to go (hard to believe!) it’s extremely difficult to really motivate my slow brain, particularly given that in less than three weeks I will have to start learning Thai! At least Swahili uses the same alphabet.

I think the hardest part of this whole experience is the constant nag that I am really not adding any value. I feel like I have gone from one of the most productive people I know, to the absolute least. My fever pitch has come to a crashing halt. Truly, I am not even sure my vital organs are functioning at normal speed and I know that my blood pressure is significantly lower. I am both proud and horrified by this development. Proud, because I really was not sure that I was capable of slowing down and I simply could not have continued at the frantic pace of the past few years. I am also so pleased to have time to be a mother to my children in a present and unhurried way. I am horrified because I truly want to contribute something of value to this amazing country and feel that I have yet to do so. Thus far, I feel like I am benefiting more from the experience than providing any kind of real service.

Cuddle Dodging and Intimacy Lost (and possibly TMI)

2007-01-30T08:48:00.000-08:00

On the safari, as we mentioned, the girls were slightly skittish about the unfamiliar animal sounds and wildlife roaming around the tented camps in which we stayed. Accordingly, the girls insisted on each sleeping with one parent. It was the first week, so we were fine with that. Indeed, we both appreciated the opportunity to cuddle and spend some time alone with each of our daughters. One of the things we learned is that our girls have very different cuddling styles. Maya is what I would call a conventional cuddler. She cuddles at the beginning and then wanders to her side of the bed—coming back for an occasional check in. Emma, on the other hand has a much more aggressive style of cuddling that Adam has begun referring to as Greco Roman cuddling. When sleeping with Emma, there is not a second of the evening during which each of your limbs are not completely entangled with hers—and we are not talking gently touching—but aggressively entwined. Occasionally, we attempt, to no avail, to disentangle as we toss and turn or restlessly sleep. Emma is not pleased by this and has started accusing us, with a pathetic face, of “dodging her cuddles.” This has now become our family joke—and Emma makes us swear each night that if we are sharing a bed, we will not dodge her cuddles.

When we planned this six month adventure with our girls, we were particularly looking forward to the opportunity to spend time alone as a family. Adam and I assumed that an obvious consequence of that, particularly on such a small budget, would be a somewhat limited amount of time alone together as a couple. Of course, until the safari, we had no idea how true that would be. Now the four of us are in a small room, in bunk beds (we did force the kids to take the top bunks), which, of course, is not exactly conducive to intimacy.

When we arrived at the home base, we couldn’t help but laugh when we read the following policy set forth in the volunteer’s handbook:

“Cross-Cultural Solutions forbids sexual relations in the Cross-Cultural Solutions premise . . .”

As if. . .

We have now been away for a month or so, and forget about a romantic evening alone together, I don’t even think we have had a private conversation that has lasted longer than 10 seconds. Oh well, we were running out of things to say to each other anyway after 15 years.

AIDS/HIV

2007-01-27T22:36:00.000-08:00

On January 24, we were given a presentation regarding HIV/AIDS in Africa, generally, and Tanzania, specifically. It was a fairly sobering conversation. The discussion was led by a Nun who is also an MD. She was a very impressive woman, and proved to be more progressive in her thinking than her status as a nun might otherwise suggest.

While Africa comprises 1/3 of the world’s population, 2/3 of the world’s cases of HIV/AIDS are in Sub-Saharan Africa. Tanzania, relatively speaking is doing ok, with a prevalence rate of 7%, in contrast to, for instance, South Africa’s 20% to 30% prevalence rate. The demographic group most at risk in Tanzania is 15 to 24 year old woman. I learned a number of interesting things:

1. There has been prevalent myth perpetrated by traditional healers that if an HIV infected male has sex with a virgin or, in some cases, an elderly woman, the man will be cured. This has given rise to sexual assault in Tanzania, previously a very rare occurrence, and an increase in the spread of the virus.
2. Rich men who become infected conclude that they’re unwilling to die alone and engage in a concerted effort to spread the disease as broadly as possible.
3. Despite now being illegal, female genital mutilation continues to occur. It is done in a non-sterile manner, with shared instruments, providing an ideal opportunity for transmission of the virus.
4. There is social and economic pressure for woman to breast feed, which results in the transmission of the virus to an infected mother’s baby. So, women who have avoided giving the virus to their babies through pregnancy and in the hospital get home and are pressured by their family members breast feed. The women then have the choice of either revealing that they are infected, subjecting themselves to shame and stigma, or subjecting their newborn to AIDS/HIV. To make matters worse, the economic reality is without breast milk, many children would simply starve to death.
5. Until recently Tanzanians would not get tested for the simple reason that treatments were not available or were too expensive. So, in their minds, there was no point in testing. The only reason to do so was to advise you of a death sentence and subject you to horrible stigma about which you could do nothing. Obviously, the result of this was the continued rampant transmission of the virus. Now that donor countries have made the drugs more available testing is becoming more common.
6. There is engrained cultural acceptance of men being unfaithful to their wives, which, of course, also results in further transmission.

The agreed-upon solution, as a matter of national policy, is ABC: abstinence, be faithful and condoms. Each of these has its deficiencies. For instance, in terms of condoms, it is not uncommon for condoms to be used repeatedly, shared and generally used incorrectly.

While I did not need to go to Africa to appreciate the staggering problem of AIDS/HIV here, gaining a preliminary understanding of some of the cultural challenges associated with this intractable problem has been illuminating and exceedingly depressing. You are also left, once again, with the crushing feeling that as devastating as the AIDS/HIV problem is, it must continue to compete with the overwhelming variety of other scourges Tanzania, and countries like it, face---poverty, lack of basic services and infrastructure and educational and vocational opportunities.

Dirt, Home Base, Volunteering: Adam and Emma

2007-01-27T22:15:00.000-08:00

Dirt

“Out Damn Dirt”
--Macbeth (or what the line might have been had the play been set in Africa).

I don’t share Melissa’s OCD tendencies regarding dirt, but even my highly relaxed standards are being tested. Every night, I scrub the bottom of my feet and yet they remain black. I have this nagging fear that I’m going to end up in a lovely, walled institution, where I will spend the balance of my days scrubbing my feet, while gazing emptily into the sky. You must visit!!

Home Base

Melissa pretty well captured the animal menagerie that is our morning alarm clock. I have only one thing to add. Roosters really do say cock a doodle do. It's uncanny. The other unfortunate side effect of this noise is that every morning I wake up with an adolescent joke on my mind. What’s the difference between a rooster and a prostitute? Given the family nature of this blog, I will spare you the punch line (thought I suspect that many of you have heard this joke). If you really want to know the punch line, email me.

