The Volunteer Adventure - Documenting the Lives of Orphaned Children and Their Caretakers Around the World - Journal

Peru

Thu, 27 Mar 2014 18:33:53 GMT

Azul Wasi: Breathtaking Beauty
Click Here to See the Peru Photo Album

11.5.13

The chariot which brought me here.

30 hours of travel is a fair amount, especially with the added silliness of sleeping in an airport chapel next to a Mariachi band. But after arriving in Cusco yesterday, and staying up for about 36 hours just to try to stave off jetlag, I'm actually feeling pretty good! Cusco is at about 11,000 feet, and I was somewhat worried that the altitude would be a factor. So far, though, so good. Not even a headache.

It probably helps that the lobby at the hostel, at which I'm paying a cool $10/night (breakfast included), has unlimited Coca tea. Yes, coca. The plant that cocaine comes from. The plant itself is incredibly good for you, and has a ton of benefits, one of which is helping with altitude sickness. Contrary to a common misconception, chewing the leaf or drinking the tea doesn't effect the body at all like cocaine. The coca leaf has to go through a long process of changes to be turned into cocaine. So, with the leaf, it's nothing but good things. Too bad it's not allowed in America.

A day of relaxation and reading today, and getting my bearings around Cusco. I wandered past the town square. Looking forward to being here for the next month plus!

11.6.13

Alpacas and awesome ladies.

Though I enjoy heading into a restaurant at random and feasting on whatever good, or not so good, food they have, I'm also a fan of TripAdvisor-ing it. Today was one of those days, because I had absolutely no idea where anything was.

I ended up at a restaurant called "Aroma", which is right next to an exotic plants museum. The food was delicious, as was the coffee. A nice change of pace from the darn espressos of Europe and the instant varieties of Africa and Asia. I know it's really American of me, but I like drip coffee that has been percolating for about 9 hours in a gas station that tastes like the attendant emptied the tray of char from a toaster and mixed it with water, dagnabbit.

Anyway, the point is that the owner, Erick, was really personable and spoke a fair amount of English. He asked what I was doing in Cusco, I told him about the trip, and that I had no place to go for orphanage work here yet. He told me to stop by his other work tomorrow, a Spanish language school, named ECELA, and that he might have a lead for me. Awesome!

After lunch, I wandered around the city some more and got a picture of me next to an alpaca and a local lady. It's staged and fake, but it's their job, and I'll pay a buck for a picture next to one of the weirdest animals there is.

11.7.13

Cusco from up above.

Good news! I found an orphanage to volunteer at in Peru. I went down to Erick's school this morning and met with him and his co-worker, Ygor. They both suggested I check out an orphanage named Azul Wasi, which is located about an hour out of town in a rural suburb named Oropesa. It's home to 15 kids and was started 8 years ago by an ex-cop named Alcides. They spoke very highly of him and the kids at Azul Wasi, and I look forward to seeing it tomorrow!

In Peru, if you eat out (which you should, because it's really good and super cheap) you'll come across something called "menu del dia", which I discovered for the first time today. For 5 soles, or $1.50, I got bread, soup, an entree, and a drink at a vegetarian restaurant. It's a fixed menu, and whatever they feel like serving that day is what it is. But, at other restaurants, you can pick from a fixed menu from a variety of different foods for 10 - 20 soles, which is also incredibly inexpensive. Look forward to trying more of these and filling my stomach for the price of a cuppa coffee.

11.8.13

The gate leading into Azul Wasi.

Today was my first day at Azul Wasi, and it was better than I hoped it would be.

Placement #9 - Azul Wasi

The day started out with me walking back to the English school, and meeting with Alcides. He's in his 50's, with an infectious smile and a quiet confidence. Also, he doesn't speak English. (Time to step up my Spanish game.). So, this made for an interesting and fun hour bus ride of broken communication. I (tried) explaining to him that it was neat he was a police officer, because I used to work in a jail. I probably communicated that I was a prisoner for the last 12 years and just got out.

Oropesa feels like a ghost town. When you get off the bus, you're in a town square with stray dogs and a couple people wandering through. An old church looms over your head, and cobblestone streets dot the way in and out. From here, it's a 20 minute walk to Azul Wasi, and holy lord the surroundings are beautiful. It's in a valley, rolling mountains lining both sides, terraced farms occupying much of the space.

We arrived at about 1, with the kids due back from school in about 30 minutes. Alcides showed me the place. An office, a library, a computer room, kitchen, dining room, several bathrooms with showers and toilets, and about 5 bedrooms, each with 3-4 beds. No hot water, but electricity, so that's a good thing. It's basic, but it's on a good plot of land. They also have a small garden with corn, apple trees, mint, etc. And 4 dogs, 3 cats, 12 chicken, 3 turkeys, and a parrot. Suddenly, I have the craving to watch Doctor Doolittle.

The first thing I noticed when the kids arrived is: they are undeniably happy, and it's not an act. They didn't know me from a hole in the wall, and each of them gave me a hug with an "hola amigo." All of them are vibrant, and so full of life. I really look forward to being here and learning from them and helping out as much as I can with whatever needs to be done. There are 14 boys, 3 girls, a worker named David, and another named Anastacia. All are hospitable and kind. This will be a great place to be.

11.9.13

The road to Azul Wasi.

Today was low-key to get my bearings and adjust to the altitude a bit more thoroughly. Not much to report, but I went back to that vegetarian restaurant for dinner. It's owned and operated by a husband and wife who are always there with their year-old daughter. Tonight, it was the husband's turn to babysit. I was the only one in the restaurant. He and I watched a Dolph Lundgren movie on Cinemax, with Spanish subtitles. It was one of the best-worst movies I've seen in a long time, which just so happens to be my favorite genre.

11.10.13

The work ladder.

Day two at Azul Wasi. Today, I got here earlier than the first day so I got to experience what kind of work usually happens while the kids are at home from school on the weekend. For the most part, this involved hauling bricks from one part of the property to the second floor of a new building under construction.

It was fun working with the kids. Like Romania, even though there's currently a steep language barrier, a lot can be communicated through the shared sweat of the brow. Plus, I think respect is earned when they see people who are here to pitch in actually working hard.

After working for a few hours on this, some folks from Cusco came out. I still have no idea who they were, but the kids were all super excited to see them. It may have been something to do with the fact that they came bearing fried chicken and potatoes, which Alcides later told me is the food of choice of 99% of the kids at Azul Wasi, and they rarely get it.

After the 20 minute walk back to Oropesa, hour bus ride, and another 20 minute walk back to the middle of town, I arrived at my new hostel: Dragonfly. Aside from the fact that the wifi is infinitely faster than the last place, there's an interior courtyard exposed to the night sky. It's a cozy nook to watch the stars as I scribble down these words for you that I hope make sense. Also, the workers are all really nice. Looking forward to being here for the next week or so!

11.11.13

Alfredo & Carmen-Rosa.

A good night's sleep in the bag, I was up and ready to go for a full day at Azul Wasi. More manual labor today, which went something like this: shovel 50 pounds of sand into a bucket, carry the bucket 100 meters, walk it up two flights of exterior stairs that are clinging to the side of the building by a weld as thick as hair on a flea, dump it, and repeat as much as possible. Easy enough. But with the elevation, and the sun bearing down (Cusco apparently has THE highest UV rating in the world, according to my old friend the Internet), marginally difficult work becomes...well, not hard. But less marginal.

When the kids got home from school, we worked on homework together. They helped me with some Spanish, and I helped them with some English. Mostly, it was just saying "hi, how are you, what's your name, how old are you, nice to meet you, bye, etc..." The highlight came when Alfredo, one of the youngest at Azul Wasi, read a book written in both Spanish and English. He read the Spanish to me, excitedly, and together we read the English one word at a time. It's rewarding to watch learning become something tangible.

11.12.13

Lunch w/ Alfredo, Carmen-Rosa, Nilo.

Shoveled and hauled more sand again today, and the third floor is really starting to come together.

Aside from the work, another good day of getting to know the kids little by little and, while the language barrier is still great, smiles and hugs and handshakes are universal.

11.13.13

Azul Wasi from above.

More sand schlepping today, and I learned what happens to my face if I neglect to wear a hat in the hot sun at this altitude, with no sunscreen. I'll be looking like I have dandruff of the nose for the next week or so, which is always a good look.

I should probably talk about lunch out here, lest I forget. It always starts with a hearty soup, followed by an even heartier main course (rice, potatoes, veggies, and fish, for example). Everyone gathers around one huge table on tiny plastic stools. The English alphabet lines the walls, with pictures of whatever word is the letter example painted. No one takes a bite until grace is said, and afterwards, everyone remains on the quiet side. But that doesn't mean they don't talk a lot and give one another the business. There's a good atmosphere here.

It poured today in the afternoon after lunch, and the two turkeys - who are both pretty large - decided that would be a good time to attack one of the roosters. Before they could be stopped, they'd gouged pieces of the chickens neck, face, and chest. Carmen Rosa, eight years old and one of the youngest members of Azul Wasi, sprinted out in the rain with no jacket, scooped up the chicken and cradled it, and ran it into shelter to help nurse its wounds the best way she could. David, the general handyman and caretaker here, helped her out. It was really endearing to see her dart out there, rain be damned, to pry the thing away from the two vultures.

11.14.13

A full sun up to sun down day today, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. As much as I bemoan the effort the physical labor - now with the added bonus of taking place at two miles above sea level - has required of me, I like it. So, when about 20 buckets of sand needed to be shoveled and hauled today, that was A-OK. The reward was being able to spend more time with all the kids here, help them with their homework, and see them smile and laugh in a genuine way. Lactic acid, torn muscles, and joint pain of a 97 year-old geriatric patient pale in comparison to that payoff.

There's a really odd phenomenon I've noticed on the buses in Cusco: two-stop salesmen. Let me explain. Someone gets on the bus, asks for everyone's attention, gives a speech about some product, like mints or shampoo, tries to sell them, and then gets off the bus. Sometimes you get lucky and have someone who performs a song for you before they go into their speech. Other times you get incredibly lucky, like I did tonight on the way back from Azul Wasi.

A well-groomed man in his early 30's got on the bus. He stood at the front and started to give a speech, the contents of which I didn't understand in full because of my gross inefficiency in Spanish. As he was talking, he pulled a three, maybe four inch nail out of his pocket and hit it on the hand railing to prove it was real. He then swallowed it. He took out two more and put them gradually into one nasal cavity, all the way to the end of it, and he kept talking. Shortly after, he pulled three nails out of his nose. For the grande finale, he put the nails back in his pocket, picked up a bag of cookies, and tried to sell them. Not one sale. I almost bought the whole bag just because I was in such awe of his showmanship. How was no one else on the bus as captivated?! He stood awkwardly at the front of the bus for a few more minutes, then literally skipped off it and across the street. Fascinating.

11.15.13

My folks!

Today was an incommunicably special day. My dad and stepmom, who I haven't seen in 9 months, arrived in Cusco! So good to see them. Along with Megan, seeing them in person has managed to help stave off homesickness for a bit longer. Love is a pretty wonderful thing, and I'm a lucky guy to have such great people in my life.

They included me on their upcoming tours in and around Cusco with a private guide, and I got to see many things today I ordinarily wouldn't have because of a) a lack of funds, or b) a lack of time. So that was an added bonus.

On top of that, I get to stay in their hotel for the next week in Cusco, rather than share a dorm at a hostel. I was fully prepared to sleep on a cot, on the floor, or on the front lawn. So you can imagine my surprise (and my folks') when we were upgraded in our room for free. To the presidential suite, which is basically a mini apartment. I have two queen beds in my own room, which I anticipate the best use for them being to make a monumental fort.

This is going to be a very nice respite.

11.16.13

Incan ruins.

The good thing about having a private tour guide is that it's an incredibly personal experience, you learn a lot more about whatever you're looking at or visiting than you would in the groups that pull up in a bus and are led around like chattel hither and tither, rushing from one place to the next. The bad thing is that they are expensive, chances are it'll be tough to always get one, and it'd be impossible to be a part of a massive group tour ever again. Be that as it is, it's now, which is the only thing that exists, so I'll be enjoying the private tours while we have them and looking back fondly at the experience (if and when) the time comes where I'm in one of those other ones.

Sacsay Ouman was the first stop today, and it was impressive. Perched above Cusco, it's a wide open space of green grass and ancient Incan structures. The grass is maintained by a herd of Alpaca that graze on it daily. The structures, which were 90% destroyed by the Spanish, are still impressive largely due to the awe-inspiring architectural engineering.

The Incans were masters of stone work. There's no mortar holding things together, just several thousand pound stones perfectly polished and placed atop one another. It's so perfect that a person wouldn't even be able to fit a razor blade into the spacing between the rocks. Compound that with the fact that these stones are massive, some weighing in at hundreds of thousands of pounds, and that some have 12 angles. That means other rocks needed to fit around those twelve angles perfectly. Insane.

After Sacsay Ouman, we visited two more ruin sights, both also impressive, and had a really good (private) picnic lunch. Good food, good sights, and even better company in my folks makes for an outstanding day.

11.17.13

The traditional way of cooking in Peru, so we were told, is Pachamanca: digging a hole in the ground, putting super heated rocks into the hole, along with layers of whatever meat, veggies, etc. you desire, separating each layer with banana leaves, and covering it all back up with earth. We got to sample this. It took all of 20 minutes to fully cook a boatload of potatoes, fava beans, chicken, beef, and guinea pig. Yes, guinea pig. It's a delicacy called "qui" here. While I'm not a fan of eating some kids long lost childhood pet, I'm always in favor of trying new things.

To be honest, it wasn't bad, but I wasn't the biggest fan. Chicken was delicious, as was everything else. But qui I probably won't choose to have again. Inca Cola, on the other hand, that's good stuff. If you've ever wondered what Bazooka Gum would taste like if it were made into a beverage, fly down to Peru and have yourself a bottle.

11.18.13

Azul Wasi group photo!

My dad and Joanne had never volunteered in an orphanage before, and today was their first day. I wasn't sure what to expect from an emotional level, but I knew they would ultimately enjoy it. Before they came to Peru, I told them that if they were to see me, the deal would be that they'd need to mix in a week of volunteering with the sightseeing. I didn't have to twist their arms at all.

Joanne, my stepmom, grew up effectively an orphan. Her mom died when she was young, and she was one of eight siblings. Her dad couldn't afford to keep them, so they all lived with separate relatives. Her dad passed a few years later. She's one of the most even-keeled souls I've ever met, and I knew that even if the experience at Azul Wasi was powerful for her, she'd keep her cards close to the chest.

I may be biased, but that doesn't change the fact my dad is one of the best parents and role models a kid could ask for. No doubt in my mind that he'd get along great at Azul Wasi with all the kids. I anticipated his emotional reaction might be a bit stronger than Joanne's because he shows his a bit more, and this is something much more foreign to him.

It was a privilege to watch them interact with the kids, and to see how much the kids loved them. To show them a microcosm of the experiences at Nkosi's, Ebenezer, Namastae, UPSV, and now Azul Wasi, was beyond compare. The hugs, communication beyond language, and the smiles on their faces as the kids read to them, was enough to even bring a smile to the cold, iceberg of a face that is the Grinch...or simply Dick Cheney.

I'd been looking forward to this day since my folks said they'd come to Peru. It met the hopes I had for it. They were both a bit emotional at the end of the day on the long bus ride back, and the truth is if they weren't, that would've thrown me off. It's hard to describe the experience of being at a place where incredible people, especially kids, have nearly nothing. (In all honesty, the kids at Azul Wasi have a fair amount by orphanage standards, though still very simple.) It's something that needs to be seen, to be heard, to be felt - in person - to be fully understood. It gives inward perspective and reflection in a way few, if any, other things can. And I'm grateful they got the chance to experience that.

11.19.13

Joanne studying with Yulino.

Chron's Disease is another one of those things that can only be explained so much, and that needs to be experienced for it to be understood in full. My dad has it, and from the last 20 years of watching the toll it can take on the body, I'm glad I don't. He was sick today, so Joanne and I went out to Azul Wasi.

For the better part of the day, I returned to my old friend, shoveling sand, while Joanne helped Anastacia in the kitchen preparing food. Anastacia is the main worker at Azul Wasi. She lives here with her five children: Wilmer, Anna-Rita, Danny, Carmen-Rosa, and her one-year old daughter whose name I can't spell correctly and don't want to butcher. She's about the size my Grandma Zetta was - five feet in heels - but is incredibly strong. She carries her baby around on her back all day while she works tirelessly in the kitchen making food and cleaning. She's a bit shy at first, but once she starts opening up and becomes comfortable, she's hilarious. It was fun to watch her and Joanne work together peeling potatoes and trying desperately to bridge the communication gap in the process.

So, the other day I taught Anastacia's 10 year-old son, Danny, the basics of boxing (not that I'm, by any means, an expert). I thought this would be good exercise for him. Turns out my intention kiiiiind of backfired. A kid at school was picking on his younger sister, and Danny bopped him upside the head and got in trouble. Oops.

11.20.13

My dad, shoveling like a champ.

Feeling better, my dad was able to join Joanne and me at Azul Wasi today. I'm glad he was feeling better, because there was lots of sand to be shoveled for the third floor today and it goes much faster with more than one person. It was fun to work with him, and I was impressed that he was handling the altitude, seemingly without breaking a sweat. A year ago, that wouldn't have been possible - he's now 50 pounds lighter, and I'm incredibly proud of him.

There's a duck at Azul Wasi named Pepa. This is seemingly unremarkable, I know. But the cool thing is that he knows his name. Kind of cool. And also, when Alcides throws corn out for him, the turkeys, and the chicken to eat, he sprints from all the way across the property flapping his wings so he doesn't fall down, screaming the whole way, and seems to have a luck on his face saying, "OH PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEAAAAAAASE SAVE ME SOME!!". The Aflac duck doesn't hold a candle.

11.21.13

Not pictured: the gallons of leaked oil.

There's a go-kart track that meanders around a soccer field in Oropesa, a few minute walk from the orphanage, and my dad and I wanted to drive on it. To be clear, the track is immaculate and actually pretty long - the makings of a great go-kart experience. Said great go-kart experience was hindered slightly by the fact the karts were apparently built during the Industrial Revolution.

We wanted to race, but that went out the window when my kart required a push to get going by the track owner. And then it died three times on the first lap, and I had to hold a bolt on the engine block in place, which singed my hand quite nicely, just to keep the thing running. Of course, my dad's drove great. I think it goes without saying, though, that it was still an incredible experience and I wouldn't have wanted it to have happened any other way.

Today was also the last day for my folks at Azul Wasi. It was a joy to volunteer with them for the week, and to see how much they loved the kids and the kids loved them. Goodbyes were said, hugs were had, and we got a ride halfway back into town with Alcides. Then, we switched to the "rapid bus" to get into Cusco, which happened to be slower than the regular bus. That said, we had a return of the "spontaneous, impromptu bus performer salesman", and this one sang an epic song of lost love in Spanish before selling breath mints.

After work today, the three of us wanted to go to a nice dinner in town and happened upon a Peruvian steakhouse (which is unfortunately right next door to the town veterinarian :(. Holy moly it was delicious. For reference, we each got appetizers, entrees, drinks, and desert, the portions were large, and the total bill was $30/person. And that's expensive for Cusco.

11.22.13

Cutest girl, and best chips, ever.

A day to relax was in the cards today, and we wandered around downtown Cusco to souvenir shop and pick up some extra luggage for my folks. Being as I can speak somewhat passable Spanish at this point, I became the go-to barterer for all the shopping. While in Kenya there's pressure from 50 shop owners on you to buy their handcrafted goods which are somehow identical to the shop next door (and the one next to that), here they are relaxed and you can shop at your leisure. So, bartering here is encouraged and fun. Also, in one of the shops, a two year-old girl fell in love with me and we shared her potato chips.

Fully exhausted (jokes) after a day of souvenir shopping, we went to the Pisco Museum. It's not really a museum, that's just the name of the place that has basically every kind of Pisco known to man. Pisco is the national drink, more or less, and it's a liquor made from grapes. Like wine, but clear, and 80-100 proof. It's also delicious. It's also worth mentioning that our hotel came with free Piscos every night, and we adoringly referred to 6:45PM as "Pisco time."

If/when you come to Cusco, which should be a when, you need to have one. Or one hundred.

11.23.13

Love the excitement on their faces!

Situated near Cusco, but towering several thousand feet higher is a tiny, remote town called Patabamba, about 16,000 feet high. We went there with our guide and had an incredible time with a local family who took us to do some gardening, to pick leaves for dying alpaca fabric, and to see one of the best views of my life. Two of their kids, a boy (10) and a girl (8) loved having their pictures taken, but even more so loved taking pictures. I lent them my camera, and to be honest if it was destroyed accidentally by them, I wouldn't really have cared because of how fun a time they were having.

After, we went to the Pisac Ruins, which were phenomenal. I'll just put pictures here instead of blabbering on.

The day ended with us arriving at our hotel. Which actually ended up being a resort. Which also happened to be the nicest place I've ever stayed. Just as an example as to why: there's a towering fireplace in the center when you walk through the doors, and the rocks at the base are peppered with eucalyptus seeds to give the entire place a soothing aroma that's hard to describe. Hard, but not impossible, so I'll try: you know the family friend who was sort of like your grandparents, but wasn't really, and you'd go there for holiday parties and random summer days with your parents when you were little and there was always something baking in the oven and the house had the softest carpet and best natural lighting ever? Like that.

11.24.13

Local village girl.

Anyone who has ever been to Vegas knows that the only thing as ubiquitous as the slot machines and escort fliers are the buffets. They're everywhere. Some are horrendous, others shockingly average, and others incredibly delicious. The breakfast buffet at the place we're staying definitely falls into the latter. I'll admit, I'm easy to please when it comes to food buffets: if it's plentiful, and delicious, and manages to be tasty, I'll be floored. And so began my quest to start adding back the 15 pounds I lost between Vietnam and Cambodia...

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that it was hard to rationalize the concept of a food buffet, let alone being at one and participating in it, when the last 9 months have been spent with kids who have extremely limited nutritional resources or options. Even now, as I volunteer at Azul Wasi - which, compared to the food scarcity at many of the other orphanages, is pretty well off - I can't help but wonder what it would be like to introduce the kids to the concept of unlimited delicious food.

This is something that would ordinarily see me overcome with so much guilt that I'd leave the buffet entirely, unable to reconcile the visions of the kids at Ebenezer going to school on one meal a day while I sit with a never-ending supply of kiwi tarts and smoked salmon scrambled eggs. But the thing I've come to realize is: not a solitary child out of the hundreds of incredible ones I've been blessed to spend time with would begrudge me, or you, the opportunity to enjoy something luxurious like a buffet of food. It's the volition that one carries into it, the mindfulness, that determines whether it's right or wrong.

For what it's worth, one of the billion things I've learned from the kids on the journey is that everyone likes to indulge when possible, to be a little extravagant, and there's nothing wrong with that on it's own. But if it becomes a habit and the images of their faces fade, and action isn't taken to give back so they can have the freedom to enjoy an equal luxury, then there's a problem. So, indulge mindfully, with reverence and respect, and appreciate it while it lasts because it's temporary like everything else. As it should be.

After breakfast, another day of incredible sightseeing. The Ollayantatambo Ruins, Maras salt mines, Moray terraces...and for lunch? A buffet. Go figure.

11.25.13

Two local women, collecting herbs.

There are two main ways a person can get to Machu Picchu: one is via the Inca Trail hike, and the other is by taking the train, or walking from a nearby hydroelectric damn, to a tiny town named Agua Caliente. There are no cars in Agua Caliente, save for the buses that run 12 hours a day up and down the zig-zag switchback of the road that leads to Machu Picchu. The town exists only to serve as the basecamp for those heading to MP. Not having the energy or funds to do the Inca Trail this time down, I opted for the cheap train.

It's an interesting process, boarding. There's not really any direction, and I'm sure anyone could just hop on without proof of a ticket. So there I was, waiting for my train when a really fancy one pulled up. I wanted to walk along the tracks to the front to take a picture of it, as it's nestled in a valley, buttressed by mountains - quite scenic.

As I walked parallel to the line of older white folks clamoring to get on, I was elbowed in the chest by a guy of about 70. "Hey, this isn't for you" he said as he held his elbow firmly in my sternum. (What gave him the hint that I wasn't first class eligible? The unkempt beard? The paint and mud splattered workpants?). I politely removed his hand and said "First of all, I'm just going to take a picture. Second, you don't need to talk to people like that." I just...don't understand why some people go out of their way to be turds to others.

When my train did finally arrive, a few people were furiously trying to get off, so I stepped aside. As I, and the few people behind me were loading on, the train blew its whistle and the people who disembarked sprinted back on, using me as a point of balance to push off. Strike two, rich folks. Strike. Two.

I was happy to hear that I had a window seat, though. But I was less happy to see it.

This was the equivalent of being the person who saved up for years to take a trip to Fenway, only to have his seat be the only one located right behind the proprietary beam in right field.

Machu Picchu ahoy!

11.26.13

Sorry for getting in the way of this...

If and when (and it should just be a when) you visit Machu Picchu, you'll have the option of two ticket choices: one grants you access to the grounds of MP, the other lets you be a part of the couple hundred people each day that get to hike up to Huayna Picchu. Do the second one.

I had to get up at 4:45 in order to make the bus to get in line at the top in time, but when you're on the way up on the hike, and the sun is just creeping over the edges of the monuments as clouds surround you in solitude, words and thoughts cease to exist. You just...are. I could go on and on about how beautiful it was, and how it looks like Michelangelo is still alive and doing incredible 3D renderings and placing them in the middle of a rainforest near the Andes, but instead I'll just post some pictures (which still won't do it justice).

Marv Meyer, hero of mine and many others.

Joanne and my dad arrived at MP at about 1130, and we got to spend the hold day romping around one of the most impressive architectural marvels in human history, a man with his PhD in archaeology and anthropology as our guide. He was incredibly illuminating, and also sounded like a speak and spell.

It was a dream come true to be here. For the scenery, for the history, for the sheer gravitas of the experience...but also because I've carried around a picture of one of the greatest life teachers I've ever had in this very same spot. He died a little over a year ago of a sudden brain tumor. He was one of the most noble and wise human beings I've ever known. To have been able to be where he was, with visible reverence and adoration on his face, was the stuff of myth.

P.S. On the train ride back, I got to ride first class with my folks. There was a runway fashion show, conducted by the train stewards. Yes!

11.27.13

Dad and Alfredo. English/Spanish lessons.

To say that it seems "weird" to be writing about the adventure from within the confines of a four star resort, while nibbling on smoked salmon and sipping on a home-brewed concoction of muna and coca tea is about right. To say that this part of the adventure with my folks has been "awesome" would be a severe understatement. To say that I'm filled with awe, joy, and inexpressible gratitude at the opportunity of being able to see the sights I have, the amazing people I've met - many of whom I'll never see again - and the experiences that've turned into memories as time does what it will, is as good as I can come do with my sloppy writing to capture the sense of wonder and marvel at the beauty of life that was, will be, and is now.

11.28.13

I tried to capture "time flying" in a picture.

Time seems to have a way of always working against us. Have you noticed that? Especially when it comes to times where there is boundless smiles and fun had, it passes in the blink of a hummingbird's wing. As quickly as my folks joined the adventure, it was time for them to depart.

For these last couple weeks, I couldn't have imagined better travel companions and I'm so happy to have had the chance to share this journey with them.

Back to Cusco for the night to catch up on some journaling and work before heading back to Azul Wasi in the morning.

11.29.13

Anastasia and her daughter.

The tuk-tuk, my old friend, is back. Since I've been staying at the hostel and commuting to Azul Wasi, all of my stuff was with me. So after balancing 3 backpacks on my lap for the hour long bus ride out to Oropesa, I splurged and got a 3 sol tuk-tuk for the walk to Azul Wasi.

When I arrived, the kids had just finished up with school and lunch. I was only gone for a little over a week, so I didn't expect any fanfare upon my return. So I was surprised when Alfredo, Nilo, Carmen-Rosa, and Danny all stormed me with hugs and yells of "Amigo Alex!". Surprised and heart-warmed. They even helped me with my luggage, which I quickly realized was a simple coup to get me out of the tuk-tuk so they could climb into it and romp around like it was their own personal bounce-house.

Spending the first night out here was such a wonderful experience, and I'm looking forward to the next month of it. The only thing that'll be a challenge is eating enough to keep my weight. Dinner is really simple: bread and tea. It's delicious, and I'm grateful for it, but I'm an ectomorph and gotta get my calories in somehow. A worthy tradeoff to sit and stargaze with 14 incredible kids after watching the sun melt away over the rolling hills of a Peruvian valley.

11.30.13

Alcides at the market.

Were I to make a list of all of the faces, places, and experiences I miss on this journey, it'd be long enough for Rapunzel to fashion into rope and escape (if she were still up in her castle, that is, which would make her…really old. And probably dead. Well, that's depressing. But you know what I mean). However, one of the tiny handful of things that I haven't missed is cold showers. And I mean COLD showers. The kind where when you put your head under the water your brain feels like you just took a 30 second long slug of 7-11 blue raspberry slushy. But hey, it beats smelling like I probably do right now.

One things my folks wanted to be sure I did when they left was to get a couple week's worth of food for Azul Wasi with the money they donated. I told Alcides, and he wanted me to go with him to the market to see just how much food the money would buy (a good sign of a good orphanage director: keeping finances transparent).

So we, together with Wilmer and Alcides' daughter, went into town to the biggest outdoor market I've ever seen. Imagine Pike's Place in Seattle. Now double that, put it outside, and double it again. That's about halfway as big as this place. Row after row, stall after stall, of fresh vegetables, aromatic flowers, severed pig's heads…and thousands of patrons navigating the vendors to buy all they needed.

So how much food did $100 get Azul Wasi? Roughly 30 pounds of grains, 30 pounds of vegetables, 20 pounds of fruit, 10 pounds of fish, 10 pounds of chicken, 10 pounds of beef, 5 pounds of cheese, and more that I'm forgetting right now. Pretty wild, I'd say. Pretty. Wild.

12.1.13

Jubal breaking rocks.

Haven't had the chance to wield a hammer since South Africa, and for as self-deprecating as I am about my lack of general muscle and such, I sure can drive a nail straight. That came in handy while building a huge new pen for the guinea pigs of Azul Wasi, and also for impressing Alcides and the kids with my seemingly deft hammer skills.

The good news is that after the brief period of showing off, I was brought back down to size when my next task was breaking rocks with a sledgehammer. So there's that.

In high school, a group of friends and I would spend long summer days making five minute movie masterpieces, which usually revolved around some form of butchered kung fu or cap guns. Filmmaking then just felt…magic. To be honest, much of the drudgery of film school kind of lifted away a lot of that, or maybe I'd just become more interested in other pursuits. Working on a video documentary for the adventure certainly has helped to make the process of filmmaking fun again, and returned some of the magic. Another thing that did, in a big way today, was helping Dante make a movie for a school project.

A couple neighbor kids, along with Danny, Alfredo, and Nilo, transformed into pocket-camera thespians for his school project (which I have no clue what it was about, and I don't think language was the culprit), with Dante behind the lens directing all the actions. It helped re-ignite the film spark that had been dormant in me for quite some time, and reminded me of the alchemy that can turn a regular old school day with friends into gold.

12.2.13

Laura, resident Azul Wasi parrot.

This morning I walked to the "corner" store (which is a mud shack on a tiny dirt road) to pick up some essential supplies, like Coca-Cola, tuna, and saltine crackers. I know that my Spanish is getting better, because the 70 year-old lady behind the counter called me "papi," which is just plain great.

Fortifications in hand, I started on the bulk of my work today, which was plowing the rows of corn in the Azul Wasi gardens. I was surprised at the relative ease with which my lungs were handling the work at altitude, and that the whole process of plowing, weeding, watering, and reorganizing by hand went pretty smoothly. That is, until I realized that my t-shirt had stuck to my back for the many hours I was bent over using the ho, which resulted in a sunburn 4 inches high and the width of my entire back.

You win this round, sun. Again.

12.3.13

The moon tonight, before the rains.

It's absolutely pouring rain tonight. Not quite on the monsoon scale of Nepal, but it sounds about twice as fierce when it splatters down on a metal roof. I love this sound. To me, it's one of the greatest harbingers of solitude and inward silence. I'm sitting and watching the rain dance over the shadows of the mountains, illuminated every little while by the lightning rolling through. This is one of those moments where it hit me: I'm in Peru. I'm really present, really here, now. Romania, South Africa, Kenya, Nepal, Cambodia, Vietnam…they all seem like they happened yesterday and also ten years in the past. Cycling through memories is something I haven't really had the chance to do until now. Maybe that's not true. Maybe I've had the chance, but I'm just not that nostalgic. Whatever it is, I'm happy to have the chance right now in this moment.

After plowing the corn fields some more, some of the kids and I worked on their English homework, and they taught me Spanish. I'd ask them to teach me Kechua, too, but something tells me they'd laugh at me even more. That said, helping them laugh more is one of the main goals, so it looks like tomorrow I'll be learning some Kechua.

Alfredo and I usually sit near each other, and we have a game we play at dinner (tea and bread) time, and it goes like this: you reach behind the other's back and poke them on the shoulder, and then act casual and blame it on someone or something else, like the kid across the table or one of the dogs or a fly. Complex, I know, but I didn't make the rules. It certainly brings a smile to his face, so the game shall continue.

12.4.13

Rivers after rain.

Though the torrential rains don't flood the crops or the valleys here, they do have the tendency to overload the water supply (sorry, friends in California) at times, resulting in excessive runoff and mud and dirt getting into the system. To be clear, all of the water here is far from pure out of the tap, and it needs to be boiled before drinking. But when it's the color of chocolate milk, well…there are some things boiling won't even fix.

I went into Cusco today for an overnight at the trusty old hostel, Dragonfly, and got some good writing and picture editing in. I also stumbled upon a new menu del dia place, which yielded pizza, salad, soup, and wine for about $4. The waiter happened to be an ex Navy Seal from Florida, who now lives in Peru with his wife after having lived in Colombia for about 10 years. After I finished he wanted to know if I could help him promote the restaurant a little bit, so we walked around the city. That's when he showed me the fresh scar on his neck.

Apparently, he stumbled into a part of Cusco where he wasn't supposed to be, got held up by a group of guys and stabbed near the jugular, and required 16 stitches. Sure, he could've been making it all up, but it's a good reminder to not get too lax when walking around in a city where not a local. He asked what I was doing in Cusco, so I told him about the trip. He told me he used to operate an orphanage of sorts about 2 hours away, but the bureaucracy of it all motivated him to close it. I was going to start recording him talking about what happened, but when I started to ask further he changed the subject and proceeded to try to sell me a suit he had stashed behind the counter at the restaurant. Interesting night.

12.5.13

Machu Picchu, just after sunrise.

Lots more work done today! Bought the domains for the trip documentary and trip photography, among more writing and website maintenance. The tedious work is sometimes a nice change of pace from the manual labor and, even though I didn't have a chance to watch a movie or read a book as planned, I was happy to get some work done.

I got back to Azul Wasi in the evening, just as dinner was being served. While it certainly isn't filling in the least, it's impossible to beat the company of the kids, not to mention the free Spanish lessons that ensue. When I get back home, tea time with everyone at Azul Wasi is definitely something I will miss.

The night ended with us gathering around a tiny computer monitor watching a poorly bootlegged copy of Lord of the Rings, dubbed in Spanish. Whoever they got to play Gandalf had to have been the guy from the "Most Interesting Man in the World" commercials. Stellar.

12.6.13

On the way to Azul Wasi.

Happy to say that it'll only be a few short days before hot water is connected to the showers at Azul Wasi! I have limited plumbing knowledge, but I do know how to attach PVC pipes to one another, so pitching in was something I was happily able to do. Afterwards, I hopped on over to the kitchen to ask Anastasia if there was any chores with which she needed help, and she laughed and pointed me in the direction of the pile of dishes. I don't mind washing dishes. It's a form of meditation, and I find it strangely relaxing.

In the evening, I was invited to attend an open house get-together for Bautista, Hernan, and Ana Rita at the culinary school in Cusco, where they attend night classes every day after high school. I remember how wiped out I'd be after a full day of classes alone, so the fact that they go to more class afterwards is dedication and a half. It's inspiring to see them chasing dreams and putting in work that would, much like so many of the kids and caretakers met along the way, make Sisyphus look like a chump.

After hopping off the bus, Anastasia (with the little one bundled to her back, of course), Carmen Rosa, Jubal and I entered the open house. Turns out, the place is a mega tech school, not just a culinary one. They also offer cosmetology, computer, and daycare training, in addition to the culinary arts. While I didn't understand all that was said by the guide who was showing us and some other parents around, I did understand enough to know that the curriculum is very hands on and intensive, which is a really good thing to see. I also was polished enough in my Spanish to know when to eat food that was served to me.

Nighttime had fallen, and finding a bus at the bus stop proved to be a little tricky. While we were waiting, Jubal saw an elderly woman crossing the highway with a couple big bags of groceries. Before I could move a muscle, he sprinted into action without hesitation, and hoisted all of the bags onto his back to help the lady across the street. Random acts of kindness like this really speak volumes to the character of these kids. Despite the demons in their background, despite the struggles they overcame, despite the battles they are still waging daily, they still take time to help those in the same fight, so that it may be a little easier for another.

When we finally found a bus going our way, it was a tour bus, like a greyhound. I don't know if we crashed it, or if it was just decommissioned and now only used for shuttling around the city, but in any case, it was packed so we stood in the aisle. In the same vein of Vietnam, the ceiling was about 5'8", so ducking was necessary. Also, basically everyone on the bus was asleep, which definitely led me to believe we were crashing said tour bus.

I heard "Nelson Mandela" and "muerte" in the same sentence over the radio on the bus, and that's how I learned of his passing. I can't help but think of all the kids and women at Nkosi's, and how hard this must be on all of them. I hope there is a sense of peace throughout South Africa that comes with his passing, as folks remember what he stood for and still will as he lives on in the hearts and minds of everyone who heard his message.

As we walked back through Oropesa, Jubal and I separated from the rest of our companions a bit. It was a clear night, and the sky looked like the ocean at sunset: a million shining diamonds, shimmering on as they always do and always will. Our conversation meandered through talking about the cosmos, the beauty of life, and his childhood.

It's nights like this that will make it impossible for me to explain how hard it will be to leave here, how hard it has been to leave everywhere.

12.7.13

Dishwashing meditation.

Harkening back to my days in Kenya spent mixing cement, I spent a couple hours today mixing a pile of the stuff, loading it into buckets, and hoisting them on my shoulder and up the rickety winding staircase to the third floor. At last, the bathroom is almost done, as is the whole third story! Pictures soon.