It is worth briefly introducing you to the locals that run the organization here. There are three senior people: Moses is the boss, Mama Grace and Fulgence. Each of them is quite extraordinary. Moses exudes this Gandhiesque wisdom and gentleness. Mama Grace is a regal woman who exudes African strength. In a world where woman are still very subservient, she is a forceful and opinionated (in a good way) presence. Fulgence is a gentle, jovial soul. He speaks in a slow, deliberate, almost dramatic cadence. He almost sounds like he is performing Shakespeare when he speaks of even the most insignificant matters (e.g. giving directions to the local orphanage). The main responsibility of the three of them is to ensure that all runs smoothly, from our accommodations to our placements. They are committed to our getting as much out of our time in Africa as is possible. They are remarkable people and we all feel our lives have been enriched by knowing them. There are several others as well—and everyone one of them feels like part of this really lovely and warm family.

Volunteering

Emma and my work experience has been markedly different from Melissa’s and Maya’s. We’re at a school called Ebenezer Academy, an English immersion school, so every subject is taught in English. On Monday, I met the headmaster, who seemed nice, if slightly psychologically off-kilter. More on that later. Our first day, Tuesday, was spent observing. We arrived at, what by Tanzanian standards, was a fairly high end private school, classrooms (with real floors), only 20 students or so in a class, a real cafeteria of sorts, etc. When we arrived, they were doing their morning assembly, consisting of singing the Tanzanian National Anthem and praying to God. While the school is not a parochial school per se, Christianity is firmly embedded into the school. I wonder what the Muslim students think. In addition, they do a lot of quasi-military activities-marching, responsive yelling, etc. They are all dressed in uniforms consisting of green v-neck sweaters and green shorts for the boys and green skirts for the girls. Uniforms are mandatory for school kids in both the public and private schools. Every morning, throughout Tanzania, you see reams of similarly clad children walking to school. It’s a very adorable sight. At Ebenezer the kids range in age from 2 to 13 or so. Emma spent the bulk of the day hanging out with the pre-school kids, who love her and I observed a variety of classes.

However, at one point, Emma joined me in a science class. Imagine my surprise when I saw the teacher write on the top of the board “Human Reproduction.” So, a moment of uncertainty set in—do I grab Emma and run out of the class and risk insulting them? Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not naïve enough to believe that my precocious Emma is unaware of the birds and the bees, it was really more a question of what was going to be presented. Well, we decided to stay, for the sake of cultural sensitivity. The teacher then proceeded to go into an in depth discussion of the female reproductive system. Unlike an American classroom, where all the students would be tittering, the students took this very seriously answering all manner of questions about female sexual organs. Only Emma and I were tittering. I will say that it was somewhat humorous in that while the teacher’s English was very good, some of the idioms were slightly off, which in the context of a discussion of female sex organs is, well, funny. For instance, menstruation was described as the “monthly flowing out of uterus fragments together with blood.” Certainly not wrong (I think), but perhaps not the words that I would have chosen. Indeed, to me, it sounded like the description of a botched hysterectomy. After class, Emma and I made a blood oath to never talk of this again.

The teaching has been interesting. First, when you walk into the classroom the students stand up and give you a formal welcome. It’s not short. I stand there feeling slightly awkward as this ritual goes on. It reminded me, a little, of when I had just moved from NY to LA. I was used to jay walking in NY and the first time I started to jay walk in LA across a major thoroughfare, I brought traffic to a complete halt. I didn’t know whether to continue to jay walk or move back. Similarly, when they start this welcome ritual I don’t know whether to have them sit down and forego or just stand there awkwardly.

I have been asked to teach math and English. The math is currently adding and subtracting fractions, of which I, of course, had no recollection. As a lawyer, adding and subtracting fractions does not come up much. The English class was a bit more my speed, but even that posed unexpected challenges. They teach in a very traditional manner. For instance, I was asked to prepare a lesson on present tense—present simple, present continuous and present perfect. Needless to say, I did not admit that I had no recollection of these various tenses. Nonetheless, I muddled through and it has been okay (although when Maya came with me one day she thought that I was atrociously boring). The kids are good kids and seem committed to learning. I think the fact that they’re at a private school suggests that the parents of these kids recognize the importance of education.

A brief side note: Corporal punishment is still permitted in the schools in Tanzania. They use a switch to discipline the kids. While I have not seen it, Emma and I heard a kid being disciplined and it was very upsetting. We were warned of this practice before we started, but it’s still jarring to hear this going on right in front of you. I discussed this with one of the teachers, a 21 year old from man from Kenya named Hillary, and he believes that, in moderation, this type of discipline is appropriate. He asked me how it would be viewed in the US, to which I responded the teacher would be fired and arrested. He laughed, I laughed and another slightly surreal moment had passed.

I have become pretty good friends with two of the teachers, Hillary and Charles, both of whom are from Kenya and in their early twenties. Both are committed, talented teachers and very interesting guys. After meeting Charles for all of five minutes, he asked me who was going to be the next president. Similarly, at one point, Hillary asked me what Bush was thinking in wanting to increase the number of troops in Iraq. We have had some great conversations.

The one day that Maya came with me, they asked her to sing the US National Anthem. She said no, but offered me up. I started to try to sing it, but did not remember the words, so I promised to sing it the next day on the condition that they would sing the Tanzanian national anthem. Sure enough, the next day (after finding the words online the night before) I got up in front of the class and sang the national anthem. For those of you who know me, singing in public (especially a song that requires a 4 octave range) is slightly less desirable than root canal. However, in my effort to transcend my naturally curmudgeonly tendencies, I decided to go with it. All I can say is that, in retrospect, Roseanne Barr’s rendition was actually pretty good. I do not expect an invitation to the Super Bowl, anytime soon.

Yesterday, at snack time, which is preceded and proceeded by a prayer to Jesus, I was introduced to the School Manager. He spoke to the students and advised them that “knowledge starts with fear of god.” So that’s my problem, I’m only afraid of Melissa (and to a lesser extent, but only slightly, Paulette). After meeting the school manager, I asked one of the teachers to explain to me the structure of the school management. He advised me that the guy who had been introduced to me as the Headmaster had essentially been kicked upstairs. When I asked why, the teacher responded that he had psychological problems. As I mentioned above, I had this sense early on. When the headmaster was giving me the tour the teachers showed him very little respect. Moreover, when I talk to him, I always had this feeling that one synapse was slightly misfiring.

While it was an interesting week, I think I’m going to change my volunteer placement. The fact is that the teachers at Ebenezer are better than I am and I am simply taking the place of more qualified teachers. I think that they want volunteers so that they can tell people that they have volunteers and I think that they also see it as a source of potential donations. On Monday, I’m going to check out another organization called Second Chance, which focuses on helping kids who did not make it into the regular secondary schools. Apparently, they need English teachers pretty desperately. I think the placement will be more difficult, but I think that I will be able to provide more valuable assistance.