Also, remember how the other day I washed a pile of dishes? Well…today I had a really long session of dishwashing meditation.

12.8.13

Alfredo, shower time.

Though the piping wasn't finished being connected to the bathroom, it was in place on the roof, zigzagging across it so the sun can warm the water rapidly as it passes through. Alcides thought it would be a good idea to open the tap and tilt the hose toward the ground so some of the kids could shower. It was, definitely, a great idea.

There are few smiles I've seen in my life bigger than the ones Nilo, Alfredo, and Ivan had while they took a hot shower for the first time ever. Remember your first time on a slip-n-slide? That's what this was like. They danced around in their tightie-whities under the tap, singing at the top of their lungs. Alcides asked me to film and take pictures of it, so I went and got my camera. When I got back, they were all naked. I asked Alcides if he still wanted me to film. "Of course!" he exclaimed. I explained to him that in the US this would probably be frowned upon, and the police would probably show up in 17 seconds if they heard a guy with a big beard was filming naked kids showering outside. He laughed, completely understood, but wanted me to capture the sheer joy on all of their faces. So that's what I did.

Here's hoping I make it through customs without having my footage scanned through…

Also, Jubal wanted to hear my music so I rapped a couple songs for him. He really liked them! Looks like I've finally got my rap student for Azul Wasi!

12.9 - 12.10.13

Peruvian traffic jams.

Went to Cusco for a little R&R this weekend, but ended up working most of the time editing pictures and writing the Romania journal. Definitely no complaints though. It was nice to have a warm shower, a soft bed, and to be able to finally watch Gravity (which was awesome by the way!). On the night of the 10th, I got food poisoning which wasn't the most fun. By now, you're probably accustomed to reading those words at least once or twice per journal, but I can assure you: I'm not accustomed to the accompanying diarrhea and night sweats and what have you. I'm actually surprised it took this long to hit me again. Also, it's always unfortunate when you finish going to the bathroom, in a crowded public restroom, and recognize there's no TP left in your stall, and when you wait in there for the crowd to thin out, the last person who leaves turns out the lights.

12.11.13

It's good to be back! Jubal was really excited to start on his rap lesson today - an enthusiastic student is an inspiring thing. We went over the standards: confidence, rhythm, rhyme, cadence, syllables, breath control...but this time it was with the added element of explaining it all in Spanish. Not the easiest of tasks, but by lessons end, if his added exuberance was any indication, all was communicated correctly, or at least understandably! I'm really looking forward to hearing what he creates.

Also, beyond happy to report that the hot water is now fully operational in the showers! It's conditional on the sun, and there's a leak in the hose on the roof that heats the water, but hey. It's something.

12.12.13

Post fight nap and hugs.

Had a restless night of sleep with a killer headache last night. Nothing that spending the day with these amazing kids won't heal.

Alfredo, Nilo, Danny, and Carmen-Rosa were playing in the grass in the late afternoon and dusk. It's always amazing to me how any of us make it out of childhood alive. Watching some of the spills they take, and remembering times when I would be on the receiving end of my older brother's fist, or fall time and again when learning how to ride a bike, or just out of the blue slide down a hill, I can't help but think our bones and joints must've been made of rubber. I mean, as I'm typing this, my shoulder is hurting just from typing. Typing! I'm not even moving!

So there I was filming them romping around, when Alfredo takes one of those spills where you think, "holy lord, is he breathing??? No really, check his pulse! Give him some space!! I'll call an ambula-" and then he pops up and pushes the other kid. And then he falls back on the ground and does his best impersonation of Cristiano Ranaldo getting tripped and pleading to the ref to see his agony at stubbing a toe. And then, when he realizes everyone knows he's faking it, hops right back up and starts wrestling again. I guess these are my reflections on childhood for the day.

Also, I got a hot pot today, so no more bottled water will be needed. It tastes a little on the funky side, but it's safe and will keep piles of plastic out of the landfill. Minor victories.

12.13.13

School in Oropesa.

Today I had the opportunity to go to school with the kids. It was awesome.

It's a mile down the road from Azul Wasi, and is K-12. They are nearing the end of their school term and coming up on Summer vacation, so they had an open house today. I took along my camera, as always, just in case there were some shots that came up that'd be useful for the documentary or just my own memories.

99.9% of kids in the travels absolutely love being in front of the camera, but the kids at the school here…they love being in front of the camera. I spent about an hour outside in the courtyard, intending on filming B-Roll and environment shots, and ended up having an hours worth of kids posing for the camera, playing tag, and generally just being ridiculously photogenic. The whole time I was outside, there was a combination of recess, P.E., and lunch all happening simultaneously which helped make for interesting footage.

School lunch here is a little different than back home. Rather than having pre-packaged frozen meals with 73 ingredients just for the crust on the pizza, served by under appreciated and underpaid workers, revered women in the community get together and have local, fresh, wholesome homemade food in little booths right in the middle of the school. I went over and got a huge plate of ceviche and rice for 60 cents. Now, I was lucky to have parents who brown-bagged lunch for me almost every day of my school career, and I always felt beyond fortunate for that; it was also always delicious. But if I had the chance to have this food everyday, for 60 cents, well, it'd be hard to pass.

After walking back to Azul Wasi, Anastasia asked me if I could again accompany her to school for what I understood to be a reunion of sorts for the fathers of the kids at school. Something got lost in translation.

We arrived to a packed auditorium, of predominantly women, with a younger woman on stage giving a Powerpoint presentation on the prevention of sexual abuse of children. Then a guy got on stage promptly after and gave a 20 minute speech about the importance of encyclopedias and tried to sell them for $100, which may as well be $1 million for many of the families here. Adding to the confusion, he got more applause than the woman who gave an impassioned presentation on the prevention of sexual abuse.

When I got back to Azul Wasi, Jubal was pumped to show me what he'd written for his verse. I asked him to write 4 bars, and he wrote 8. Overachiever. They're good, too! Excited to hear the rest and help him along the way!

12.14.13

Third floor, in progress.

Here are some pictures of the third floor that's coming along. The windows are installed and spent about 6 hours today putting up plaster on the concrete walls with a trowel. Close!

At night, Dante asked me if I wanted to go into town to a fiesta. How could I not? The entire population of Oropesa must've been in attendance because it was packed. There were fireworks, there was dancing, there was guys in terrifying gorilla costumes, there was street food, there was lots of laughter.

12.15.13

15 minutes after arrival, cameras out...

More plaster on walls - allllllmost finished, but ran out of material. Bullocks.

A couple people came to Azul Wasi today, one dressed up as Santa (who is a friend of Alcides). The others were: two women in their 60's, one woman in her early 20's, and a late 20's Peruvian woman. The friend of Alcides had been here before a couple times, but for all of the other's it was their first time. Within 30 minutes of being here, they had their cameras out and were firing pictures away at the kids. This is a big pet peeve. One or two pictures right away is fine. But anything more than that and I can't help but feel…How are you being present for the kids? In what way are you being human and helping out? It seems objectifying, like the kids are exhibits at a zoo. I've seen it a lot, and it really, really bothers me.

I know it might sound hypocritical of me, given that I was only at the school for a few hours when I was filming. But to me, the difference is that I went there to film the kids from Azul Wasi along with some B-Roll, not to film kids I didn't know. And the environment of a school is quite a bit different than that of an orphanage.

When I went to introduce myself to the people who came out, I was met with a look of utter disdain, contempt, and disgust by one of the women. Near as I could tell, I didn't have a Confederate flag t-shirt on and my fly was zipped, so I didn't immediately understand the reason for that response to my smile and wave. Looking back at it now, I'm chalking it up to another recurring experience on this adventure, particularly at the orphanages: territorial volunteerism. Here's what I mean by this.

In the orphanages in each country, there have been volunteers who would glom on to certain kids at the neglect of others in the orphanage. Then, when a new volunteer would arrive and pay a little attention to "their" child, they would immediately rush over and shoo them out of the way or give them a dirty look. Why? What help is being given, what presence being offered, if the interactions between some volunteers boil down to competition for affection and attention from the kids? It's an ego and thing, no question. It's territorial. It's, "I want these kids to love me most. I want to be the first volunteer to do x,y,z. Who do you think you are?" It's now no longer about volunteering for the sake of volunteering. It's volunteering to fill a void, to reap external validation, and it's about the volunteer not the people.

This is hardly the norm. I've also encountered and worked alongside numerous great volunteers. But it has happened enough that I took notice of it and felt compelled to write about it in this here journal. I don't think people do it maliciously. It's just an awareness thing. Being aware of how and why one is volunteering is just as important as the volunteering itself in many respects.

Here's a good example of volunteers making it about them rather than the children: Alcides asked me to film a brief 30 second video for the Azul Wasi website, thanking donors for their support over the last year and wishing everyone happy holidays and new year. I asked the guy dressed as Santa to help coordinate, because he was fluent in Spanish. So, he explained to the kids what needed to be said in the video. All of us gathered outside, and he was in the video with them as they jovially thanked folks in the video. I took a couple takes. On the last, he turned to the kids and said, "Hey, how about you also say 'Gracias, Papa Noel'?" (translation: thanks, Santa. Santa being him, of course.) Why, in a million years, would you tell the children at an orphanage, who have next to nothing, to thank you for a present?

To be fair, they did bring a nice meal and gifts for the kids - that's worth noting. That was nice of them. But why did it have to be done in the context of "hey, kids, look at the great things I am doing for you"?

One of the 1239839857349850 things done by the kids that melted my heart was when Alfredo and Jubal gave me some of their candy from their presents. And it wasn't even the discards, like the wax lips or the popcorn balls. It was the good stuff. They shared just because they wanted to, and because they wanted to make me feel included.

At night, Dante and I went to the fiesta again. It was just as majestic as the night before.

12.16 - 12.17.13

Homeless musician at the market.

Went to Cusco for my weekly weekend off, and this time I really did just relax, which was great. I got in in the early afternoon and stumbled across a restaurant named "Yanapay". The menu looked promising, but the real driving force behind my decision to give it a go was the fact that 100% of the net profits go to a nearby day shelter and orphanage. Great cause + great food (sandwich/local chips/apple pie with Pisco cream!) = a full stomach and Alex being a happy boy.

The rest of the day was spent dropping off laundry and backing up pictures from Romania to my cloud server while watching a movie. Also, got a chance to Skype with my folks, which is always wonderful.

The next morning I went to pick up my laundry; simple enough. I was curious, though, as to why a couple pair of boxer briefs, couple pair of socks, a pair of shorts, and two shirts supposedly weighed 7 pounds. I didn't question it when I dropped it off, as I'd gone to this place each time I've been in town and it's run by a little old lady that couldn't possibly try to hustle me. Or so I thought.

I got back to the hostel and weighed my laundry with their digital scale: 2.5 pounds. Roughly 3x lighter than what I paid for. I went back to the lady, laundry and scale en toe. She accused me of removing clothes (even though the bag was still taped shut), of somehow the clothes weighing vastly different on a digital scale vs. an old-fashioned one, and refused to admit she was being a little hustler.

I suggested we go into the grocery store and find a bag of something with a fixed weight listed, like a kilogram of flour, and weigh it on each of our scales. Precise, easy enough. She refused. Mind you, she spoke no English, so I was explaining to her how ridiculous the whole thing was in Spanish, how I didn't care about the money (only a couple more bucks), but rather the principle, and asked why she was being a bad person. Proud to say I explained everything in Spanish with no pauses. Getting better! Finally, she called her boss and told her there was an "angry Gringo who wanted his money back." Her boss acquiesced. Mission accomplished, silly though it was.

Here's the thing: if someone hustles me and they get away with it, I respect it. It's like they earn whatever they take from me if they do it so smoothly that I don't notice it. But if the hustle is found out, I think the code of hustling ethics clearly necessitates admitting guilt and fixing it. That's just the game. But I digress.

12.18.13

Yulino, with his sixth grade diploma!

On the walk back to Azul Wasi after the bus ride, I passed Yulino on the road. He told me there was a fiesta at school for his sixth grade class, and he wanted me to come. After dropping off my bag, saying hi to the kids, and grabbing some lunch, I trekked back into town to the school and joined in on the fiesta. And I'm glad I did, because when I walked through the door, Yulino's face lit up and he ran over to give me a hug. The fiesta also involved dancing, speeches, and free beer, which, in my experience, is a winning combination.

All of the kids had their parents there, and when the time came for each of them to get their 6th grade diploma, the parents went up with them and made a short little speech. Yulino's an orphan, so his parents weren't there. The only representative he had there was me, and I was asked to give a speech. With far from perfect Spanish to draw on, what I said was that Yulino is a great student and worker and, more importantly, a great person and that I'm lucky to know him. At least, that's what I did my best to say.

I was struck by how much he enjoyed my presence there, and how little he seemed to care that other kids had their parents there and he simply had me. I believe in empathy being one of the biggest keys leading to true understanding and compassion of one another. The truth is, that having been fortunate enough to have been raised by two sets of incredibly caring and engaged parents, I simply can't empathize with Yulino - or any of the other kids at Azul Wasi for that matter - on that level.

I hope I've been able to supplement that inability to fully empathize out of historical difference with a surplus of compassion and support. It's the best I can do, and I hope its helped in some small way, not for me or to feed my ego, but because they are incredible kids who deserve all the good that's in the world.

12.19.13

Alfredo, Yulino, Nilo.

Before I came to Azul Wasi, it'd been a long, long while before I went bug collecting. I'd forgotten what it was like to fearlessly lift up a spider the size of your 8 year-old palm, dangle it around, and then put it back on the ground and then build a fort of rocks around it. That's exactly what Nilo and Alfredo did with a spider that looked hairier than Burt Reynolds, and certainly poisonous.

Happy to report that the hot water is now, again, fully operational. The leak in the PVC pipe got fixed because all of the piping got replaced. Rather than super thin plastic, it's now the really strong stuff. I think it'll work well.

With the rain coming in to stay for the next couple months, building new stories and structures will have to slow, and so the building materials need to be moved under cover. Remember the bricks that were carried up the rickety ladder to the second floor of the new building? Well, they all have to come back down to be hauled across Azul Wasi to the now empty garage/shed/guinea pig mansion. Danny and Alfredo were on the second floor loading bricks, one at a time, into a bucket and then lowering them down with a rope to Nilo and Carmen-Rosa below. Jubal and I then loaded the bricks into the wheelbarrow to cart them across the rugged terrain. We had a contest to see who could haul the most bricks at once. I got up to 32. Jubal? 34. Well then.

Jubal.

Interviews got underway today! First up were the three brothers: Alfredo, Nilo, and Yulino. It didn't really go to plan, but that's OK. I had David there to help read the questions I'd prepared to be sure they understood them. I told them to look at me and not the camera or David. "Oh! OK." they exclaimed. They looked at me for about 4.3 seconds before looking back to David. Again I asked them to look at me when answering. "Ah, OK, OK!". 5.7 seconds later, back to David. And on and on. But, they remained quiet and focused throughout the whole interview, which is saying something.

As with so many of the amazing kids on this journey, they have an incredibly sad backstory. Their father hanged himself. He was a drinker, and one day he just ended it. Their mom couldn't afford to raise them alone, and when Alcides heard about them, he went to visit and brought them back to Azul Wasi. Alfredo was the one who told the story. When something so heartbreaking comes out so matter-of-fact from an 8 year-old, it's doubly heart wrenching. Alfredo also knew no Spanish before coming to Azul Wasi. Only Kechua. That was 3 years ago, and he's now fluent in both. Incredible.

Ivan.

Afterwards, I interviewed Jubal and Ivan. Jubal's dad was a drinker as well, and Jubal started on a downward path from a very early age. He would rob people in downtown Cusco, holding them up with an unloaded gun. When he got caught, he got time to reflect, turned to religion, and turned his life around. He's one of the most genuine kids I've met on the whole journey.

Ivan is a bit of a wildcard, and he'd definitely be labeled as having ADHD in our Aderol riddled, over-medicated society. He's a great kid, and his background is very similar to Alfredo, Nilo, and Yulino's. The fact that he is the good person he is, that he's fighting for good in a world that has given him the opposite so many times, is a testament to his innate strength and character.

12.20.13

Bautista and Hernan.

Had interviews with two sets of brothers today: Bautista and Hernan, Danny and Wilmer.

Throughout the course of the whole journey, it has been rare that I've been afforded the chance to interview siblings at the same time, and doing so changes the interview dynamic completely. It invites them to open up, probably more so than they would on their own. They also get a chance to finish one another's sentences, or talk about their background story more cohesively.

Danny and Wilmer.

Not to mince words, there is tragedy in each of their backgrounds. Bautista and Hernan's mom died when they were younger, and their dad was abusive. They were the support system for one another, which is probably largely why they are so driven today. Danny and Wilmer, on the other hand, lost their father while their mother (Anastasia) is still alive, and very much directly involved in their lives. Wilmer is the oldest of all of the siblings, the others being Danny, Anna Rita, Carmen Rosa, and their baby sister. Being the oldest, he has assumed a lot of the responsibility of helping Anastasia raise them, and I see the effort he puts in on a daily basis. He bends over backward for them, without complaint.

After the interviews, Bautista and Hernan wanted to experience rap class. We held one in the evening after their schoolwork was finished. Though I think it will be tough to get a verse finished for the song before I leave, if their incredible enthusiasm is any indication, they will continue to work on it solo. It's such an inspiring thing to see, enthusiasm. It reminded me of how I felt when I first started to write lyrics.

12.21.13

Nilo, being an old man.

Oropesa is in a valley (albeit a valley at 12,000 feet), and as such is flanked by mountains. From the first day I arrived and looked up at them, I knew I wanted to climb one just to see what the view would be like at the top. Today was the day.

We were going to start in the morning in order to avoid the relentless sun, but the pouring rain put a nice kibosh on that. You may recall that Nilo is 9 going on 90. When it started raining, and we were discussing doing the climb, he came out of the dining room holding a cup of tea, wearing a denim hat, turtle neck, and scarf to ensure his body would be warm and dry. He looked up at the clouds and, in his surprisingly grizzled-sounding voice said, "well, looks like it'll be a cold one today…" and then took a sip of his tea while pacing back and forth. Yes.

A couple hours later, we had a break in the weather and started the climb. In order to get the base of it, we had to first make our way through the fields of livestock and farmers, leap across a river, and navigate crossing the highway. This brought us to basically someone's backyard to begin the ascent. I imagine it was quite a scene for the townsfolk to look at: 8 kids between 8 and 20 (Alfredo, Nilo, Yulino, Danny, Dante, Bautista, Ivan, Hernan), a white dog about the size of a great dane (Cassan), and a lanky, pale white guy in a green bucket hat that says "VIETNAM."

Hernan, Dante, Ivan, Alfredo.

It didn't take long to realize that there's a distinct difference between 12,000 feet and 12,100 feet, and 12,100 feet and 12,200 feet, not to mention 12,200 feet and 13,000. By the time we reached the halfway point (which I only thought was the halfway marker - which I soon discovered to be about a quarter of the way), I was gassed. We were zigzagging through terraced gardens, scrambling up loose rock, and bushwhacking through prickly plants and chest high grasses. It became apparent right away that my spot in the pecking order would be somewhere between the very back and bringing up the rear, Cassan by my side every step of the way.

When I reached halfway, Bautista and Hernan were nice enough to stop and wait for me. In the far distance, I would see Alfredo dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a windbreaker, leading the pack and scrambling up the face like a Billy Goat. I had to zoom in about 30x on my camera to snag a visible shot.

The gang at the top!

About two hours later, the "summit" (in quotes because there were other, higher summits around) was reached. With dusk steadily approaching, we took in the view for a solid 10 minutes before starting the descent.

I don't know what it is about hikes, especially ones in the dark, that build such camaraderie. Maybe it's the whole "us vs. nature" thing. Maybe it's the seeing (all of them) needing to lead the blind (me) to safety. Maybe it's the unmatched solitude that comes from walking stride for side in silence, each step fully calculated so as to not fall off the side of the mountain, the only sound the deep breaths, the only sight the moisture on the plants reflecting the moonlight. Whatever it is, there was no place in the world I would've rather been at the very moment than with these incredible human beings.

We made it back in the pitch black without having had one person fall. That is, of course, until I took the last step up through the trench to the property of Azul Wasi, and proceeded to promptly fall back on my keester.

Casan, my sherpa.

After taking a bucket shower with water heated up by my handy hot-pot, I returned to my room and noticed the door was open fully. I turned on the lights to see Cassan, the giant dog and my silent companion every step of the way up and down the mountain (probably because he knew I was the weakest of the lot) fully draped across my bed, his soggy, matted hair and mud-soaked paws covering every inch of the blankets. He looked up at me and slowwwwwly sunk back down into the bed while looking up at me, attempting a Jedi mind trick of "Youuuuu don't see me. There's nothing here." This, despite the fact he's about the size of a small grizzly bear.

I offered him the other bed in the room, but he opted to head outside, my loyal sherpa catching z's under the stars in the shadow of the mountain we'd just conquered.

12.22.13

Work!

Today was another physical fitness day. Besides manual labor, the only way I've been able to stay in (marginally) passable shape on the adventure has been doing body-weight exercises. I brought along my trusty old resistance band and was getting a little circuit workout in when Alfredo wandered by my room in a way that he often does, where he slows his walk and peers in but simultaneously tries to make it look like he's not. He saw me working out, backed up, and said, "Alex! I want to be strong! Teach me!" My Spanish isn't strong enough to say "Well, if you want to be strong, I'll go find a better example. But I'll try to teach you!"

So he started doing pushups and planks and using the resistance band, which is taller than he is. Once Nilo walked by and saw him working out, he wanted in, too. And then Jubal dropped in. Pretty soon, I transitioned from struggling at knocking out a couple sets of pushups to being a poor man's Tony Horton. I'm not sure how that happened, but they seemed to have fun, so hey.

After, I was lucky enough to be a part of their soccer game outside. It was 6 on 6. I'm real not good at soccer, but I had Anna Rita on my team, and she picked up the slack for me.

Jubal, breaking brick hauling records.

As we were finishing the game, a VW van rolled into Azul Wasi, which generally means one thing: white people. It happened to be a group of ten missionaries: two married couples and six kids. It took them over 20 minutes to start taking pictures of and with all the kids, so they had some respect and restraint in that regard which was nice to see. They also came fully loaded with a turkey dinner, which the kids devoured with eyes as big as the moon.

It's interesting to see the dichotomy of lifestyles play out between rather affluent kids who arrive with their parents, and kids who have next to nothing and one or no parents. While the affluent sometimes view the children at the orphanage with a cautious skepticism, the kids at the orphanage never seem to greet their counterparts with anything other than open arms. I shouldn't be surprised by this, given the character of the children at each orphanage on the journey. But I can't help but feel if I were in their position, I'd look at these people who show up in designer clothes that were bought new, not handed down through three siblings, with more than a tinge of spite.

12.23.13

The market.

Another one of the gifts my folks wanted to be sure I passed on to the kids at Azul Wasi was to buy them some practical presents for the holidays, as well as take them out to a chicken dinner. So Alcides and I went into town to check out some of the markets for gifts.

Black Friday is crowded. But I assure you it doesn't compare to holiday shopping at the local markets in Cusco. There are vendors selling everything, from My Little Pony to Soccer Balls, TV's to designer watches, tents, coats, food, everything. So we honed in on practical presents for all of the kids over 10 - really heavy duty rain ponchos - and toys for Nilo, Alfredo, and Carmen Rosa. We also got a brand new soccer ball and pump.

After navigating the stalls and bargaining on all the prices (which were of course already beyond bargains to begin with), we grabbed some ceviche from one of the stalls. Of course, Alcides knew the owners and so they gave us the royal treatment. Delicious. Sushi has a rival, which is something I thought I'd never say.

Hernan and the injured pup.

At night, all of the kids, Anastasia, David, and I went out to a polleria to get a really tasty dinner, made all the better by watching The Simpsons dubbed in Spanish while the rain pattered down on the metal roof of the restaurant. Watching 14 kids chow down and smile endlessly is one of those feelings that is quite difficult to describe, so I'll just go with inner sunshine and rainbows.

On the way back it was pouring rain. There was a dog lying in the middle of the road. Hernan ran over and picked her up and took her under an eve. She was in shock and immediately turned quiet once he gently laid her over there. We looked her over. No blood, which is good, but definitely a broken leg. If this were home, naturally we'd just hop in a car and take her to a veterinarian. But it's 8PM in Oropesa, and there aren't any options other than to try to make her warm and comfortable. Hernan cared for her tenderly and dried her off as much as possible before we went back home.

A million times over, words cannot do justice to the selflessness and compassion of these kids.

12.24.13

Dante.

Today started out just feeling off, not for any particular reason. Maybe I slept at with my legs at a 12 degree angle to my body and my left shoulder slightly off-center. Maybe I forgot to drink water at 11:43PM since it was a waning gibbous moon last night.Who knows.

I went to do laundry by hand today, as it was nice out and I figured I'd capitalize on the quick dry of the sunshine. Just as I put my clothes in the water, which is full of algae and collected from the trench, the last of the soap got used. So, I set out to walk into town, and it was really hot. At 12,000 feet, the sun is real close, and I forgot to wear sunscreen. So I had that going for me.

Got the soap on the other side of town, since every shop but one was closed. I got back and started doing my laundry, now in a grumpy mood. That quickly dissipated when Afredo, Nilo, and Yulino dropped their toys and immediately came over and helped with my laundry. Just…wow.

Carmen-Rosa and Ana Rita.

As soon as the clothes were finished, I hung them up. As soon as I hung them up, the wind picked up. As soon as the wind picked up, clouds covered the sun. And as soon as the clouds rolled in…well, you can see where I'm going with this. I don't foresee my clothes being dry for a few days.

In Peru, Christmas Eve is a much bigger celebration than Christmas day. It's also a lot different since it's Summer down here. Rather than snow falling down, fireworks fly up, and instead of waking up at dawn tomorrow morning everyone stays up until early morning to exchange presents, have a feast, and party.

Bautista, rocking the poncho.

Alcides arrived at 10PM with his wife, two daughters, and son, to start the festivities. Upbeat Spanish covers of Jingle Bell Rock, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, and others busted through the speakers. Game hen was served alongside veggies, potatoes, hot chocolate, and Panatone. All the kids were surprisingly wide awake, except for the little ones, as they usually wake around 5AM. But the prospect of presents was enough to keep their heads from residing in a dining room table slumber for the night, and with droopy eyes Nilo and Alfredo came and got their massive toy truck car carrier (complete with 8 cars on board), Carmen Rosa her pink horse that plays songs. I gave the older kids their ponchos, and even though that's about the equivalent of getting socks when you're little, they really appreciated it. Anastasia I gave an umbrella and flashlight.

After presents, we ducked outside for fireworks. Keep in mind that outdoor lights are few and far between out here, so you can't really see anyone nearby until the firework explodes, lighting up the sky. Standing next to one another in silence, awe, and reverence, I couldn't help but again feeling complete gratitude for the opportunity to be here, now, with these amazing souls.

We all started to trickle off to bed around 2, except for Nilo and Alfredo, busy playing with their toy trucks in the pitch black outside, the sugar from the hot chocolate giving them a gargantuan second wind.

12.25.13

Edwin.

Everyone sort of rolled out of bed this morning. It was a really low-key day, which was a really nice way to have my last full day out here be.

I didn't think we'd be able to get around to it, but Jubal and I recorded his verse for the song - yay! I think it came out really nicely. It's tough to have complete silence during the process while in an orphanage, because kids are going to be running around and shouting no matter what. But I think that if there are sounds of kids in the background and it's imperfect and rough around the edges, that will only add to the authenticity of the finished product.

Afterwards, I joined all of the kids in a game of soccer that lasted well past sunset. Couldn't have asked for a better coda to my time at Azul Wasi.

12.26.13

David.

When I woke up today it dawned on me that this would be my last-last day of The Volunteer Adventure. And I don't yet know how to comprehend that, because it felt like I started last night.

There's never enough time.

I took pictures of all of the kids. I had an interview with Alcides. Alcides treated me to qui in Tippon, one of the best places in the world to have it. There are always a million things I wished I'd said to the kids. I wish I would have spent more time with them somehow. I wish I would have been more present with the goodbyes rather than letting my mind think about packing, the upcoming 20 hour bus ride, the flight back. I wish I would've written each of them letters. Most of all, I wish I could somehow communicate the immeasurable impact they had on me and always will.

I've said previously that I believe goodbyes are an imperfect art form. I stand by it. But I also feel grossly inept at them when the time comes. So here I am, and my time here is already just a memory. I can't wait to look back at these memories on film, in pictures, in the words haphazardly jotted down, and give you the full story of these kids in the present.

12.27.13

Cusco rainstorm.

It's fitting that the final night in Cusco would end with being caught in a huge rainstorm; a little taste of things to undoubtedly come when returning to Washington. I camped out under an overhang from La Catedral del Cuzco, right next to Plaza de Armas. It made for great people watching at night, and good, tranquil way to soak in my last night in this magical city.

On my way back, I stopped by the wonderful vegetarian restaurant, El Encuentro, I'd frequented at least once a week since I arrived in Peru. By now, the owner, Henry, recognized me as a regular. He'd asked me to stop by before leaving town for Lima tomorrow morning.

Henry and his daughter.

I ducked in out of the rain and cold. He stopped what he was doing, walked over to me and gave me a handshake and a smile, reached behind the counter and pulled out an Alpaca hat he wanted to give me as a present. It was truly heartwarming. His wife (whose name I'm sad to say I can't recall), who always has a radiant smile, gave me a hug and asked if she could take a picture with us and their daughter. Of course! I gave her my camera to take one, too.

When you visit Cusco, you need to go here.

It's also important to mention how wonderful Dragonfly Hostel has been during my time in Cusco. I'd come in once or twice a week from Azul Wasi to relax and catch up on the journal and work for back home. Every single person there is and always has been welcoming, helpful, and inviting. Please, please, please stay here.

12.28.13

Hasta luego, Cusco.

Another restaurant I frequented was an Israeli one near Plaza de Armas. The food was always reliably delicious, but one of the main reasons I'd go would be to watch the gruff waitresses deal with the foreigners, like me, who'd wander into the premises. By now, I think my usual waitress (around 50) recognized me as regular, too. Before I left, she asked me for my Facebook and email. You owe it to yourself to check out this place, too!

Gear packed, goodbyes said, I was off to start my trek back to the states. The first stretch is a 22 hour bus ride from Cusco to Lima…

OK, I have a confession to make. I splurged on my bus ticket and paid $60 for first class, rather than $55 for coach. The difference between the two was that my seat was a reclining lazy boy in a closed room with only 12 other seats, while coach would've been the same as a Greyhound. Worth it.

I've always been thankful that I haven't really been one to get carsick my whole life. But this is also the first time in my life I've rode the back of the bus from Cusco (at 12,000 feet) to Lima (at sea level), through winding roads that'd make a corkscrew look straight. It made me realize that, when it comes to being nauseous, the one thing worse than throwing up is feeling like you have to throw up for 22 hours. So I chewed Coca leaves like a pro, dodged in and out of sleep, and watched the terrain flash by in a blur.

Also, there was a toilet on board. But for some reason, we were told that you couldn't poop in the darn thing. Which of course just made me worry for the next 22 hours that I'd poop my pants.

12.29.13

The view from Dragonfly's front door.

I woke up from a spotty two hours of sleep, the bus having stopped at a gas station for a break. It's dawn. Apparently we descended all 12,000 feet in those two hours, because my ears feel like they have 30 yards of bubble wrap shoved into them. But we arrived in Lima safely and that's what matters.

After sweatily and weary-eyed grabbing my luggage, I hopped in a cab for Miraflores, tossed my bags on the floor of the Dragonfly Hostel here (the sister to the one in Cusco), and caught a few winks.

Lima really reminds me of San Diego. Being back at sea level feels really nice on the old lungs.

12.30.13

Lima sunsets.

This is it: the last day of The Volunteer Adventure. My words will always be inadequate to express a gratitude that is inexpressible, but to the many who made this journey possible, please know that my simple "thank you" means so much more. So much.

I grabbed my last menu del dia at a hole in the wall place near the hostel and ended up having a great conversation with a family consisting of a husband and wife, their 10 year old daughter, and the husband's mother. He used to live and work in Florida before moving to Lima with his family, and his mom is visiting before she heads back to Miami. The conversation was relaxing and engaging - great folks.

I spent the majority of the rest of the day down at the beach watching the tide roll in, people run around, and the sun go from high, to lower, to bidding adieu as it careened over the edge of the horizon and away. What an unbelievably beautiful country and culture, Peru. I can't wait to come back.

12.31.13

My flight was at 2am, so I got to the airport at midnight. As I was checking my bags, I heard somebody shout my name, which I figured couldn't be for me. So I didn't pay it any mind. I heard it again and turned around. Seated just 50 feet away was THE SAME FAMILY FROM THE LUNCH SPOT IN MIRAFLORES! IT WAS MIDNIGHT! WHAT?! Lima has 6 million people. Miraflores is 45 minutes from the airport. The lunch spot was a speck on the map of the entire city. And yet we happened to be in the exact same wing of a large international airport at the exact same time on the exact same day? There are coincidences, and then there are coincidences. We talked for another hour. They were there dropping off their mother for her flight back to Miami. Life is silly.

Life is also beautiful.

As I sit on the plane home, memories of the last 10 months flooding my synapses, I feel at peace. I feel complete and utter gratitude to the many incredible people who made this adventure possible, to the countless children who welcomed me into their lives, the wonderful caretakers who devote their lives to them, to the strangers who offered a helping hand and showed me how much beauty and sun is still in the world. I feel blessed. I feel lucky. I feel overcome with joy.

And I feel the adventure is just beginning.

March 20th, 2014

Thu, 20 Mar 2014 19:12:59 GMT

There aren't adequate words in the English language, or I'm not a good enough writer, to express how truly, inexpressibly grateful I am to those of you who supported, and continue to support, The Volunteer Adventure. Chances are, if you're reading this, you're one. I simply will never be able to thank you enough. But, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. For everything. For making this possible. For making the world possible. For being you. This adventure is something I'll never, ever forget.

It's been quite a journey, and now I'm back home in the US. As I write this, I'm sitting in sweats, sipping coffee with Irish cream, and watching the clouds slowly roll over the Cascade Mountains. I'm trying to write a brief recap, an elevator pitch or highlight reel, of the journey. It's proving to be difficult. Having been blessed to have met so many incredible children, caretakers, and strangers, to learning so many of their stories - some that would break your heart, some that would fill you with sunshine, some that would do both - to seeing things with my eyes that defied description and made time seem to cease, it's hard to know where to begin. So I'll do simply that.

You helped me volunteer for 10 full months in 7 different countries. The original plan was slightly larger in scope, but not by much. As finances started to wane, even as I continued to live just as the children and caretakers did, I decided it was best to focus my resources on spending more time in countries where I already was or would soon be. So, rather than see 10 different countries for 1 month each, I volunteered in Kenya and Peru for 2 months each, and South Africa and Romania for a bit longer than a month. This proved to deepen the connections and relationships, as more time in a handful of fewer places meant more volunteering, more conversation, more being human. I'm happy it worked out that way, and feel I fit in more than a year's worth of volunteering in those 10 months. (I often put in 12+ hour days. It's the least I could do for you helping me to get there).

So, here's the cursory highlight reel. Please forgive me in advance for any grammar and spelling boo-boos.: The journey started in Vietnam, where for the first two weeks I volunteered as a teacher's assistant in the morning at a school for kids with Downs Syndrome and severe Autism and as a caretaker for severely handicapped kids in a ward of a local hospital in the afternoon. I then switched to working as a caretaker for even more severely handicapped children at an orphanage nestled in a Buddhist monastery for the last 3 weeks. From there, I skipped across to Cambodia where my three weeks were split between an orphanage affiliated with the sisters of Mother Teresa, and a daycare/orphanage in downtown Phnom Penh. One month at an incredible orphanage named Namaste in Pokhara, Nepal, was next. There, 40+ orphaned children are taken care of by an incredible staff of 15. My days were usually spent getting the kids ready for school, cleaning, helping with food prep, picking them up from school, and relearning, from their instruction, how to play and be a kid again. After Asia, it was onto Africa.

Kenya was where I spent the first two months of my time here. Joined by my wonderful girlfriend, Megan, we volunteered at the two orphanages that help spawn this journey: Ebenezer and Faraja. Your donations helped us to implement a working 100+ foot trench around the perimeter of the property at Faraja, eliminating malaria carrying mosquitoes from the compound, to provide much needed supplies and a goat pen, and, at Ebenezer, to plow a couple of acres for crops which will (hopefully) feed them for a long, long time. It was a joy to be back, but also bittersweet. I learned some details about Faraja that really caused me to question my time spent there, but the children were, in both places, beautiful as always inside and out.

Five weeks in South Africa at an absolutely incredible place named Nkosi's Haven, home to over 140 women with HIV/AIDS, children with the same, and children orphaned as a result of AIDS. My time in the morning here was largely spent as the resident handyman: hammering this thing into that, painting many rooms, moving boxes and furntiure...and in the afternoon and evening helping tutor a gem of a child named Petros, playing with the kids, talking with the moms, and helping Gracie cook her amazing meals in the kitchen.

One month in Romania was truly not enough. Though I wasn't able to get into the textbook definition of an orphanage, I lived and worked with 20 boys (themselves products of the Romanian orphanage system) at a halfway home of sorts, named UPSV. It's run by a truly remarkable man named Florin. Most of my days here were spent roofing, renovating, remodeling, learning Romanian, teaching English, volunteering with the guys at a foodbank, playing rummy with the guys, and being immersed in the culture.

Finally, Peru. For just under two months, I lived and worked at an orphanage named Azul Wasi an hour outside of Cusco. Home to 14 amazing kids - some orphans, others effectually so - I spent the first half of the days hauling sand, bricks, cement, etc. and helping the kids with their homework at night. My dad and stepmom came down to donate their time for a week, I traveled with them for another week, including visiting Machu Picchu, and it was an unforgettable experience.

And now, I'm home.

I'm thinking about all of the faces. All of the smiles. All of the tears. All of the hugs. All of the hellos. All of the goodbyes. All of the memories.

I saw and worked at a dilapidated orphanage shrouded in a gaudy Buddhist monastery. Kids with hydrocephalus lying on the ground in agony every day of their life until they die. I saw smiles on the faces of bedridden blind boys because they felt a human hand. I held a 7 foot python on the Mekong Delta and lived to tell the tale. I watched the sun set on a smog-filled city of 11 million people and 4 million motorcycles, and rise over the spires of Angkor Wat.

I learned what it felt like to look evil in the face and not be able to do a thing about it when I witnessed a 4 year-old boy be sex trafficked in Cambodia. I worked in an exploitative (discovered after the fact) orphanage, the very thing I was trying to avoid. I lost 15 pounds in two months while sweating night after night under a mosquito net with limited electricity, and having another seizure. I had VIP seats to a Cambodian boxing/dancing match.

I gazed in awe as the stars gave way to the sun over the Himalayas, amidst the backdrop of the incredible city of Pokhara, Nepal, canoed down a river on the outskirts of Kathmandu, and saw a Nepali music video being filmed.

I held rap classes for 30 kids in 5 different countries, and recorded verses by 4 of them.

I peered out over the beautiful horizon of the Great Rift Valley with my girlfriend in Kenya, the same day as staring in the frightened eyes of a homeless boy in Kenya suffering from drug addiction, who we did everything in our power to help. I learned children I love were getting beaten by people I trusted. Baby orphaned elephants bound along carelessly, and carefully navigated my way through a slum of Nairobi, on foot, at night. I tasted the best Italian food of my life in Kenya.

I sat in the middle of a herd of Elephants, tranquilly grazing in Kruger Park as the sun went down, watched the sun reflect off the ocean at the (almost) southern most point of Africa in absolute solitude, hiked Table Mountain in Cape Town, South Africa, in just over an hour and got passed by a 70 year-old woman as I huffed and puffed near the top, stumbled upon a rehearsal for the Soweto Gospel Choir, and had the opportunity and fortune to attend a choir competition where Nkosi's was singing. I learned the true definition of courage from Nkosi Johnson.

I got into, and lost, a real-life sword fight, completely winged a speech on the floor of Senate at Parliament in Romania at a symposium about legalizing international adoption in Romania, visited Dracula's home, went in castles, learned how to lose gracefully at rummy, and how to build a new roof. I learned that 1980's music is still massive in other parts of the world, and that it's not the size of the TV that matters, or the quality of the coffee, it's the people with whom you surround yourself and how much you are present.

I took a mini (10 day) vacation, again joined by my lady, and shared a smooch under the Eiffel Tower, towers of beer in Munich beer gardens, and a Dominoes pizza in the hotel in Madrid.

I viewed jaw-dropping feats of Incan architecture and natural Peruvian beauty, had culinary masterpieces, experienced my parents being kids again, and saw mountain ranges and river valleys that defied description. I felt what hauling buckets of sand at 11,200 (and farming at 16,000) feet feels like, that being present as the representative for an orphaned boy's 6th grade graduation party can light up his face, and that $2 can get you a delicious 4 course meal. I ate a guinea pig. Twice.

I had subtle and not-so-subtle food poisoning for 10 months. I saw 3 wonders of the world: Angkor Wat, Macchu Pichu, and Table Mountain, and still think all of them were elaborate Hollywood sets. I learned how to speak a handful of words in Zulu, Vietnamese, and Khmer, a bit more in Nepali and Romanian, and got somewhat OK at Swahili and Spanish. I was almost denied access to a country 3 times. I "slept" a total of 50 hours in airports. I went to church services in Kenya and South Africa. Shoveled, sawed, painted, hammered, and subsequently swore for hundreds of hours.

Your donations helped to provide hundreds and hundreds of hours of hands-on volunteer time from a (somewhat) competent guy, hundreds of hours of handyman work from a (less than somewhat) strong worker, a goat pen, a plowed field, a 100 foot trench, food for weeks for many kids, sanitary supplies, and holiday presents.

And, for what it's worth, your support helped give this kid memories, stories, experiences, and smiles that will last a lifetime.

The journey is over (for now), and now, the work on the documentary, photos, and book begins. As soon as I finish this coffee. And take a (hot!!!) shower.

Romania

Wed, 11 Dec 2013 02:13:32 GMT

UPSV: A Beginning After the End
Click Here to See the Romania Photo Album

9.24.13

After 34 hours of straight travel (Cape Town -> Johannesburg -> Doha -> Bucharest) on limited sleep, I was ready to take at least a brief 20 minute DaVinci-esque ciesta. But I also had a bus from the airport in Bucharest to catch, in order to catch the train, in order to sit on said train for three hours up to Brasov where I'll be for the next month. And, I was hungry and thirsty. And if you've been following the journey as I go, or know me well in person, you'll know that filling my stomach is priority over most everything else, especially sleep which sits at about #84 just below "clean the lint trap in the drier." So, onward.

First stop, the bus. After hearing about digital theft being a pretty big business in Romania, I was leery to try my card in the ATM, but needed cash at least to get to where I needed. So I tried one ATM. Denied. I tried another. No luck. By the time I got to the fifth, certain I'd already had four duplicates made of my card, success. And as soon as there was money in my hand, there were "taxi" drivers offering to take me up to Brasov for the low-low price of triple what it would cost everywhere else. They're really persistent with their insistence that you go with them, which isn't particularly my favorite sales tactic. But I digress.

The bus ride itself was easy to navigate and the people on it were super friendly but didn't speak a lick of English. So, here I am in a European country, surrounded by Caucasian people for the first time in half a year, with not-a-one speaking (unfortunately) the only language I know. And let's be honest - English makes absolutely no sense, even to you who are reading this - so I can't fault the people on said bus for not knowing it. Someone understood "train" though and told me where to disembark.

My first impression of Romania is that it's really historic. My second is that it's a lot like I'd imagined Eastern Europe would look: beautiful architecture, some remnants of WWII visible in destroyed buildings, lots of graffiti, and abundant round-a-bouts.

At the train station, which is a big outside mall with a dozen rails, there are restaurants, coffee shops, and grocery stores galore. I didn't have any water to speak of for the last day or so, so I hopped in to do something pretty innocuous and buy a bottle of water. There was a security guard there who made me drop off my bags because I couldn't take them into the store. He didn't speak English, and I didn't want to leave my camera bag, but he also was about 55 and seemed trustworthy, so I hopped into the store for about 93 seconds, grabbed my water, and came back and grabbed my bags. Mission accomplished.

Hopped on the train, which was packed, and the overhead storage was about big enough to store a box of tic-tacs. So I held all my bags on my lap, having no view of the scenery or anything around me. But the guy sitting next to me took it upon himself to place his man-purse, which literally looked like a "clutch" on the window-sill next to me so he wouldn't be bothered to hold it. So, there's that.

The further north we got, the more people hopped off the train. So for the last two hours of the journey, I had plenty of room, which was fantastic. The scenery was great. After two months in Southeast Asia, one in Nepal, two in Kenya, and one in South Africa, it was a surprise to see something that looked a lot like home.

Once I got to the train station in Brasov, I was met right away by a man named Florin (30's) another man named John (70's), and three women named Kathy (40's), Rodicca, and Mariana (70's). Mariana and Kathy are part of an NGO based in Dallas named Hearts Across Romania. They, along with a super nice man named Jerry, helped to facilitate my placement here in Brasov where I'll be volunteering. They all seem like really nice folks and I look forward to talking with them more when I'm not so sleep-deprived.

But still the issue of food. So Florin took me to a food court, we got pizza, he spoke to me in the little bit of English he knows, taught me some Romanian, and then we went to the center. He told me for the next month I'd be sleeping in what is usually his bedroom, which has a queen-sized bed, its own bathroom, a couch, a TV, wifi..., while he sleeps in a room with a couple of the boys. Incredibly generous, and not like anything I've experienced over the last half year accomodation-wise. I'd like to believe I'd give up my room and bed to someone coming to volunteer where I live, but to be honest...no, I don't think I would. I like my bed too much, and my space.

Before crashing, I figured I'd at least unpack my camera to charge it for tomorrow. That's when I noticed a compartment on the camera bag unzipped. That's when I pulled out my emergency, US cash that I'd had tucked away in there. That's when I realized the trustworthy-looking security guard at the train station in Bucharest stole $197 dollars out of my bag in the split second I was out of sight. (I know, I know, you should always keep your money ON you while traveling, but I plum forgot I had that money in there in my insomniac state, and that's the last person I thought would steal from me.)

Not the best way to be introduced to a new country, but I hope he uses it for some form of good. How it goes, I guess. The hospitality of Florin and Hearts Across Romania more than makes up for it, though.

I look forward to this new adventure.

9.25.13

Placement #10 - UPSV
(Text courtesy of www.upsv.org)

UPSV stands for Un Pas Spre Viitor, which translates "A Step to the Future." It is an established centre where young adults leaving orphanages can go and develop the skills and behaviours they need to become effective and constructive members of society. Unfortunately this is the only center of its kind in Romania.

UPSV believes that every child should be given the chance to flourish, no matter what their background is. Whether they have come from the confinements of an orphanage or a poverty stricken family, UPSV is here to help them realize their potntial and place in society. Like all teenagers, they just need support, direction, and guidance. UPSV teaches them independent living skills, provides legal advice, counseling, and assistance in finding a job.

The President and founder, Florin Catanescu, knows all too well the challenges orphans face when they have no choice but to leave the orphanages at 18, poorly equipped to face the outside world after years of institutionalism. Florin has grown up in orphanages since birth, not knowing the love of parents and suffered terrible maltreatment. Armed only with his own self taught determination, Florin aspired to open a center for the disadvantaged your of Romania. UPSV was born.

Today, UPSV celebrates its 10th anniversary and has helped over 100 youths find jobs and a sense of purpose in life.

Really good night's sleep last night, and with Romania just an hour ahead of South Africa, no jetlag. Wonderful. Florin had some instant coffee available, which is speaking my morning language, and told me what we'd be doing today. One of the things on the list was to visit the mayor of the city. But first was to meet a few of the guys at the center. I say "guys" instead of "kids" because everyone here is a boy over 18, except for one who is 15. As the write-up above says, they all come from orphanages or from poverty-stricken families.

If the first couple guys I met are an indication of the personalities of the 20 that live here, these are profoundly welcoming, courteous, wonder-filled, excited souls despite their backgrounds. I know that getting to know them on a daily basis is going to give me lessons on vast topics, none more important than the whole "life" one.

I didn't get a chance to see it last night, but during the day today I was able to notice that Brasov is pretty good sized. 250,000+ I'd guess, and with great architecture, especially at the city center which is old and historic and where we were meeting the mayor.

Down-to-Earth and friendly, the mayor met with Florin and the HAR (Hearts Across Romania) crew to discuss further development to the new center Florin is renovating for the kids. The meeting seemed to go well, though I don't know of course because it was all in Romanian. Maybe smiling and handshaking culturally in Romania is tantamount to flipping someone the bird, but I doubt it.

After the meeting it was off to a local NGO named Catharsis. They work to place Romanian children with foster families domestically and, before it was made illegal about 15 years ago, internationally. The lady who runs it is a woman in her 70s named Azota who has heaps of energy. She also wears really bright lipstick which she was insistent on smearing on my cheek. My first truly European kiss-on-the-cheek hello came from a 70 year-old lady. Nice! Their organization seems to do great work. Mariana told Azota what my trip is all about, and without blinking an eye Azota invited me to take a trip the following week with them down to Parliament in Bucharest, to a debate at Senate regarding re-opening international adoption.

After Catharsis, it was off to meet a family that Hearts Across Romania has sponsored for a few years. Well..actually five families living under one roof. I use the term roof loosely, because it's barely hanging on. There are five families in one house that has extensive fire damage, one outside toilet, one tiny stove, and no electricity. If you didn't know who was in there from the outside, you would think it was maybe home to an older married couple. Not seven adults and eight kids, along with numerous dogs and cats.

I got invited inside to film and take pictures. The boy, who had a look of wonder and sheer joy in his smile excitedly showed me his TV. It was powered by a car battery, and was about six inches in diameter, black and white, and in his bedroom. His bedroom is also the kitchen. Despite his surroundings, he seems genuinely happy. This makes me feel like a pouty 3 year-old that I ever sighed when Netflix buffered in the middle of an episode of Battlestar Galactica on a 32" flat-screen.

Near to the family's home is a small collection of mostly garment shops, and Mariana, Florin, and Roddica went there to get clothes for some kids. John, Kathy, and myself drove around the city a bit. John is originally from Romania, and spends half his time in Nevada where his daughter and her family live. Clear blue sky and the first hints of Autumn made it a really nice backdrop against the hundreds of year old buildings.

At night, they bought all of the guys at UPSV pizza and had several boxes of donated clothes for them. It was refreshing to see brand new shirts, pants, and shoes, rather than hand me downs, a testament to HAR's drive to treat these kids like their own.

9.26.13

Among the projects Florin is working on daily is the renovation, and subsequent opening, of a second center to house UPSV guys as well as international volunteers. The building is on the grounds of a German Technical High School, but is no longer in use. It was given to Florin to use for a new center, but it needed to be almost completely rebuilt. New flooring, walls, and ceilings throughout, along with new plumbing and electrical wiring. Most of that is on hold now, though, until the leaky old roof gets fixed. So this is going to be the main project for the next couple weeks: removing the old roof, cleaning it, and installing the new roof. Today, we started.

I have absolutely no roofing experience, but I do know how to use a shovel. For today, that proved to be all the know-how I needed. Cracked and falling apart in many places, the roof is cement bottom, with an asphalt-like top a couple inches thick. The whole roof needs to be completely rid of the asphalt stuff, which is relatively difficult to do with shovels, since it was put in place firmly at its origin so it'd (hopefully) never have to be removed.

But it does have to be removed, and Florin, a handful of the guys, and myself were just the ragtag ones to see to it that this happens.

On break, we had pizza for lunch. Generally I'm all for pizza, but it's very different here than it is back home. For starters, there's no red sauce on the crust; they give it to you in a little container for you to add if you want, along with a white onion sauce. Then, there's very little cheese. And the topics are ham, bacon, or sausage with corn. Or all of that together. It's not bad, just quite a bit different.

Also today, before starting on the roof, Florin, the HAR crew, and I were invited to help out at an art class in a therapy wing of a children's hospital nearby. Here, they taught blind kids painting, and I'm humbled they asked me to be a part of it. Really good experience.

I also tagged along with the crew while they delivered a birthday cake to two little girls they sponsor. Both of the girls' parents are handicapped and unable to raise them, so they live in a house with an older woman who takes care of them. The woman and the two girls are so vibrantly full of life, living in their small little apartment in a high-rise complex. Also, on the birthday cake, were the most interesting candles I ever did see, more closely resembling a roman candle than a little wax one.

To end the day, PayPal notified me that my friend Miles, who works on one of my favorite shows (Real Time With Bill Maher) sent $100 for the trip to help replace what the guy at the train station stole. This just reiterates the fact that I have the absolute best friends and support I could ever have hoped for. Thank you so much, Miles.

9.27.13

Roof project, day two. Got a lot of the cleaning off done, but still quite a bit to go. Pizza for lunch, for the fourth day in a row. After work today, we went to supermarket and got food for the week. If there's one thing I learned at this supermarket, it's that Romanians love their (Romanian) wine. There's aisles and aisles of it. I bought a couple dollar bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, and I'll report back on how their equivalent of two-buck-chuck is.

Got my first taste of Romanian driving in today and ahhhh, it is so nice to be back on the right-hand side of the road. But there's one little aspect to European driving that I forgot about: the roundabout. Dis. Like.

Also, fast food in Romania is actually...good. Someone give Colonel Sanders a call and let him know if pays not to use mutated, deformed baby chicken. A panini the size of a football for 6 Lei ($2)? That's speaking my language.

9.28.13

Roof project, day three. Pizza for lunch, day five. Both are moving along quite well.

The favored pastime at UPSV among the guys and Florin is Rummy, which I've long since forgotten how to play. Until tonight. And my hiatus proved to be really unhelpful, with luck no longer on my side, either, since technically I'm not a "beginner". Pride firmly swallowed, I was quickly taught - and more swiftly, schooled in - the game of Rummy.

One thing I've noticed in every culture is that games are the equivalent of city around the campfire sharing stories. It inherently breeds a common bond, even if temporary, that simultaneously allows each player to let their guard down and open up with one another. In other, more crude and simpler terms, shoot the shit. It's a great way for me to know the guys in a casual setting and really connect. I'm all for that, even if it requires accepting my position as the loser and worst Rummy player on god's green Earth.

9.29.13

We had a day off roofing today, which freed me up to head over to Catharsis for a bit and help them out with some work for their upcoming trip to Bucharest. While I was helping Azota upload pictures to Facebook, she gave me a program for Monday's debate at Parliament with my name on it. I opened it, read the schedule, and saw my name listed as a special guest speaker on the floor of Senate.

Oh?

"Azota, my name is in the program. Am I supposed to speak?" I queried.
"Oh! Da, da! (yes! yes!)" Azota emphatically responded.
"Oh...yeah? Why didn't you say anything?? What would you like me to say?"
"Well, we want adoption to be legal again. Adoption is good. Talk about your trip and orphanages and how international adoption should be legal again. You do good!" she replied in her thick accent.

Though I'm no expert on international adoption law in Romania, I do have one of my degrees in Philosophy, which means I have one of my degrees in making up stuff on the fly. Which is exactly what I'll do on the floor of Senate (with some thought put into it over the next couple days, of course, because I want to make at least a somewhat positive contribution to their cause).

Over at the new center, the sewage pipes that lead from the building out to the city's sewer were plugged and in need of a good cleaning. Equipped with a 25 foot snake, about one inch in diameter, Florin and I tried our level best to unclog what is probably a monumental blockage. As you can undoubtedly guess, it wasn't the most successful effort.

One of the boys made a big batch of chorba, Romanian soup, for dinner, which we quickly devoured over a game of Rummy and table-talk.

9.30.13

With the roof cleaning done as much as it can be, we're working on other projects inside of the house until the roofing materials get here. Today, it was moving large sheets of pressboard wood from one room to another at the new place. Sheet after sheet after sheet. Using a couple pieces, we used a table saw (which is something I forgot existed after Kenya and South Africa) to build a shelving unit in one of the bedrooms. Even though the building is still a long ways from being finished, there are two bedrooms occupied right now by four boys, and they've managed to make them look pretty cozy.

A guy from a company name Arcon came to the center to offer Florin materials for the roof for absolutely free, so it looks like we'll be all systems go to finish off the roof in the next week or two!

The highlight of the day, and definitely one of the entire experience in Romania thus far, was walking into the kitchen in the new center and seeing one of the boys, Julian, wearing an apron over a bright red outfit, making soup and listening to Berlin, Lionel Richie, and Michael Bolton while he did so. I asked him, "Julian, did you know that you're listening to the best cooking soundtrack I've heard in a long time?" He said, "Oh, yes. Music very nice! It is ze best and I like it very much and it sounds very nice. Very pretty. Here, you eat chorba!"

Yes.

10.1.13

The big day at Parliament today. Met up with Azota and crew and we headed south to Bucharest, about a three hour drive away. With Autumn heavy in the air, and the leaves changing, it was a beautiful drive. It also snowed on the way, which is pretty wild to me (and even the locals) as summer ended a mere ten days ago. On the drive down, I had a chance to chat with a woman named Silvia, who works at Catharsis, as well as a man named Fomel who's a social worker in Brasov (sitting in the seat in front of me were reporters for the national news, though I had no idea at the time!). Both of them are very kind, knowledgeable people and, even though there is a strong language barrier between us, they helped teach me a lot about the current climate of adoption in Romania.

One of the things they taught me is that there's a recalcitrance from Romanian government officials towards legalizing international adoption again, because there is a fear that children will be trafficked by the families who adopt them. Trafficking is absolutely a very real evil, and I'm no expert on the topic. But my initial reaction to that fear is that trafficking can happen no matter the circumstances, and I don't think allowing orphaned children here to be adopted internationally opens the floodgates for trafficking as a result. This is one thing I'll address in my speech if they still want me to give it: that you don't allow known evils (documented deplorable conditions at many Romanian orphanages) to continue by creating a rule to ward off hypotheticals.

After passing through the gates and security screening at the entrance, we walked to a wing of Senate where the debate was to take place.

Cameras surrounded several teenagers, who had flown out here for specifically for this moment. They were some of the last to have been adopted internationally from Romania, and they were here to offer their testimony on why international adoption should be reopened. The fact that they flew from all over - New Zealand, America, Germany - itself shows how strongly they're resolved to seeing this through, and how much they don't want kids to have to spend their whole childhood in Romanian orphanages.

I got to speak to some of the kids before the debate began (running an hour behind schedule, just as all governmental dealings worldwide are supposed to...) and learned a bit more about their experiences. Their descriptions of the conditions in which they grew up support the images captured by documentaries about Romanian orphanages in the 90's, such as the stories on 20/20,or those by John Upton. Kids neglected, babies left in cribs, unattended, for days on end. Group showers, overcrowded bedrooms, kids infected with HIV by unknowing workers at the orphanages. Horrendous.

Witnessing how calmly and clearly they testified to the members of Senate in front of them, with cameras rolling, speaks volumes about their resolve, strength, and will. You could hear a pin drop in the room once they started speaking. Some of their parents spoke, as well. There was even a kid who called in via Skype just to testify, and he stayed on the line for the entire debate.

About halfway through, the Senators began to trickle out of the room, citing prior engagements that they needed to tend to.

Bullshit.

Here are these kids, products of the Romanian orphanage system they're testifying against, a result of international adoption they're testifying for, who flew halfway around the world to be here and these Senators had the nerve to claim to have some place more important to be. If this is something that actually mattered to them and something they wanted to change, no doubt they would've stayed until midnight if need be.

By the time it came for me to talk, I was basically preaching to the choir. Everyone in the room - about 50 at this point - were all in favor of legalizing international adoption. No matter. I gave the same speech I would've given if 50 Senators were in the room with them, as the entire proceedings were recorded and would be part of the record for anyone to hear moving forward.

I based my argument for reopening international adoption around my experience as a corrections officer at a maximum security juvenile jail, and as a documentarian who has witnessed the effects of long term orphanage institutionalization around the world. I said - in so many words - that it was clear, in my experience in both, that orphanages and foster care are supposed to be a temporary placement for children, and that placement with family relatives or a loving adoptive family is the best solution. That preventing current orphans from having that opportunity to be adopted by a caring family abroad, and keeping them in a government-run institution until they are 18 and then sending them out into the world and forcing them to "figure it out" on their own, is tantamount to giving up on them as individuals. That there are two evils in the world: one is doing bad things (keeping children in institutions for life, with no real escape plan), and the other is having the opportunity to change it and still allowing the bad things to happen (the ability to reopen international adoption, but voting against it).

I got a ride back home with Silvia, Fomel, and a woman named Caty who translated all of the English testimony into Romanian. I was positive she was American based on her non-existent English accent, but she actually grew up in Romania and learned English at an early age. Come to find out, she works at a private orphanage in Romania and would be welcome to me coming to interview her and see what a private orphanage in Romania is like.

We stopped, had dinner (thanks, Caty!) and little by little I soaked up more of their knowledge. A great day, full of learning and paradigm shifts, that I'll remember for a very long time.

10.2.13

Got the chance to sleep in a little bit today due to the late return last night, which was great. It was also nice being able to catch up on this here journal and picture editing for the better part of the afternoon before heading into town for dinner with Florin and Mariana.

I'm not much of a drinker, but my motto when it comes to drinking things is the same as eating: if it's served to me, I'll have it. With that in mind, when I was served a local beverage called Tuica, made from plums. I gave it a go, completely disregarding the fact Florin and Mariana weren't having any, and were also staring at me in almost shocked wonder as I brought it up to my lips. Then I realized it's between 100-150ish proof and I felt like I was swallowing fire. Joke's on me!

Soup in Romania also bears mentioning again, because it's really good. I have no idea what was in it, I just know it was tasty.

10.3.13

Well, I can now add "can semi-competently turn a window into a wall" to the list of trades I've picked up on the adventure so far. At the new center, there's a very limited budget with which to work, and new windows need to be installed in every room of the center. That's about 50 large windows, double-paned to act as added installation. Some of the rooms have over-sized windows, and whittling them down in size a bit would reduce the end cost.

Armed with a crowbar, a table saw, sheets of pressboard, and a couple hammers, a couple of the kids and I went to town on the window, reducing aesthetic beauty and cost on an almost identical margin.

10.4.13

Today was one of those days that casually slides by from morning coffee, to eventual breakfast, to at some point wiping the sleep out of your eyes, all the while being full of great company and conversation. I feel more and more a part of the community here at UPSV, and I'm starting to be able to hold my own at rummy, which I figure can only work in my favor of earning respect in the eyes of the guys.

I don't know if productively lazy, or lazily productive, days exist, but I think they must because today felt like one. Lucky to be here and share conversation with the guys and, even though the language barrier still remains high, the sense of comradery shared seems to communicate things that words simply cannot.

10.5.13

The day after I got to Brasov, Florin showed me a documentarian's dream: hours and hours of archived footage from his childhood in orphanages, news interviews with him, interviews with the kids at UPSV... It was almost overwhelming in its sheer volume, and his fastidiousness will work wonders when it comes time to edit the Romania part of the documentary. Florin showed me footage of him as an 8 year-old, sitting on the stairs of the orphanage, elbow-to-elbow with hundreds of other orphans during a Christmas celebration. Today, I got the opportunity to visit this orphanage and it was one of the most profound experiences I've had on the trip so far.

The orphanage where Florin spent the better part of his childhood is a 45 minute drive from Brasov, straight into the mountains. It's an absolutely gorgeous ski town. For a number of reasons, the orphanage closed over a decade ago. When we parked in front of it, the first thing that struck me was the almost surreal surroundings which envelop the building. You can almost reach out and touch the snow-capped peaks, the red and gold forest, and the crisp blue sky. The building itself is about the size of an elementary school.

A decade is a long time, but in the whole scheme of things it's not so much. So when I imagine a building that hasn't been maintained for this amount of time, I picture an overgrown yard and maybe some windows broken. Stepping in through the basement of Florin's childhood home, though, it was as if a bomb had been dropped on it. Water trickles down from the ceiling, through four floors, to the basement. Rubble, electrical wires, standing water, clothes, garbage cover every step of the floor. There's graffiti all over the walls. The roof is caving in.

As Florin guided me from one room to another - the kitchen where he had years of meals, the infirmary, the library, his bedroom - what struck me the most is how nonchalant he seemed by all of it. We found old library cards on the ground, the handwriting of kids still visible. In that moment there seemed to be a slight hint of reflection and nostalgia on life as it was, quickly replaced by the reality of life as it is now. I asked him if it was weird to be back here, to see it like this, to reflect on it. Without a moment's hesitation he replied, "No, it's just life. It goes on. This was my childhood, but the building is just a building. I like to look at life as a game and have fun and smile and not worry about what has already happened."

When we were in one of the third-floor classrooms, he showed me a window that a six year-old kid slipped out of, falling down to his death. Florin said that happened because there weren't enough workers to pay attention to the kids, and that even more kids died over the years he was there due to simple neglect. It was the same reason he got picked on by so many of the older kids, constantly beaten.

To see him sitting on the same stairs as the Christmas party video - what once was a well-maintained hall with hundreds of kids gazing in hushed awe at the tree, and has since been replaced by years of water damage and walls caving in - was surreal. To be in the room where he first got the idea for UPSV some 15 years ago, and to think about all that has come to fruition in that time, the sheer number of kids like him that he has helped, is one of those things it's impossible to not step back, look at, and admire.

There's something extraordinarily powerful about being in the place where an idea is born, when you know how it turns out in the end. It's a testament to the human spirit. To the possibility of dreams. To hard-work and dedication creating something truly remarkable, especially when the odds seem fixed from the start. In this case, it's a testament to Florin. I know of only a handful of individuals who could claim to be as self-made as he is.

After we left, we visited the family of a boy who Florin helped at UPSV. The boy, now in his late 20's, is working in England, and his wife and two daughters are packing up to move out there next month. The boy came to Florin as a kid who'd just been forced to leave his orphanage with nowhere to go. Florin gave him a home and hope for the future. I'm sure from Florin's point of view, this may not be something remarkable: it's a simple product of something he's always wanted to do. But from the outside, it's obvious that his influence with UPSV had a large hand in the boy meeting the girl, the two of them getting married and having girls of their own, and the boy having a good job, far removed from the poverty that dominated his childhood.

10.6.13

I'll admit: before I got to Brasov, I was ignorant to the fact that the lore of Dracula stemmed from Romania. Well, Florin, Emeric, Ianoz, and I went to Bran Castle to see the place where it all started. At least that was the plan. It was closed when we got there. Sad days.

But as they always so, the unexpected is where the adventure starts. Even though the adventure here was simply walking around the little shops near the castle, drinking boiled wine, and sampling delicious local cheeses, it was still a good one.

When we got back to the center, Emeric made "mamaliga", a Romanian dish of polenta and cheese, with some cheese that he picked up. No surprise, it was mighty good. Also no surprise, we played rummy while we dined. (Also also no surprise, I lost).

10.7.13

You know how when you go into an old school it smells like books and pencil shavings and learning? Well, imagine how much it'd reek of those if you stood in a school that was built in 1495. That's when the first school in Romania was built, and to be standing in it today was a pretty neat experience. I've also never seen a printing press or books that are about the size of a dinner table and with a metal cover until today. History is a neat, musty-smelling thing.

10.8.13

This morning I went with a couple of the guys to volunteer helping to disperse food at Brasov's equivalent of a food bank. People get the chance to come here once a year, and about 12,000 do. When we arrived, it was quite an unexpected scene. Hundreds of elderly or handicapped folks were pushing against a gate, clamoring to get in against fully equipped police officers who were holding them back. Finally, the gate opened and they were all forced to hurry up and wait.

Each family that came in got about 50 pounds of food. Among it: flour, corn flour, oil, sugar, pasta, honey, vegetables, pasta sauce. Everyone received the exact same package, complete with Romanian government stamp on each package.

To be there with the guys, who truth be told are not economically in a much better position than the majority of folks who came through the door, was definitely a memorable experience. Watching them volunteer, help the elderly carry their bags to their car, and just really want to make a difference was beautiful.

In the afternoon, Florin, Ianotz and I went up the cable car that runs up the "Hollywood" sign of Brasov. I could talk about how pretty the view was, or I could just let the pictures do the talking. I'll go with the latter.

Two guys came to the center today, who'd been working in Germany for the last couple months. Looking forward to meeting them and hearing some of their stories!

10.9.13

Volunteered at the food bank in the morning with the guys again, and it was another great experience. In the afternoon, the materials came in to the new center for the new roof, which means we can now finish that project! While it wasn't the metal roof or composite I hoped it would maybe be, it was free (donated by a company named Alcron) and it'll do the job, so right on.

Whenever there's work on a project being done, it's all but guaranteed that Florin will have his camera out. Which is great, because it's important to document all of this, especially when sending thanks to the companies that donate material or funds. I've always been more a fan of candid, action shots than posed, pretend ones. Maybe it's the documentarian in me. And it's not better or worse, but Florin is more a proponent of posed photos. The only drawback to this school is that it's sort of difficult to stand still and smile when you're hauling 100 pounds of roofing material out of the truck to the building...

So after the tenth picture like this, I played a little joke on Florin. One of the guys loaded his arms up with two massive rolls of the roofing material, and I told him I'd grab some shots of him with his camera. I said, "Florin, smile! Wait...let me try this angle...no that's not as good. Maybe this angle...hmm...where's your flash? Do you think I need flash? We're outside in the day, maybe I don't need it. OK. No flash. Wait, let me try the first angle again." By the time he could no longer hold the rolls, he was doubled over laughing, appreciating the taste of his own medicine.

10.10.13

Caty, the interpreter from the trip to Parliament, invited me to check out the orphanage in Brasov where she works. Aside from working full-time at the orphanage, shes also adopted three kids (the first at 19) on her own, has her law degree, and can speak several languages fluently. And her English is probably better than mine even though she didn't start speaking it until she was a teenager. So there's that!

The orphanage is privately funded by German donors, so it's not technically a Romanian orphanage since it's not government supported. Walking around the grounds, meeting the children and some of the staff, it's easy to see that this doesn't fit the prototypical mode of the Romanian orphanage that would come to mind. On first blush, it's on par with Namaste and Ebenezer for best orphanage that I've been to. It houses 25 kids, split into two separate houses and core families, though it's clear with the amount of love they seem to receive that they are one big family when it comes down to it.

The woman in charge of the whole orphanage came out here years ago with her husband, who has since passed, to start it. They rely strictly on individual donors from back in Germany, and it's impressive to see that there hasn't been too many struggles with securing that over the years. She's also a truly caring, grounded woman who reminds me of one of my dearest family friends, Addie Ostrowski.

At the end of the visit, I had an interview with Caty about her experiences adopting children of her own, the current state of orphanages in Romania, and if she thinks the trip to Parliament in hopes of re-opening international adoption will bear any fruit.

When she adopted her first two children, she was 19 and living in a studio apartment. She met them on the street, where they were living, and gave them a place to stay for the night. The night turned into a few days, which turned into weeks, and now ten years have passed and they're both off on their own adventures and holding down steady jobs.

Orphanages in Romania have improved a bit since the days of the conditions of kids chained to beds, babies dying in their cribs from neglect, and the building falling apart. But they're still overcrowded, understaffed, and far from perfect. So, strides have definitely been made, but it sounds like there's still a ways to go.

Now, when the Senators started filing out of the meeting while kids adopted from Romania were spilling their hearts out, pleading for them to re-open adoption, I started doubting whether or not international adoption would ever be made a reality again. After hearing what Caty thinks about the possibility, it seems there's almost no hope. To make a long story short, the orphanages make a lot of money for a lot of people, so the best interests of the kids aren't really taken into account. The local government gets money from the national government, the orphanage gets money from the government, local food companies, hardware stores, plumbers, electricians...they all get money from the orphanage. It's a cycle. It's money. It's the sad reality of the situation.

10.11.13

Kenya aside, I've had two fevers in the last five plus years. I don't know what my deal is, but last night I came down with another one. Maybe my body just needed to shut down for a minute, so today I accomplished absolutely nothing. And not in the "I lounged around in my sweatpants and watched re-runs of MASH and Lifetime Movies" fun kind of way. But in the I lied in a dimly lit room and used a whole roll of toilet paper to empty my sinuses throughout the day kind of way. On to the next.

10.12.13

One thing I learned tonight is that there are few things more more concussive than the sound of 30 sixth grade kids running around on the floor above you. If you're in the position, for some reason, of being in government housing where a middle school overnight field-trip is being held on the floor above you, just know that it sounds like Clydesdales traipsing around on a basketball court built atop tympani heads. In other words, sleep will not be your friend.

Of all the things at which I'm horrible - and that list would be equal to the anthology of Stephen King books - one of the most glaring is giving my body proper rest after being sick. I just don't like it, and I'm not proud of it. That's probably why I've been having little bouts with colds and fevers here and there over the course of the adventure. It's just hard to fully recover when it's not allowed to happen. Today was no exception.

With the new roofing materials coming in, I'd be damned if I wouldn't be a part of the easy work of installing it after spending hours and hours scraping hundreds of pounds of tar and guck off it with a shovel and pick-ax. Only one part was somewhat physically demanding, while the other was just tedious.

For the tedious: all of the strips of roofing came with a thin plastic coating on the bottom side to keep them from sticking together to themselves on the roll, and that plastic needed to be peeled off. Sounds easy enough, but it was surprisingly difficult to peel more than a three inch strip at a time, and when there's hundreds of square feet of it, it takes a bit. It was like peeling giant fruit roll-ups, only without the satisfaction of a delicious reward at the end.

For the physically demanding: all of the materials needed to get to the roof somehow. Hundreds and hundreds of pounds of roofing, tanks of propane, a crude blowtorch...our method? A makeshift pulley system seen here:

One of my favorite parts of the day was watching the husband and wife team who were hired to oversee the project and warm the roof with the blowtorch to allow the material to adhere. They were about 60, and incredibly kind. But literally every five minutes, they'd stop for a cigarette break. So it was roll a three foot section, tamp down, cigarette, repeat. Seeing the blowtorch used to light a cigarette? Highlight of the day.

At night, Marian made soup. You already know how it was: delicious.

10.13.13

Take two of the Dracula castle trip today. With the trees surrounding the castle putting on a fiery show of reds, oranges, and yellows, it was impossible to imagine a better backdrop in which to visit the birthplace of Robert Pattinson's great-great-grandfather.

The castle was a lot less creepy than I'd anticipated, and more just...castley. One room was dedicated to the legend of Dracula (based on Vlad the Impaler, who was I guess a ruthless warlord) and that was kind of neat. But my favorite part was when I happened upon a room that, at first glance, seemed to be a coat closet, but turned out to be where all of the torture devices were housed. There was a rope in front of it, and it was off limits to visitors. So I poked my head in and saw a human-shaped closet that was lined with spikes, a chair that looked like it stretched people to death, and a lady sitting in the corner next to a space heater. She gave me a look like, "I'm.......not here. You don't see me." Awkward eye-contact aside, I backed my head out of the room.

There was also a flat-screen in one room, and also a gift shop, so here's what I wrote in the guest book.

We went to a haunted house afterward, where we mainly just took pictures posing next to the things and people who were supposed to be scaring us. Even though it wasn't the least bit frightening, more than enough entertainment value came from Marian gasping and jumping into me in terror at almost every turn.

Rasnov Citadel is just a couple miles west of Bran (Dracula castle) and well worth a visit if seeing a panoramic backdrop of snow-capped peaks and brilliantly colored forests from the vantage of an ancient citadel is your thing. Just the half-mile walk up alone as the color-wheel of leaves slowly cascade over you on their journey to the ground is beautiful in and of itself.

Emeric and I went into the Citadel and wandered around. There are a lot of small shops inside, most selling the same sweaters, mugs, magnets, etc. But we happened upon a rock shop where the owner, in his 60's, regaled us with one of the most dirty jokes I've heard in a long time. That he was so awesome was almost enough to warrant me picking up an amethyst or some other.

Having never shot an arrow before, and seeing that I could shoot ten for a few bucks, I figured what better place than at an ancient citadel in Romania. I wouldn't say I was good, but I hit the target a few times and no one was injured, so I'll make a mark firmly in the "w" column.

10.14.13

At long last, we finished the roof today!

The guys worked tirelessly to get it done, and it was such a good bonding experience with them to collaborate on a project like this. And guess what we had for lunch to celebrate: pizza! It's back.

Romania, even though it's part of the EU, is on a separate monetary system from the Euro - the Lieu, or Ron. A couple years back, they changed their currency, and the old notes were really cool. Marian had one that he'd kept for the last ten years, and he gave it to me as a gift. So, so nice of him.

10.15.13

Not much manual labor work to be done for the next couple days, so I had a good window in which to start interviews with some of the guys. Today, I got to interview Adrian.