Most of the volunteers do various side projects in addition to their day to day volunteering. As Melissa mentioned in her earlier blog, we have helped raise money to buy mattresses for an orphanage. Below are pictures from the orphanage.

Today (Saturday) we painted the inside of dilapidated building, in what can only be described as a shanty town. The project was inspired and orchestrated by our fellow volunteers—two extraordinary young women with boundless energy and impressive skills.

The building will be used as an orphanage and a school. It’s hard to know whether these projects are worthwhile. On the one hand, these projects provide immediate benefits (and satisfaction to the volunteers) and some hope and optimism for the locals who were so appreciative and seemingly touched by the whole production. We have some sense that projects such as these seem like non-sustainable band aids, but maybe inspiration is enough. It’s really hard to know what the right thing is.

That said, last night, we dropped off the mattresses at the orphanage. It was an amazing experience. The kids were simply overjoyed to see us. The kids are unbelievably cute. They also seem so happy, despite the fact that they live in squalor, truly.

Adios.

Home Base Addendum: Roosters and Goats and Cattle, Oh My

2007-01-26T21:51:00.000-08:00

I can’t believe I neglected to mention the occupationally challenged roosters who are our immediate neighbors. It was always my understanding that roosters crow at day break, but these, who essentially share a wall with us, seem to think day break begins at 3 am, and 3:30, 4, 4:30, 5 and then every five minutes until you just give up. Our rooter also has friends in the neighborhood who are egged on by his unfortunate time keeping ability. Sadly, the mosquito nets do not provide much of a sound barrier. The locals say “it’s Africa” and you get used to it, but we are still working on that. We have been conspiring with the other volunteers to have this particular rooster fired (both legally and physically) so our other senses can enjoy him—taste rather than sound. We think he would make an excellent dinner. We also have some loud goats next door, who I am convinced sound like humans trying to make goat sounds. The goats save their incessant bleating for dinner time, which I find much more considerate. The goats are more like pets around here anyway. People actually walk them with leashes.

Volunteering: Home Base and Melissa and Maya

2007-01-25T06:46:00.000-08:00

Volunteer Home Base

The place that we call home is actually quite nice—certainly much nicer than expected. It’s a fenced compound, which seems kind of odd given why we are here, but I suppose a large compound with a bunch of white people is a relatively tempting target. There are 4 or 5 small buildings that house about 30 volunteers—mostly from the states but a few from Britain and Canada. Each room has bunk beds—4 to a room—with a bathroom. It’s reminiscent of camp, with the addition of, believe it or not, maid service. They actually come and make the beds and tidy up each day. It’s not the Four Seasons, it’s not really even a Motel 6, but it’s quite comfortable and the kids really love feeling like they are in camp.

Despite our surprisingly acceptable living conditions, I have never been so dirty in my life. Absolutely everything is covered in dust and my feet have yet to be clean. Indeed, try as I might I simply cannot get the dirt of my feet, the minute you walk out side your room, you are filthy. I am trying desperately to embrace my grubbiness—one of my challenges.

The staff is absolutely remarkable and they take excellent care of us. Each one of them is incredibly warm, friendly, and knowledgeable. I was skeptical about volunteering through a program like this, but it ended up being the right choice. They take the time to help us understand the culture and integrate as much as a bunch of “wazungas” (foreigners, or more accurately, white people) can. There is a staff of 10 or so who teach us Kiswahili, cook for us, drive us to our work placements, communicate and trouble shoot with our placements and generally help us go about our business. And even though we are clearly tourists and stick out like sore thumbs, we feel like we are becoming part of the local community. The food is surprisingly excellent—Maya is even enjoying it. Adam and I keep joking about how incongruous it would be for us to gain weight in Africa—but the way we are fed here it is actually possible.

We are in a village called Rau, about a 45 minute walk from a reasonably large town called Moshi, a relatively well known Tanzanian town given its proximity to Mount Kilimanjaro, which breathtakingly soars out of the sky-- a guardian of the community. The people in the village are extraordinarily friendly, consistent with everyone we have met or come in contact with in Tanzania. Everyone you pass greets you with a friendly “mambo” (how’s it going?) or “jambo” (hello) or a welcoming wave (I guess that is where the term mumbo jumbo comes from?). I keep expecting some level of resentment from the locals, but we seem to be warmly greeted by absolutely everyone.

The other volunteers are a fascinating group, consisting of around 30 people, of which only 4 are men. Most of them are college students, or recent graduates. There is a small group of women in their 50’s and 60’s and one man, 68, who is here from Ireland with his grown daughter. Maya and Emma are the youngest, by far and Adam and I are the sole representatives of the 40-50 set. This makes sense--it’s either students or retirees. People in the peak years of their careers generally do not take such rash and irresponsible action. We are actually a bit of a novelty act-everyone refers to us as “the family” and the locals refer to me as “the mama.” It is a pleasure getting to know all of them. Everyone has an interesting story to tell and reason for being here. The younger crowd is a very interesting bunch—all open minded, idealistic, smart and really kind. They seem to like us despite our advanced years. To Adam, the crowd is reminiscent of the women active in his college’s anti-divestment movement, which Adam only participated in to advance his “social” agenda. It’s very much like a camp atmosphere. Even though we have only been with these folks for a few days, it feels like we have known them forever. The other unintended, but extremely fortuitous by-product of the volunteer demographic is the fact that our kids are surrounded by a bevy of camp counselors—all of whom seem to be more than willing to entertain our children and let them tag along. Indeed, our children are far more interested in hanging out with the cool college kids instead of their lame parents.

Despite their protestations about this trip, the kids are really having a blast and now freely admit that to almost anyone who asks. Fortunately, we did not have to wait as long for this as we expected.

On our second day here, before most of our group of volunteers had arrived, we tagged along with one of the veteran volunteers to go to the kids’ service at one of the local Catholic churches. It was unbelievable—probably 400 kids ages 2-14 or so, most without their parents, sitting quietly, signing and clapping on cue, and responding appropriately to the priest for a solid hour. It was hard to imagine a bunch of American kids doing the same without being heavily bribed with food and toys. Truth be told, Emma got a little squirmy—understandable given that it was an unfamiliar Catholic service and all in Kiswahili to boot. Maya mentioned that she was surprised that the service was so sedate—she said she expected it to be more like IKAR—with drumming and dancing. I considered that a sincere compliment to IKAR. The kids are warm and curious. After the service, they surrounded all of us and grabbed our hands. It was both overwhelming and heart warming.