Here's his story, courtesy of www.upsv.org:

Adrian Petre Boiciuc. I was born on 16th July 1989 in Brasov. From when I was born until the age of 5 years I stayed with parents. Me and my parents along with my two older brothers stayed in a studio that was full of dampness and mold. I became seriously ill in the environment in which they lived, and my parents were unable to buy the medicine I needed because medicine was very expensive. In 1993 they decided to leave us, taking us to a foster home. When I arrived there, I was very small and I did not really know what was happening and why we were there. In 1996 I was transferred to the Placement Centre in Victoria Orasu, Brasov county. I had to get used to the environment there. I was beaten by the biggest person in my dorm every day, and the time would pass very slowly. I couldn’t wait for them to come to put me to sleep at night. I grew up a lot in the first two days I was there. I had to grow up fast. I learned a lot about how to act in life with the world around me.

At the age of 13, I started to do many sports, including swimming and gymnastics. I also did folk dancing and singing in Coru schools. My dad visited the Center every two years, and when he visited, he slept outside at the station as he was very poor and had to sleep outside. I did not hear anything from my mother until when I was 18, when I entered Grade 9 in Brasov. When I was in Grade 1 to Grade 8 I stayed in Orasu Victotia then decided to continue my studies at Brasov along with my middle brother. I stayed in a hostel in Brasov, in the High School building. After living in Brasov for two years, I met Florin Catanescu I helped Florin to renovate the Center and then Florin helped me to move from where I was to the Center, I like the conditions at the home building. It is much better there. I met a group of Americans who are some great people with big hearts. I want to have a life like any child who belongs in a happy family. I have finished school now and I would like to continue my studies at university.

10.16.13

Remember the family I visited at the beginning, that live together in a small little, fire-damaged house with no electricity or running water? Today I got the chance to visit them again. They had a new baby just a couple weeks ago.

The mom was nursing the newborn boy when Florin and I walked in. It's so dark in there, it takes time for your eyes to adjust and be able to see anything. The heat from the tiny woodstove is intense, but it's what's used to heat the whole of the house. With less than nothing, and another mouth to feed, all of them are incredibly happy still. It's a reminder, to me, that happiness comes from who you're with, not what you're without.

10.17.13

Camaraderie is a beautiful thing, and there are only a handful of people and places in my experience that match that of the guys at UPSV. To be clear, the majority are in their late teens and early twenties, so there's a fair amount of giving one another the business going around. That's to be expected. But when you see that one of the guys is out of work, and the others give them breakfast, lunch, dinner, coffee, cigarettes, whatever...that's a beautiful thing.

When there's a shared similar experience, especially in childhood, that's a springboard for bonding. No two stories are the same. But one thing I've noticed on my travels is that the kids at every orphanage, having lost both parents as a child - whether through death or being abandoned - cultivates in them an unmatched level of empathy. That empathy focuses even more strongly on birds of the same feather.

In tragedy, there's beauty.

10.18.13

There are few things more satisfying than breaking apart large window frames with a crowbar, except for maybe successfully replacing crusty old single-pane windows with brand new double-paned ones. With all of the guys working hard from morning to night, we were able to install new windows in every room on the first floor. It's astonishing how much of a difference it makes on keeping things warm. Today the first bites of winter started approaching, the chill in the air starting to cut to the bone. The new center is going to be a cozy place to have a bowl or Romanian soup and a cup of hot chocolate while watching the snow cascade softly down to terra firma.

10.19.13

About a three hour drive from Brasov, through the mountains, is a town named Pleist. It's pretty good size, and much of the industry there is based around oil refineries, so it's definitely blue collar. Florin, Marian, and I went there to meet with a colleague of Florin's from his orphanage days. His colleague has a start-up center similar to USPV, where some boys who've come out of the orphanage system can go live and work.

The center here is in its beginning stages, but it certainly has the potential to do a lot of good in the community. After meeting everyone, the five of us went to visit some Section 8 housing for Gypsies, to which they also provide assistance. From the outside, it looks like a standard box apartment complex, similar to UPSV. The inside is a different story.

One operational central shower for a floor with 40+ people clings to the side of the cracking tile in the bathroom. Rust stains from the pipes streak the toilets and floor. Water leaks a drip at a time in the corner of the bathroom that looks akin to one in a prison. Despite this, as seems to be the theme with the people I've met on the journey who have next to nothing, they're happy because they have community. That's a powerful thing.

One of the guys had a calendar of shirtless firemen hanging on his wall, with a lei draped around it. I asked him if being homosexual in Romania was met with a lot of negativity and opposition. He said that while it's certainly not an easy thing, and it is met with a lot of hatred, he's found acceptance in his group of friends and everyone looks out for one another. Good to hear it's not like Mississippi.

Another guy in the housing had the most incredible collection of stereos, all linked together, that I'd ever seen. Cassette boomboxes, CD players, speakers...and the medium of choice to play the music blasting from the monument to sound was a USB stick. I just found that silly.

At the end of the day, we went to a store that Florin's colleague opened up in a school, which sells supplies and such for students. While it's yet to be seen if it will be profitable, if it is, it could be a great model for UPSV to follow with very little overhead and the potential for some good profit.

10.20.13

This may have been my favorite day in the entire Romania adventure.

It started out as it usually does: coffee, a bit of oatmeal, followed by a trip to the new center for a bit of work. Nothing much, just some moving lumber around and hitting things with other things. Julian made tons of coffee and tea, which is always a welcome refreshment. Then, I got to interview Julian, Stefan, and Florin. I'd post snippets of their stories, but the interviews were in Romanian and they aren't available on the UPSV site.

Florin opted to do his entire interview in English. While some things probably got lost in translation, it was still compelling. I asked him about a lot of topics beyond my standard for the directors of the orphanage (I ask different to each one, but there are standards I'm always sure to ask). Florin's interview was unique, though, in that he's an orphan, too. I asked him about the first time he met his mom (at 20 - he didn't care for it), what he felt when she died (not much, because she was basically a stranger), what his biggest triumph of his life was (opening and maintaining UPSV for 10 years)...He's a great man with a huge heart, and he's overcome almost insurmountable obstacles to get to where he is today. I'm lucky to know him.

After the interviews, Florin, Marian, Ionutz, Julian, and I went up to the Brasov citadel. The views were gorgeous. I ended up getting in a bit over my head though.

And by a "bit over my head," I mean I got into a sword fight. With real-life swords and armor. Against a guy who has years of experience. In front of an audience that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. A few cuts, a finger sliced open, and bloody nose later, I escaped alive!

*Note: If you ever find yourself in a medieval citadel, and a guy comes up to you and asks, "You wanna fight?" Say, "Umm...yes. Yes I do." It'll be worth it.

Hand bloodied, we went to a farmer's market which only happens once a month. Local honey, delicacies, wine, and chocolate abounded, and I was a happy boy. I also got some pretty great souvenirs for my folks and others back home, and got a beanie handknit by a Romanian granny.

Then I ended up in the middle of a riot, complete with police in riot gear and shields, the cause to which I knew nothing about. I'm not talking WTO in Seattle-type riot, but a riot nonetheless.

*Note 2: If you find yourself in a riot in a foreign country, don't try to swim upstream. Just go with it.

10.21.13

Thrift shopping in Romania is surprisingly similar to thrift shopping in the US, in that there is an inordinate amount of Nautica, Tommy Hilfigger, and 1987 Reebok sweatsuits lining the racks. It's also surprisingly expensive here. $7 for a t-shirt? Get outta town!

After going with Florin and Marian to a couple shops, I made it my mission to track down this sweatshirt which I saw on my first day in Romania and, like a fool, didn't buy when I saw it:

No luck.

The silver lining, though, is I got to interview some more of the guys: Marian, younger Marian, and Ianotz.

Marian: Hi, I'm Marian Bors and I am 25 years old. I grew up in an orphanage in Fair Ocna, in Bacau county, where I lived up to the age of 14. Then my parents moved to Targu Ocna, in Brasov county. The Child Protection people had to transfer me, so I was close to them and so they moved me to another orphanage in the city of Brasov, Victoria, where I stayed until I turned 18 so that I could graduate. After I graduated, the Child Protection sent me to the night shelter. I did not like it there, because of the many people who were living on the streets. I did not feel suited to being there and I felt as if my life was drifting away there before I pulled myself together. I spent a period in rented accommodation where conditions were very good, but all the money I made from working went to paying taxes. Not having enough to eat, it was becoming increasingly difficult. I learned about Florin Catanescu through a friend, and about how he had lived in an orphanage, and about how he had managed to found a Center for Social Integration for youths like me.

Ionut: Hi, I am Ionut Cojocaru and I was born in the city of Negresti on 23rd March 1998. I am a student in ninth grade at high school in Mircea Cristea, Brasov. I lived with my parents until the age of 14 years then I moved to the UPSV Centre for Social Integration. This happened because of my parents, who were separated because my father is an alcoholic and he beat my mother every time he got drunk, and did not care about me. Because my mother does not have a good financial situation, I had to move into a home school where you learn. I later found out about Florin, and he was willing to take my situation. It is much better here with Florin than at the boys home, as Florin helps me a lot and cares for me. In the future I want to finish high school and then do a college course, and to help my mother when she gets old.

Something I noticed in the interviews, as a result of seeing the guys' rooms, is it seems like there's a little bit of arrested development. It's not a bad thing, or in a profound way. It's just different. Things from their childhood that most of us usually let go of and forget about (and then bawl our eyes out when we see Toy Story 3) - stuffed animals, cartoon character clothes, etc. - are held onto. Maybe it's nostalgia permeating the present, and maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's that there wasn't a parent figure to tell them they had to get rid of their toys because they were too old. I'm not sure. It's just something interesting I noticed.

10.22.13

One of the things on my "Romania bucket list" was simple: to sit in the middle of the city, drink coffee, and people watch. Today, crossed it off the list.

I also hiked up to some really nice viewpoints, FINALLY made it into the Black Church (which was really underwhelming) and had some more local pastries and deliciousness.

When I got back, I had an interview with Emeric. His English is really good, so I didn't even need to ask him questions in my broken Romanian. He's probably the most responsible 23 year-old I've ever met. His dream is to one day have a three story house where his whole family, siblings included, live together. He doesn't care about promotions at work (he works at a factory building turbines for windmills), just wants an honest wage and a simple life. Good guy.

And then of course, Rummy.

P.S., I won.

10.23.13

Last day already. Dammit.

Azota called Florin and asked if we could stop by the Catharsis office to say bye. She greeted me with her trademark bright red lipsticked kisses on the cheek, and her second trademark: asking me to help with something on the computer. "Ten minutes," she promised, "ten minutes." An hour and a half later, goodbyes were said. Of course I don't mind, because she and everyone else at Catharsis are absolutely great. It just meant the rest of the day would be a little more crammed before my train ride out.

One thing high on the priority list: the grand finale game of Rummy. And it was all it should've been. Lala and I were playing Florin and Emeric - two seasoned pros. They crossed the 5,000 point threshold needed to win while Lala and I were dragging our feet in the hundreds. But in Rummy, you can't win unless you close a game after crossing 5,000 points. Six games later, Lala and I caught them. And we closed. And it was awesome (not that I'm a gloater or anything, but it was the most epic comeback in the history of comebacks in any sport or pastime known to man).

Saying goodbye to these guys, after we'd worked, ate, and shared stories together almost every waking minute of the day...that was tough. The fact that we walked to the train station in full entourage mode...that helped and also made it more difficult. They're such incredibly good people. Every single one of them has a story that could rip your heart into a million little shards, with a smile and a laugh and understanding and of life and compassion that could sew it back together in an instant.

On the train ride to Budapest, I shared a couchette car with three folks: one from Romania, one from Slovakia, and one from Budapest. Until the lights went out, we had one of the most "in the now" conversations I've had in a long, long while. It was so good to glean their wisdom.

The couchette is actually pretty comfortable, and I slept pretty well. Until I was nudged awake by a border control police officer. Ten minutes of staring at my passport picture, then at me, that at the picture, then at me, and then calling over three other officers, the train was allowed to continue on. Curses to the hippy hair I rocked at 20!

Next stop after 10 days of sightseeing in Europe: Peru.

Amore vita.

South Africa

Sun, 17 Nov 2013 21:26:10 GMT

Nkosi's Haven: Courage, Redefined.
Click Here to See the South Africa Photo Album

8.13.13

Continuing my streak of prime seats on my flights, I sat next to two empty seats on my Rwandair flight to Kigali, and I also got free wine and coffee. And a meal. For an hour flight. Fantastic. Foreign airlines > American airlines, by a wide margin.

As the plane descended into Rwanda, the sun was doing the same. It was gorgeous to see, and interesting to note how different the landscape is from Kenya given the fact they're pretty close together geographically.

The plane was about an hour late to land. With my layover scheduled only as an hour and a half, the possibility for a lot of trouble seemed pretty high. Luckily, the Kigali airport is about the size of an elementary school, and getting from the arrival to transfer terminal was about 50 steps. But I had to go through security again, and after downing about a half bottle of wine on the hour flight, with little water during the day, I was feeling pretty warm in my head.

As I was going through security, I had a grocery bag of foodstuffs I have been slowly whittling away at since the adventure began. The lady at security told me that I couldn't take it through, but rather that I'd have to "go sit in that chair and eat all of the food." I'm not sure even Kobyashi could've complied with this request, as my plane was boarding and I had about five pounds of food in the bag.

So, I politely told her that was ridiculous, and unless a peanut butter and jam sandwich was explosive (or gave me explosive diarrhea), that everything and everyone on the plane would be safe. She hemmed and hawed for a couple minutes, which made me feel like a turd for holding up the rest of the line, and finally let me through without force-feeding myself nuts and raw tea leaves. Interestingly enough, she didn't care about my alcohol-based hand sanitizer or anything else in my pockets.

With the wine and coffee finally hitting my bladder, I hit up the loo on the plane before takeoff. When I came back to my seat, someone had made themselves comfortable in it, and asked if he wouldn't mind moving. But then I noticed the vacant exit row seat right behind me, and told him he could have it. So now my legroom doubled, and I got to chat with a nice lady from Namibia and drink more wine and coffee and have more food.

We got to talking about the journey, and I shared with her my observations about (some) white people in places like Kenya imposing their own culture in a condescending way on the locals, trying to "save the poor little brown kids", being bored in gorgeous places, etc. She agreed with all of those things and, as a journalist, has witnessed a lot of the same. I told her I saw someone's facebook profile whose job description was "single-handedly saving Africa." She replied, "what an ass."

After a nice flight, I landed in Johannesburg at around 11pm, and I could already tell the experience here would be much different than the last five months. From the sky, it looks like a sprawling metropolis, the propensity of lights indicating it's a pretty Westernized - or, at least, energy rich - country.

Customs took all of 30 seconds to get through. Being an American in many countries is tantamount to being in the club. All things being equal, though, it's probably not the best club to be in if I were to visit Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Syria, Libya, Egypt, Lebanon, Russia, China, North Korea, Pakistan, Kazakstan, or Turkmenistan right now. Otherwise, VIP!!

Grabbed a taxi, and immediately realized my assumption of this being a lot different here was justified. There are immaculately maintained roads, highways, streetlights, and signs. I got to my new placement, Nkosi's haven, at midnight and crashed.

8.14.13

Placement #8: Nkosi's Haven - Johannesburg, Gauteng, South Africa
(Borrowed from www.nkosishaven.org)

Nkosi’s Haven is a recognized NGO in South Africa that has been in operation since 1999 offering holistic care and support for destitute HIV/AIDS infected mothers, her children, and resulting AIDS orphans (infected or not).

Nkosi’s Haven is named after Nkosi Johnson, the young AIDS activist who passed away on International Children’s Day on June 1st 2001, who dearly wanted a facility that would care for the mom and her child. He had been separated from his mom because of the HIV diagnosis and he never wanted that to happen to any other child. He also wanted HIV positive people to be cared for without discrimination or prejudice.

At Nkosi’s Haven, all of our mothers and children (currently totalling approx. 160) live in total ‘freedom’ at one of our two locations in Johannesburg. All of our children attend private schools (in the bridging sense), receive all disciplines of therapy (play, remedial, occupational, speech, and hopefully soon art), and we are working on providing sporting lessons as well. Our mothers are encouraged to build their capacity through various activities, during which, if leadership and initiative is shown, an internal position will be offered (such as cook, childcare worker, matron, resident manager etc.) Further, we ask mothers to ‘foster’ our young resident orphans, hopefully providing for some additional support in substitute for the loss of their own mothers.

Through all of the work we do, we ensure that our residents learn how to live with AIDS, not die from it. With this objective in mind, we have built a happy and energetic community were our children can develop and become self-confident, mature, and responsible members of their community.

Sleeping on a double bed solo, with a comfortable mattress, is a lot different than sleeping on a single bunk duo. While the latter was absolutely great, given the company I got to share it with, the former is always fantastic. The sleep last night was one of the first times in years I didn't wake up once during the night. When I did, I realized this: it's winter in South Africa, and winter in South Africa, if there's no heat in the building, is cold.

I didn't know who was who or what to do or where to go. Keep in mind, I found this place through Google and have only emailed back and forth with one of the two women in charge of Nkosi's. I figured a good place to start would be to meet these two. From the get-go, I could tell this place is going to be great.

The two women, Gail and Lynn, are sassy, no BS older women. They have a sign on their door which reads: "Live your life in such a way, that when you get out of bed each day and put your feet on the ground, the devil says, 'Oh shit, they're awake!'" Talking with them, even for a brief few minutes, made it clear that this place is well run, well taken care of, and will be a good home away from home for as long as I stay.

The work started right away this morning, as I helped some of the volunteers put together shelves and bookcases, hammer stuff into other stuff, and haul things around. Everyone here is really friendly.

In the afternoon, when the kids come home from school, they have two hours of study time and, for those who could use a little assistance, tutoring. Lynn asked me to tutor a 12-year-old boy, who she said is incredibly polite and responds really well to male role models. She's right about the polite part - this is one of the most humble and polite 12-year-olds I've met, and I look forward to working with him.

One other thing to note here is the food: it's delicious. Especially given the fact it's made it for over 150 people, which is like catering a wedding every day. Three meals a day right outside my little cottage I'm staying in? Awesome.

8.15.13

Johannesburg is about as close to Nairobi in look and feel as Chicago is to North Dakota. That's not to say one is better than the other, they're just drastically different. I learned this after going into Johannesburg city center today and seeing some of the sights, including the most bizarrely ubiquitous advertisements I've ever seen.

<--- Penis enlargements + Abortions for all!

The only similarity between Johannesburg and Nairobi, aside from being on the same continent, is the Toyota van that serves as the taxi here and the matatu in Kenya. Why are these so popular?

Anyway, I went to a place called "The Top of Africa" and saw a panorama of the whole city. It's supposedly the tallest building, south of the equator, in Africa. I believe it. Afterwards, we walked across the Nelson Mandela bridge and had some delicious food at a mall nearby. In case you wondered, yes: ice cream, coffee, and Jameson is a delicious combination for a beverage.

After lunch, the volunteer who had been here for a year and was showing me and the other volunteers the ropes took us to a choir rehearsal. The choir was amazing. "Why had nobody ever heard of them?" I thought. Well, it turns out millions of people have. It was the world-renown Soweto choir, and we just happened to be guests at their rehearsal, which would be the rock equivalent to just happening to stumble upon The Who warming up.

8.16.13

Nkosi's haven is comprised of a couple dozen cottages on about five acres of land. Many of the cottages are living quarters, one is for storage, one is the library, a couple are offices, one is the music/arts room, and another is a place where donations are organized and distributed. That place is called the Wendy House, and is where I've mainly been working the last couple days.

It's great to see how many donations come into Nkosi's, and even greater that the majority of them aren't just, "hey, these shoes have holes in 'em, gum and cow poop all over the soles, but hey...figured you guys could use 'em", but rather quality clothes and food and sports equipment. Once a week, the residents of Nkosi's can visit the Wendy House and exchange clean clothes for clean clothes, school supplies, and the like.

At night time, I found out that Nkosi's has a choir that practices every Friday at 7PM. I decided to check them out tonight, and was invited to sing with them, but reminded them, "I'm just a rapper, you guys are actual singers." They're great! A bit rough around the edges sometimes, but holy wow they've got some seriously beautiful voices and harmonizing like nobodies business.

8.17.13

Today I was nice and domestic and cleaned the cottage in which I stay, from top to bottom. After that, I went to the gym and lifted weights for the first time in almost half a year. Good lawd. If I didn't need a reminder that I've now got Tyrannosaurus Rex arms and flamingo legs, I got it now. They say that it takes twice as long as the time you took off to get back to where you were. At the end of this trip, I'll be thirty by the time I'm back to status quo. Thirty!

8.18.13

There's a really artsy section of Johannesburg (think black-rimmed glasses, perfectly coiffed "I make my hair look like I just got out of bed, but I really spent 20 minutes gelling it", and folks dressed like flappers or bootleggers) that has an art walk and farmer's market once a month. Today happened to be that day.

I saw some great and not so great art, people watched, and had one of the best spring rolls, pieces of chocolate, and smoothies I've had in my life.

8.19.13

Feeling adjusted and comfortable in my new home, I asked Lynn and Gail if they had any sort of handyman projects that needed tending to. On the top of their list was painting the two sickbays and the grade one classroom. The good news for them is I have a fair amount of experience, since last summer I painted the exterior of three full houses, and the interior of another. The bad news for me is that made me grow weary of painting. That said, I'm not going to let a little recalcitrance stop me from lending a hand. I want to help make this place look great!

After tutoring Petros today, I heard one of the residents at Nkosi's rapping quietly. I told him he should rap louder. His name is Lucky, he's in his early 20's, and he rapped for me over some Waka Flocka Flame (yes, that's an actual rapper's name. sad face.) beats. He's got some potential, and I think it'd be great to include him on the song project I'm putting together.

8.20.13

Going to the mall before the stores are open is weird. Right after graduating college, I sold my soul for three months and worked as a manager at a clothing store, and oftentimes had to open it in the morning. It's like being at a lock-in, except without all the excitement. But there is kind of a buzz in the air knowing that it's so calm at the beginning, but soon there will be hundreds of shoppers wandering around buying things they most likely don't need. Today, though, I was on a mission to get paint and get started as soon as possible on the sickbays.

Paint en-toe, I got back to Nkosi's and taught some of the other volunteers tricks of the trade I picked up when apprenticing for a couple months under a professional painter. Painting is one of those things that looks a lot easier and more enjoyable than it actually is. And new painters, I've found, no matter how much you show them what to do and what not to do, always make the area look like a murder scene. It's one of those hands-on learning things that really takes some time to teach and learn. Progress is being made, though, and it'll be great to have a team tackle each room.

Also, I learned some words in Zulu, one of the eleven languages spoken in South Africa. ELEVEN! It's ironic that this is apparently where the "missing link" fossils were found, 2.4 million year old remains of what are thought to be the first human beings, and that the Tower of Babel apparently decided to be initially erected here.

8.21.13

Did a lot more painting today, and I'm happy to say that the new painting apprentices are coming along nicely, and now the paint they spray and spill is only confined to the painting uniform they wear! Progress is coming along in the sickbay, and it's going to look great when it's finished.

After work today, all of the volunteers were invited to Gail's house to attend a going away party for a volunteer who had been at Nkosi's for a year. It was pretty great, and here are some of the highlights of why that was the case:

- Gail's two dogs look like mixtures of lions and german shepherds and are incredibly friendly.
- The food was INcredible. Smoked salmon. Chicken curry. Stuffed potatoes. Salad. Red wine. Beer. Dark chocolate tequila...more dark chocolate tequila.
- The conversation was fantastic. Gail and Lynn swear more than my grandma did, which is really saying something.
- One of the doors in the house got stuck and wouldn't budge, and yours truly got to kick it down all manly like (even though it took me about ten tries...)

8.22.13

After painting all morning, I spent the afternoon tutoring Petros per usual. But today happened to be his birthday! I asked him what his favorite thing to drink was, which turned out to be Coke, which turned out to be convenient for me because Gail drinks about a six pack a day. When she heard that was his beverage of choice, she happily allowed me to raid her fridge to grab one for him, instead of having to drive on the left side of the road to the store, likely crashing and dying in the process...

...So there I was, an hour later, driving on the left side of the road. Apparently the grim reaper had plans for me yet today. A couple of the volunteers, myself included, needed to get groceries, and I needed to get more paint. Again. This was my first time driving on the opposite side, and aside from having to get use to the stick shift being on the left, and hitting the windshield wiper every time I wanted to turn on the turn signal, the drive was a success. My first time driving a car in six months, and it happened to be about the size of a go-kart.

8.23.13

Finished painting two rooms today! One of the two rooms in the sickbay, and the grade 1 study room.

There are some residents of Nkosi's, both old and young, who have pretty progressed HIV, and require medicine almost constantly throughout the day. They were polite enough to move into somewhat cramped quarters in the other sickbay until we were done with the project, which was nice of them. It was also nice of them to provide me with a little perspective when I'd get frustrated at someone spilling paint or me having a little bit of a stuffy nose.

8.24.13

Today I got the chance to go to a fundraiser event with Gail and two of the other volunteers. It was a bike/run/walk race, with dozens of teams all sponsored by different companies and organizations around greater Johannesburg. It took place about an hour north of the city, near a damn with a gorgeous lake, and there were at least 5,000 participants and spectators there.

Being able to experience more of the landscape and scenery was a treat on its own. Even just a few kilometers north of the city, everything becomes more rural: large rock formations, rolling hills, farms, and small little villages all polkadot the landscape. Think Southwestern US, but not quite as dry.

The best thing about attending this event, even more than the delicious (and free!) food and drinks, was seeing how well respected Gail is by everyone who spoke to her about Nkosi's, and how the people came together - whether they were just there to win prize money in the race or knowingly attended because it was a benefit relay - to support a place like Nkosi's. Community is a beautiful thing.

At the end of the event, Gail was presented with one of those oversized novelty checks, which I've always wanted to hold (and did!), for 25,000 Rand, or about $2,500. A beautiful day.

8.25.13

Tomorrow was the last day for two volunteers who've been at Nkosi's for the last couple months. They're Canadian, but great folks regardless (just kidding Canadian's, you're all neat. Except for your geese. They're dicks.). I got the chance to interview them about their volunteer experiences today, and it was refreshing to hear they had/have good intentions and realistic expectations about being a volunteer.

In the evening, a couple of us hiked up a small mountain that Nkosi's borders and took in the sunset. Because of the smog in Johannesburg, it was easy to stare at the sun as it cascaded over the skyscrapers of downtown. A wonderful end to a good weekend.

8.26.13

Today we started painting the second sickbay, covering green and yellowish walls with pinks and whites. I had music playing out of my phone in my pocket. There's a little girl who's in sickbay every day, for almost the whole day. She asked if I could tell her who was singing, and I handed her the phone just so she could hear it more clearly. Holding it softly next to her ear, she closed her eyes and was visibly transported to another place and time by the music spilling out of the tiny little speaker.

I can't even remember the last time in the relatively recent past when I sat down to only listen to music, eyes closed, headphones on, nothing else. There's beauty in that. There's calm. There's peace. Nowadays, I mainly listen to music on my phone, on my computer, or in the car. But in each of those cases, I'm doing something else at the same time. In just a brief moment, she reminded me of the power music has to help us transcend our troubles.

8.27.13

During the tutoring session today, Petros and I started working on a verse together for the collaborative song with the other kids. As part of the process, he told me about his childhood, and how he came to be a resident of Nkosi's. I feel comfortable sharing it with you, since he'll be rapping about it on the song soon enough.

Petros grew up in Free State, which is a ways away from Johannesburg. It's not the safest place for a kid to grow. When he was younger, around Christmas time, he was walking with some friends outside. A man pulled up next to them, offering some of the kids candy. Petros remembered his dad telling him not to talk to strangers like that, so he ran away. The other kids approached the car. They were shot and killed by the man. Petros saw their blood on the ground the next day.

Both of his parents were soldiers. When he was six, he spent a year in the hospital. Soon after getting out of the hospital, his parents died. He went to live with his grandma, who then took him to live at Nkosi's shortly after, where he has been for the last five years.

He's a remarkable kid, and I can't even begin to fathom or pretend to possess one fraction of the courage and strength he has in order to make it to where he is now.

8.28.13

One of the social workers at Nkosi's needed a crib for her baby, so Lynn asked if I could put one together for her. While carpentry isn't my forte, I sure as sugar can hammer wood together. Given that there were components of cribs already in storage it was a relatively easy task, despite the fact that few of the components aligned and I had very little of the tools needed.

After I finally got it all built, and tested that it would be safe for a baby to sleep in, I asked one of the other volunteers to come and help me move it. Bad move. Within 15 seconds of finishing it, it was taken apart because, despite my instructions to lift from the bottom, they lifted from the top, asked, "why is it coming apart?" as they kept lifting. Before I could tell them "because it's put together with wooden pegs and that easily fit into one another and it's stable unless you lift from the exact place where you are now" it'd come undone. Since they hadn't learned how to build furniture, they wandered off and left me to clean up after them. I felt like I was in an IKEA.

8.29.13

Things move a bit more slowly in South Africa than I'm used to. It's not necessarily a bad thing, just different. Sometimes the pace of progress is impeded, and that's just kind of how it goes. When it comes to finishing projects, though, that's bad for a Tauran. I'm stubborn and persistent to a fault, and when I start something, even if there's no point to finish it, I won't stop until it's completed.

So I woke up early this morning to go to the paint store. Again. I was told to wait 10 or 15 minutes. 15 minutes later, I was told 10 or 15. And again. Two hours later, I finally got there. What was I, waiting for a seat at a Chinese restaurant?

Anyway, the second sickbay room got done and it's pink as pink can be.

8.30.13

Hearkening back to my time in Nepal, I spent much of the afternoon chopping vegetables in the kitchen. I don't know why they were so shocked I could chop onions, especially because being able to do so standing up on a cutting board was like first class compared to chopping it seated half lotus on the ground.

I got a bit of good news today. Lynn and Gail called me into their office and told me they'd decided not to charge me for staying at Nkosi's because of the work I've been doing. While they were hardly charging me anything as it was, it's going to help me save money for the rest of the journey. Incredibly nice of them.

8.31.13

Today it was about 35 degrees out with the windchill - yesterday it was 70! It was still a great day to get a workout in, and I decided to tackle a series of hills near Nkosi's. One of those feelings that feels horrible but good at the same time is a burning in the lungs after really pushing them to their limit. The temperature, coupled with the roughly 2,000 meters Johannesburg is above sea-level, added to the hill workout proved a potent mixture in achieving said sensation. It's nice to be able to start bringing my body back up to speed after the last five months of relatively sedimentary living.

9.1.13

In addition to the burning lungs yesterday, I also got some good old burning shins, courtesy of my running shoes which have now logged about 600 miles. You runners out there know that shoes should be changed every 300-500 miles. 500 at the very latest. Anything beyond that is like driving your car when there's a micropipet's worth of oil on the dipstick. Bad things can happen. I figured an investment in a new pair of shoes would be better than de-vesting in a new pair of surgically repaired feet at the doctor's office, and so I set out a bit early today to get to the running store before it closed.

If and when you visit Johannesburg, ride the Gautrain. It's incredibly fast, cheap, and cleaner than any form of public transportation I've experienced anywhere else. The only drawback, on the weekend, is the train only runs every half-hour, so when you make it there at 12:01, you have a lot of sitting to do. When you make it at 12:00.01, like I did, you have even more.

Now, the running store closed at 1. That'd be fine if I made the train when I'd intended. Instead, the train arrived at 12:40, and I had 20 minutes to run about three miles in non-running shoes and a backpack with all of my documentary equipment. I made it to the store with one minute left. New shoes purchased, I was able to catch my breath.

I also had the good fortune of meeting one of the longest supporters of my music, who happens to live in Johannesburg, for lunch. It was wonderful to be able to share stories and interact with someone who has been such an ardent supporter of my work since the beginning, and it was an added bonus that he is a down-to-Earth, well-spoken guy.

He was also kind enough to give me a ride to one of the universities in town, where Nkosi's choir was performing as part of a concert with other choirs from around the greater area. The concert was beautiful, and the choir from Nkosi's performed masterfully. Rather than write inadequately about it, I'll post a recording that I made of their performance here:

9.2.13

There are many professions I respect in the world - and ultimately, I really appreciate anyone who does their best at whatever their job may be - but up at the top of the list is teachers. Good ones. I'll admit that I'm biased since my mom was a teacher, and a great one at that. But every cliche written about teachers molding minds and forging the future is true. We all know it's not a lucrative job, nor is it particularly easy.

Though I don't think I have the (infinite) patience required to be a teacher for my occupation, I've enjoyed the bit I've experienced by teaching some of the kids hip hop at the orphanages, and I know that every good teacher will tell you it's all worth it for those times when they have a breakthrough with a student, and something happens that truly moves them. Today I got to experience a small taste of that.

Petros and I worked on his the structure of his verse for the song some more. I had him write ten things he would like to be sure everyone who heard the verse knew about him. I asked him if he wanted to send a message to a kid who might now be in the same position that he was growing up. He said that he'd tell them "you are special just the way you are. Nobody can change that or take it away from you." I don't know about you, but if I were a kid listening and going through incredibly tough times, and a kid who has lived through and triumphed over it said that to me, it'd be enough to help me get through. I'm proud of him for this. It's another example of his age belying his life experience. He's a rare one.

He also wrote me a letter that took me aback, about what he wants to be sure to do with his life moving forward. Among them were, "live my life with confidence and rap on stage with no doubt in myself." He also wrote about how grateful he was to me for teaching him about confidence and music, but let's be honest: he's taught me far more than I'll ever be able to repay.

9.3.13

After a full day of painting and tutoring, there was another meeting in the leisure room. This one was called because one of the older girls came home drunk, and she wanted to apologize to the entire community of Nkosi's Haven, and hold herself responsible for any discipline that might come her way.

This level of accountability is rare, and it says quite a bit about the level of respect each one of the members of Nkosi's has for one another, and about the level of responsibility for one's own actions that they all help to instill in one another, and that Gail makes sure all follow through on. Though the moms and caretakers were disappointed in her for going out and getting drunk in the first place, they were proud of her for the courage it took to stand up in front of 150+ people and admit your wrongs.

9.4.13

I remember when I first started writing lyrics. I was about 12 years-old, and lyrics would be a very loose term for what I wrote. 50% of the time, I relied on a rhyming dictionary to finish my lines, and most of my "songs" had no direction or purpose. So when it came time for Petros to start his verse today, I was quite astonished at how many lightyears ahead his 12 year-old version of songwriting was compared to mine.

We went over the usual curriculum I've given at each of my hip hop classes the last couple months: confidence, flow, rhyme, beat, bars, breath control, etc., etc., etc. I pointed to something in the room and asked him to rhyme a word with it. At first I pointed to a chair. Within 5 seconds he said, "hair." I pointed to the ceiling. Without missing a beat, he said "feeling." Keep in mind this is a kid who speaks about 4 languages fluently, and English was not his native language. Remarkable.

Then, it came time to start writing a couple bars. Our goal for today was simple: 4 bars, which is about 12 seconds of music in a hip hop track. We started it like this:

My name is Petros, I was born in '01
Life tries to kill you where I come from
Young, I may be, but I've seen a lot
Gunshots, 5 kids dropped, I just run

A good start, I'd say.

The other astonishing thing is he knew, intrinsically, when and where to take a breath, how to stay on beat, and wait to come in on the offbeat. He's a talented kid.

Also, we finished painting the reception room today, in a nice sky blue and white. Take a look.

At the end of the day, I decided it would be a good idea to get some yoga in down at the field. I'm certainly a novice at yoga, but I can hold my own in power positions (definitely not the flexibility ones). Or at least, I could hold my own. Another reminder of how painfully out of shape I am? Check.

*Side note: I've realized that anytime I look at something, or pick it up or set it down, and think to myself "don't forget this", I always, without fail, do. Episode 534564509813 of this is leaving my room keys at the field, and having to run back and get them in the pitch black.

9.5 - 9.7.13

On breaks at college, I used to drive from Los Angeles to Port Angeles (and vice versa), which was about a 20 hour, flat-as-a-pancake journey when taking I5. The only scenery on this stretch, really, is mile after mile of farm off in the distance, with unknown roads connecting them. I always wondered, as I drove by, what it was like out there in the wide open, with fields of wheat stretching infinitely out into the horizon. I never made the turn on to one of the tiny little roads that would take me there to find out. But I got my chance in South Africa.

A local volunteer, Lauren, has a family farm about three hours out of Johannesburg that she invited a couple of us volunteers to. And so began my journey in the wild, wild driving that is South Africa - it being on the left hand side already wild enough for me, even without the drivers coming up to within three inches of your bumper at 80mph because they want to pass you and go 1mph faster until they decide to slow down and you pass them later.

The relative stress of almost certain vehicular death or paralysis was worth it for the views, the fun, and the peace at the farm. And, to find out what really is down one of those unmarked-type roads I've driven past countless times.

Many thank you to Lauren and her family for providing me with some of the best solitude I've experienced in a long while, a place to write lyrics for the first time in what seems forever, and the restful sleep my body has been craving for about 28 years.

9.8 - 9.9.13

Three years ago, in Kenya, I had the chance to go on Safari at Masai Mara. While it was fun, with great scenery and animals, it felt like a big zoo. If there was the wisp of a lion nearby, 30 safari vans would converge on the spot in a manner of minutes. This was probably due, in part, to the fact Masai Mara isn't very big, and also to overcrowding and increased traffic from Westerners like me.

South Africa's Kruger Park, on the other hand, is massive and in no way feels like a game reserve. Well maintained roads stretch on for hundreds of kilometers, no one is allowed to drive off-road, and you can go 20 - 30 minutes without seeing another soul (aside from an animal). It was gorgeous. If you make it to South Africa, it's more than definitely worth the journey.

One drawback of the park is the very strict, low speed limit, which is of course understandable. It inhibits you from seeing large tracts of the park unless you start at the crack of dawn. Which we did. And I also happened to be the sole driver of the rental car. It was worth it to see the animals, but by the time we left the park, we'd already been driving for 12 hours and I was ready for a nap. But it was not to be. We still had six hours to go to make it back to Johannesburg in time to return the car to the rental and get back to Nkosi's ready to work in the morning.

Now, I don't mind if people sleep when I drive. Someone's got to do be the driver, and as long as there's a co-pilot helping to navigate, the rest can sleep. But when it's 18 hours of driving in one day, driving on the opposite side of the road, with endless streams of people walking on the shoulder, and semis driving 10mph and forcing you to pass on a blind turn lest you get rear-ended by the cars behind you, a simple "hey, thanks for driving" would be somewhat appreciated. And when that doesn't come? Well...figs.