On the way home from church, we stopped at an orphanage that one of the veteran volunteers has adopted. It is impossible to prepare yourself for the conditions. Two rooms with several kids in each; 4 kids to a bed only half of which have mattresses; not a toy or game in sight and kids wearing clothes that I would probably have been uncomfortable donating for fear that they were too tattered and worn. Also, sadly, the one adult that spends the night takes one of the mattresses. It’s hard to not be judgmental, but being here you learn that there is so much that is grey. The kids are so incredibly adorable. They immediately grab your hand and want to get as close to you as possible. You can’t help but be completely enchanted and drawn in by them. I have never had the experience of having my heart so touched and so broken at the same time. The conditions are so sparse and desperate, and your instinct is to get out your checkbook and try to fix it all (which the volunteers are doing as we speak). Then you realize that this is such a common scenario in this country and in most of the developing world—it’s just overwhelming to even contemplate what needs to happen in order to effect any real change in this world and begin to ensure even subsistence level survival for so many people.

Volunteering:

Our volunteering placements are interesting and exceedingly challenging. Maya and I are placed in a “preschool” called Kigangoni which is essentially a construction zone--a gigantic space with walls a tin roof, a dirt floor, boards with rusty nails sticking out and a bunch of benches (it also served as the church described above). There is on old blackboard that the teacher schleps in every day, a disintegrating cardboard box with a few broken pencils and tattered work books. All of this with one teacher and fifty children between the ages of 3 and 7 (as far as I can tell—many people do not keep track of their ages here). The teacher speaks no English, and our Swahili is, shall we say, a work in progress. As dusty as we get around the compound, there are no words to describe the layers of dirt with which we are covered as we leave. The children who attend are not unlike those we met in the orphanage—indeed a few of the orphans attend the school. Their clothes are filthy and in tatters and they each seem to only have one outfit. Some have a torn plastic bag with a few belongings, most have nothing. The teacher does not seem to be in much better shape. She’s not a great teacher and does not even know most of the kids’ names, but she has a nearly impossible task. It’s only been two days, but it is very difficult and Maya and I aren’t even sure if we are adding value. As soon as we walk in, the kids surround us and absolutely smother us which is incredibly sweet. We usually have ten kids each holding our hands—one on each finger and fights frequently erupt among the students as they jockey for position. We hope that by being there, giving them love, helping them with letters and teaching them some songs we are helping. But it’s hard to imagine any of these kids even having a fighting chance. Forget the bucket; this is a drop in all of the earth’s oceans combined. Maya is unbelievable and I am so grateful to have her there with me. The kids flock to her and she is so loving and kind with them. She is also very creative and thoughtful in determining activities to do with the kids. My lawyer skills aren’t exactly useful—and it is very hard for me to not be able to take control and make things better—but I am trying to do what I can. It pains me, but when it is time to leave, we both breathe a huge sign of relief and crawl back to the compound guiltily to eat a warm and abundant lunch in the safety and relative cleanliness of our compound.

We wanted to have a volunteer component to our travels as a family both to contribute, in an admittedly small way, but also to gain a deeper entry point into some of the places that we’re visiting. For all of those reasons, we’re glad that we’re doing it. But, it’s hard, at times, to escape the feeling of dilletantism. We traipse in from our nice life in LA, hang out for four weeks and then continue with our adventure. It’s hard to avoid the question of who the volunteering is really benefiting: us or them? Nonetheless, it has been difficult, yet eye opening and moving and unquestionably worth it.

Adam’s volunteer experience is a bit different, which he will relate to you shortly. More to come…

Preliminary musings and random thoughts

2007-01-21T11:25:00.000-08:00

I am consistently struck by the cadence of life here and how diametrically opposed it is from our usual fever pitch. It’s also surprising to note how easily I have slipped into the pace myself. Moving slowly, relaxing, stopping to smell the roses—or, more accurately, see the wildebeest and acacia trees.

I am also struck by the desperate poverty—with no real sense of desperation. As we drive through villages that are no more than groups of primitive mud walled huts, one of which is a small grocery and another may be a cell phone store, with skinny cows and dust and dirt, the people smile and waive at us and the children are thrilled and appreciative when we give them pencils. It is truly hard to imagine getting a similar reception while driving through blighted areas of Los Angeles in what must be the equivalent of a fancy BMW. While we did not have a chance to speak to villagers, and I imagine that such conversations would not really be possible any way, it seems as though they do not feel oppressed by poverty or their living situation, but relatively happy and content with their lives. This statement seems extremely condescending and paternalistic and I hope to learn more, but it is likely also paternalistic to assume that they would be happier living a lifestyle more akin to ours.

I don’t think I have yet to completely relax on this trip. I am ashamed on being put off by the dirt, smells and bugs, thanks in no small part to Beth Tigay, and the book she gave me How to Shit Around the World, that I foolishly read cover to cover before we left, which describes in horrifying detail all of the various diseases you can catch when traveling in the developing world, and worse, how these diseases are transmitted. Somehow, in the rush of getting out of town, getting shots, filling prescriptions and stocking up on a ludicrous array of over the counter meds, I had not really focused on the fact that any of us could get really sick. I am not talking about what everyone euphemistically calls “traveler’s tummy”, but malaria, dengue fever and the like. I am determined to get passed these fears—but also to keep my family healthy.

I am very moved by watching this whole experience through the eyes of our daughters. They are such an interesting mix of things—raised in such privilege with so many people doing things for them, yet they don’t seem to have an obvious sense of expectation and they act with appropriate respect to all (other than the reasonably frequent bickering over such slights as their feet touching their side of the seat. I love that Emma spent several meals copiously noting that Mrosso was always served last. It seemed to genuinely offend her sense of fairness. I also love that they both seem so comfortable with people of all types and are genuinely interested in getting to know them and understanding them, without being scared off by what is so dramatically different from anything they know, or to which they have previously been exposed.

Safari Part 2

2007-01-21T05:39:00.000-08:00

January 19, 2007

Yesterday, we descended into the Garden of Eden.

However, before I get into that, let me pick up where Melissa left off. After the cultural part of the safari, we commenced the traditional safari. For those of you who have not been on a safari before (which included me until now), a safari conjures up romantic images of strenuous days of animal tracking followed by gin and tonics and scintillating conversation with Ernest Hemingway. The reality is somewhat different, but still spectacular. The truth of the matter is that you’re essentially sitting in a large Toyota Land Cruiser that has an open roof for hours on end as your guide drives you through the various parks. Yet, oddly, by the end of the day, you still feel as if you have spent the day tracking wild game and that gin and tonic still tastes pretty good.

January 12-13, 2007

After leaving KN, we headed to the Ikoma Bush Camp. On the way, we drove through the Ngorongoro Conservation Area and into the Serengeti National Park. The prime difference between the NCA and the Serengeti is that humans can inhabit the conservation areas (subject to a host of limitations), while humans may not inhabit the national parks. Heading into the NCA, we were on a beautiful smooth road, which was a welcome change from the organ shifting experience of the road to KN. Interestingly, the road, which covers about 100 kilometers heading into the NCA was built by the Japanese government as a means to enhance tourism for Tanzania. However, once you enter the NCA, the road is a dirt road, which, I think is appropriate. It would seem anomalous to have essentially a highway cutting through the NCA and the Serengeti. One thing that you immediately notice in the NCA is the presence of the Massai, an ancient warrior tribe. The Massai are a regal people, who dress in an intense and deep shade of red. Apparently, lions are afraid of the color red. You can spot Massai dotting the green countryside. The region is also blanketed with their significant herds of cows and their villages, which can be described as small fenced in villages with a ½ dozen or so circular thatched roof huts. However, the Massai, who value their herds of cow beyond virtually all else, are semi-nomadic, depending on where the best grass to feed their cattle is. Melissa and I both read an autobiography of a Massai Warrior. While not spectacularly well written, it was very interesting and provided insight into this truly unique culture. Of particular interest is the fact that they practice both circumcision and do not eat milk and meat together (though they will eat blood and milk together). In watching the Massai, it was impossible to not think of the patriarchs and matriarchs of the Torah as they wandered the dessert. The semi-nomadic existence, the tending to the cattle, all seemed reminiscent of life in biblical times. At a minimum, it is certainly the case that the lives of the Massai have not radically changed in centuries, even if you do occasionally see the oddly incongruous sight of a Massai holding a cell phone from time to time.

We stopped for lunch at the Oldupai Gorge (yes, you learned it as the Olduvai Gorge, but apparently, the foreigner misheard the Massai pronunciation making all of our teachers liars, lo these many years). We received an interesting but brief presentation of 3,000,000 years of human evolutionary history. Melissa and I found the presentation and the museum pretty interesting, the kids, not so much.

At this point, we started seeing animals. It kind of sneaks up on you. You’re driving along and the guide will casually say there’s a zebra. The next thing that you know, you are less than ten feet from families of giraffes, zebras, gazelles. At this point, all four of us we’re standing on our seats with our heads out the roof, oohing and aahing at the vast display of animals passing by, sometimes only feet away. I felt like a kid, eyes and mouth agape at the sights before us. However, seeing it through the eyes of Maya and Emma made it even more amazing. Their joy and wonderment was simply infectious. Melissa and I kept wondering how people could choose to leave their kids behind. It seemed akin to us taking a trip to Disneyland without the kids. As we headed into the Serengeti, we had the great fortune of seeing, for the first time, the wildebeest migration. Apparently, this migration is currently the largest yearly migration of animals, involving the movement of nearly 1.5 million wildebeest, accompanied by scores of zebras and gazelles from Kenya into Tanzania and back, in search for better grass (then again, who isn’t searching for better grass?). It is without exaggeration, the most spectacular thing that I have ever seen. Animals literally as far as the eye can see. At some point, I stopped taking pictures because there were simply too many pictures to be taken.

We also saw some amazing flora and fauna. The acacia trees are unbelievable. These huge umbrella-like trees with branches reaching everywhere are amazing. It’s also interesting to see a single acacia tree in the middle of the plains, like a guard of the dessert. There are also Sausage Trees, which, obviously enough, look like they have sausages hanging from them. Maya first saw them and thought they had been decorated like Christmas trees. A fairly unusual site.

We then headed to our base camp for the next two nights, the Ikoma Bush Camp, located on the Serengeti. Melissa and I were a bit split on this place with Melissa primarily troubled by the Feng Shui deficiencies in its design. However, I liked the place. It was another tented lodge, where we had two tents. The two tents opened up into this area of high grass, the sunrise coming over the savannah was simply breathtaking. However, the place was a bit scary at night. The strange whooping sounds of the hyenas and other unidentifiable animal noises and impenetrable darkness.

The next day, we further explored the Serengeti, this time seeing elephants and giraffes, close enough to touch. Both animals are just amazing. Giraffes have this aristocratic nature seeming to own all that they survey. Maya described their movement as if you’re watching them in slow motion, which is accurate. They take long loping strides. Quite something to behold. Elephants are also breathtaking. I’m reading a fascinating book, The Tree Where Man Was Born by Peter Matthiesen, which provides an account of the nature of the region. He discusses the dangers posed by the elephants, who literally destroy everything in their path. Huge trees are knocked down as elephants blithely stroll by. You can always tell when elephants have been around. However, seeing elephants in close proximity is wonderful. They generally move in herds. The bulls with their long, sharp ivory tusks are just remarkable.

January 14-16, 2007

We headed to Speke Bay, which is on Lake Victoria. Lake Victoria is huge and beautiful, with parts in each of Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania, the largest portion in Tanzania. Unfortunately, we could not swim for fear of charging hippos. We stayed at the Speke Bay Lodge where we had two stand alone rooms in round buildings. The rooms were fine and had the best showers to date, but the place was not our favorite place. It was the only place that did not provide a room from our guide, which bothered all of us. However, it was nice to have a day off from long game drives. The only down side was not being busy made us miss home a bit. As consolation, we forced the kids to do math. We felt much better.

On the morning of the 16th we headed back into the Serengeti to the Ndutu Safari Lodge, locate between Ngorongoro and the Serengeti. . En route, we again saw the wildebeest migration, in all of its glory. As a first, we saw lions from ten feet away, females and cubs. Lions are stunning, majestic creatures. We did not see a lot of activity, as, apparently, they had just eaten and were just lazily lying there. Every time they moved, we oohed and ahhed. Lions are possessed of a sleek perfection. We learned that the female lions are the more adept hunters. However, once they make a kill the male lions get the first opportunity to eat, followed by the cubs and then, if there’s anything left, the female lions get to eat. Just like our home—only the only thing Melissa hunts for is a parking space at Trader Joes.

The Ndutu Lodge was our favorite place. We arrived there to an immensely gracious greeting. Our rooms were rustic, but fine, with immense views of the savannah. The food was great and the staff incredibly friendly and warm.

January 17, 2007

The next morning we headed back into the Serengeti, where we saw an apparently rare sight—a pride of nine lions, including males, females and cubs. The male lions with their huge and golden mane are majestic. Again, they were lazily loping around, but we sat there for quite some time, entranced by their beauty. We then saw and spent a ½ hour observing an absolutely gorgeous cheetah that Melissa spotted lurking in the tall grass--a very luck find.

We returned to Ndutu for a great lunch. Maya was not feeling well. It’s hard to not worry a bit when your child says they’re not feeling well in Africa. After lunch, we poured poor Maya into the car and headed to our final destination, the plantation lodge. Fortunately, within a couple of hours after sleeping on Melissa’s lap, Maya started to perk up.