9.10.13

While it was nice to have a getaway, it was great to be back at Nkosi's. After starting work painting another hallway, and trying my hand at some light carpentry by replacing a portion of a wall, I got back to work with Petros writing his verse.

We finished working together on it today, and here it is. I hope you like it.

My name is Petros I was born in 01
Life tries to kill you where I come from
Young, I may be, but I've seen a lot
Gunshots, five kids dropped, I just run
Spent a year in a hospital bed
Soon as I got out both parents were dead
No time to hang my head, I had to move away
With my grandma to Joburg where I live today
Now I live in Nkosi's, my family is enormous
My new mom Gail gives food and school for us
To me that's freedom. I can make the most
Of my life, a dark past, but my future is bright
My one wish for the world is for war to stop
That's why one day I will be a cop
There are many kids like me and for us life is hard
But you and I are special, just the way we are

9.11.13

Finished painting the hallway today! That's two sickbay rooms, a classroom, the reception room, and the hallway connecting each of those done. Only one more hallway left and the painting is done.

I helped Petros practice rap his verse out loud today. I played the beat with my fists on the table, and he recited bar after bar over and over until he started to memorize them, learn where to breathe, and when to pause or keep the flow going. No surprise, he gets it right away. The only thing he's really having trouble with is projecting his voice (confidence) and not trying to make all the words fit the beat. But he's practically already there.

9.12.13

We practiced his verse more today, for about an hour or so after homework. One of the coolest parts about this whole process, aside from the fact he has talent at it, is he enjoys it. When it doesn't seem like work, especially after a full day of school and homework, that's a really good sign. If he keeps this up, I completely believe he can and will be a great musician one day, hip hop or not.

To give him his first taste of stage fright, I had him perform the track for Gail. She was genuinely, visibly taken aback by his performance and lyrics. After he went back to the homework room, Gail informed me she'd be passing on his work to one of her friends who works at a Juliard prep school in Johannesburg. If he got in there? Sky's the limit for this kid.

9.13.13

Friday the 13th. Eeesh. Weird day. One of the saving graces though is that Gracie - without question one of my favorite people, let alone caretakers, I've met on my travels - scooped up my old pair of running shoes I donated to the on-site clothing storeroom. They were still in good shape, just not running shape anymore, and also quite dirty. She told me she was ecstatic when she found a pair of shoes her size, and that when she found out they were mine she knew she had to have them. That was more than enough to put a smile on my face and make the less fun stuff of the day a wash.

9.14.13

Mellow Saturday today. I got a great workout in and had a nice day to relax, conduct some interviews, and catch up on this here journal.

9.15.13

You may recall that Nkosi's has a sickbay on the premises, and a nurse working there 24/7. The women and kids with HIV/Aids get anti-viral drugs twice per day, and those who are a bit more sick spend sometimes days or weeks in or near the sickbay beds. There are four women who have been in sickbay since I got here, and each day that I could, I'd do my best to make it over there to spend time with them, even for just a quick hi-bye. Today, I had the opportunity to interview a couple of them. They were some of the best interviews I've gotten so far.

One of the women, about 30, has two children. One has HIV and one doesn't. She didn't know she had HIV until she was pregnant. She used to be a caretaker for people with Aids and never thought that she would get it. When she was diagnosed, she thought about killing herself, but quickly decided against it because she wanted to stay alive for her children. That's the thing that keeps her going each day. The dream to one day see her kids graduate from school and live full, productive lives. She had a stroke a little while ago, which caused her to lose most control of one side of her body, so she gets around with a cane. She always has a smile on her face and one of the most infectious laughs I've ever heard.

Another one of the women I interviewed is a 17 year-old, who has a 2 month old son with her in the sickbay at Nkosi's. Both have HIV. She started the baby on anti-virals the day she knew he would test positive, and there's a chance it could completely wipe the HIV out of her son's system. The guy who infected her is in prison. She didn't know he was HIV positive before it was too late. Her insight into how she got it, and her on-camera advice for girls around the world was something that belied her age.

It was also interesting to hear accounts from them about how some people still think you can get HIV from sharing a kitchen with someone who has it, or by hugging them, or sleeping in the same area. The most shocking thing is that the people who thought this have been volunteers from predominantly Western countries. I have no idea how people could either a) be taught information as archaic and false as that, or b) not know any better. Wow.

I'll admit my naivete when it comes to the fact that HIV these days is often very treatable and far from the death sentence it used to be. Anti-virals have advanced so much, that many people I spoke with at Nkosi's view having HIV as just a virus that they live with, not something that impedes them from enjoying life, love, and all the good there is in it. That may also partially be due to the fact that roughly 20% of the population in South Africa are HIV positive, and as time goes on, being infected seems to have lost some of its stigma.

Petros and I also recorded his verse today. He had the whole thing memorized already, and we went through it about 15 times, which really isn't that much when it comes to recording a track. Back home, I often record a verse 50+ times before I'm happy with it. Really looking forward to seeing how the whole song comes together.

9.16.13

Painted one more hallway today, and did some more light carpentry. I don't know what kind of material the walls were made with, but it's about the density of corkboard. With 75+ kids tromping through there each day, they take a beating and have some holes in them. Since we didn't have the materials or money to completely replace the walls, I cut out chunks of thick pressboard and covered the holes with squares of them, and will have one of the highly talented kids at Nkosi's paint something on them so they look like intentional block art. Someone call Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

Today I also was lucky enough to be granted an interview with the main nurse in sickbay. Of course nurses, by profession, deal with a lot of death. I can't imagine how difficult the job must be, nor can I convey how much respect I have for those who do the job well. I've always thought one of the most difficult parts of being a nurse, either in a medical or hospice setting, would be building relationships and bonds with incredible people who are on death's doorstep, and having to be ready to say goodbye to them at any time.

In a place like Nkosi's, where the patients often have children who are living on-site, that nearly inexpressible anguish is amplified. She said that one of the things that helps her get through is to re-direct the pain of losing a friend to supporting the loved ones they leave behind. A truly remarkable, caring woman.

9.17.13

Over the last 6 months, I've been absolutely blessed to interview some incredible people, hear some amazing stories, and learn life-lessons from so many. The interview I had with Gracie today may end up being the one that leaves the biggest impression on me.

The first day I met Gracie, she was working in the kitchen, and had the most raidant smile on her face. It was dinner time. She'd been up since 4am working in the kitchen, prepping all of the meals for the day, cooking, and cleaning. Then she goes to help her son with his homework until about 10-11, and does it all over again the next day. She's 55. I was immediately struck by her authenticity and candor she effortlessly exudes. That carried over to the interview with her.

Here's her story in brief: at 8 years old, she needed to work to help provide money for her family. She sold beer and alcohol near Johannesburg, and learned the trade early on. She met a boy and fell in love. Together, they opened a pub/restaurant that was incredibly successful. The boy, now her husband, fell sick. It wasn't until they went to the doctor, together, that her husband told her he had AIDS. By the time she found out, she already had HIV and passed it on to their firstborn son, and she was pregnant with their second child. It didn't take long for AIDS to take his life. Shortly after he died, she gave birth to her second son. Now a widow and young mother of two, her husband's family accused her of poisoning him in order to take his part of the company. They fought in court for control over all of their assets - house, car, money - and won. She was homeless, living under a bridge, with two baby boys.

She met Gail who had recently adopted the 12 year-old Nkosi (the namesake of Nkosi's haven), who himself had AIDS. Gracie worked as one of Nkosi's caregivers. She was giving Nkosi a bath when he slipped into a coma from which he never awoke. Just a few weeks later, Nkosi died. Gracie has lived at Nkosi's Haven from the beginning, and worked as hard as she does now every day she has been there. She does it because she knows the pain the women and children here go through, and she wants to bring a smile to their day.

Seeing tears on her face during parts of the interview, and then her beaming smile and infectious laugh at other parts...it made me realize this is a soul who is truly alive, facing everything that life has brought her way. What a magic spirit.

9.18.13

My last day at Nkosi's. I can't believe it. My friend, Patrick Pegg, recently told me, "Time simultaneously stands still and flies." I can attest to the truth of this at every point of the journey. I happened upon Nkosi's on a whim, literally two weeks before I flew out of Kenya I set up my stay here. Sometimes, things just work out. But the perpetual catch 22 is the more I enjoy a place, the closer I get with the people, the more difficult it is to say "see you later."

Before leaving today, I had an interview with Gail, the director of Nkosi's. She's up there with Visma, from Namaste Children's Home in Nepal, as the best directors of orphanages I've met. We covered a large range of topics over the course of the hour-plus interview and, similar to Gracie, her effortless candor and charisma shone through on her answers to my questions. Watching her interact with the kids, moms, caretakers, and volunteers over the last month, it's clear that she runs Nkosi's Haven out of love and a desire to help, not to get a paycheck or add another story to her house. (I later found out she hardly makes enough to stay alive from the salary she gives herself at Nkosi's. She, just like most of the people she helps take care of, lives month-to-month).

Saying bye to Petros, after all the time we spent together at homework and music, was also a tough one. I bought him a lyric book, and wrote a little note inside in hopes of inspiring him to continue working on the (incredible) talent he has.

And, finally, saying bye to everyone else: Gracie, the women in the sickbay, the dozens of other incredible kids, the moms, some of the fellow volunteers. I still haven't mastered this art yet,and I think, maybe, that's an OK thing.

For my upcoming 18 hour Greyhound journey to Cape Town, Gracie said she was going to make me a sack lunch. The sack lunch turned out to be a literal two pounds of the best chicken I've ever tasted, four double-stacked burgers, and a gallon-sized tupperware container of carrots, cucumber, tomatoes, and feta cheese. Some day, when I can afford it, I'd like Gracie to be my tour chef/therapist/surrogate aunt.

Goodbye, Nkosi's. I'll never forget.

9.19.13

The best part about taking a Greyhound is you don't have to drive. The worst part is everything else. Just kidding (kind of). This was a double-decker, had free coffee and pretty cozy seats, and had movies on board. Though they were Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters and Twilight Breaking Dawn, Part 2: Kirsten Stewart Stares at Things and Looks Bored While Robert Pattinson Looks Pensive, they at least helped the time pass. As did the five pounds of food I was busily wolfing down like a crusty old grizzly bear heading into hibernation.

I also sat next to a man from Germany who was a professional trombone player for almost 50 years. Hearing his stories of tour-life, growing up, and words of wisdom was a nice treat.

I got into Cape Town in the early afternoon, and it was pouring rain. So I got some good food, caught up on emails from the confines of my hostel, and got some much needed sleep.

9.20.13

Took a walking tour of Cape Town today, and saw a lot of historic sites and monuments I would've otherwise unknowingly passed by. The weather was silly again. It was bright and sunny in the morning, then it rained, then it hailed. What is this, Colorado?

While I didn't get to see much of the natural beauty of Cape Town due to the weather, I did get to go to an incredible, and massive, Indian restaurant. It's in a place downtown and the length of a city block (but very narrow). It's basically fast-Indian-food, ridiculously cheap, and delicious. I ordered butter chicken, garlic naan, and falafel with humus. I figured the portions, based on the $1-2 price would be pretty conservative. The naan was literally the size of my torso, the butter chicken had about two full breasts in it, and the humus was the equivalent of going to Costco, buying the tub of humus, and emptying it out onto a plate (with a dozen golf-ball sized pieces of falafel). So, I had lunch for the next day (which was about halfway gone by the time I got back to the hostel due to sharing with several homeless folks).

9.21.13

Renting a car for $18/day with unlimited miles, and driving around south South Africa, is a pretty sweet gig. So is driving along the coast, eating delicious local food, and going to Hermanus and whale watching at their yearly whale watching festival. Not 5 minutes after I stepped foot out of the car, a Right Whale completely jumped out of the water, on its side, and splashed back down. I didn't have my camera at the ready or else I'd show you, but I basically said, "welp, looks like my work here is done." But then I ended up staying for a few more hours and taking side-streets back to Cape Town. Great day.

9.22.13

Got an early start to the day today, as there was much sightseeing to be had. Up first: a hike to the top of Table Mountain.

Table Mountain is one of the new 7 natural wonders of the world. I don't know if it was the new accolade or the gorgeous day, but there were tons of people here, so parking was a bit difficult. When I finally found a space after navigating through the maze of pedestrians, this guy was standing in the spot because apparently he needed to practice posing for an upcoming Dockers ad, which made parking in said spot a bit of a challenge since he didn't think it necessary to move:

Table Mountain itself is stunning, as is the hike up. The signpost at the bottom says the hike takes about two and a half hours. I did it in an hour and five minutes, and felt pretty accomplished and manly. That is until I was overtaken by a 65 year-old woman barely breaking a sweat or audibly breathing before I reached the top. Table Mountain 1, Alex 0.

After the hike, I drove down the peninsula on the opposite side of the coast as yesterday, with the plan to make it to the Cape of Good Hope for sunset. My first stop was Constantia, an incredibly wealthy wine-suburb of Cape Town which basically looks like the Shire from Lord of the Rings. When you see multiple pre-pubescent kids riding horses in full equestrian gear, that's a pretty good indication that where you are is relatively wealthy. Or, they don't have automobiles yet (which I quickly learned wasn't the case here when Porsche after Mercedes after Bentley passed by my rented Chevy Spark).

Next stop, penguin colony. There are two things I learned about penguins by coming here. One: watching them waddle along in person in their little skin-tuxedos never, ever gets old. Two: they smell. Really, really bad.

At long last, I arrived at Cape of Good Hope, excited to watch the sun go down from the southwestern-most point of all of Africa, Antarctica to my south, North and South America to my west. My excitement turned to...some word that means non-excitement...when I discovered that the Cape was closed. So the bad news is I didn't get to see this, but the good news is that I have something to look forward to when I fly halfway around the world, rent a car, and drive it somewhat terrifiedly on the left-side of the road to reach this point again. Silver linings.

But it wasn't all for naught. I drove back up the west coast of the peninsula and pulled off the side of the road, next to a lighthouse, and watched - in complete solitude - one of the most serene, unreal sunsets I've ever witnessed. The only sound was the tide rolling in, an occasional bird in the distance, or the clack-clack of rocks tumbling over one another as the water pulls them out to sea. The silence here is something I haven't experienced in quite some time, and it gave me the opportunity to look inward and reflect.

One of my personal hopes for the adventure was to be fully present, in as much as possible, in each place I visited, for the people I was with, for the experiences that come and go with the wind, from moment to moment. Sometimes I am, sometimes I have been. But other times I've taken for granted a conversation with a kid or caretaker, or amazing scenery, or the fact that where I was in the present moment was something truly special. Sometimes it just slips by, not fully acknowledged and appreciated by me until after the fact, and by that time it can't come back. Sometimes something inconsequential, or something justifiable, inhibits my full appreciation of the moment and, before I know it, it's gone. I haven't been as centered and in the now as I'd hoped I would be at all times. That's human, though. That's life.

To anyone who reads this who I've met on the journey...kids, caretakers, directors, fellow volunteers, strangers...know that I appreciate you. You helped teach me, even if I wasn't always as present for you as you deserved. I remember you and the memories you helped me create.

9.23.13

At the airport checking in for my flight up to Romania, I met an Iranian family in line. One of them had a hat with an American flag on it, which I found rather interesting. We got to talking about our two cultures, and I apologized for the egregious wrongs our government has done to their country, their region, their people. I said I'd understand why he'd have resentment toward me based on my being American. He replied, " You didn't do anything. Our governments do these things to each other, even though we don't have problems with one another. You and I? We don't have problems with one another. It's just the money and politicians. People? We're ok with one another." Amen.

Kenya: Weeks 5-8

Mon, 07 Oct 2013 09:58:33 GMT

Ebenezer, Heartbreak, & Hope
Click Here to See the Kenya Photo Album

7.15.13

Over the last couple days, a lot of the kids have come up to Megan and me and asked if we could spend the night at Faraja. We told them we eventually would, but hesitated because it would most likely necessitate a 5am or earlier wake-up (yes, I'm lazy). Well, tonight is the night we decided on for our sleepover.

We also decided we would make them food. But what to make for 40 kids and adults in Kenya? After much deliberation, we decided upon spaghetti, because everybody loves it. With spaghetti sauce here pushing $5 per little jar, we decided to just buy 12 pounds of pasta, 10 pounds of crushed tomatoes, lots of spices, and make the lot of it from scratch. I'm glad we did, because it turned out deliciously. One sticking point was the actual cooking of the noodles and sauce, though. You see, here they cook using extremely high heat charcoals, so when the "stove" is on, there's no setting between 1-10. It's all just 11. After getting used to that, though, we were golden.

After dinner, we all watched a movie together in the dining room on a little 12 inch TV. It was at this point I realized that all the 80 inch flatscreen, 3D, 1080p, LED, 7.1 surround sound in the world can't hold a candle to watching Kung Fu Panda 2 with a roomful of kids all huddled around and engaged with every frame.

7.16.13

Turns out that sleeping on a bunk bed that's still wrapped in plastic isn't half bad, so long as you sleep on your back the whole time in a hoodie and pants and socks! Also, I was awoken at 3am by Martha playing out loud really, really loudly in English, which is interesting when considering that her native language is Swahili.

After half falling back asleep, I was again awoken, this time at 5am, to the sounds of the kids singing hymns, beautifully, from the dining hall. As much as the bed and pillow were calling my name, recording their singing so I could share it with you and the rest of the world spoke up more loudly. Dragged my lazy bones out of bed and into the hall, where I was serenaded for a few more tracks.

After breakfast, the kids were told to go to school and that the teachers, threatened with being fired if they didn't show up and end the strike, would arrive. The teachers were no-shows, so the kids came back home. That was a-ok with me, as it gave me a chance to check the progress of the rap class participants. I was a little disappointed to see that several of the kids who I'd hoped would participate in some of the "homework" I assigned lost interest, but it happens. There are a few who have progressed and are showing real promise, so I'll be sticking with them: Obadiah, Kevin, Ronaldo, and Angela.

After leaving Faraja in the afternoon, Megan and I were approached by a boy, 14 or so, in the street. Normally I just smile and wave, because 99% of the time when the kids come up to you and ask for something, it's just for money. But he didn't ask for money. He told us he was homeless and he wanted help and to live in an orphanage and go to school. His clothes were tattered. He told us he'd been living in the streets of Ngong for several months. I didn't know if he was a scout who was going to lead us to a group of older guys who would mug us and take our valuables, so after placing our money, phones, etc. back at our homestay, we walked with the boy, Joseph, over to Faraja.

Becky, one of the caretakers, came outside and spoke with him for a bit before inviting him inside for some tea. With the kids back from school, I was interested to see how they would react to a street kid coming through their door. To be honest, they didn't speak a word to him, but rather sized him up as kids do and kept their distance.

We then walked with Joseph up to the district children's office, waited for the official to show up, and then sat with him as he was interviewed by the officer so she could determine what to do with him. She told us some of his story didn't add up, and that she had to speak with him further, alone, to suss out more of his background. So with that, we left Joseph in her care, hoping that he got some needed help.

7.17.13

There was a weird energy in the air today at Faraja, and I don't know what the reason was. We went in the late afternoon, and all of the kids were really withdrawn, uncharacteristically quiet, and lethargic. I asked several of the kids if anything was wrong. They said no, but it's easy to see there was more to it than was being communicated.

7.18.13

I found out why the kids were so withdrawn yesterday. Paul, one of the workers at Faraja, and one I've been working with really closely with all of the manual labor projects, was fired. I sent him a text last night to let him know that Megan and I would be around if he wanted someone to talk to. This morning he called at 7am and asked if we were available to talk. He sounded down, so I told him we would be around. He came over, and what he had to say was shocking to say the least.

For starters, he was fired because he was accused of stealing money from another one of the workers. He told me he didn't do it, and I believe him. (I'm pretty good at telling when people are lying). Martha fired him in front of all of the kids and other workers, and didn't let him defend himself. He also told Megan and me that 8 of the kids at Faraja are children of the workers, and that two of the workers are Martha's sisters. If this is true, that means that about 25% of the kids at Faraja not only aren't orphans, but they live with their mom at Faraja.

This would be fine if this was made known to us upfront. But I've always been told that every child at Faraja is a complete and total orphan. There's no need to lie to anyone who wants to help, just so they'll hopefully help more by making the situation sound more desperate.
In addition, Paul let us know that two kids had been kicked out of Faraja, one for being accused of stealing money. That's not right. Faraja has legal custody of the kids that live there, so kicking out one of the kids would be like kicking your own child out of your house years before they turn 18. Who would do that? Where would they be expected to go?

Right now I feel manipulated, lied to, and taken advantage of by an organization I've vocally and proudly supported for three years, not to mention a place where I've put hundreds of hours of sweat and work into and more money that I can probably realistically afford. This is disappointing, to say the least.

At night, I had an interview with Martha and, as much as I wanted to say, "I heard x, y, and z about Faraja. Is it true?" I had a job to do for the documentary. But I still wanted to get answers in a tactful way, so I asked her how many kids at Faraja were total orphans, and how she came to choose the workers she hired. She told me all but just a handful were complete orphans, and that one worker was her sister while the others were just friends of hers. When she answered these questions, she looked nervous and caught off-guard; signs to me of her then bending the truth. I want to get to the bottom of this, but be cautious in how I approach it.

To be honest, right now, I'm not sure in what capacity I can continue to support Faraja if this is true. This information doesn't change anything about the kids, or how I feel about them, or the fact that they could still benefit from extra support. They're the only reason right now I'll still go back.

7.19.13

After the events of yesterday, Megan and I felt it would be beneficial to take a day off to go and visit an elephant orphanage. Located about an hour away, we took three matatus and, after being misguided to the wrong destination, a taxi just to get to the right place. The hassle was worth it.

Seeing baby versions of our favorite animal, bounding down towards us in a line - each one a pint-sized version of an adult - was one of the most endearing sights I've been witness to in a long time. The elephants ranged from a couple months to a couple years old, most of them made orphans by the actions of poachers killing their parents for ivory. Once they're able, the workers at the orphanage re-integrate them into the wild, but the process takes about 5 years for a new heard of elephants to accept them. It's true what they say about elephant memories, too: years can pass, but if one of the workers goes into the wild to check on the progress of the elephants, they will still remember each and every one of the people. Awesome.

While we weren't going to go into Faraja today, I got a call that Omare, Martha's oldest son - the one who had his face split open while trying to protect the children of Faraja from armed bandits who attacked and wielded machetes - was coming in today. I needed to jump at the opportunity to interview him about that night.

Filming him as he walked me through how that night went down was a powerful experience, and it took a tremendous amount of courage for him to defend the kids. It was really good to see him again, alive and well.

7.20 - 7.21.13

I know I've written of lazy weekends before, but this weekend was a real, real lazy one. Megan was very under the weather with food poisoning, so we stayed in and caught up on sleep, journaling, and Boardwalk Empire.

7.22.13

Today was special. It was the first day we were able to get out to Ebenezer, the original orphanage that inspired the adventure. To be honest, as excited as I was to see the kids, I was equally nervous. I didn't expect any of them to remember me - it'd been three years. But I was hoping they would, just a little, because I've had each and every one of their faces etched indelibly in my mind.

We were picked up by Martin, the founder and director of Ebenezer. He's an outspoken, opinionated, charismatic guy with a good heart. When he picked us up, I noticed bullet holes in his car. A month ago, he was sitting in his car on the side of the road when 5 guys pulled up with guns and held him up. He was able to get away, but not without damage to his vehicle and a few injuries (though, thankfully, no gunshot wounds). Wow.

On the drive out to Ebenezer, which is a little over an hour, Martin told me every kid would remember me. Last time I was there I helped to build a library, which they still use, and I guess sometimes when they do it reminds them of me, which is humbling. There are also six kids at Ebenezer who are mentally handicapped, and Martin said that they, too, remember me, but refer to me as "Axe" because Alex is tough for them to pronounce, since there aren't really any words like it in Swahili.

The drive went by fast, and before I knew it we were at the gates of Ebenezer. I was greeted by a boy named Destiny, the newest and youngest member of Ebenezer. He refers to himself as mzee, which means old man in Swahili. He's 3 and 1/2. We shared tea and cookies with Destiny in Martin's office until the kids returned home from school for lunch. I was still nervous.

As soon as the first kid I saw smiled in my direction, my nerves subsided. Most of the kids were shy at first, but when I made it clear that I remembered their names, they started to open up. Seeing them interact with Megan with such inquisitive awe and compassion was a sight to cherish.

There's a game the kids taught me the last time I was here, which is basically chasing one another around with a long piece of savannah grass, trying to stick it in one another's ear. Simple, but seeing and hearing how much it makes the kids smile and laugh? Well...it'd be impossible to not feel like a billion bucks after that. Perfect way to end the day.

7.23.13

Today I had an interview with Paul who, for the last couple days, has been living at the training facility where he plays soccer. Paul is 25. He's also been a complete orphan since he was 12. At Faraja, he was not getting paid, but the roof over his head and food was justified for him to do the work he was assigned. He was also told that he would be helped, in exchange for his work, in his pursuit of higher education and ensuing school fees. That never came.

The most disturbing thing I learned from the interview with Paul is this: at Faraja, the children are caned - beaten with a thick stick on the butt or back as a means of discipline, which often results in deep contusions. I asked Paul which children had been caned, and he said most.
It's never OK to hit a child. It's also illegal in Kenya to cane children, as of three months ago.

On top of that, the more accurate reason why the kids were lethargic and morose last week is because, according to Paul, all of the older kids were denied lunch and dinner as a means of punishment for the dairy cow not having been fed that morning.

So, caning and denying the children food goes on at Faraja. Neither is OK. Neither is justified. Right now, I don't know how to go about approaching this. I don't want this to happen to the kids, but if I speak up and Faraja is closed, what will happen to the kids? Will they be put in an even worse, more abusive situation? How much bad can be justified for some good to be done? And is it worth it to stay silent about this because the children there are, ultimately, at the end of the day, cared for with food, clothing, and shelter?

One thing I do know is I haven't felt this sick about a situation on the trip as I did when experiencing the child being sex trafficked in Cambodia with nothing I could do about it.

7.24.13

As depressed as I feel about the situation at Faraja, I feel even more hopeful about life at Ebenezer. Today was a long day at the orphanage, about a 12 hour one, but it absolutely flew by. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I had another beyond heartwarming experience that I'll remember until my hair's all gone and I can't remember how to remember.

We were all standing outside as the sun was going down, the kids and Martin showing Megan and me the greenhouses they've built and the plans about them. Everyone was quiet, and out of the blue I asked if they remembered the chorus that I taught them three years ago. They did. Not only did they remember it, they sang it in almost perfect unison without me prompting any of the lyrics. And the thing of it is, they never had a copy of the lyrics written down, or a copy of the song that the chorus appeared on. They sang it all, including the melody, from memory. If I weren't a programmed automaton, I would've cried.

I asked them if they wanted to hear the song that featured the chorus they sang, and in the dark we were all huddled around the tiny speaker of my phone listening to them sing beautifully. I was worried maybe they wouldn't like my addition to the track, my voice or rapping, but they did, and that made me happy. They're also excited to learn a new chorus, which I have in my head and want them on for the next album. I can't wait!

During the day today, I also paid to have about an acre of property they own plowed. They're going to use it to plant a bunch of crops and, as soon as they get irrigation fully installed (it's almost there) they'll be able to be almost fully self-sufficient food-wise. That's one of my ultimate dreams for Ebenezer, and I hope this goes some small way to helping them achieve economic independence soon.

7.25.13

After unsuccessfully attempting to book my flight from Kenya to South Africa on four separate occasions, one of which being where I hit submit payment and the internet stopped working for three minutes and when it came back on the fare increased by $50, and many, many phonecalls and emails with Rwandair, I had reserved a ticket but could not pay for it online due to an error on their end. So I had to go into downtown Nairobi to get the ticket in person at their office before the end of the day, or else the reservation would be invalid. Silly.

Megan and I made the most of it, and went to the Masai market after getting the ticket. I wouldn't say this should be at the top of your "must see" list, but it's certainly something to experience. There are about 100 small shops in a small area, with many of the exact same things sold at every one. Even though there are carbon copies of everything from fake Masai spears to drums to chessboards to jewelry, every shop owner will try to convince you his or hers are carved /weaved/whittled by hand in their house.

They'll also start you out at a price that's about 10 times what you'll end up paying if you're a skillful haggler, which is an art I love to hate to love. Anyway, I got some bookends and Megan got some souvenirs for her folks.

We also met with Hezekiel, the cousin of Shadrack who you may remember from my experience at the airport in Mumbai. Hezekiel works for Citizen News, which is one of the largest news outlets in the continent, if not the largest. He's a journalist and a super nice guy, and wanted to know more about the trip. We chatted over pizza, and he wants Megan and I to stop by the Citizen News tour and see the whole operation - TV, radio, newspaper - when we get a chance. Awesome!

7.26.13

Any doubts I had about Paul's revelations that the children of Faraja are caned and denied food dissolved today. I had some quiet time with one of the kids and asked them, "if you do something bad at Faraja, what happens to you?" At first they said, "we just get talked to and told not to do that again", but when I asked if there was anything more that gets done, they told me quietly, "if we talk badly about Faraja around anyone else, especially volunteers or visitors, we will get the choice of either being caned with the ugali stick in the kitchen, or kicked out of Faraja. If Martha knows I told you this, I would be kicked out. If the cow isn't fed in the morning, me and the other older kids don't get any lunch or dinner that day. If someone is seen watching TV during the afternoon, they will be denied food."

I also confirmed with them that Becky and Lydia each have several kids at Faraja, which is something about which I'm still lied to.

Aside from the fact that caning children is, in my opinion, morally wrong, it's also illegal (as of 3 months ago) in Kenya.

I'm not naive. I know, first hand, how poorly kids around the world often get treated. Having worked as a guard in a maximum security juvenile jail for three years, I've seen its effects. Some people might say that it's cultural, and that it's wrong to impose an individual set of ethics on another culture. Largely, I'd agree with that. But in the case of children being beaten, ethical relativism is something that just doesn't hold weight. Not in the slightest.

Upon returning home today, I noticed that I was missing money out of my luggage, and Megan was, too. I did my finances for the last month and a half, totaling every last schilling I spent, and realized I was missing well over $150. Megan, about $75. My gut tells me it's probably one of the other "volunteers" that rarely leaves the house, but there's no way to be sure. Starting tomorrow, though, we'll be able to lock our door.

7.27.13

After another emotionally draining week, we thought it prudent to go to the theater and watch giant robots beat up giant aliens. Pacific Rim was actually a really fun movie.

Afterwards, we went and had some of the most delicious Indian food either one of us had experienced and got caught in a downpour with no coat or umbrella. In over a month, this is one of the first times it's rained, and I'm sure the farmers sorely needed it. Here's to hoping it'll help with the newly plowed field at Ebenezer!

7.28.13

So there I was, finishing hanging the last pieces of laundry on the line outside when I noticed a clothes pin on the ground that someone left behind. I figured I'd be polite and pick it up. I didn't figure the window, complete with cast iron window frame, would be open. I turned into it at full speed, ramming my head into the corner of it. I immediately covered my head, and it felt wet. I had no idea why, since I wasn't crying because I'm basically a robot. After pulling my hand back, and seeing it covered in blood it allllll made sense.

Nothing like a head split open and getting stitched up to put a little kink in your plans for the day!

Boo.

Hoo.

But after making our third trip to the nearby clinic, Zam Zam, we were off (a couple hours later) to do what we had been looking forward to for several weeks: staying overnight at Sunset Savannah resort, the same place where we watched the sunset with the baboon a little while back.

If and when you go to Kenya, you need to make a trip here. It's worth it. The staff is without question the most hospitable and polite of any place I've ever stayed, and after sleeping on a single bed where the metal frame of the bunk bed has been poking my ribs for the last 6 weeks, this felt like sleeping on a big puffy, pillowy cloud of buttery mashed potatoes (which I imagine must be comfortable).

7.29.13

After waking up with the sun and having a delicious breakfast, we bid adieu to or gorgeous campsite and went to Faraja for a few hours.

It's tough for me to write about Faraja right now. As much as I love the kids, it's tough to be here and not confront Martha and the other workers about everything I've learned over the last couple days. It's tough to keep a poker face.

In the afternoon, Megan and I went into town to the headquarters for Citizen and Nation Media with our new friend Hezekiel. We were shown the TV studio (home to KTV and Citizen television, broadcasters of the Spanish soap operas I've grown to love while staying at Naomi's), radio stations, and all the different newspaper rooms. In the span of about 10 floors of workers, we saw one white guy. He looked just as shocked and confused to see us as we were to see him.

7.30.13

A new girl came to Faraja today. Her name is Mary. She's 13 and ran away from home. The reason she ran away is because she was forced into marriage by her father to a man in his 40's. Her dad married her off because, in the Masai tradition, he gets several dozen cows and money in exchange for her.

Mary didn't want to be married off, and her mom didn't want her to be either. Her mom stood up to her dad, who subsequently beat her. Mary's mom is now in the hospital in serious condition, and Mary is staying at Faraja until everything gets sorted out.

7.31.13

As seems to be the theme every day at Ebenezer, today was magic. In the morning, we spent time with Destiny, KunuKunu and his brothers, Mawa, and the younger kids. In the evening, I asked some of the kids if they wanted to learn and sing the new chorus. They excitedly said yes and, five minutes later, they gathered everyone together in the dining room where we sang take after take of the new chorus, their voices innately coming together to form a beautiful melody that'd take months to teach to untrained kids back home. Here's the chorus they sang:

I'm gonna fly high
And I won't back down
I won't touch the ground
On the wings of sound
I'll soar
And you won't see me anymore
Until we stand together in the sun
Run, run, run

After singing the new chorus, they shared some gorgeous hymns with us, had me rap for them, and we shared stories, smiles, and laughter until well after the sun went down.

I love it here.

8.1.13

Impromptu day off today, as both Megan and I weren't feeling too well physically. Recharge the batteries and up and at em tomorrow.

8.2.13

This was the first time in our entire stay at Faraja that we were alone with Martha, the house mother. I knew I wouldn't get this opportunity again, and I wanted to get the truth out of her without tipping my hand too much. I shared with her the kinds of discipline I experienced in orphanages in other countries, and told her that some people still cane the kids and deny them food.

At first she was defensive, and asked if I wanted to leave Faraja. I said, "no, I'm just talking about things I've experienced and heard about. What kind of discipline goes on here?" To my surprise, she admitted to caning, and even to doing it herself. She denied not giving the children food, though. She said she canes the kids because they all agreed that that would be their punishment for bad behavior. I asked her if she knew caning was illegal, but she told me that even though she knew it was, a lot of people still do it. When I told her that, in my opinion, caning a child was never OK, she told me she was just doing what she knew, what she was given growing up. I told her it didn't have to be that way.

We talked about positive reinforcement as a means of discipline. Giving gold stars to kids for good deeds and acts and grades, and rewarding positive behavior with something small like a movie night or a pizza or ice cream. She took notes on the ideas Megan and I brought up, and seemed excited and interested to instill them in lieu of caning. I hope she means it, because positive reinforcement is proven to be more effective than corporal punishment.

I understand that she's a product of her generation, or her childhood, and doing what she knows how to do, and what she was taught. It's hard to fault her 100% for everything if she really didn't fully know any other way of disciplining the kids. The true test will come moving forward, now that she does know an alternate way. If she makes a change, she truly wants to do better and cares for the kid. But if she doesn't, it'd be nearly impossible to say that she has the best interests of the children at heart. I'm hoping for the former, but fearful it'll be the latter.

8.3.13

Nothing new to report today, just another standard day at Faraja, trying to figure out how best to reconcile the want to help the kids with the disappointment in the treatment of the kids and the lies.

8.4.13

Faraja has been planning a fundraiser for the last couple months, to be held in downtown Nairobi with, apparently, some powerful political figures planning to be in attendance. On the invitation to the fundraiser, Megan and I are listed as guests of honor along with a governor, congressman, and the like (they wrote our name as "Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Halleff"). Given that we were listed as guests of honor, and have donated several hundred dollars and hours of manual labor, it came as a bit of a surprise when we were given the most expensive tickets to the fundraising event and expected to pay for them - $50/each.

So it also came as a bit of a surprise that they were holding a rather spontaneous fundraiser on the grounds of Faraja today, for one, and for two that we were each asked to make a donation just to walk through the gate to volunteer today. Not a fan.

After a couple minutes, Edgar - the social worker at Faraja - arrived and asked me about the conversation I had with Martha regarding the caning and discipline. I told him that Martha, bluntly, said that she does it. He said that was news to him and that I must have misunderstood her. He looked shocked and taken aback, and told me that she was quite upset after our conversation which, in and of itself, was news to me, largely because she didn't seem upset in the slightest when we spoke about it.

It's incredible how careful they must be about when, where, and in front of who they cane the kids. The fact that Martha apparently shields this practice from volunteers and Edgar says to me that she knows it's wrong and illegal. I wonder if she confessed to Edgar that she does in fact cane the kids, but it doesn't sound like it.

8.5.13

Today was our last day volunteering at both Faraja and Ebenezer. The two places that inspired this journey to begin, and the time has come to say goodbye to the kids again. I'd be lying if I said this time around was as inspiring as the last at Faraja. The rose colored glasses with which I used to view Martha and everything that went on there have lost much of their luster, and are now just clear, plain and simple. I guess that's what happens when unknown truths start to be uncovered, the band-aid taken off the wound. When everything is seen for what it really is, instead of what one believes or tries to make it to be, the remains of hope and reality colliding can be messy to sift through. I've been finding myself trying to find meaning but, at the risk of sounding a bit too much like Camus, sometimes things just are. Sometimes things just happen. That's a bitter pill to swallow.

As much as I love the kids here, and hope that Martha and the rest of the caregivers begin to be truthful with future volunteers, from Kenya and abroad, with people in the community, and, most of all, to themselves, it's time to move on. I realized today that even though I've learned goodbyes are never easy, I still hold a wish for how they would hopefully go. I wish for true heart-to-hearts, hugs, smiles...authentic human interaction. When that doesn't end up being the case, it's a little bittersweet. Almost two months here, but the goodbye was about as brief as they come.

I remember holding Kepha in my arms three years ago, as he would drift off the sleep with a fever from the HIV, but smiling in the little piece of comfort and solace we shared. Now he's a full-grown five year-old who'll have to navigate through the world with some of the worst cards anyone can be dealt and learn to make sense of them. I don't know what the world has in store for him, but I hope it treats him better than it did from the get-go.

I'll never be able to communicate to him how much he changed my life by simply being. He's said goodbye to dozens of volunteers before and after me, and many more will come and go. Truth be told, his goodbye to me may just have been the same as it is to everyone else. The brevity of our goodbye may be for the best. I just hope I've repaid a fraction of the impact he made on my life.

At Ebenezer, the goodbye that I secretly hope for happened last time I was here, and it happened again tonight. Being able to connect, I mean truly connect, as one soul to another, is one of the greatest gifts we're given.

I interviewed as many of the kids as I could, asked them about their favorite things, what they want to do with their lives, and what makes them the most happy. They sang songs for us. They danced for us.

One of the youngest and sassiest girls, Catherine, asked if she could sing me a song. I said of course she could. She shyly sang me the chorus for the song I taught them three years ago (when she was only 6), and the chorus I taught them the other day. That will definitely be one of my favorite memories from the whole trip.

When the kids were eating dinner, Megan and I walked into the dining hall to say goodbye. When we entered, all of the kids stood up, and you could've heard a piece of hay hit the floor. It was time to say goodbye. The fact that it was the kind I always hope for? I realized that makes it even more difficult.

8.6.13

Last night when I went to bed I had the chills. Then I had the sweats. Then I couldn't breathe. I had fever dreams all night and awoke to a nice potpourri of nausea, dizziness, and feverness. Not the most ideal way to say goodbye to my house mom, but it had to do. Thank you to Naomi for welcoming us into your home for the last two months.

With Megan set to fly out the 8th, we wanted to spend our last days together on a bed bigger than a shoebox, and maybe with the luxury of a hot shower. We went into downtown Nairobi, back to the awesome hotel with the really unfortunate location from last month. A good place to try to sweat the fever out. And less than $60 for a penthouse suite? That's a no-brainer.

8.7.13

Nothing puts hair on your chest like waking up to the news that a third of the airport you are due to fly out of in two days burned to the ground. Apparently a fire started in the customs area of the Jomo-Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi, and all flights out and in for today, and the undetermined future, are canceled. The bad news is this will cause a large change in travel plans, most likely. The good news is I most likely get to spend more time together with Megan. I can't imagine the headaches this will cause for thousands of travelers.

Also, I woke up feeling worse than the day before. It probably didn't help that the hotel was right next to a mosque broadcasting prayer at intermittent intervals from 2am until 8am, due to Ramadhan coming to an end.

8.8.13

Megan's flight was canceled and rebooked to Tuesday, after she spent nearly two hours on the phone with Delta (who had no idea what to do). My flight was fine, but I rebooked it to Tuesday to spend more time together, and because I didn't want her to have to navigate through Nairobi alone.

We changed venues from our little island oasis in a sea of a whole lot of danger to the hotel embassy, which is about 10% as nice, but safely in the heart of downtown. Even though we went from a really comfortable king size to sharing a double, and our view went from sunrise to paint peeling off a pipe that runs up the side of the building, it was a good move.

At night, we went to the Faraja fundraiser. In my head, I envisioned it being held in a moderately large venue, with a program and a couple hundred people, based largely off of the impression that I got from Martha telling me about it. But when we arrived to the spot, it was the opposite. About 50 people sitting quietly in a small room, few people even talking to one another. (Side note: it's amazing how much technology inhibits human interaction, even in a place in which it's introduction is relatively recent).

As the night progressed, the atmosphere remained the same and the attendance didn't really grow. As people made speeches about Faraja - from Martha to some of the caregivers - folks would get up and leave. By the end, it was only the volunteers left in attendance. The goal of the event was to raise a couple million schillings to buy the property upon which Faraja sits. They ended up raising about 20,000 schillings. Much of the Faraja board wasn't even in attendance.

Regardless of how differently I feel about Faraja now, I hoped for their fundraiser to be a success. It was painful to watch Martha and the other workers force smiles as they thanked us for coming. It was also tough to get the impression from the way we were nonchalantly said bye to that the work we poured ourselves into for two months didn't seem to be appreciated. While recognition never was, isn't, nor will ever be the aim for any part of volunteering on this journey, everyone appreciates feeling appreciated.

8.9 - 8.10.13

One of my goals before we were due to leave was to get an interview with Martin, the director and founder of Ebenezer. Each day we made our plans around his schedule, and each day ended up not yielding an interview. For the most part we wandered around and got some food and spent time in the hotel room reveling in hot showers.

8.11.13

We wandered around town a bit more today and ended up at one of the city parks in the afternoon. Our goal was to lie in the sun and relax, but that was derailed by a group of street kids who, one after another, asked for money from us. Ah well.

We did go to a delicious Chinese restaurant, and selected it almost solely due to the fact that every single person eating there was Chinese. I've found it's always a good rule of thumb to eat at restaurants where people of that ethnicity seem to be piled in by the clown car. Such was the case here.

Three massive groups of Chinese folks came into the restaurant, one after another, which is vexing because neither one of us ever saw a Chinese person on the streets of Nairobi. We also sat next to a man whose face looked EXACTLY like the laughing Buddha. It was uncanny. And awesome.

8.12.13

For the first time in my life, I sat in a completely empty movie theater. It's kind of creepy, simultaneously awesome, and I couldn't help but think about how there was no way they turned a profit by showing it to us, because the cost of the electricity to run the projector alone must've been more than our combined $8 ticket.

Finally got the chance today to interview Martin, and I'm glad I did. He's a well-spoken, charismatic, and knowledgeable guy who really cares for the kids at Ebenezer. Though we had to shoot it in our tiny hotel room, it was better than nothing, and a really great interview.

8.13.13

Of all the "see you soons" I've had to say, today was one of the most difficult. Megan and I got a ride to the airport from some of the friends we made at Savannah resort, and when we arrived, we did our best to navigate through the makeshift airport set up in the wake of the massive fire. With my flight at 5 pm and hers at 10, the time came to say goodbye.

Of all things I'm not a fan of in life, being the cause of someone I love to cry is at the top of the list. I suppose it's unavoidable in the work I've chosen, but the knowledge of that doesn't make it any easier. Thank you, Megan, for the smiles and sharing the adventure with me.

Next stop, South Africa.

Kenya: Weeks 1-4

Thu, 12 Sep 2013 18:54:08 GMT

Faraja, Fotos, & Fun
Click Here to See the Kenya Photo Album

6.13.13

After four hours of negotiation and some seedlings for future ulcers, I convinced the Kenya Airways workers that it was OK to let me board the plane and get my visa upon arrival, 20 minutes before the plane was set to depart. Boarding the plane, I was in a long line in one aisle, my seat about halfway back. An elderly woman was struggling to get her luggage into the overhead, so I gave her a hand. This caused the guy behind me to grumble and basically push me into this woman's lap as he skirted by while I was stowing her bag. His friends started to follow suit, and I stood up and gave them the coldest stare I'm capable of (which, let's be honest, is probably room temp at best). This got them to stop being insufferable, which was cool.

There was a silver lining, too: I had the gumption to ask for an aisle seat 5 minutes before boarding, and they had one available. And it happened to be in an exit row. On a large Boeing, which meant I had about 15 feet of leg room. Beautiful.

At this point I'd been awake for well over 24 hours, and I had a decision to make: sleep or eat. Truth be told, satiating my grumbling stomach takes precedent over almost every other bodily function. I had probably the coolest flight attendant taking care of our section, and he hooked me up with some delicious food and made sure to wake me when the food cart came around. A+.

I arrived at Jomo Kenyatta Airport at about 6am, positive my bag wouldn't be waiting for me. After being told for 4 hours I would be denied entry into Kenya, it took me all of 97 seconds to get my visa and go through security. As soon as I got down the stairs, my backpack came around on the carousel - surprising and awesome. I also met a really nice guy named Shadrack at the airport in Mumbai who was on my flight with me. He had missed the same flight the night before due to some different Jet Airways ineptitude, and was at the airport for about 36 hours in total. Eesh. We bonded over shared ridiculousness and got to talking.

He's a cross country coach in Hawaii, and is originally from Kenya. We shared a taxi ride into Nairobi, and his cousin and cousin's girlfriend picked us up (and they paid for the taxi, which was incredibly nice, and convenient, since I didn't have any Kenyan Shillings at the time) and dropped me off at my hotel. When Kenyan hospitality is good, it's great. Shadrack and his relatives were a shining example of this.

I grabbed a good two hours of sleep before waking up to grab a bus back to the airport to pick up Megan. I went to the junction around 5:30pm to get bus 34 back to the airport for only about 50 cents - much better than a $20 taxi ride. This is all theoretical, though, because the odds of the bus coming around at this time were 50-50. I waited. And waited. And waited. No bus. A nice conductor told me to get onto another bus and he'd help me get to the airport on a different route.

I hopped on the bus, waiting for the conductor to give me some instruction. That's when I saw the conductor go sprinting away from the bus as it pulled away...five minutes later, he came out of nowhere and hopped back onto it. Crisis averted.

Until the bus broke down. And took 40 minutes to repair. Then we got going again, the bus ending up in a part of town that was definitely not safe for me, as a white person, to be in. The conductor recognized this, came to the back of the bus, and told me we needed to get off and go. He walked by my side about half a mile, found me a taxi, and rode with me to the airport just to make sure I was safe. Like I said, Kenyan hospitality. Also, when the locals are scared for their own safety, that's when you know you're in some hot water.

This adventure was all more than worth it to see Megan for the first time in over three months. Few smiles compare to this.

6.14.13

After having a marathon of sleep, lasting at least 5 hours, we woke up and wandered around Nairobi for a while. It's a different experience being the only two whities around, being stared at every 30 seconds (Megan's red hair standing out like a stop sign in the snow). Different, but certainly nothing wrong with it.

The only time it's sort of unsafe is at night, depending on what part of town you find yourself. We had about a four block radius in which we were confined to get dinner - anything beyond that was more on the dangerous side. We found a delicious local spot for dinner, and I experienced - for the first time in three months - COLD WEATHER!!!!!!!!! So good.

6.15 - 6.16.13

Three years ago, I was in Kenya. While I was here, I stayed in a suburb named Ngong in an apartment owned by a really nice woman named Naomi. I became friends with her nephew, Isaac, who was a couple years younger than me. This morning after grabbing breakfast at a coffee shop (in the process discovering where the local cache of white people hide out), we walked to the hotel lobby to wait for our ride out to Naomi's.

I heard somebody say my name, the voice unrecognizable. It was Isaac, and it was unrecognizable because he apparently hit puberty for a second time and grew a foot taller and his voice dropped two octaves. It was great to catch up with him over the car ride back to Ngong, to see Naomi again, and get readjusted to life in the Nairobi 'burbs.
Most importantly, we were one step closer to returning to Faraja and Ebenezer, the two orphanages that sparked the idea for the Volunteer Adventure.

6.17.13

July, 2010, is the last time I was at Faraja. I promised Martha (the mom at the orphanage), the kids, and myself that I would be back. Back then, all 36 kids and Martha were living in a two bedroom house. No mattresses, no mosquito nets, no running water, no electricity. Martha was in charge of everything: cooking, cleaning, fund-raising, helping with homework...everything. All of this changed when something horrible happened a year and a half ago.

After being evicted from the two bedroom house, Martha and the kids moved across the road to a much more spacious house. A drawback of the new location was that there was very limited security. One night, five men armed with machetes attacked Faraja. They were looking to steal anything of value, figuring there must be money there when they saw white people going in and out of the premises. Martha's oldest son, Omare, was visiting that night. He was able to fight off the attackers enough to get them to leave, but not before taking a machete to the face, which split open. He survived.

The next day, the volunteers who were at Faraja at the time arrived, saw what happened, and wrote about it online. They visited Omare in the hospital and took pictures. The story went viral, and within 24 hours, over $75,000 had been donated to Faraja.

As often happens, out of tragedy opportunity was born. A portion of that money was used to construct a large fence around Faraja, to hire a staff of five people, and get running water and electricity. A lot of changes, to say the least, since I last visited.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't at least hope for some of the kids to remember me, but I didn't expect it. I knew Martha would - we've corresponded fairly regularly over the last couple years. The reality, though, is that I was but one of maybe 50 or 100 volunteers who had come and gone at Faraja, and I'd fully understand if not one of them remembered my face. After all, I'm sure I wouldn't remember all of theirs.

After catching up with Martha for a few hours, which was great, the kids came home from school for lunch. Some new faces, some old, some I remembered, some I forgot. Martha told some of the kids who I was and, as expected, they couldn't place me. Then one of the older kids came through the line, Martha told him who I was and, in Swahili he said, "Happana Alex." (That's not Alex). He then looked at me some more, his face lit up, he gave me a handshake and hug and exclaimed, "wow, it is you. You've grown a lot!" This coming from a kid who had gone from five feet to six and looked like he could bench press an 18-wheeler.

Kepha came through the lunch line next, having grown from a toddler to a five-year-old. Of all kids I didn't expect to remember me, near the top of the list was one who was learning to walk and talk, and who I held in my arms until he fell asleep to make it through another fever induced by his ongoing battle with HIV. As seems to be a recurring experience on this journey, I'm without words to describe a feeling. The indescribable here is Keph remembering who I was without Martha even prompting him. No other way to describe it than to say this is one of the most magic moments on the trip to date.

For as much as I didn't expect to be remembered, I can't deny that it felt pretty incredible to be by some of the kids. I look forward to creating many more memories with them over the weeks to come.

6.18.13

All things being equal, Faraja is in pretty good shape as far as Orphanages in Kenya go. There's running water, electricity, three meals a day, a staff, and the kids get to go to school. This might lead some prospective or current volunteers to conclude there isn't much they can contribute. While the truth is that life at Faraja would move along just fine without outside volunteers, there is plenty one can do to lend a hand; all they need to do is ask (which, when we asked how we could help, we found out was something few volunteers actually did).

There's a laundry list of improvements to be made in and around Faraja, big and small. From the daily tasks of laundry for 36 kids, making food, and collecting feed for the livestock, to bigger projects like connecting running water to a new washing machine that is waiting to be used, improving the vegetable garden, or building a kennel for the couple dogs, there's certainly no shortage of work to be done. We asked for and received a list from each staff member, discussing the logistics and costs of each possible project. One that we decided to start on was the construction of a fully draining trench.

Right now,there's a trench that runs around half of the property, from the sheep and cattle pens, down along the west wall, following the south wall, until it 'drains' out of the property. The problem is that the bottom of the trench is soil and, at about two feet deep and 100 feet long, that's a lot of sedentary water and animal runoff that's a breeding ground for mosquitoes, putting the kids and staff at an increased risk for malaria. At a cost of less than $100 to fix, as long as we contribute some of the physical labor, this project is relatively cheap and would have an important impact: it's a no-brainer.

To end the day, I got a little taste of just what it takes to keep their two cows fed on a daily basis. I went with Elcanah, who is in charge of taking care of the animals, up into a field about a mile away armed with a machete and a few empty sacks that are big enough to serve as body bags for Andre the Giant. We spent the next hour or so cutting huge swaths of grass and packing it into the bags. He took one bag, I took the other, and we trekked back with them atop our heads and shoulders, the seemingly lightweight 50 pound sack proving to be increasingly difficult to carry with each successive step across terrain about as even as the odds that the Detroit Lions will one day win the Super Bowl.*

*Note: if you're reading this in the future, and the Lions have finally won, just know that in 2013 it seemed real unlikely. Also, is George HHW Bush III president? Because his dad and grandpa were turds.

6.19.13

Today was the start of project number one: the trench. It was also the start of many a sore muscle for yours truly. After picking up five, 50kg bags of cement, they needed to be moved to the other side of the house. The wheelbarrow at our disposal to do this had a tire about as circular as the pentagon, and the surface to push it on was loose rock. Nevertheless, I loaded up three bags of cement and started the trek across all of about 47 feet, which may well have been 47 miles with how heavy it was and how ill-equipped my muscles are, you know...strength and size-wise...to handle it.

After unloading the cement it was a few hours of moving stones the size of my torso in said wheelbarrow down into the trench. Then, four hours of mixing the cement with sand, then with water, then clearing out the water/sewage in the trench before finally loading the cement into the trench.

I was waiting with a hushed calm to be reminded how weak I am, and that moment finally came. Excelsior!

6.20.13

Day two of working on the trench, and a full day of manual labor has helped work up a very full appetite (not that I needed assistance). Luckily, lunch today consisted of a literal several pounds of rice and beans per plate, problem solved.

I also got to spend much of the afternoon with David, one of the younger kids at Faraja. He has the chubbiest cheeks in the world, so Megan and I have taken to calling him Chubby Cheeks McGee. He also happens to be one of the most charismatic and effortlessly funny kids I've met in quite some time.

6.21.13

Since Faraja has livestock, every now and then a few of the workers need to attend a day of training. Megan and I were invited out to this with Elcanah and Lydia. It was taking place in a nearby town, Kiserian, which meant we needed to find a means of transportation. With nare a matatu in sight, our only option was on the back of a piki-piki (motorcycle). After my experiences on motorcycles in Vietnam this was a walk in the park, though I guess by most standard definitions it bordered on the rather to incredibly dangerous.

We arrived at the farm where the training day was being held, and I was surprised to see it was actually, in part, sponsored by the local government. There were vendors selling animals and advice on how to raise them, vegetables and insight on how to grow them, and many other agricultural experts providing various farming lessons. Elcanah and Becky bought some seeds for new crops to grow in their garden.

They also bought Megan a container of strawberries. To be half way around the world and have one of the most comforting summer foods that exists is quite a treat. It's also an incredibly touching gesture given the fact that they used their own money on the strawberries, their salary barely pushing $100 a month.

Best strawberries I've ever tasted.

6.22.13

Over the last couple days, I've had a number of bug bites polka-dotting my body. Normally this would be no cause for alarm, but today they manifested into some sort of infection, my right hand, wrist, and arm swelling to a rather alarming size. It takes quite a bit to get me admit a trip to the doctor is necessary, but this was one of those times.

Doctor visits are kiiiind of different here than back in the states. Aside from the fact that the only paperwork to fill out was to write my name and phone number on a piece of paper, the time it took for the consult AND the medication to be filled was 5 minutes. And it cost $20 for everything (which is expensive by standards out here, but that's what you get for being a mzungu).

Antibiotics and unknown armies of other pills in my pocket, Megan and I headed off to Nairobi for a mini-vacation vacation day. We saw Man of Steel, which was so-so, ate Indian food in a mall food court that was delicious, and booked a hotel in the heart of downtown. Or so we thought.

Tripadvisor informed us that the hotel was gorgeous, just in a not very good part of town. I was playing devil's advocate and thought the reviews may have been written by folks who consider Newport Beach the ghetto. It turns out my cynicism was unwarranted - this really was a nice hotel in a not good part of town. When the taxi driver insisted he walk us the rest of the way to the hotel (the road was impassable), and he looked scared for his own safety in the process, that's about the point I believed the reviewers weren't being melodramatic.

That said, we had a great night of ordering a feast of room service (feasts here costing about $10) and watching Speed on a flatscreen from the confines of a king size bed. Beautiful.

6.23.13

Lazy Sunday today. Not much to report, so here are some pictures from the last couple days!

6.24.13

Did more work on the trench today, and the end is in sight! I'm really looking forward to preventing the mosquitoes from using the stagnant water in the trench as their own personal brothel, breeding malaria and other diseases that put the kids at high risk.

Since I'm right handed, and that hand is still swollen to the size of a winter glove due to the infection, I was forced to use a shovel with one hand to help mix the cement with the sand and water, and to scoop the residual waste water out of the trench. I suppose I could've taken a break today, but I'm stubborn as hell so I went ahead with it (I'm a Taurus, after all - I don't place much stock in astrology, but I do know that that stereotype is true). In the name of progress, I'll push through some pain and discomfort. Small potatoes compared to the daily adversity overcome by the kids here every single day.

Now is also a good time to talk about the strength of the sun here in Kenya. Granted, it's technically the Winter here and the mercury doesn't push much past 80 degrees, but we're also right on the equator and almost a mile high in elevation. It's remarkably easy to get a burn all over without some care taken. Since I'm a bit of a careless individual, a burn is indeed what I ended up receiving.

6.25.13

Finished the trench! Thanks to your help, the skeeters can no longer do the dirty here. Here's a picture of the before, during, and after.

The trench may have taken another day or two if it weren't for the fact that we had all of the kids helping us today. What would've ordinarily been a school day for the kids turned in to a day at home as the teachers announced a national strike. Not sure how long this is going to last, but I do know that if it's anything like strikes back home it's going to involve a series of meetings to determine when to have an initial get-together to decide when the first official rendezvous can occur, at which point an official dialogue can take place and - after a series of tentative handshakes and painfully slow hand-wringings - a band-aid agreement will be reached, with both sides amicably disappointed for the next five years until it starts all over again.

Though I'd of course prefer the kids to continue their education unimpeded, it's pretty fun to have them home during the day. Beforehand, I'd get to spend an hour or two a day socializing with the kids, and now I'll get to chat with them the whole day. Looking forward to it, but hoping for a swift end to the teacher's strike.

6.26.13

The next projects we're going to tackle are these: getting running water connected to another part of the house, along with electricity so we can install a new washing machine they've had which has been collecting dust for the last year or so, building or rebuilding a dog kennel, and creating new partitions in the sheep pen. We decided on these after we held a second meeting with all of the workers, and concluded that these are within our budget and would make an immediate impact on the quality of life at Faraja.

In addition to the projects, Martha asked if I could actively fundraise online to try to help with these needs: winter coats for the kids, new hearing aids for one of the girls, donations to help them buy the house they live in so they no longer need to rent, and others. As much as I want to help, and I'll make my best effort to do so, it's tough to explain to Martha that Faraja is one orphanage among almost a dozen where I'll be stopping on my journey. The language barrier doesn't make it any easier. I'm reconciling my lack of a surplus supply of cash with the fact that I'll work as hard as I can on a daily basis. While hard work in and of itself can't buy Nancy her new hearing aids, I believe that being present and giving all that one can matters and makes a difference.

6.27.13

With the teacher's strike now on day number three, and the kids all eager to learn, it seemed like now would be a good day to lead a hip hop class. Over the last couple days a couple kids expressed interest in learning, but with my Swahili not quite up to par and their not yet being fully fluent in English, it'd be tough to explain the different aspects of hip hop perfectly. Luckily Edgar, one of the staff members who's fluent in both, offered to help teach the class with me.

What started with only three students grew to five, five became ten, and before I knew it fifteen kids were in our little makeshift class, eager to learn the craft of hip hop. Just like with the class in Nepal, we covered all of the basics that it takes to make a rap song: confidence, rhyme, rhythm, beat, flow, bars, syllables, and more (I gave examples as we moved along). I taught the kids that, above anything else, confidence is the most important aspect of making a successful song. I know confidence has a lot of definitions, but I told them it simply meant to be proud of who you are. I'm hoping this is something that permeates beyond the bounds of our simple hip hop class.

6.28.13

Just when I thought Kenya was finally done trying to kill me, I awoke today with a fresh batch of bites all over. I feel like if it were mosquitoes, I'd probably have dropped dead of malaria by now. (Side note: I'm not taking any malaria meds.) What could it be? Bed bugs? Fleas from the dogs at Faraja? Another allergic reaction? Time will tell.

On the bright side, I learned how to make chapati today, which is the Kenyan equivalent of a tortilla with even more deliciousness. Now while I can hold my own in the kitchen when it comes to cooking, baking is another ballgame. Growing up, I watched, observed, and learned the craft of each from the best chef in the world: my mom. I know you might be thinking, "Lies! My mom is the greatest master of foodstuffs in human history!", to which I reply, "Touche, good sir or madam, but I politely and respectfully disagree." That said, her lessons in baking just didn't stick. It's like I have oven mitts over both hands when it comes right down to it, and the simple act of rolling a flat circle out of a ball of dough is lost on me. For Megan, it's as easy as breathing, which I guess for me would make it as easy as breathing in a wind tunnel.

I'm a Viking when it comes to eating chapati, though, so I guess success is relative.

6.29.13

Having been raised Lutheran, and shortly thereafter finding personal truth for myself in Zen, Vipassana, and meditation, Saturday church services are something foreign to me. But with the invitation and insistence of all of the kids and staff at Faraja, a foray into the unknown is something welcome.

If you're yet to experience a church service in Kenya, whether you're religious or not, you need to put it on your bucket list. Last time I was in Kenya, I went to several. There's a level of passion from the pastors here that the ones I've experienced back home, except for Charlie Mays, just don't hold a candle to. Additionally, the choir at any service will be remarkable, you have my guarantee.

While the service here was great in the first hour, mainly because it was lively and full of song, in the second hour it sort of lost momentum with a 45 minute sermon that didn't really have a crescendo or conclusion. I chalk this up to the fact that the pastor was away and the sermon came from a church elder who may have never given one before, but it was still a treat nonetheless to be at the service with the kids, seeing them smile and hearing them sing.

6.31.13

We craved Italian food today. Ngong doesn't really offer a culinary variety like any town or city back home does - here, the options are ugali with meat, ugali with vegetables, or ugali with ugali. While I do genuinely enjoy the food here, variety is nice. The one place to go nearby which will have a variety of cuisines is a town called Karen. Here, they cater to more Western folk, which makes sense because this is the place most white folk go when they tell their friends back home that they are "roughing it" in "Africa." Think of it as a massive gated community, with guards and coffee shops. Because that's what it is.

So, we decided to be white as can be today and go to a restaurant in Karen named Osteria. One of the first things I saw there as we sat down was a thirty-something white guy coming through the door with an iPhone 5 connected to a brand new Macbook. He was holding them with a gentle urgency as if they were Faberge eggs. Like I said, white.

Some of the freshest Italian food I've ever had, and dinner, desert, drinks, and an appetizer set us back a whopping $20. Not bad for a once-a-week night out.

7.1.13

Few things get under my skin more than people who take advantage of folks who are already being pushed down by so much weight in the world. Faraja hired a guy to build a dog kennel for them,and paid him a couple thousand schillings, which is about $20-$30 (which is a lot here). Here's what he built: a two-story dog house, wrapped in metal roofing.

A new dog kennel is something on Faraja's to-do list, and we didn't really see the urgency of it as the whole compound is surrounded by a fence with barbwire. But things got a little more urgent when we were told, "Oh, it's mainly so the mom can be in the kennel with her puppies." Puppies? What? Several weeks of being here and never knew these puppies existed. They'd been living underneath the goat pen, which is a crawlspace about 8 inches high, littered with scraggly rocks. No place for a pup to grow or develop.

So, we started to deconstruct the piece of crap that the guy they hired built, and used the materials on hand to fashion a new dog kennel. Huzzah! Also, the puppies are really cute.

7.2.13

Another project on the list at Faraja was to connect water to a brand new washing machine that had been sitting and collecting dust. To do so, the ground needed to be dug up, a T pipe connected to the main line, and new pipe laid and connected to the part of the house where the washer was to be installed. This would be a big deal for Faraja, because there is laundry of 40 kids to be done every day and, right now, it's all done by hand.

*Side note: you ever notice how, back home, if you have a completely lazy Saturday, and never get out of your pajamas but happen to do your laundry that day that people think you've been productive? Even though all you did was maybe separate whites and darks, hit a few buttons, and maybe add a drier sheet?

"Hey, Fred, what'd you do today?"
"Oh, you know, got up, got the paper, did the junior jumble, made some brunch, took a nap..."
"Ah, nice lazy Saturday-"
"-and then did the laundry."
"Oh, productive."
"Yep."

Well, in Kenya, it's not just a once-a-weekend thing, and it's not necessarily viewed as productive. It's just daily life. It's also thankless, back-pain inducing work that takes hours every day, and would be alleviated by a washing machine.

So we dug and dug and dug today, went and bought the pipe, called the electrician to get electricity to the outside of the house, and called the plumber to bring the machine to do the necessary cutting tomorrow.

7.3.13

When you flip a light switch, you expect there to be a light. When you turn the key in your car, you expect the engine to start. And when you connect water and power to a brand new "Ramtons RW-118" washing machine, you expect it to...well, I'm not sure.

After connecting everything in the right place and showing the caretakers how to use it, the moment of glory was upon us: the first load of clothes, ready to be washed to sparkling whites, vibrant colors, and all stains gone without having to labor for hours...just a couple pushes of a button. Action!

Error code F8. ERROR CODE F8. What's error code F8? I don't know. And with no manual around, no manual online, and no website or phone number for the manufacturer of the washing machine, no way to find out. It's never a good sign when the only presence of a company is on facebook, and the facebook is littered with complaints - with no responses - from people saying "your microwave sucks" or "your washing machine stole my socks" or "your vacuum ate my child." Ramtons, you suck.

For the time being, clothes will continue to be washed the old-fashioned way. Disappointing and a half.

On the bright side, the kennel is holding up well and the puppies seem to be enjoying it a bit better than under the sheep pen.

7.4.13

Happy 4th of July! We celebrated by shooting bottle rockets, eating hot dogs and apple pie, going to the British embassy and mooning them, and watching a fireworks show over the majestic rolling hills near Ngong.

Just kidding. We shot some pictures of the kids, made and ate chapati, saw some British tourists, and watched the sunset.

The kids were kind of in a sour mood today, and I don't know why. With the exception of Ester, the year-old baby who has an innate fear of white people, and therefore cries every day when we're around, bad moods aren't the norm for these kids. Whatever the case may be, it made for kind of a downer of a 4th of July.

7.5.13

One of my greatest desires for Faraja is to see them one day become sustainable, to get off the treadmill of living day-to-day and depending on handouts from other people that will one day stop coming in. To that end, I've been brainstorming ideas for projects that could see Faraja actualize self-sufficiency. An idea I came up with was to sell the two cows that are on the property right now (two have already died due to malnutrition, and the two that are still living are barely producing milk as a product of being confined to the same tiny quarters 24/7), and using that money to buy dozens of indigenous chicken.

As it stands right now, the cows are hardly producing any milk - barely enough for the kids. There is limited profit to be had, even if they were producing at maximum capacity. Chicken, on the other hand, breed rapidly and can lay an egg a day. A seemingly never-ending supply of potential revenue. I got the chance to explain my idea to one of the members of the Faraja council, who's a key decision-maker in all the goings-on.

Here's the course of the conversation, after I told him that I don't suppose to know any better since I'm an outsider, and that my only goal is for Faraja to be independent of external support:

"So, I want to start the chicken project as soon as possible, right here at Faraja. Sell the cows, and start making a profit tomorrow. There's exponential growth with the chicken's potential profit, while the cows are extremely limited and limiting."
"We can't keep chicken at Faraja, because if the county agriculture inspector stops by, we could be in trouble."
"OK. But we could keep them in a coop."
"I don't think there's room. But we do have property about 20km away. We could hire someone to stay there, fence it all in, and start the chicken project there. It wouldn't cost more than $10,000 or so."
"We don't have that kind of money."
"OK. Besides, children need milk."
"But milk isn't expensive. Why not use some profits from the chicken for milk? It'd be a tiny fraction."
"No...I have an idea. How about we keep chicken in a coop here, at Faraja."
"...good idea."

We ended up back where we began, which is confusing and exhausting over the course of an hour conversation. But at least he now seems to be on board with the idea. So much so, that he asked me to fund and build the chicken coop. When I told him I didn't have that kind of money, he told me to ask the man who gave it to me. I told him I donated the money on my own, after raising it by selling music. He told me I didn't make that money, but that god did, and out in Kenya they believe in god.

What's the most disheartening, though, is I was trying to get the project started by using cash on hand. Asking me to fund it is still a form of begging, and I want this to start off on the right foot, without the need to rely on someone outside (not to mention, it's aggravating to more or less be told my efforts weren't my own and to assume that I have $10,000 to just toss around).

We'll see how this goes. My pride is firmly swallowed in hopes that this project will get off the ground one way or another.

7.6 - 7.7.13

This weekend, Megan and I went and watched the sunset over a gorgeous vista at a place called Savannah Sunset Camp. We climbed down to our vantage point of boulders perched precariously on a cliff, and were joined by a baboon sitting just over arm's reach away from us in a tree. At first I was a bit "pee-my-pants" nervous, because baboons can rip a person in two with little effort. But it quickly became clear that he wasn't interested in us after he yawned, reclined in the tree, and stared at the sun coming down, the same as us. It was oddly human, and kind of endearing.

We also went to a delicious restaurant named Talisman (which was, of course, in Karen) and enjoyed a really good dinner. On Sunday, we ate lunch at a local place that we just call "Henry's" after the guy who greets us most times: the meat butcher, white coat and all, who has a couple chipped front teeth and a huge smile every time. We can eat like kings here for a few bucks.

7.8.13

Not a whole lot to report today - just another standard day at Faraja. Still no progress on the washing machine or the chicken project, but fingers crossed.

7.9.13

Over the weekend, Faraja secured funds to get the chicken coop started. Progress! That's the good news. The less good news is it's being built in the only part of the compound where there's room, which happens to be where the cow poop has been shoveled to and piling up for the last months. And it needed to be cleared out. And I had a shovel. It's reassuring to know that if the whole rapping thing doesn't turn out, I can always have a career as a poopsmith.

I also had the chance to interview Edgar, who's the social worker at Faraja and also a child services worker for the county. He gets called to go pick up children who have been abandoned or mistreated and need to be relocated to an orphanage, assess situations of at-risk children, etc. On top of that, he's one of the most intelligent guys I've met in a long time - it's almost as though he has an encyclopedia in his head, or a library with the fastest Dewey Decimal system ever. It was enlightening and interesting to talk with him and learn more about how the childcare system in Kenya works. Though progress could certainly be made, it's reassuring to know there are people like him who look after the welfare and rights of kids in this part of the world.

7.10.13

Finished the chicken coop and poop shoveling today! That's a plus. Another good thing is that I got to spend some time with the kids today, most of it with some of the younger ones in their makeshift classroom. With the teachers still on strike, I realized how difficult it is to provide stimulus for 40 kids for the hours during the day at which they'd ordinarily be at school.

But I also realized how precious and increasingly rare this time is. Precious because in that time attention can be spent on the child directly, helping them learn something new, or sparking their imagination to take flight, or just acting like a kid with them and putting a smile on their face. Rare because we're increasingly relying upon apps and gadgets and do-dads to raise our kids for us. I'm not trying to get all preachy, and I'm certainly not one to point fingers about sometimes being glued to a smart phone or computer. It's just that I feel there's a certain magic in the moments when a kid looks at you with a sense of boundless joy and wonder because "OH MY GOSH I JUST SAW SO MANY BUGS CRAWLING IN THE SOIL AND I PICKED THEM UP AND MADE AN ARMY OUT OF THEM AND NOW MY HANDS ARE DIRTY AND MY PANTS HAVE GRASS STAINS BUT IT WAS SOOOO COOOOL!!" and it's up to us to continue to nurture and foster that sense of awe for as long as possible. Because that's the only thing that will ever save us one day.

7.11.13

Today Elcanah and I were hammering some nails in the sheep pen in preparation for installing some partitions to help keep the goats and the sheep from doing the nasty all the time. It was all going along quite well until the top part of the hammer (is that called the ham? Or the mer?) decided to dislodge from the handle, breaking the wooden handle in the process. Since fixing the hammer would paradoxically cost more than buying a new hammer, we went and bought a new one with the money donated by Craig Berns Salon Spa (thank you!), along with the sheep pen supplies.

It's amazing how such a small purchase can make a world of difference, and how buying for quality rather than just getting the cheapest and replacing it every 6 months is really something that's tough to justify when money is a scarce commodity.

7.12.13

With materials purchased and hammer en toe, a good 8 hours spent in a tiny, goat-poop-smelly pen yielded great results.

Here's a picture of the work we did!

7.13 - 7.14.13

I had a cold this weekend and ended up just being a homebody with Megan, going in to town and watching Monsters University, which is about the 573rd incredible Pixar movie, and ate delicious food.

And so concludes the first month in Kenya. Amore vita!

Nepal

Tue, 30 Jul 2013 14:53:26 GMT

Nepal: You Need To Go Here. Now.
Click Here To See the Full Nepal Photo Album.

5.13.13

So I'm in Nepal (I'm writing this brief intro after being here for a bit), which I've heard - and just verified - is one of the most beautiful places on Earth. I just happened by a coffee shop, which is where, if you need to, you'll find a gaggle of white folk in any foreign country. This got me thinking: You know what I’ve noticed (some) white people are real good at doing? Looking bored in gorgeous places, being self-proclaimed experts on another country’s culture after being there for 48 hours, not making eye contact with other white people in foreign countries, having absolutely no idea where they’re going and trying to mask that by walking three times the speed of a normal person, wearing 473 bracelets they’ve picked up on their travels, and one-upping you with tales of how they’ve already been to every country you’re going to visit, ever. Here’s a sample conversation with a “backpacker” in, say, a coffee shop. You walk up to them as they’re drinking a coffee, updating their Facebook status*:

*Disclaimer – Not all backpackers are pretentious and patronizing. This is an amalgam of several conversations I’ve had with folks in a couple countries so far, and isn’t representative of the whole by any means. Most have been completely great. Them that are condescending just really, really, reallllly bother me.

You: Hi.
Them: (After lighting a cigarette) Um...hi.
You: How’re you liking it in (insert country)?
Them: Um...yeah, it’s good. Did you just get in?
You: Yeah, I’ve only been here a week.
Them: Oh, hah. You’re new.
You: Yeah, how long have you been here?
Them: *Drag from cigarette* 2 weeks already.
You: Oh.
Them: Yeah...
You: Where are you traveling?
Them: Well, I’m coming from Thailand, Laos, Malaysia, Indonesia, Nepal, Cambodia, Vietnam, India. I’m a backpacker.
You: Oh. Can you recommend anywhere to go or good places to eat?
Them: I mean...yeah? Just go explore, you know? I mean, adventure. That’s the best way to learn. Just don’t eat the (insert local food, said in an attempt at the local language).
You: What’s that?
Them: Hahaha, you haven’t had that? It’s the local staple. You’ll have it with basically like every meal, so yeah...*drag**gazing back to cell phone*
You: OK. Is there a place nearby that sells that?
Them: *still looking at cell phone* Um...yeah. Just go walk, if you get lost, it’s whatever. Just take a taxi back home, but don’t pay more than $5 to go anywhere, or else you’re just getting robbed.
You: OK. Thanks.
Them: *Drag* *Head nod, still looking at cell phone*

13 hours at the airport in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, gave me plenty of time to think about how I'd seen/heard/experienced stuff like this in Vietnam and Cambodia, too. It also gave me time to catch up on some Game of Thrones (which is difficult to do in a public space, what with the pervasive beheadings and boobs and blood and all) and scout out a place to sleep for the night. Which I did. It was a little alcove oasis, dimly lit, with couches. It was too good to be true. After sleeping there for an hour, I was kicked awake by an airport security posse of about 10. They made me and an elderly Chinese man move because they were closing that wing of the airport until morning. OK.