We arrived at the Plantation Lodge, which was gorgeous, evoking, more than any other place, colonial gentility. We ended up in a huge two bedroom suite (after Melissa complained about a mold smell in her first room—mold continues to haunt us). It was another place that brought to mind romantic game hunts followed, of course, by gin and tonics. I chose to partake. . .in the gin and tonics.

January 18, 2007

Now this brings us to Eden, otherwise known as that Ngorongoro Crater. As you approach the crater, it is impossible to not be filled by wonder. It is the result of the explosion several million years ago of a 4,500 meter mountain. The view from the top of the crater is nothing less than divine. Getting into the crater is a bit tough. The road going in is a bit jarring. In addition, the acacia trees bring to mind the talking trees in the Wizard of Oz. They were strangely menacing, as if they’re warning you to stay away. As you enter, you immediately see zebras and wildebeest. While at this point, we had seen many of both such animals, here it was a bit different. Because the animals are so accustomed to cars in this area, they are literally on the dirt roads, so instead of 10 feet away, the animals are one foot away. We similarly saw buffaloes and lions. A special treat was that we were able to see three, of the highly endangered, black rhinos.

The whole experience was just consuming. You have the sense that you could get out of the car and be in this utopic communion with nature.

It was another great day and time for a gin and tonic.

January 19, 2007

On this final morning of our safari, we went to the beautiful Lake Manyara, which is a small, but beautiful national park. The highlights of the morning were seeing a brand new baby elephant walking gingerly under his mother’s legs and a sea of pink flamingoes on the lake.

All in all, our safari was a wonderful experience. However, beyond the uncomfortable colonial aspect of the whole experience there is a social aspect that is worth considering. I asked Mrosso whether Tanzanian kids get to experience the wonder of the Tanzanian national parks. He said that the vast majority will never benefit from the opportunity for cost reasons—not because of the entry fee which is nominal for Tanzanian residents, but because most don’t have an available vehicle. It is clear that as you’re on safari virtually all of the people on safari are white westerners. It is a striking fact that the Serengeti National Park was created in 1951 while Tanzania only achieved independence in 1961. Put another way, the animals were given independence before the humans. It is clearly the case that this extraordinary natural gift is for the benefit of the visitors not the Tanzanians. Matthiesen writes as follows:

Not long ago it was estimated that only one East African in twelve had ever seen a lion, though lions are common in the park at the very outskirts of Nairobi, but one is not allowed into the parks without a car, and very few Africans have access to a car, far less own one. The average citizen has more fear of than interest in wild animals, which most Africans regard as evidence of backwardness, a view in which they were long encouraged by European farmers and administrators. Far from being proud of the “priceless heritage” so dear to conservation literature, they are ashamed of it.

While Matthiessen wrote his book in 1972, my sense is that the reality has not changed substantially since then. Certainly, it is the case that Tanzanians benefit from the tourist revenue brought to this very poor country, but it is inescapable that the tourist infrastructure may prefer the white interest in conservation (an admittedly important objective) at the expense of the citizens.

Next up: the volunteering.

Adios.

Safari Part 1

2007-01-20T05:39:00.000-08:00

January 9, 2007

We finally arrived in Kilimanjaro on January 9, 2007, exhausted and relieved to be off of airplanes. We were greeted warmly by Mrosso, our safari guide. Mrosso is from the Chaga Tribe, which historically was from the Kilimanjaro region. There are over 100 tribes in Tanzania, each with its own language, of which very few have written expression. The dominant languages are Swahili and English. Tanzania, until its independence in 1961, had been colonized by both the Germans and the British. The British influence, however, seems to dominate.

Mrosso immediately took us to Mt. Meru Game lodge, where, upon arrival, we were greeted by a small herd of zebra and an ostrich. We were then briefed by Mia, the Swedish tour operator, about our upcoming safari and had a lovely lunch—our first meal that wasn’t plane food or potato chips in an airport lounge. After lunch, we piled into the car with our pared down but seemingly still overwhelming amount of luggage and drove to our first stop-Kirurumu Tented Camp. Adam and I fought to stay away awake as we took our first real drive into Tanzania, through Arusha and other areas. However, completely overcome by exhaustion, we were unsuccessful and simply missed our first exposure to an African city. Eventually, we made it to the camp—dazed, exhausted and a bit smelly, but happy. These tented camps are amazing—simple, but large tents, with attached bathrooms. Thus far, we have stayed in three tented camps and all three have also come with wonderful and different views. We all took long awaited showers and tried hard to stay awake through dinner. Emma was practically asleep in her soup, but we made it until 8:30 and went straight to bed. The kids were somewhat freaked by the deafening animal sounds and complete and utter darkness that surrounded us, but I know they will get used to it as the days go by.

January 10, 2007

We awoke the next day, had a delicious breakfast and took a long journey over a road so bumpy we had to use all of our muscles to hold our vital organs in place. It was well worth the trip—we arrived at Kisma Ndgeda Tented camp—an extraordinarily beautiful camp on the side of a lake with wonderfully warm and welcoming people, delicious food and beautiful tents. It is owned by a white couple, Christian, who was born in Tanzania, but was educated in Kenya and Germany and his wife, Nonnie, who is Argentinean. Our sense was that Christian’s family originally came from Germany as a vestige of German colonization. They clearly owned a significant amount of land in Tanzania. When Christian’s father died, Christian inherited approximately 150 acres of land on Lake Eyasi, where he and Nonnie then built the camp, planted crops and built homes for the local villagers who work for them. Adam and I have both had significant discomfort in that the Safari industry is so evocative of colonialism, white dominance and the unmistakable disparity that still exists between the significant wealth of the white visitors (long and short term) and the poverty and lack of real opportunity of the black Tanzanians. While it is clear that the safari industry in Tanzania is a vital aspect of the economy, it is still uncomfortable. Christian clearly is the local benevolent duke or lord of the area. He and his family are obviously kind and warm, care about the well being of the dozens of families who work for him, and take pains to create a beautiful retreat with minimal impact on the natural environment. They seem to be genuinely very much in love with Tanzania and its people. Despite this, his stature as the area sovereign is well ensconced and, seemingly, unquestioned. We thought it interesting that when we asked about tipping, Christian said that the amount was up to us, but that we would pay it at the end and that they would make sure that a member of the staff was present so that the tipping transaction would be entirely transparent to the staff.

We had lunch, rested, read and generally relaxed. We went swimming in the “pool” which was a local natural spring around which they built a fence, accompanied by Tilapia and other fish. Later, we took a wonderful walk led by a local guide, Sad, and Mrosso through the surrounding area, ending at the top of a beautiful peak to watch a glorious sunset over Lake Eyasi. Emma had hit the wall hard by this point--still upside down from the long trip and time change—but she persevered and actually enjoyed the view, particularly when I started taking bets on when the sun would set—appealing to Emma’s ever present competitive streak.

January 11, 2007

The purpose of this first part of our safari was more cultural than natural. We left early (the kids were not pleased at having to get up while it was still dark) for a visit with members of the Hadzapi Tribe. It was both odd and unbelievably intriguing. At first, it felt almost insulting to be watching these people as though we were viewing animals in the zoo. But we were assured by Mrosso and Sad, our local guide, that this was not the case and indeed, they were extremely welcoming. Clearly, this has become a symbiotic economic relationship in that afterwards, our guide paid them some money and we bought some of their wares. This seems to be an established part of cultural commerce in Tanzania. When we arrived, the men, dressed only in grimy shorts, were sitting around a fire smoking tobacco out of a make shift pipe (that they clearly did not need as evidenced by the accompanying hacking coughs), while the women were dressed in pieces of traditional Tanzania fabrics tied around them reasonably haphazardly. To call their living environment sparse would be a gross understatement. They essentially lived under a lean-to, made of grass and sticks—probably no more than 20 square feet. Inside were two straw mats—no bigger than beach towels, on which the entire family of 8 or 10 people slept, with the women sleeping “inside” and the men sleeping outside. Nothing else—no plates or pots or clothes or anything. Initially, the men showed us how they made a fire, without matches. It had a little bit of the feel of a boy scout demonstration.

After an opportunity to observe and ask many questions, we accompanied the men on a hunt. Apparently we brought them luck as they quickly found and killed, with a bow and arrow, a dik dik, the smallest (and sadly, cutest) of the East African antelopes. It was both thrilling and a bit horrifying. We walked with them back to camp as the family patriarch with a pronounced limp and hacking cough, had slung the dik dik over his shoulders with blood dripping from the small animal’s mouth. We then watched as they quickly skinned the animal, placed it over the fire for less than a minute and immediately ate the organs and innards (the youngest kids were either treated to, or were stuck with, the brain)--dik dik tartare, as we have taken to calling it. Now whenever we see a dik dik, we refer to it as breakfast. The carcass was placed in the roof of their hut, presumably being saved for lunch. The kids sat in the car during the disembowelment, understandably slightly aghast (yet not judgmental) over the somewhat gruesome (and unfamiliar) scene. Indeed, it was hard for me to control the gag reflex and remain appropriately respectful in the face of such a scene, particularly in my jet lagged condition (though I doubt it would have felt much different if we were well rested). The kids emerged from the car, whereupon Emma, as the apparent source of good luck, was offered the practically still beating heart. Surprisingly, she declined, as did Adam when he was offered him some meat. According to Mrosso, no part of the animal will go to waste—and even he was slightly aghast at the scene, particularly the “rareness” of the meat. Neighbors joined in the feast.

Then, the dance—some sort of victory celebration that reminded us of the hora—clearly an expression of joy and thankfulness for their good fortune. It seems that the lives of the Hadzapi Tribe have not changed dramatically since the beginning of time-we read that they have been in this area of Tanzania for 10,000 years. We bought jewelry from them that reminded each of us of my mom and went back to the welcome familiarity of Kisma Ndgeda and a more conventional breakfast.

Later that day, we went on our next cultural tour to visit that Tatoga Tribe. This tribe has, over time, developed skills in metal work made from whatever scrap metal they could find and melt. It was pretty fascinating watching them work. That day, they were melting down an ordinary lock (similar to ones we see every day). They had a small fire going, with one person behind the fire with a bellows of sorts, keeping the fire as hot as possible. The tribal leader would then melt down the lock and pour it into molds, where it would ultimately be shaped into bracelets. At the same time, his son was making incredibly intricate metal arrows. Apparently, the Tatoga would trade the arrows to the Hadzapi for honey and other items. After watching the metal work, they brought us to their living area. This tribe is a bit more advanced in that they live in enclosed huts. Yet the conditions are still pretty meager. In some ways it seems more desperate because there is a semblance, albeit small, of modernity. They wore clothes that looked like rejects from Salvation Army donations, had flies covering their bodies, particularly in the eyes of the unbelievably adorable children and their huts were probably 100 sq ft and are made up of grass, mud, and dung, with the accompanying smell. All of this, and the leader had a cell phone. They brought the girls and I into one of the huts, where we were given a demonstration of how the woman grind the maize into cornmeal. I was given a chance to give it a shot—more of a photo op than anything else. It was difficult and somewhat intimidating to be in such a cramped area with all the smells, but was still a fascinating experience.

Inauspicious Beginning

2007-01-20T05:23:00.000-08:00

January 8, 2007 (Johannesburg Airport)

So—we made it to Africa—but not exactly where we planned. When we arrived at Kennedy in plenty of time with what we thought were confirmed seats from NY to Zurich to Nairobi (16 hours total), we were told that the flight was overbooked and we had been re-routed to Nairobi via Dakar (Senegal) and Johannesburg. For the geographically challenged among you (and I was one of those until I got out our pocket atlas), that is somewhat like flying LA-NY via Panama.

So we arrived in Jo'burg after a 19 hour journey, only to wait 4 hours for the airport for the Kenya Air staff to show up and then figure out just what kind of mess that Swiss Air had created for us (whatever happened to Swiss efficiency?). We weaseled ourselves into the Premier lounge for another 4 hour wait, created make-shift beds for the kids to rest before our next 4 hour flight, 6 hour layover and 2 hour flight to Kilimanjaro where we should be picked up by the Safari company. We were supposed to stay a night in Nairobi, but we missed that completely. In other words, traveled enough to have completely circumnavigated the globe when we were barely two days into our six month trip. Fortunately—or unfortunately—we checked our luggage through to Nairobi so we have been relatively unencumbered during our stay in the Jo'burg airport. retrieving it, and were pleasantly surprised when it showed up in Nairobi.

The kids were absolutely remarkable on no sleep and stressful travel—though they quickly seized upon the opportunity to repeatedly inquire as to why we have decided to take them on this trip and blackmail us into endless amounts of sodas and candy. Short of a few well deserved whines during the challenging journey, they were total troopers. In fact, we have all been in reasonably good humor and know this is just part of traveling.

So—we are healthy and safe, if tired, and ready for the real adventure to start.

On the Plane to NY

2007-01-05T09:51:00.000-08:00

1/3/07 (11:10 Cal. Time)

Two weeks later and we’re now on the plane. It has been a tough couple of weeks. We have the house rented. However, only for two months. On the positive side though, we have rented the house to an academy award winning actress. Just another side plot in the narrative of this trip. We gave away our two cars on a temporary basis. Our Subaru to my mother-in-law and our Prius to our Rabbi. Our Rabbi can only be described as giddy at having received the Prius.