So I hopped the train to a satellite of the airport. I found a spot that seemed serviceable, though nowhere near as good. 20 minutes later, kicked awake again. Moved one more time and thought, “OK. THIS is the spot.” About 30 minutes later I was woken from deep sleep yet again. I was 5 feet past some red tape that wasn’t there when I went to sleep. They were closing that wing of the airport past the red line, so I had to move again. At this point it’s 3am and I concluded the only place in the airport they keep open is the Cinnabon. So, I ‘slept’ in a brightly lit alcove while a family talked at full volume the whole time, let their kids run wild, and sat in the massage chairs but refused to pay so the alarm kept beeping and telling them to leave.

Kuala Lumpur airport 1, Alex 0.

5.14.13

After you get your visa and bags in the airport in Kathmandu - which is an incredibly fast process – and make it outside, you’ll most likely be greeted by a cow, sizing you up as it chews its cud. Or one curled up on the sidewalk like a cat. Incredible. Cows here are sacred, too, so when they wander down the streets, which is rather frequent, traffic veers left and right to accommodate.

Arrived at a guest house in Kathmandu, which is where I’ll be for the next 4 days during orientation. One thing that definitely stuck out at me after walking through the door is the power schedule. In Kathmandu, and many places of Nepal, there are scheduled power outages. Sometimes it’s 8 hours a day, sometimes 16. The schedule is just a rough estimate. That will take some getting used to.

The food, though, is delicious. Nepali food is, to me, a mixture of Indian and Khmer – rice and lentils, which is called Dal Vat, as well as a lot of curries and chapati – a sort of naan/tortilla hybrid. I think I’ll be a-OK with that, likely imminent food poisoning aside.
Took in sunset from the rooftop of the guest house before heading to dinner and, as a way to cap off my first day in Nepal, this was pretty great.

5.15.13

When I watched the sun set last night, it came to its rest above some low-lying mountains in the distance. Today, I found out that we would be going into the heart of those mountains to a little village named Chitlan on the other side of them. All of the newly arrived volunteers to Nepal (of which there were about 25) hopped into two small buses at 630 this morning and set out for the hills.

Now, I’ve been off-roading before, plenty of times: up the scraggly, lava-laden roads of the big island in Hawaii, in Kenya, and many places in the US. But this, the drive up the mountains to Chitlan, is truly off-road. Aside from the fact there are absolutely no guard rails and the driver goes about 30 around hairpin turns, the road itself is nothing but jagged rock hacked out of, and replanted into, the hardened ground. This ride made for some absolutely jaw-dropping views of the greater Kathmandu valley.

After arriving at a small house on the outskirts of Chitlan, we were treated to ginger tea (delicious) and blessed with red ink on our foreheads by the mother of the house, a symbol of respect and hope for a long life. After a brief break, it was back into the vans for a drive into the village and a hike through the forests of Chitlan, down to a lake. Maybe I’m just being homesick, but I’ll be damned if the forest here didn’t smell exactly the same as back home at the height of summer – fresh pine and evergreen trees happens to be one of my favorite smells in all the world, and Chitlan had these in spades. We also happened upon a Nepali music video being filmed on the side of one of the slopes.

At the conclusion of the small little hike, we came to a lake – manmade, but no less beautiful because of it. I could do my best to write some flowery words here, but I’ve better faith in my ability to say the same thing more eloquently with a photo.

We crossed a really large suspension bridge after taking a ride in a canoe and doing a bit of scrambling up the side of a cliff, and happened to emerge on the backside of a farm in the village; it was awesome

Arrived back at the homestay just as a rainstorm was moving in. One of my favorite simple things in the world is falling asleep to the sound of a torrential downpour drumming it’s tune on the top of a metal roof. Tonight, after having a delicious Nepali meal, I slept in an unfinished house the size of a small garage with 4 of the other volunteers. My bed was basically a piece of plywood, but was one of the most sound nights of sleep I’ve had on the whole trip, spiders crawling along my face at multiple times in the middle of the night aside.

5.16.13

Woke up with to the sun juuust peeking through the cracks of my little hut, had breakfast, and played soccer on the most cow-pie laden field that may ever have existed. I gained three realizations during the game: 1) there’s a reason I quit soccer in 1st grade and just started running instead, 2) the fact that I hadn’t really played in 20 years doesn’t bode well for a pickup game with locals that’s surprisingly competitive, and 3) the smog and heat or Vietnam and Cambodia, coupled with not having been able to workout for the last two months, married to the elevation of Chitlan, makes me feel like a 2 pack a day smoker. All that being what it is, it was fun all the same, and my lungs thanked me for the little bit of exercise I was able to bequeath upon their now fragile lining.

After an equally precarious bus ride back to Kathmandu, we went as a group to the “Monkey Temple” in Kathmandu. This site, perched upon one of the highest hills of the whole city, provided a 360 panorama of the whole of Kathmandu, prayer wheels and monkeys aplenty, and just really fun times in general. If and when you go to Kathmandu, it’s definitely worth a trip up.

With a few hours of free time at night, before the 8 hour bus ride to the volunteer placement of the northwestern Nepali city of Pokhara, I did what any sensible Westerner would do in one of the most mystical cities in the world: I went and drank a protein shake while watching the new Star Trek movie in 3D in the movie theater at the top of the local mall. For $5 in total for it all, it was tough to say no, and far be it from me to turn a cold shoulder to Benedict Cumberbatch’s mellifluous voice.

So, we’re at the movie and things are getting pretty intense midway through act two. Then, the movie just stops and the lights in the theater come up. I thought the movie was kaput. Thankfully, this wasn’t the case. It was just time for a 10 minute “interval” break, which is nothing but Nepali commercials (some in English, others local) for soap, coffee, pvc pipes, concrete, and flowers. Then back to the movie.

P.S. The new Star Trek is fantastic. Watch it and be merry.

5.17.13

After hearing that the city of Pokhara is about 20 degrees cooler than I’ve experienced the last couple months in Vietnam and Cambodia, I jumped at the chance to volunteer there for my orphanage placement. The fact that the city is nestled up against several of the most distinct peaks in the Himalayas is just an added bonus. The only thing separating me from the most majestic mountain range in the world, and a month-long respite from sweating before, during, and after showering is an 8 hour bus ride.

Up at 5:30 to catch the bus and say goodbye to the local staff at the guest house in Nepal. It’s quite something how quickly it’s possible to grow instantly nostalgic for a place and people you’ve only experienced and known for a number of days.

Pokhara is only 250 kilometers (about 180 miles) from Kathmandu. On the freeways back home, this would be about a 3 hour trip. Here not so much. The corkscrewing roads accompanied by the endless stream of big rigs, construction trucks, taxis, motorcycles, and cows made the journey a good 8 hours. Ordinarily, I’d take this as an opportunity to catch up on some sorely needed sleep. But, ordinarily, buses tend to have shocks and suspension systems, and roads tend to be flat.

This was tantamount to being on the open ocean in a dingy with irregular whitecaps slapping the boat hither and tither. Or, the most low-budget amusement ride of all time. Despite the lack of sleep, and several dozen times I was jettisoned from my chair and hit my head on the luggage compartment, it was a fun ride. The scenery, and being able to see remote mountain villages, made it all worth it. As did the view I was met with upon arriving in Pokhara.

There’s a reason David Attenborough makes his voice so epic anytime he mentions the Himalayas on Planet Earth: because they are. Taking in sunset by Phewa lake as the last rays of sun kiss the tip of Fishtail Mountain is one of those moments that will occupy a space in my memory bank until I’m senile and forget this trip happened. The knowledge that this will be my home for the next month, and that I get to see this every day (weather permitting) is some pretty great news. I hope I don’t take it for granted.

5.18.13

Today is a day of rest before starting at the orphanage tomorrow, which meant a day to explore the city. I’m in lakeside district of Pokhara, which is quiet, quaint, and packed with tourists here to go trekking, paragliding, etc. Ample opportunity to buttress my claims of white people at the beginning of this journal shall be had.

The rain here is something else, and it’s awesome. Monsoon season is quickly moving in, and that makes for flooded streets, nighttime lightning storms, and a return of one of my favorite pastimes: sitting under a metal roof with a cup of tea, my pen and pad for lyrics, and the sound of rain drumming away above me.

5.19.13

My placement at the orphanage was handled through a fantastic Nepali organization called “Hope and Home.” Locally, they specialize in placing volunteers in orphanages, English teaching, and medical outreach. They were responsible for coordinating everything upon arrival, setting up the homestay in Kathmandu and Pokhara, the bus ride up here, and the weekend trips to Chitlan and the Monkey Temple. They also accompanied all the volunteers on the trip to Chitlan and taught several Nepali language lessons. I highly recommend them to anyone who wants to volunteer in Nepal.

Placement #6: Namaste Children’s Home

It took all of about 5 minutes to realize that my new placement, Namaste Children’s Home, is a shining example of how orphanages should be run. I’ve been taking mental notes during my travels of traits an ideal orphanage would and would not have, just in case I were to ever open one someday. Namaste checks off many of my prerequisites, and then some.

- Every staff member is compassionate, polite, and caring. All of their job duties, their days off, and any notes are left on a whiteboard for all to see.
- There are pictures of each of the children on the wall, their names underneath.
- In the office, there is a binder that has info, progress reports, report cards, artwork, and medical histories of the kids.
- There is a schedule posted on the wall, adhered to daily. It includes, among other things, three scheduled meals and one snack, exercise time, yoga, reading time, school, cleaning time, etc.
- Cleaning duties are split evenly between all of the children, also on a schedule.
- Volunteers are not allowed to talk about religion with the children, swear, or smoke or drink.
- The children all go to a secondary school a ten minute walk up the road.
- Aside from housing 47 children, Namaste is an advocate for keeping children at home with their families or relatives, when possible, circumventing the desire by some families to send children to an orphanage for a better chance at an education. They do this by providing scholarships to impoverished kids in many different regions of Nepal.
- They have a counselor on-site six days a week for the kids to talk to.
- They are active in – and encourage the kids to be active in – the community. This is evidenced by the fact they organize blood drives, garbage clean-up days, organize hearing clinics, etc.

There are many other incredible positives here, but those are some highlights. I only got to meet the kids briefly today, but I can already tell I’m going to love it here.

5.20.13

One thing for which I’m really grateful is it looks like there will be a bit of a daily routine here, and within that there will be clear help that I can lend and work with which I can help. This is the first time on the whole journey so far where this has been the case, so I’m kind of excited about it. The schedule today, which the house mom and house sisters said will be standard moving forward, was this:

8:30 – I arrive and help the kids get ready for school. In the boy’s room, this means helping them get dressed, make sure they have brushed their teeth, etc.
9:30 – Walk all of the kids – ages 4-16 – to school.
10:00 – Return back and help with cleaning. Mop one of the floors, sweep, help with laundry, etc.
11:00 – 2:00 – Lunch break
2:00 – Return back to Namaste, help with food prep: cut pounds of vegetables, clean dishes, etc.
3:00 – Walk back to the school to be there when the kids get out of class, and walk them home.
4:00 – Play with the kids, help them with any pressing homework, just be present.
5:00 – Head home.

While there are only a couple hours of interaction each day with the kids, if today is any indication, it will certainly be a case of quality over quantity. Even though they’ve had dozens of volunteers (who they call “auntie” and “uncle”) come and go in the past, they certainly know how to help you feel welcome and unique. I was immediately shown photo albums by several of the boys, their excitement over sharing their life in pictures an awesome thing.

5.21.13

Today it poured. That’s saying something coming from a guy who basically grew up in the middle of a deciduous rainforest. After having a morning of slowly getting to know each child a little bit more in a huge group setting, I got the chance to talk with one of the kids one on one.

During days where it rains, Namaste sends their driver and SUV over to Step-by-Step, their school, to pick up the kids. Usually they take two trips. Today, unbeknownst to me and one of the older kids, they only took one. I was told by one of the house sisters to wait for the car to come back as I watched it pull out of the parking lot with a fellow volunteer and about 25 kids (there’s a canopy in the back where they sit, in case you’re wondering how 25 kids fit into an SUV. It’s still kind of clown car-ish). So, we did. We waited. And waited. And waited some more. I walked over to the security guard of the school and asked if he could call Namaste (he knows the number, as all of the kids at Namaste go to the school). After a conversation in which he had a few bouts of hearty laughter he hung up and told me, “yeah, no one’s coming for you” and gave me a smack on the back.

So, Dipak (in his school uniform) and I (in a rainjacket and flip-flops) trekked back through the mud and garbage and cowpies to Namaste. He told me about his life growing up, asked me about America, and laughed at me every time my flip-flop stuck into the mud like some crude epoxy. Undoubted bovine poop on my feet, this walk back will still be one of my favorite memories from this whole trip, I’m sure. The look on the house sister’s face when she saw us approach looking like two drowned rats was priceless and worth the journey alone.

Also, while I was waiting, I got into a conversation with a man who turned out to be the principal of the school. When I told him I was from America, and that I’m traveling as a documentarian, he excitedly let me know about his son who’s currently going to film school in Los Angeles. He then introduced me to his wife, a teacher at the school, and invited me to their house for dinner. I said, “hey, that sounds great, but I don’t know what my sched-“. “-That’s great,” he said, “it’s decided. Then we’re agreed. You will come to dinner at our house.” It’s hard to say you don’t know if you’ll be able to attend because of your schedule when the only acceptable response is “Yes. Yes we’re agreed.”

5.22.13

My first day off today and, with a laundry list larger than Valentina Vassilyeva’s on linen cleaning day, saw me accomplish exactly two to-do’s: help out at a blood drive put together by Namaste, and drink a good cup of coffee. Regarding the first: it was an outdoor blood drive, under a tent, and my task was more or less to peel hardboiled eggs and keep an eye on anyone passing out. For the coffee quest, I found a cafe overlooking the lake and had the best mocha of my life (I decided to go a little sweeter than coffee) for about a buck.

Done and done.

5.23.13

Walking the kids to school in the morning always renews any bouts of the blues or malaise, for a couple reasons. The first is that they hold your hand (what they call “touch hands”), with no barrier for gender or age. From the older kids to the younger ones, boys or girls, they all like to hold hands of their ‘aunts and uncles.’ Just that little bit of connection is good medicine for the soul.

The second is that the majority of them, in stark contrast to almost every kid back home (including me way, back when), are genuinely happy and excited to go to school, to learn, and to grow. The difference might be that education in Nepal is a privilege, not a right, and it’s for that very reason that it’s not taken for granted. Rather, it’s viewed as a way to build a foundation for a brighter future, and a solo endeavor toward wisdom and a lifetime of learning. Refreshing.

In the afternoon, my fellow volunteers and I went on a quest to the top of a nearby hill (I would say mountain, but that’s tough to say when everything is in the shadow of the Himalayas). At the top of this hill is a famous attraction that adorns a good majority of the postcards in Pokhara’s local bookstores: the World Peace Pagoda. Here’s a picture of it from the ground.

In order to get there you can either take a taxi to the top (yawn) or take a boat across Phewa Lake and hike (tough) – we chose the latter.

The view at the top was gorgeous, and was definitely worth being made to feel I was a noodley-armed man with the strength of a newly hatched, mutated chick on a KFC chicken farm.

5.24.13

Every other week, the kids at Namaste have an event called “Funny Friday.” Saturday is their lone day off during the week, so when they get back from school on Friday, it’s an extra sweet feeling: the longest point there is before more school. Funny Friday is a way for the kids to showcase their talents – like dancing, singing, comedy, drama, etc. - in front of everyone else, and this is an awesome thing for a number of reasons. Among many others, it fosters creativity, confidence in public performing, and camaraderie. It’s just an added bonus that some of the kids are really, really talented.

When the kids learned I was a rapper, I was signed up without any say-so from my end to perform at said Funny Friday. I rapped my song “Simpleman” for them, and they enjoyed it enough to ask me if I could lead a rap class for some of the kids in the upcoming weeks. Heck yes! So, starting next week, I’ll teach a rap class to a couple of the kids who want to learn the art. I’m excited for this.

5.25.13

The folks who run Namaste purchased some property about 15 kilometers outside of Pokhara. Their goal, in about 4 years time, is to move the entire orphanage onto this property and also build a women’s empowerment center, renovate the local medical outpost and school, and have some self-sustained agriculture. We were invited to go out there to a housewarming party of sorts with the other workers at Namaste, to plant trees, and to meet the villagers. Though within earshot of Pokhara it felt like it was worlds away (the 10 kilometers/hour travel average added to this feeling, too).

It was absolutely gorgeous. The clouds just started to part as we finished planting the trees, and we could make out the faint outline of some Himalayan peaks. I can see why they want to move out here. What an incredible place this would be to grow and flourish for the kids. To be able to run around in the fresh air removed from the bustle of the city (but still near enough) and just...be kids, would be good medicine.
Equally inspiring is that Namaste isn’t just moving out to this village to build and shoehorn themselves into the community. Rather, they’re engaging the community and actively participating in cultivating something local from the ground up. By renovating the school and medical outpost, they are giving work to the locals and involving them in every development. Sustainability is a great thing.

On the way back home, I got to ride on the top of a bus! My seat was initially on steel rebar, which wasn’t the most pleasant. So I changed to riding above the cab, which wasn’t the safest. I had a little lip of metal to grab onto, and my feet were sliding around on the hot sheet metal roof like an elephant trying to tap-dance in the Arctic. There were three times I was positive I was going to slide off the top to my imminent demise below, but here we are. I also met a Nepali soldier who worked as a peacekeeper for the UN in the Congo a few years back.

5.26.13

I had a day off today, but had food poisoning (or what the locals call “Delhi Belly” or “Nepali Belly”.) So, I read for a while, drank water, and stayed pretty near to the turlet all day. Grumble. The end.

5.27.13

Rishi, the in-charge of Namaste/counselor for the kids at Namaste, asked me if I could take pictures of the kids today for their files, which would also serve as the annual picture update for their sponsors around the world of their progress. It may have been because he saw my somewhat fancy-pants camera, or because he trusted my eye as a photographer, but I'm going with the former since he had no reference point for the latter and I'm farsighted. So, the kids all filed out of the house one-by-one in their crisply pressed school uniforms and drowsily forced a smile for the camera while my haphazard attempts to make them smile were only marginally successful (and then, ultimately, largely successful probably because they took sympathy on me making an ass of myself.)

When they got back from school I took their "casual" pictures, per Rishi's request. Casual in quotes because they were posed in a casual way, like "hey, look at me casually reading" or "hey, look at me in mid-swing playing ping-pong." In other words, it's tough to get candid shots when one of the requirements is they are to be posed. That said, it was fun, and many of the kids probably got tired of me turning their orphanage into a Yuen Lui studio by the end of the day.

(You can see some of the pictures from this shoot throughout the course of this journal.)

5.28.13

One of the risks that can come with volunteering or helping another, in any capacity, is that the contributions of the volunteer or helper could lead to dependence on the help always being present. For example, if a constant stream of aid workers provide food to a country after a natural disaster, with no effort to rebuild, the citizens of the country will be left no better in the long-term or in a position to feed themselves once the aid workers leave. If an orphanage only provides children with food and a place to rest their head without education or development of life-skills, the children in the orphanage will not be able to care for themselves once they leave the orphanage's care. It's the whole give a person a fish vs. teach a person to fish thing. I had a conversation with Visma, the founder and director of Namaste about this very topic. His responses and insights further

5.29.13

Field trip day today! We were told we were going to take the kids to the circus today, which would ordinarily be fine, but there's one massive thing wrong with this: I. Hate. Clowns. A lot. And I'm afraid of clowns. A. Lot. Offense unintended to any clowns who read this, but there's something unnerving about a grown-up who makes the conscious choice to wear overbearingly happy makeup and make whooping noises and balloon animals.

For as long as I can remember, clowns have made me depressed, because I felt someone who had to paint their happiness probably had some deep-seated depression and probably a shiv waiting for my spinal column if I looked at them the wrong way. Or, they would turn into Stephen King's "It." With that in mind, you can imagine my relief when what we showed up to wasn't a circus at all, but a dance/gymnastics display for the kids to watch. Score.

The most entertaining part of the whole performance wasn't the dancing itself (though that was good, too), it was the reactions of Dipak sitting next to me as he watched the dancing. Seeing the smile on his face and all of the other kids at Namaste made the car-ride back in which I stood in a crouched position and hit my head on the metal roof of a truck canopy at each bump we encountered worth it.

5.30.13

One of the most memorable sunrises I've seen in my twenty some-odd years of puttering around our planet was at the Grand Canyon with my girlfriend Megan a few summers back. There's something magic about being awake before the sun and watching the dance it puts on every day and has done for the last couple billion years. That magic is amplified when it's done at a place that is in and of itself spectacular. Sarangkot, a little village at the top of a mountain on the outskirts of Pokhara, is one such place.

Last night was the first night since arriving in Pokhara where I could see stars in the sky. My friends and I figured it was our best shot at seeing a clear sunrise over the Himalayas, too. So, we awoke at 3:45, booked a taxi for 4, and groggily made the trek up. Worth it. I almost felt like I could reach out and touch several of the peaks in the Himalayas. Watching the first golden slivers just glance the top of the snowfilled peaks before cascading down into the valleys below will undoubtedly go down as one of the more memorable experiences of this journey.

5.31.13 - 6.1.13

This weekend the children joined with the local police and a few other prominent community members and held a sanitation day down at Phewa Lake. It was good to see so many actively involved in the effort to remove garbage from the shore, and with Rishi using a megaphone to tell the families who lived near the shore the importance of proper garbage disposal and sanitation, it was another example of education and sustainability in action at Namaste. My duty for this was to document the day with video and pictures, and I was happy to oblige.

As we were packing up to head out, I was greeted by an enthusiastic and photogenic 5-year-old girl and her dad. Her smile was infectious and, while she posed for pictures for others, I learned from her dad that they lived in a shack near the lake with a literal garbage bag rooftop. He showed me his legs and arms that were completely covered with psoriasis, and told me he had been raising his daughter in their little shack since she was born. He used to be a porter for a company that leads expeditions into the nearby mountains, but then he got injured. With no disability or insurance, he was made homeless and has been unable to find work despite his best efforts and nagging injury. Heartbreaking to say the least. The warmth and tenderness with which he so clearly treated his daughter was inspiring to see and, in the face of roadblocks the size of the Himalayas themselves, they were both smiling radiantly.

Today was also the start of hip hop class! My two students, Purna (16) and Dipesh (13), are fantastic - so eager and willing to learn the craft. We started with the basics: beat, rhythm, syllables, bars, examples of words that rhyme, breathing, flow, etc. I played them examples of some of my favorite hip hop tracks from Outkast, Fashawn, and Eyedea, and then they wanted to hear examples of mine so I played them a few songs from The Fall of Atlas. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how big a smile it put on my face to hear how much they enjoyed every example, both from me and everyone else I played.

I gave them their assignment for the following week: write a short essay about their lives for me to read so that we can work together to turn it into a song and, as much as they want, write a hip hop song about anything (minimum of 8 bars). Once we get a good verse written, I'll record them rapping it over a beat I make next week. After they record, I'll do the same with kids in other countries where I volunteer. When I get home, I'll put all the verses together on one big track, post it on iTunes and other places online, and give the proceeds to all of their orphanages. I can't wait to hear what they come up with for the song!

6.2.13

Day off today! Not much to report - just rested and caught up on editing pictures. Good to recharge my batteries, and made me even more excited to see the kids tomorrow.

6.3.13

Standard day at the orphanage today, which is to say I got to spend another chunk of time with absolutely amazing kids smiling, laughing, and remembering the feeling of wonder on the daily. It's a pretty tough gig.

Purna presented me with a 16 bar verse he had written today, too, and given the fact that he wrote it in English - not his native language - it was pretty remarkable that he had solid rhymes and rhythm and it fit to the beat I played for him using my fists pounding the table during our class a few days ago. In a few days, I've no doubt he'll turn out a great verse for the song!

6.4.13

Received the assignments from Purna and Dipesh today: the essays about their lives and how they came to live at Namaste. It'd be tough to write about how harrowing they are, so I'll just put them bluntly here.

Purna grew up in Damside, a suburb a little ways away from Pokhara. His dad was a drinker and would beat him and his mom. When he was about 8 years old, his dad came home drunk and beat Purna's mom especially aggressively. Purna tried to get him to stop, but his dad was unrelenting and beat his mom to death. He told Purna that if he said anything, he would come back and kill him and his grandma. For the next couple years, Purna lived with his grandma and worked as a dishwasher and tea delivery boy in a small cafe. His grandma was not in shape physically or financially to care for him, and Purna was dropped off at an orphanage in Damside. They didn't accept him because of his size - he was severely malnourished. Visma heard about Purna and brought him to live at Namaste shortly after. He has been at Namaste since he was 11.

Dipesh has an older brother at Namaste. When they were younger, they lived with their father who worked as a farmhand in a rural village. Their mom fell sick and then left them. They weren't making enough to survive, and they moved from town to town looking for work. Eventually, their dad deserted them and they lived in the street near Kathmandu begging for food. After months living on the street and barely surviving off of the scraps people would give them, Dipesh and his brother were brought to live at Namaste several years ago.

6.5.13

Day off, and it was gorgeous, so I wandered down to the lake and watched the sunset over the boats, gently rolling over the waves. Good medicine.

6.6.13

Cameras rolling on interviews at Namaste today! My interviews were with Visma (founder/director of Namaste), and all of the house mothers and sisters. I improvised with many of my questions, but I did my best to be consistent with the themes, which were mainly: what's the best way to help for those who want to, what are their favorite memories from their job, whether having volunteers generally a good thing, etc.

The best part of the interviews to me was how genuine and candid they were with their responses to each question. While their answers to each question varied, all of them thought that having volunteers is a generally positive experience, but that volunteers are most helpful when they show up with the goal of simply being present and helping on a daily basis and not trying to "fix" or "save" anything or anyone. I'm really looking forward to adding the footage of their interviews to the documentary, and based on how well these interviews went, I'm even more excited to interview some of the kids tomorrow.

6.7.13

Interviewed three of the older kids at Namaste today: Purna, Sarmila, and Lalita. I was initially a bit hesitant to ask them about how they came to live at Namaste, but the three of them were open about their childhoods, detailing the struggles they triumphed over with a sense of calm, even-keeled emotion. Purna's story I already shared above, so here are Lalita and Sarmila's stories, in an extreme nutshell.

Lalita was especially particularly important for me to interview. She was the first child, ten years ago, to come to Namaste. Her story made the national news, and it goes like this: when she was six, her stepmom killed her mom. Her dad was under investigation for the murder, too. With no other relatives around to raise her, Lalita went with her stepmom and dad to prison and lived with them there. Through absolutely no fault of her own, Lalita was a six year-old inmate, sharing a jail cell with the woman who killed her mother.

Sarmila is one of the most grounded kids I've met, and interviewing her was a treat. She was so enthusiastic and joyous and happy to be interviewed. When she was an infant, her father left. Shortly after, her mom eloped with another man and abandoned Sarmila, forcing her grandmother to raise her. However, her grandparents hardly made enough money to feed themselves, let alone Sarmila or any of her siblings. Shortly after, Namaste brought Sarmila to live at the orphanage.

To say that the courage and strength of Purna, Lalita, Sarmila, and all the kids at Namaste is "inspiring" would be to call the sun "warm." It's true, sure, but the description doesn't quite do it justice. The sun is unfathomably hot, and these kids are unequivocally valiant and uplifiting. I'm blessed to know them.

6.8.13

Another sanitation program today in the morning, cleaning up both sides of the road near Namaste for about a mile in each direction. Watching them pick up garbage while keeping a smile on their face, my eight year-old inner child couldn't help but feel a bit inadequate considering how much of a pouty-pants I was whenever I'd have to do something remotely resembling a chore.

Today was also largely devoted to interviews, among them Rishi (the in-charge/counselor for the kids), Anita (one of the older girls), and some of the younger children. The interview with Rishi was so good. He was incredibly animated, insightful, passionate, and answered a lot of my questions before I even asked them: an interviewers dream. Anita and the younger children shared their usual ebullient selves with me, which is always an awesome experience to capture (and share with you in the not too distant future).

The main goal for today, though, was to have the final rap class with Purna and Dipesh. While Dipesh had an 8-bar verse written, he wasn't ready to record. Still, he seems genuinely excited to continue with this practice of self-expression I love so much, and I can't wait to see/hear what he comes up with over the next couple years. Purna, on the other hand, was ready to record. Microphone on, camera rolling, we started.

We practiced for about an hour to get his voice warmed up and to help him feel comfortable recording to the beat he listened to through headphones. After a couple dozen takes, each better than the last, Purna delivered his verse with a level of confidence and ease that belies the fact he was rapping in his non-native language, for the first time, and under a fair amount of pressure. I'm so, so proud of him.

6.9.13

I had my last day off today, and I spet some time reflecting on my experience at Namaste. While I reflected upon the kids, the staff, how well the orphanage was run and the children were cared for, I kept coming back to one thought: I never once saw any of the children cry. Ever. Coming from such profoundly tragic backgrounds would be reason enough to make even the strongest among us weep, let alone coping with the daily challenges that come with being a kid growing up in our often harsh world.

The fact that I never saw the children cry led me to three conclusions: they are happy, they are well cared for, and they posses a strength of character and powerful perseverance that almost defies belief.

6.10.13

Last day at the orphanage today. As you can probably guess by now, it's a bittersweet experience. Be that as it is, today was a celebration - the 10th anniversary of Namaste! All of the kids and the caretakers were joined by about 200 community members to celebrate the occasion. While it was a joyous event, it was also about three hours of speeches. I don't know about you, but sitting at attention for hours while listening to folks speak when you have absolutely no idea in the world what they're saying can push the limits of boredom. Apparently, some of the people on stage who had already spoken or were going to give a speech were feeling the same way. Some of them hopped on their cellphone while somebody else was having their turn on the mic. It was an interesting experience to say the least.

After saying my goodbyes to the kids until sunset, I juggled hackey-sacks with Dipak for about an hour. Though my unpacked bags were calling on me to hurry up and pack them for the early morning wake-up tomorrow, it was impossible to say no to Dipak's joy and laughter, and this will go down as one of my favorite nights in Nepal.

My bags packed, in bed by around 12, I was expecting a good 5 hours of shut-eye before the 8 hour bus ride back to Kathmandu. This was one of those nights where expectations didn't really meld with reality. With monsoon season knocking at the door, there have been several night-time storms the last couple weeks, and none more powerful than tonight. There was thunder so loud that it actually hurt my ears and shook objects in the room. It felt like I was on a soundstage in Hollywood. While I love storms, I adore sleep (which has proven to be elusive for the last 28-ish years) and tonight ended up being another in a long list of sleep-deprived nights.

6.11.13

You know when you run into an acquaintance at the grocery store, make small talk with them, and then say goodbye only to run into them again back at the milk section and it's really awkward? Part of today was like that.

Goodbyes are an imperfect artform, but I'm a firm believer in the goodbye being final until the next time you see one another. After bidding a fond farewell to the new friends I made in Nepal, all of them truly wonderful people I look forward to knowing for a long, long time, I hopped in a car for the bus station. With the rain letting up, I packed my rain jacket in my duffel. Not two seconds after I handed off my bag to the bus attendant for packing under the bus did the skyward floodgates open. No matter, I thought, as I'd be sitting on the bus for the next 8 hours anyway. Or so I thought.

I figured I'd play Angry Birds or something to pass the time until we pulled out of the parking lot, and reached into my pocket for my phone. Nothing. Reached into my other. Nothing. No phone on or under the seats, either. Figs.

I hopped up and asked the attendant how long until we'd leave. 25 minutes he told me, 30 at most. I must have left the phone at the guest house. Just enough time to make it back, grab the phone, and return. With the Ganges transplanted to the clouds above Pokhara, Nepal, I was completely soaked by the time I got to a taxi. The taxi also didn't have a defroster, and by the way he was driving it seemed like he was guessing whether or not there was a car, person, or cow in front of him. I was pretty sure I was going to die in a car wreck in Pokhara (but here we are).

Made it back to the guest house, and re-said goodbye to my friends. They helped me urgently look for my phone. Nothing. Luckily, one of the workers called the driver who picked me up, and it fell out in his car, so he kindly drove it back to the bus station. Crisis averted.
Looking forward to catching up on a few hours sleep, I hunkered down in my seat, leaned against the window, and waited for the man of sand to visit me. Instead, I was kept awake by two things: the lady in front of me who reclined her seat all the way back, which apparently turned it into a flat bed and eliminated the small semblance of leg room to which I was clinging, and the woman next to me who every ten minutes violently dropped her head onto my shoulder in her slumber, woke up a few minutes later, and repeated the process for the next five hours.

Needless to say, by the time I got to my hostel in Kathmandu, I was ready to sleep before my flight to Kenya tomorrow and ensuing ten hour layover in Mumbai. Let's do this.

6.12.13

The first flight en route to Nairobi was uneventful, had a surprisingly delicious lunch, and a combination Bollywood/heist movie as the in-flight entertainment - all criteria for my perfectly ideal flight. Upon landing in Mumbai, ideal flew out the window. After watching cricket for a long enough time that I finally figured out the rules, I handed off my passport to a worker for Jet Airways to get my boarding pass for the next flight, or so I thought.

Initially, she wouldn't take my passport because I didn't have a ticket for the flight. I told her that I didn't have a ticket because I couldn't check-in online since the flight was booked through her airline but operated by another carrier. She told me without a ticket I couldn't get a boarding pass. I politely told her that was a pile of poo, and it was her job to get my boarding pass since the ticket was bought through them. Finally, she took my passport and I waited. And waited. And waited.

1am rolled around, and I was greeted by a different Jet Airways worker who told me I was going to be sent back to Kathmandu because I didn't have the necessary paperwork to enter Kenya. False though that was, I had two hours to convince them otherwise and make my 3:10am flight.

I'll leave it as a cliffhanger as to whether or not I made it to Kenya. (Spoiler alert, I'm in Kenya...)

Thank you for reading. Until next time, my friends!

Click Here To See the Full Nepal Photo Album.

Cambodia

Thu, 30 May 2013 06:18:11 GMT

4.20.13

View of Angkor Wat from sunset.

It's pretty tough to show up at Angkor Wat and not have the feeling of being on some elaborately detailed Hollywood movie set. Much the same way the Grand Canyon looks like something that's too unreal to be...well, real, Angkor Wat and all of the surrounding temples are epic on a scale that pretty much defies description and belief, attaining a level of almost absolute absurdity in its ability to induce constant awe. Maybe the best way to describe it would be to simply call it surreal, because the entire time I was there I couldn't help but think, "Oh, this is real life? I'm actually standing on the steps of the largest religious monument in existence, one of the wonders of the world, almost 1,000 years old? Welp...ok then." The good news is that it's easy to be slapped back to reality when an 8-year-old Cambodian boy walks up to you and introduces himself as Justin Bieber and asks if you'd like him to be your guide on the history of the temple. I was able to see sunset from the vantage of one of the highest monuments in the entire collection of temples in Siem Reap and, though it was cloudy, it was still a pretty magnificent sight and experience.

4.21.13

Angkor Wat, across the lake, sunrise.

The next morning, I awoke a few hours before dawn to make it to sunrise at Angkor Wat. One more night in a never-ending cycle of sleep deprivation be damned, it was worth it. To be surrounded by a few hundred tourists all hushed by the shared profound silence as together you watch the first tips of golden sunrays kiss the top of Angkor Wat in the same way it has done day after day for hundreds upon hundreds of years is one of the most transcendent experiences I've had in quite some time.

For the next 12 hours straight, temple after temple greeted me with perpetual wonder. The stairs that adorn each temple are really, really tall and steep. Really. Basically, imagine a ladder made out of stone, with each step about three feet apart and there you have it. Were these people siblings or Robert Wadlow, or did they just have a great sense of humor and enjoy playing jokes on future temple visitors? The heat was something pretty incredible, too. I've spent a lot of time in Las Vegas, Phoenix, Florida, and Sub-Saharan Africa, but this heat is a lot different than any of those. It's not just that it's simply humid (though it is) or pushing the mercury to its limit (that, too), it's the combination of both that really tests you. With the heat index pushing 120, and the stone absorbing and reflecting every last degree to the feet and face, it was all I could do to drink over a gallon and a half of water during the day and not get the urge to pee for a good 8 hours. Even though sweating through everything on your body and having the feeling of being placed in a convection oven isn't the most ideal of experiences, scrambling up crumbling staircases to yet another gorgeous historical vantage point is one of those opportunities that doesn't really come about too often; it's a worthy trade-off, and small price to pay to spend a day gallivanting around one of the most beautiful manmade areas on Earth.

Of course, with a consistent stream of tourists comes an influx of souvenir shops, restaurants, and vendors keen on selling you everything from postcards to paintings, elephant rides to guide books. While it would be silly to blame someone for capitalizing on a captive audience or gearing an establishment to Western sensibilities in the name of profit, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a bit disheartening to see "Lady Gaga Restaurant" and "Justin Bieber Cafe" at the entrance of Angkor Wat.

The top of one of the many temples of Siem Reap.

Sunshine on one of the temples.

Trees growing out of the "Tomb Raider" temple.

4.22.13

Downtown Phnom Penh.

Here's something that everyone should experience at least once before they die: watching Commando, the classic 80's Schwarzenegger action flick, dubbed in Khmer, on a bus in Cambodia. Amazing. After a great weekend in Siem Reap, I hopped on the 6 hour bus ride back to Phnom Penh to begin my placement work at the orphanage. Since I missed orientation, I wasn't able to go on a tour of the city or meet the other new volunteers, but that's really not too big of a deal. I did, however, make it in time for the new volunteer barbecue on the roof, which also happened to be my first real taste of Khmer food. Which also happened to be delicious.

My room at the home stay, in keeping with the theme of the last home stay and every hostel on the journey so far, is on the very last, tiptop floor. I don't mind the climb, but I'm not a huge fan of heat rising and sweating buckets at night time. I took a 20 minute power nap, and when I awoke, the sweat on the sheets made it look like I had a little oopsy (but, I did down all those liters of water the day before...). The accommodations are modest, but clean and (unavoidable heat aside) comfortable. The set up is very similar to the last volunteer house in Vietnam, and there are about 25 volunteers here right now. Should be a good time.

Also, though Phnom Penh is a good sized city, it seems pretty rural compared to Ho Chi Minh City. While I loved HCMC, this is a nice little break from the 476,563 motorbikes that seemed hell-bent on my demise.