Packing up the house and packing for the trip has been nothing short of horrendous. What does one take for a six month excursion to some pretty rugged places? Well, we decided to take everything, literally. Gone, apparently, are the carefree days of living out of a single backpack. Our bags are huge and unwieldy. If people judge us by our baggage, they will conclude—Ugly Americans, ill equipped to handle the rigors of travel. Obviously, I will have to disabuse them of this first impression with my charm and dazzling personality. I guess we’re screwed. Actually, there’s something comedic about the amount of crap. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

We have been to so many farewell events, that we’re frankly sick to death of hearing ourselves talk about the trip. Although, I can safely say that nothing I have done in my life has met with so much acclaim. Not sure if that’s more a reflection of my lack of accomplishing anything particularly noteworthy. Although it seems clear that this trip resonates with people in ways that I did not anticipate. The response has been a generally consistent mixture of “that’s the most amazing thing I have ever heard of” and “I could never do it.” Interesting to me is that the “I could never do it” sentiment crosses socioeconomic lines. Both our less wealthy friends and more wealthy friends echo the same sentiment. So maybe it’s not about wealth. Certainly for Melissa and me, we had planned on doing this trip after we had “struck it rich,” but it just did not happen. So we decided, to hell with it, we would just go. So why? I think it’s a confluence of events—Maya starting high school next year, Melissa and I both ready for job/career changes, and just a general feeling that we need to break the pattern of our lives. Ultimately, I think it’s a function of Melissa and me supporting each other in the fulfillment of this somewhat crazy but shared ambition. Or maybe it’s simply folie a deux. Indeed, after many recent sleepless nights, Melissa and I have started our recent morning conversations with some version of “what the fuck are we doing!?”

At this point, I am bit scared of the kids. They swing violently between hating us (it seems more me than Melissa) and this kind of heart-breaking despair at being ripped away from their family and friends. Everyone says that they’ll appreciate this when they’re older. I just hope that I’m alive to reap the rewards of this new-found perspective. Oddly, they seem most scared about the safari. Perhaps it was an unwise move for us to show slides from Melissa’s safari as a kid: I think the images of snakes eating frogs, lions fornicating, and huge bugs freaked the hell out of them. Live and learn.

As we left this morning for the airport, the kids were weepy and surly (I’m sure it did not help that they had to sit on top of luggage as there wasn’t room for all of it in the trunk.) As we pulled out of our driveway for the last time for 6 months, the song playing on the radio was REM’s “it’s the end of my life as I know it. . .” Adios.

Connecticut Stopover

2007-01-05T09:44:00.000-08:00

After four months of constant motion—planning this trip, Maya’s Bat Mitzvah, transitioning out of IKAR and my job at USC Law, attending the nearly endless array of goodbye functions during which most attendees had grown weary of saying goodbye, and packing our house—I finally have a moment to sit down and write a few words before we actually get on the plane to Africa.

We are now in Connecticut and getting out of LA was quite a challenge. As we pulled out of our driveway, our Subaru stuffed to gills with stuff, REM playing “The End of the World as we Know it” on the radio, I felt like we were walking the death march as our daughter’s wept piteously in the back seat. Tears actually filled my eyes as well as I finally stopped to think about what we are doing. I have been so focused on the details of our crazy lives and trying to extricate ourselves from them, that I never really allowed myself to think clearly about this adventure on which we were about to embark—or how much we will miss when we are gone—friends, family, IKAR, beds, toilets, privacy. I also was overwhelmed with the amount of crap we were schlepping along with us. As soon as we got on the plane to NYC I began to plot how to lose much of it. Indeed, my first order of business was a radical slash and burn campaign of all of our stuff—much of which we will leave with our in-laws who probably need to rent a storage unit to keep it all. I never really believed that old saying about packing for a trip—determine what you actually need and then cut it half—until now. I may live to regret it, but schlepping around a duffel bag that could comfortably accommodate both of our children was more than I could bear.

As we prepare to leave the country, my head is spinning with a million questions. What will it feel like to be so far away for so long? How will it feel for the four of us to sleep in a small room with bunk beds? What will the volunteering be like? Will I be able to connect with the kids and people with whom we are working? Will I have the right shoes? Will I be able to shower regularly? Who will get sick first and how traumatic will that be? The toilets? When will we run out of money? What will we learn and what will be most memorable? Most disastrous? Will I have to use the phenomenal array of sanitary and medical supplies that Paulette so lovingly chose? It seems that if we do, something will have gone terribly wrong—yet I am so appreciative to have it all.

I also wonder how long it will take the kids to fully embrace the trip. Their steely resolve seems to be melting ever so slightly despite themselves and I find it interesting that they tell me they love me on an hourly basis, but follow up with the declaration that I must not love them or I would not be forcing them to go on this trip. My mother-in-law says that children love their parents so much that they will sacrifice their own identity and needs to ensure that parents will always love them. In any event, it seems like an odd dialogue, but I am exceedingly grateful for it. Even though I am convinced that this trip will be a remarkably life altering experience for them, my heart breaks when I see them so sad—particularly when I understand how hard it must be for them to leave everything familiar for the completely unpredictable.

Our last few days in the states will be a study in contrasts to the next six months. We have seen Wicked on Broadway, dined in fancy restaurants, typical American diners, and on my mother-in-law’s delicious cooking. We will go to Becca Banoff’s Bat Mitzvah with all of the attendant activities and generally enjoy all of the comforts of life here. It all still feels so normal, can’t imagine what it will feel like when we actually get on the plane.

Two Weeks Away

2006-12-20T21:07:00.000-08:00

OK, the house is not yet rented, we have not finished our jobs, not thought about packing ourselves or the house, have not figured out how we're going to teach our kids math and so much more remains undone. Yet, on January 3, we will be leaving our comfortable life and home in Santa Monica for 6.5 months on the road. We will be traveling and volunteering in each of Tanzania, Southeast Asia and Israel. For a full itinerary see our web site. Maya (age 13) and Emma (age 9) continue to be annoyed at the prospect of traveling and volunteering. However, we seem to be breaking their resolve as Melissa and I are starting to see some attitude changes. Either they will look back at this experience with amazement, or they will hate us. We're hoping for the best.

As I think about this trip, I'm unable to fully assess my motivations. On the one hand, I want to see the world with my family and engage in the world in a way that the typical two week vacation does not permit. On the other hand, maybe I just needed a change of scenery. Maybe this is in fact a mid-life crisis of sorts, channeled in a reasonably positive way. Who knows? Maybe it doesn't matter.