4.23.13

Placement #4 - Missionary

So it looks like I'll be volunteering at a missionary orphanage for children ages five and under, at least for the first week of placement. The caretakers here are nuns in the tradition of Mother Teresa (her image adorns practically every wall in the facility). One big difference between the placement here and Ky Quang is that they are very strict on their rules of filming or taking pictures of the staff or children. The reason, according to the head nurse, is that they don't want people to post pictures of the children online under the guise of a tool to raise money for the orphanage. Apparently a few people have done this in the past, but ended up pocketing the money for themselves rather than donate it to the orphanage. I don't know who would have the audacity to do something so incredibly selfish and foolish, but no doubt it has happened, and probably with some relative frequency. And while the last thing I would ever want to do is exploit the children in any way, their rules are their own and I will follow them unless I get permission to the contrary. Still, it puts a bit of a damper on a large part of The Volunteer Adventure, which is to make a documentary about the children and their caretakers. I'll figure something out...

Meanwhile, the children here are incredible as always. While they were a little skeptical and shy at first, they seemed to warm up to me a little bit before I left. It's clear they are well taken care of and fed as far as orphanages go, and there is a staff of about 5 nuns taking care of 14 children, in addition to the 5 volunteers that are here. It's tough to say now, but I get the feeling there may not be much need for my energy or efforts here moving forward, though I will contribute as much as I can. To be clear, it's certainly not a bad thing if there isn't much use for me at a particular orphanage - it'd be a sign that the children are well tended to if there's not much need for outside volunteers. But, if there's some place else that might be able to benefit from some added energy and time, it might be more useful for me to go there. I'll be keeping my eye out this week, but in the meantime I'll enjoy my time with these wonderful kids.

4.24.13

With absolute certainty, I can say today is the first day I have ever been diarrhead on in my life! It's quite a sensation to be feeding a toddler in your lap, and then notice that your leg is a bit warmer than the other, then a bit more damp, then a bit more brown - and that was after the barrier of the diaper and shorts. I can also say in full confidence that it is impossible to have one shred of anger toward the pooping toddler in question when, after he takes said dump, he looks up at you and laughs and gives you a hug around the neck and then runs around ecstatically and joyously with what looks to be something the same color and size as a football in his pants. I'm also confused as to what kind of pixie dust babies and toddlers have that allows them to simultaneously smell like poop and potpourri, an encapsulation of both ends of the olfactory spectrum.

Today was also my first day helping to shower toddlers en masse. Since I don't have any children, I didn't really know what I was in for, but to my parents and all of you moms and dads out there I'm sure you can relate: attempting to dry off a soaking wet 4 year-old bent on sprinting around and replicating a golden retriever's attempts to get dry is surprisingly difficult work on par with the scene in Rocky where his trainer teaches him a lesson in agility by trying to catch a chicken. Then, when one of the children decides that since his diaper is off it would be a good time to leave a turd on the floor riiight next to the bathroom, that only adds one more kink in the plan. And so, it all comes back full circle to the start of the day. Poop.

4.25.13

Having heard stories about the pervasiveness of sex trafficking in Southeast Asia, including prostitution and pedophilia, I knew at some point I would see aspects of it in one form or another (I did, briefly, in Vietnam). But being cognizant of the existence of something and being confronted with it in reality - even in an indirect and relatively slight way - are two completely different experiences entirely.

Tonight, I went with a large group of volunteers to an open-air beer garden of sorts in downtown Phnom Penh, which is right near the more Westernized, "backpacker" part of town. I'm not much a beer guy, but an ice cold beverage for $1/pitcher? I'm in. It didn't take much more than a few minutes to recognize the repetition of this sight: disheveled middle-aged to older white men with - at most - a 20-year-old Cambodian woman (or two), dressed to the nines in high heels, shorts, a low cut blouse, loaded with makeup and jewelry. It didn't take much longer after that for me to be propositioned consistently, harkening back to just a couple weeks ago while staying in District 1 of Ho Chi Minh City. Upon stepping outside, it was clear this was pretty much the gauntlet of 'massage' parlors and prostitution. It's not that this is something completely foreign to me. It's just that being able to see the signs of it makes me more aware of it. Being more aware of it means I see it more often.

4.26.13

Watching the world from the Missionary.

Over the course of the week, it became increasingly clear that the children at the mission where I have been volunteering are in great hands and well taken care of and - my simply spending time with them holding them or playing legos aside, and I do think being present is a very good and powerful thing - I may be able to make more of a contribution elsewhere. So, I requested a transfer of placement to an orphanage right around the corner (rather than a 30 minute TukTuk - more on them later - ride away) called CWC, where I'll be starting Monday. I have mixed emotions about this. The kids at the mission are such downright beautiful human beings that it's so hard to say goodbye after just one week. But, the longer I stay, the more a bond would form and it would be even more difficult.

TukTuks: Cambodia’s form of taxi. A two wheeled, covered carriage attached to a motorcycle. Fun to ride, and incredibly cheap.

So, for today, I just focused on being as present as possible and enjoying each moment with the kids. There was also a new addition to the orphanage: a child who was abandoned by his mom last night, and is bound to a wheelchair. He reminds me so much of Truong, one of the children with whom I worked closely at Ky Quang in Vietnam. Seeing him smile at the sight of my making a fool out of myself was absolutely worth it.

Also, I got clearance to take a couple pictures of the kids, so I wanted to share some with you:

Playtime at the Missionary.

Watching traffic.

One of the awesome kids at the Missionary.

4.27 - 4.28.13

This weekend was pretty fun. I went to a couple places around Phnom Penh that were on the list for sightseeing activities: Wat Phnom, The Royal Palace, and Friends.

Wat Phnom is the highest place in town, at a dizzying height of 27 meters. It was supposedly founded as the original center of the city in 1373, as a home to four legendary statues of the Buddha that were carried here down the Mekong River. There were also the customary merchants selling everything from Coke to coconuts to canaries that visitors pay to see 'liberated from their cage.' Jokes on them: the birds are trained to fly back to the cage.

The Royal Palace is the home of the king, so I thought it prudent to stop by an introduce myself, and see if he wanted to hang out and eat Doritos and drink Mountain Dew and play N64. He wasn't home, so I wandered around and looked at beautiful buildings. Half of the grounds were closed off to visitors, for reasons I don't know, but the half that I did see were quite beautifully detailed. After the temples in Siem Reap, though, this was a little bit of a letdown by comparison. Still impressive, and had I seen this prior to my trip up north, I'm sure I would've been substantially more wowed.

The river in the road after the rain.

Friends is a restaurant in Phnom Penh, right near the Royal Palace. It is partnered with Friends-International, a top-rated NGO whose mission is to help at-risk/marginalized children (homeless kids, kids with HIV, orphans, children addicted to drugs, etc.) and their families build a brighter future. They do this by providing assistance with relocation, help with education, and job training. One of the programs is the Friends restaurant itself. Here, all of the workers - the cooks, the waiters/waitresses - are or were at-risk children. They run the restaurant, and their teachers are former students of the restaurant. They receive a steady job and the profits from the meals are donated to furthering the various missions of Friends-International. An awesome program, and on top of that the food was delicious. I had a citrus-mint smoothie, a fresh lime soda, and Khmer chicken curry, all of which were top-notch. Also, never-ending ice water was itself such a luxury that I doubt I'll take for granted again. I highly recommend this place to anyone who visits.

While we were dining at Friends, it rained. And when I say it 'rained', I mean it flooded. It took only an hour for the street in front of the restaurant to be a stream of water six inches deep, which had the current of a river each time a car drove by. Wading through a soupy mixture of rainwater and everything that was on the street during the day - garbage, coconuts, dead animals, etc. - was unexpected, but necessary to get a TukTuk back home.

4.29.13

Placement #5 - CWC

Walking five minutes from the volunteer house rather than taking a 30 minute TukTuk ride each way to work is a luxury given the heat here, and that's one of the welcome benefits of the new placement, CWC. I'm working with three other volunteers here, and there are 26 kids in the orphanage. However, half of them are at school in the morning, and half are at school in the afternoons, so really there are 13 children at a time. The 26 kids live together in a house with four stories (the stories are really, really small). There is a garage, which doubles as the living room on the first floor, with the kitchen. On the second floor are an office and a bedroom. The third floor has the library/makeshift classroom with laundry room and one other bedroom. The fourth floor has another bedroom and office. The roof is basically an open concrete slab with clothes lines. Near as I can tell, there is a staff of two: the mom that lives in the house with her toddler son (another on the way) is early 30's, and a woman who cooks, cleans, and lives here with two of her children, in her 40's.

I'm sure this probably goes without saying now, but the kids are great. They're ages 5-18, and I look forward to learning what this placement has in store. Most of the day involved coloring, going over the ABC's, and playing a modified version of soccer in the street. It's a small volleyball that looks like it might be Wilson resurfaced off the shores of southern Cambodia after he fell out of Tom Hanks' boat and sailed the seas for the last ten years, finally resting on the shores of the Mekong; better days it has undoubtedly seen.

4.30.13

Lately, I've been questioning the value of my contributions to the orphanages at which I've been volunteering. I do believe in the value of being present and offering positive time and energy, in any capacity. I've just had the feeling of not knowing whether I've been of benefit for the kids or their caretakers, not knowing if my presence has been useful. Today, those feelings were amplified by a factor of ten.

Last week, I emailed an NGO called "ChildSafe," which is partnered with Friends-International. Their mission is to be "a proactive child-protection network involving key members of society, protecting children from all forms of abuse and preventing child exploitation and trafficking." I emailed them to see if I could interview someone at ChildSafe (they have a branch in Phnom Penh) and informed them of the purpose of The Volunteer Adventure and the goal of the documentary. Here is my initial email:

Dear ChildSafe,

My name is Alexander Hallett. I’m a filmmaker and documentarian from Washington State. I’m currently traveling the world for one year, volunteering in orphanages in ten different countries for one month each. The overriding purpose for my journey, though, is to make an honest documentary about the lives of the children and their caretakers in the orphanages. Allowing them to tell their story, unfiltered, to the world will educate the viewer with a truthful insight into the lives of the children, what it means to volunteer, how to tell the difference between legitimate and exploitative orphanages, and how to have the most meaningful and conscientious impact on the lives of the children. The goal of the documentary is to provide a medium for the children and their caretakers to tell their story to the world, and to inspire others to volunteer in a responsible way.

I’m writing to see if it would be possible to interview anyone at Childsafe – volunteers, field workers, etc. - about their experiences at orphanages in Phnom Penh, the mission of Childsafe in regards to seeking out and finding justice for children in exploitative orphanages, and steps one can take to ensure they are volunteering in an orphanage that fosters positive growth for the children. This would be incredibly insightful and helpful in the documentary, and go a long way towards helping viewers understand the continued reality of exploitative orphanages and the risk of “voluntourism”, which many don’t realize exists. In doing so, you would directly help inspire responsible volunteering. If need be, I can omit names or black out faces of the workers interviewed for security reasons.

I’m currently in Phnom Penh, and will be here until May 12th, when I fly up to Nepal. Please let me know at your earliest convenience if this is possible. It wouldn’t take more than an hour or two, and it’s just me - no film crew.

Thank you for helping make a profoundly positive impact in the lives of so many children. Your organization comes highly regarded by everyone with whom I’ve spoken, and I hope that this is a possibility.

Thank you for your time.

Best,
Alexander Hallett

And their reply:

Hi Bodi,

Thanks for getting in touch.

ChildSafe is powered by Friends International, an International NGO supporting children and their families to become productive citizens. One of the various programs we have is ‘alternative care’. In short, this program encourages that children be raised in their family environment, this can be aunts / uncles, grandparents, if this is not possible, within their community in kinship care, or national fostering.

In Cambodia and many other regions of the world, children that are not orphans are separated from their families to live in an institution (orphanage). This is not the best place for a child to be raised (based on 60 years of research from UNICEF), the west discontinued the use of institutions / orphanages many years ago due to problems for the children in emotional development, physical development and high risks to abuse.

The increase of tourist and volunteer visits to orphanages is increasing the number of orphanages to open, therefore increasing these risks to children. Due to this we do not support any visits to orphanages or promotions that encourage more people to visit orphanages. Please also understand that in many cases the orphanage director earns money from the donations that the children are used to generate (dancing, volunteers teaching children games, English etc). Due to this the child could be putting themselves at risk by telling you their ‘honest feelings’ about living in an orphanage.

For these reason we do not support your project, but we would be very happy to meet with you a discuss these issues in more depth if you are interested? Friends has been working in Cambodia for 19 years and has watched the business of orphanages expand intensely so we can provide you lots of information why to avoid supporting this system and to encourage well-meaning travelers to support programs that help keep impoverished families together, not separating their children from them.

Our office is central Phnom Penh, if you did have time we’d be happy to meet you.

Not sure what to make of this yet, but my self-defense alarms definitely started ringing, and my self-esteem and sense of purpose took a bit of a hit. It's a great opportunity for an interview, and I'm definitely going to go through with it and (do my best to) put any feelings of validation to the side. Just never easy to hear someone you respect or in a position of influence doesn't really believe in or support what you're doing, especially when the present state of mind isn't buoyed by the greatest amount of self-confidence.

5.1.13

  Solo at CWC today, which meant I had more time to spend with all of the kids, which of course also meant they all wanted to play soccer and run around outside, which means all the water I diligently drank throughout the day would end up in my t-shirt. This seems to be a theme. It also meant I got to talk with the kids one on one a bit, and I learned a couple interesting things in the process.

                1. Not all of the kids at CWC are orphans. Many have at least one living parent, who they still see back in their home province during holidays.

                2. A lot of the kids come to live at CWC simply so they can live in Phnom Penh and receive a better education. In a lot of the provinces, there are no schools for kids above 16. In addition, there's a belief that the schools in Phnom Penh are of higher quality, and if they want to get into college, and then get a good job, they need to leave home as a child.

                3. It costs $1,200/month to care for all 26 kids. That's all inclusive - rent, food, clothing, medicine, transportation. That's roughly $1.50 per child per day.

So, technically, CWC isn't an orphanage in the truest sense of the word. Part of me can't help but feel a little...I'm not sure. Disillusioned? Worried that it might be an exploitative front for the woman who runs the orphanage to make money off the kids? I hope that's not the reality of the situation. In any case, it makes me feel a little knocked off kilter. On top of that, one of the main bullet points ChildSafe talked about in their email - the children not being orphans, but being separated from their families all the same - is present here.

5.2.13

The CWC kids dressed up for their performance.

My fears of the orphanage being exploitative just grew. Today, we went with the kids about an hour out of town to a place simply called "The Factory." The kids have been practicing a dance the last two days, but until now I didn't know what its purpose was. Every couple months, they go out to the factory and dance in front of a rather large crowd for money. This morning, they went in full classic Khmer attire, complete with props (fake swords, masks, and bow and arrow). This place is sort of in the middle of nowhere, in an industrial part of the outskirts of Phnom Penh. When we pulled up to the gates, it felt like we were waiting to get into Coachella (or Woodstock, depending on the generation). Hundreds of people in line, bass heavy music playing from inside, and thousands of people on the other side of the wall. At 8am. What?

So we get through the gate and follow the kids to a completely separate part of the facility which has about twice as many people. There, the volunteers and I were directed to follow an usher of sorts to a boxed in area, which turned out to be the ultra exclusive, diamond level, VIP box section of the entire facility. Everyone else was standing room only, and here we are with fans on us, bottled water, pink silk seat cushions, and a pile of brand new rice cookers. The kids come out, and a guy in his early 20's sings a classic Khmer song which, near as I can tell, is the same 4 lines over and over for about 5 minutes. At the end of the performance, the kids walk around the inner circle of the group of people and extend a satchel on a stick for people to put money into. Among them, kids, teenagers, businessmen and businesswomen. At the end, a Chinese businessman who was sitting with us in the VIP section deposits a bankrolled stack of Cambodian Riel into the satchel, to booming applause from the audience.

Dancing for money.

Money collection.

On our way out, one of the volunteers and I were given a Black Panther beer by a large group of twenty-ish guys, and we gave them a toast which resulted in uproarious cheering. (I didn't crack my beer at that time. 9am, even if I used the excuse that it was 9pm back home, is a bit early for me. I did crack it tonight, though, and it was like drinking mud. Delicious, hop and barley flavored mud.)

A couple years ago, I did a 10 day Vipassana retreat. Vipassana is the term for insight meditation (no religion), and supposed to be the kind of meditation Siddhartha did to become the Buddha. It was silent 24x7, with 10 hours of meditation per day. I've never been so clearheaded and centered as I was on that retreat - both before and after - and I promised myself I'd make an effort to sit for at least an hour a day moving forward to continue in the practice. Flash forward two years and I'm lucky if I get in 15 minutes per day. I make excuses all the time in the midst of my watching episodes of Star Trek or Chopped, but the fact is I'm just lazy. But when I heard that one of the temples nearby had a free Vipassana sit at sunset, I was all in. The sit was one of the more challenging hours I've had in a while, but great because of that. And the view and surroundings were pretty transcendent.

Afterwards, a group of us went to go get Indian food at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant near downtown, and it was the best I've had in my life. Afterwards, we took in a little local entertainment in the form of a little movie called "Iron Man 3". This is my first time watching a movie on this trip, and I've gotta say: it's a pretty sweet gig. Aside from only costing $5 to see the moving in 3D on opening day, there was air conditioning to boot and people watching aplenty. That makes for a good experience all around.

5.3.13

Today, two of the volunteers - Rachel and Tanya from Australia - had their last day. They wanted to have a party with the kids, so they went to the mall and local supermarket and picked up a few cakes and drinks and toys. Really nice of them to do. Tanya also brought her laptop so the kids could watch a movie. Their choice: Top Gun. A+. Though I will say I don't recall the silhouette make out scene with Tom Cruise and the flight instructor being so surprisingly and unnervingly graphic for a PG make out scene. Tom Cruise's tongue darts out of his mouth like a gecko chasing after the last mayfly on Earth, and it's gross. Also, kind of awkward to watch with the kids. All in all, a fun way to end the week of work.

5.4.13

During the reign of terror of the Khmer Rouge in the late 70's, there were over two million children, women, and men slaughtered at hundreds of killing fields across the country. One of the most notorious killing fields was Choeung Ek, located a stone's throw outside of Phnom Penh's city limits. Today, Choeung Ek is a memorial site. Thousands of people visit it every year, and today I was one of them. I didn't know what to expect.

One of the most unsettling things about Choeung Ek, among countless others, is the fact that I could see the buildings of Phnom Penh from its grounds, and there is a thriving village around it. Without the history of what happened here about 30 years ago, it would feel just like a farm pasture or city park, tranquil and serene.

After thinking about how to approach it for quite a while, I've decided I don't really want to write a lot about Choeung Ek. This is partly due to the fact that I'm still wrapping my head around it, but mainly because the limitation of language (at least my written word) and any attempt to describe what it's like here would pale in comparison to what it is to experience it. Just know that, if you ever pass through Cambodia, you need to go. I'll leave it at that.

Central Market, Phnom Penh.

Another day off today, and that meant two things: Central Market and Cambodian Kickboxing. The market is pretty cool, literally and figuratively. The architecture of it is a dome, which provides natural air conditioning to the whole facility, plus it looks really cool. Compared to Binh Tanh in Ho Chi Minh, this was really low stress. I walked out of there with a fake G-Shock watch and a Batman t-shirt for only a couple dollars. Mission accomplished.

Then, I went to a kickboxing match, which was televised. There were mini jumbotrons and thousands of people there and, almost certainly because I'm a tourist, I was invited to sit ringside in a VIP section for free. (I also sat behind the guy who must have been Flash Gordon's stunt double. Legendary hair.) The matches are like nothing back home, and I don't know where to begin in describing them. For starters, the boxers enter to classical Khmer music, played live by what appeared to be a high school band. And when I say the boxers enter, I mean they dance to the music as they enter the ring, while they're in the ring before the match, and for part of the first round while they size up one another. It's like a synchronized ballet between two scantily clad, muscle bound guys that could drop me like a sack of wet meat in five seconds. There were five rounds per match, with no knockouts, but a lot of knockdowns, and even more hooting and hollering. This was a lot of fun, and for free dollars, even better.

Pre-fight dance.

Flash!

Spoiler Alert: Dude in blue is about to get rocked.

5.6.13

Nan is the name of the woman at CWC who takes care of cooking and cleaning the house. Aside from being one of the most humble and polite individuals I've met on my journey so far, I learned today that she has been through innumerable hardships in her life, and triumphed over countless pitfalls that would have seen me give up time and again if I were in her shoes. The specifics of her story I won't get into here, because her story is her own. When I work on piecing the Volunteer Adventure book together, I'm going to ask her if she would like to submit a written account of her life to include in the book, so she can tell the story in her own words. It was inspiring to hear what brought her and two of her children to CWC.

5.7.13

Today was the day for the interview at ChildSafe, and it was a really, really good experience for many reasons, the least of which was that my feelings of a loss of purpose for embarking on this adventure were assuaged when we were able to discuss the scope of the documentary and trip in person, their support after learning more of the details a welcome reassurance in light of the original exchange of emails.

ChildSafe is an impressive NGO. Aside from providing work for street kids and impoverished parents (examples: the affiliated Friends restaurant, or the textile factory at their headquarters where an honest wage is paid for work that benefits all impacted by the organization), helping to rescue children who are victims of child sex trafficking, and find and close down exploitative orphanages, their presence in Phnom Penh and beyond inspires the greater community to better care for all children. They inspire by example.

The interview was with a man named James Sutherland, a Scot who moved to Cambodia with his wife some years back and has worked at ChildSafe for 8 years. The interview lasted about 45 minutes, and there's a lot to dissect, so here are some key takeaways that I felt would be good to share.

In almost all cases, they support a foster system for raising children. Whether it's through relatives or community members, they believe the children should be raised as close to family as possible.

They don't encourage volunteer tourism, especially foreigners volunteering in Cambodian orphanages. Their reason is because well-intentioned volunteers coming to Cambodia, passing through orphanages and making donations of money and goods, creates a demand for more and more orphanages to open (the amount of orphanages in Phnom Penh has almost doubled in the last 5 years - the amount of orphans has not). When more orphanages open, there is a greater chance for more to be exploitative and for children who are there to not really be orphans.

James encouraged people who want to make a difference to simply help the local economy by visiting as a tourist, going to places like ChildSafe, Friends, and supporting local businesses.

To learn more about their mission, I encourage you to check out www.thinkchildsafe.org and www.friends-international.org.

5.8.13

The orphanage, outside, for sale.

At the orphanage today, I noticed a For Sale sign on the outside of the house. Interesting. I don't know if this means there's an imminent sale, and I wasn't really able to get a straight answer out of the house mom. Regardless, I can't help but wonder what this means for the kids. Some of them come to CWC from the neighborhood nearby in the afternoon as a form of daycare. Moving out would almost undeniably mean these kids wouldn't be able to go here anymore. As far as the future of the orphanage as a whole, I've no idea.

5.9.13

A professor from Humboldt University came to the orphanage today, handed the house mom $500 (in $100 bills, which she put in her purse), signed a receipt book, chatted for a couple minutes, and left. He earmarked the funds to be allocated for food for the kids. As tomorrow's my last day, I have pretty much no way to tell how much of that money will go to the kids, and how much will go to the mom of the house. I did have a chance to take a look at the receipt book, though. In it, there was a history of donations ranging from $100 up to $800, with no real discernible pattern for the dates or amounts. This isn't to presuppose the money donated doesn't go to the kids, or that there's corruption afoot, it was just interesting to see the history of donations that comes in.

5.10.13

Today was my birthday, and also my last day volunteering in Cambodia. I've never been one to broadcast my birthday (not in a self-negating type of way, rather it’s just never been my style), but facebook being what it is word got out to my roommate and a few of the volunteers. It was pretty great to be surprised with a birthday cake (thanks Rochelle!) in Cambodia. My housemates were kind enough to sing happy birthday as the cake was revealed, but then candles were discovered in the box after the song had already been done. Can't blame them for take two being a bit half-hearted.

All the kids at CWC

Saying bye to the kids is something that I've started to get used to, but I don't think it will ever be easy. Even though I didn't feel like I was able to lend a hand in a very concrete way at CWC, it's simply not possible to not grow attached to seeing their smiling faces every day. But, with the reality of the impermanence of volunteering being what it is, another volunteer will come along and take my place next week, I'll become a memory for some and forgotten to others, and everything will continue on as it was before I arrived. And so it goes.

5.11.13

Some of the children killed at S-21.

In the heart of Phnom Penh, there's a place named Tuol Sleng, or S-21. It used to be a school in the middle of the city set against a rather peaceful place of town. During the reign of the Khmer Rouge, the school was converted into a prison where thousands of children, women, and men were tortured, beaten, killed, or shipped off to one of the killing fields. Now, it's a museum. Going there is something that no amount of reading or documentary watching will help with because, much like Choueng Ek, almost everything is intact and left the way it was 30 years ago. There are still shackles on the ground. The crude brick cells, quickly cobbled together to keep as many innocent inmates inside the walls as possible, are undamaged. Pictures of inmates who were dead in the cells when the Vietnamese arrived to free the political prisoners line the cell walls. Handwritten notes from people forced to confess to being part of the CIA or KGB (including some Americans, Australians, and Europeans) are kept in their original condition in one of the wings of S-21. Only a handful of people ever survived the horrors here. While visiting certainly isn't an enjoyable experience, I encourage anyone who visits Phnom Penh to go.

I met up with two of my volunteer friends I met in Vietnam today, and they were only in town for the night and wanted to go to the night market. I figured I'd bring my camera along and get some footage of street kids for the documentary to add as B-roll. I wasn't prepared for what happened next.

While I was filming, I noticed a tall, older, Caucasian man staring at the children with a 3-4 year-old Cambodian boy clutched to his leg. Two well-dressed men walked up to him, shook his hand, and he picked up the boy and walked towards the exit of the market. It's clear that the boy was sold as a sex-slave for the night to the man. I had to do something, or at least try, to stop it. I stopped filming and followed him to the exit, where he was holding the boy in his arms, nervously looking around for a TukTuk. I approached him.

I met up with two of my volunteer friends I met in Vietnam today, and they were only in town for the night and wanted to go to the night market. I figured I'd bring my camera along and get some footage of street kids for the documentary to add as B-roll. I wasn't prepared for what happened next.

While I was filming, I noticed a tall, older, Caucasian man staring at the children with a 3-4 year-old Cambodian boy clutched to his leg. Two well-dressed men walked up to him, shook his hand, and he picked up the boy and walked towards the exit of the market. It's clear that the boy was sold as a sex-slave for the night to the man. I had to do something, or at least try, to stop it. I stopped filming and followed him to the exit, where he was holding the boy in his arms, nervously looking around for a TukTuk. I approached him.

Me: "Hello. How's it going?"

                Guy: "Fine, fine."

                Me: "May I ask what you're doing?"

                Guy: "What do you mean?"

                Me: "Where are you going with the child?"

                Guy: "I'm his old man, stupid."

                Me: "...you're his old man. How do you mean?"

                Guy: "Yeah. Where you from?"

                Me: "America."

                Guy: "America? Bullshit. You're bullshitting me."

                Me: "Excuse me?"

                Guy: "If you were really from America you'd know old man meant dad, stupid."

                Me: "I know what it means. You're not his dad."

                Guy: "Yeah, look at his hair, look at his skin, he's not Cambodian."

                Me: "Yes, he is. I work in a Cambodian orphanage. He's Cambodian."

                Guy: ...

                Me: "Where's his mom?"

                Guy: "Haha, OK, whatever."

Then he started walking back into the market, so I tried looking for a police officer. I asked TukTuk and motorcycle drivers, one after another, for help. I tried to explain, to no avail, that that guy was taking that boy to molest or have sex with him. Then, the guy came back out of the market, only this time the boy was being held by a very young woman who appeared to be a prostitute, flanked by a younger Cambodian man and those two well-dressed Cambodian man from earlier. I watched, unable to do anything at the risk of my own life. The white guy approached me, and got right in my face.

Him: "You know, I run a non-profit that gives a minimum wage of $2/hour."

                Me: "Ok?"

                Him: "If there was a fair working wage everywhere, it'd prevent modern day slavery and the

trafficking of people."

                Me: "Cool."

                Him: "Look into it."

                Me: "Uh huh."

Then, he got into a TukTuk with the boy, and the people he came out with, and drove off.

I'm sick to my stomach. I wasn't able to do anything. I watched a boy get sold into sex slavery and I wasn't able to do a thing about it. Even though I know if I would've pushed the issue I might not be here to write the sentences, I feel like I let him down and I didn't do enough. I'm going to remember this, and that boy's face, until I die.

5.12.13

The power was out all night. When that happens at home, it's not that big of an issue (unless it's the dead of winter). Here, it means waking up dripping sweat and not being able to fall back asleep. I went downstairs and lied on the linoleum, where mosquitoes had a field day throughout my hour of spotty sleep. Not the ideal way to segue way into the last day in Cambodia, but to be honest, after last night, I'm not much in the mood for anything.

5.13.13

In addition to saying bye to the kids, it's also tough to do the same with the host family and fellow volunteers, many of whom every waking moment for the course of a month is shared. It's pretty remarkable how simultaneously close and distant you can grow and remain through the shared experience. It's a delicate dance: trying to remain from being too self-revealing, but also wanting to open up and listen, set against the backdrop of the knowledge that the odds are you probably won't see one another again, despite efforts to stay in touch. That's not to say it won't happen. I plan to with a select few for quite some time. It's just the reality.

My friends in Cambodia, you will be missed.

And with that, I went to the airport to start the journey to Nepal. A 2 hour flight to Kuala Lumpur, a 13 hour, overnight layover, and a 5 hour flight to Kathmandu.

Adventure continues. Thank you for joining me on the journey.

Postcards from Cambodia, to many of you beautiful people.

Mr. C. Best TukTuk driver in the world.

Vietnam Recap: Weeks 3-5

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 06:09:52 GMT

Ky Quang, Mekong, & Saying Goodbye

Summary: On Monday, 4.1, I worked my last day at Gia Dinh school, and had an Easter party with the kids and teachers. That afternoon, I started my placement at Ky Quang Orphanage. Lifechanging. Worked here all week, then went to the Mekong Delta for a mini getaway over the weekend and held a 7 foot python. Got back from the Mekong, and started filming and interviewing kids and the caretakers at Ky Quang and shooting lots of supplemental B-Roll. Last week at the volunteer house, too. Then, went to Da Lat for a really beautiful weekend, and had my last week at Ky Quang, and in Vietnam altogether.

4.1.13

The beginning of the third week of volunteering in Vietnam started with my last day at Gia Dinh School - bittersweet, but beautiful. It was a special, Easter school day full of egg painting, treats for the kids, arts and crafts, games, and maybe the most smiles and laughs I’ve had compressed into only a few hours. It was tough saying goodbye to the kids, but it’s reassuring to know that they are in the hands of such thoughtful, caring, and compassionate teachers and guides. After class, we shared a delicious meal with all of the teachers and workers, and word got out that I’m a rapper by profession. I didn’t expect this news to be greeted with so much excitement! I was inundated by requests from the principal and teachers to write a hip hop song for the kids to learn and sing, and so it looks like I’ve got a little bit of homework to do over the next couple weeks. How awesome would it be to see and hear 50 kids at Gia Dinh having fun rapping and dancing to a song I’ll write in Vietnamese, using it as a tool for learning? Answer: very. In the afternoon, I started at Ky Quang Orphanage. Here are some pictures of the last day at Gia Dinh.

Placement #3: Ky Quang Orphanage

Before I came to Ky Quang Pagoda, I must admit I had an idea in my head of what the orphanage would look like, and this created an expectation for the experience, which is something I’ve found is generally best to avoid, since expectations can only have one of two outcomes: they’re either a) met, and I feel no different because I expected it to happen, or b) they’re not met and a form of being let down or depressed follows suit. So, when I heard that the orphanage at Ky Quang was run in large part by Buddhist monks, the idea I had in my head was a very basic, simple, minimalist pagoda adorned with a few statues of the Buddha and a wide-open space to meditate. I figured the monks would be with the children most of the day, using the opportunity to care for the children as a chance to practice mindfulness and awareness of the present moment through the eyes, tears, laughs, and conversations with the kids. But that doesn’t seem to be the case.

The pagoda is filled with so many carvings, statues, and adornments that it bears a closer resemblance, to me at least, to the Crystal Cathedral - or a Midwest mega church in its gaudiness - than to a Buddhist temple. The pictures below will say more than my writing can summarize, but the pagoda clearly has copious amounts of money poured into it to maintain and decorate it, while the orphanage occupies a space teetering between third world and absolute destitution. Because of this, it’s hard not to feel the latter outcome to expectations. Be that as it may, in the chances I’ve had to speak with the monks, it’s clear they care very deeply about all of the children here. It’s easy to understand why: one second spent with these kids would erase any and all feelings of disillusionment in even the most ardent of skeptics.

Pagoda

Orphanage Daycare

Ky Quang is like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and here’s why: in addition to being orphans, most of the kids here have severe physical and/or mental handicaps, some due to the generational effects of dioxin in Agent Orange. Some have cerebral palsy like the children at LTK, but it goes beyond that. One boy has limbs that are practically bent backwards, and he scoots around on the floor placing all his bodyweight on his wrists and ankles. Another boy was dropped off here as a newborn and has never left the walls of the orphanage – he’s 28 years old. Several of the toddlers have hydrocephalus (fluid on the brain), and since the cost of correcting it by placing a shunt to drain the fluid to the stomach is out of the reach of most developing nations, they essentially lie on their back and stare at the ceiling with a migraine headache their whole life while they wait to die. An 18 year old girl was lured outside the pagoda when she was 16, raped, and returned to the pagoda. Despite all of this, they have smiles that can’t be contained. I’ll take pictures later and insert em here, but right now I want to focus on building a relationship with the children so that taking pictures and video is something they look forward to, rather than feeling like some sort of exhibit.

Professional athletes and coaches like to talk a lot about “overcoming adversity” in their quest to win the championship. Maybe their right guard had turf toe and played through it or their forward had a temperature of 98.7 and persevered in an almost Herculean effort of might and muscle in the face of insurmountable odds. But I think they’d agree the face of true strength, courage, and the very definition of adversity overcome is the kids here and at LTK. I used to think I was tough and strong because I could bench press my bodyweight 20 times…sort of an irrelevant definition of brawn now (plus I can’t do that anymore…or anything near it…).

I can tell the experience here is going to impact me indelibly.

*Side Note* This is the first April Fools in 5 years in which I haven’t pulled a prank of a friend. Usually, I post a fake craigslist ad, giving away something free (like a collection of theatre wigs, troll dolls, marionette puppets, or laser discs) with their phone number. So be ready next year, all of you. You’ve been warned.

4.2.13

The schedule at Ky Quang in the daycare is roughly as follows: arrive at 9:30. Play games with the children and help in some mild physiotherapy, like helping them walk with the use of braces or stretching out their arms and legs, for the next hour. At 10:30, help feed them lunch, clean up any mess made while trying said endeavor, and put them down for nap. From 11-2 they and the nurses sleep, while we are free to do whatever: have lunch, read, sweat in the sun, or sleep ourselves. Then, from 2-4, play with the children some more, take them for walks in wheelchairs around the pagoda, dinner time from 4-5, help change, clean, and deliver them to the room where they sleep, then head home. Today, though, I was more or less used as the hired muscle to haul around water and move the children around. They must have been desperate, because at a buck fifty and some change, I’m not really tipping the scale with Schwarzeneggerean strength. Even though I probably lost about five pounds in sweat, it was refreshing to get some semblance of a workout.

For the rest of the day, I spent most of my time trying, and failing, to feed a boy named Kuong. He’s six years old and awesome (like all of the kids here). He has cerebral palsy, so his body fails him, but he’s really smart. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like to see other able-bodied people wandering around while being confined to a chair, the ground, a wheelchair, or braces 24/7. Though I can see on his face, and sometimes through his tears, that he understands the reality of the situation and the ensuing frustration that accompanies it, the fact is he is more often than not smiling. I’ll take some pictures of him next week to show to you, and post them below.

4.3.13

It’s incredible how quickly the children accept strangers into their world, their family, their community. Given the fact that I am one of hundreds, perhaps thousands of volunteers many will see during their lives, the reality is that they may very well forget me after I leave – be it a day, a month, or a year from now. Many, many more people will take my place and forge a bond with the children in a similar way, and that’s a great thing…as it should be. Part of me can’t help but wish I could make as much of a positive and memorable influence on each of their lives as they do on mine. But I won’t. And that’s OK. I’m here, now, in the present moment, to do what I can to help their today to be filled with just a few more smiles and a couple more laughs, and I’m eternally grateful for this opportunity.

A day will come when I’m nothing more than a memory for these kids. I’ll inhabit the same place as old friends I swore I’d never forget, but whose names moved from daily conversation, to the tip of my tongue, to the recesses of my mind, in some deeply buried off place as I become older and a bit more forgetful. It’s human, and I think that’s as it should be. Now is all that exists, and the future will come when it will. Today is where I will focus my work, one hour, one minute, one smile at a time.

There was a volunteer today who was overcome with emotion, of a feeling of guilt at not being able to do enough for the children, or help their lives in a way that would be as long-lasting as she hoped. I completely understand that, and can relate to the same feeling. Yet, while I’m certainly no expert on this and I can only speak from my own experience, I feel it’s important to recognize the possibilities vs. limitations, and expectations vs. realities, of being a volunteer at a place like an orphanage.

I remember my first week at Ebenezer Orphanage in Kenya, I wanted to “save” as many of the kids as I could. Not in a sense of move them to some different surrounding – they were/are incredibly happy being at Ebenezer – I just wanted to do more than I was. I wanted to somehow provide them with food and medicine and shelter and happiness forever. Then, the reality set in that that wasn’t realistic. The amount of time and resources I had, and any volunteer has, is limited. Always. Whether it’s one day, one month, one year, or one lifetime, eventually it will run its course. It’s important to recognize that, because there is freedom in the finite. There is no one to save, and no one who needs to be rescued. All that exists is the here and now. Lend a hand, help feed, teach, dress, smile, secure donations for food or clothes or medicine or surgeries, draw animals and finger-paint. As much as it’s possible, help make each day a little better. Then, be at peace with the truth that adding a little bit more good and doing what could be done to add to the positive is something to be celebrated. Every little bit of good matters. Or so me thinks.

4.4.13

When I arrived in the morning today, I was greeted by about 5 children who ran, wheeled, or crawled to the gate to welcome me with a hug, a kiss on the cheek, or a hi-five. That alone makes any of the minor setbacks of the day – food poisoning, standing for an hour and a half bus ride and having nowhere to move and being too tall for the bus so the head hits the ceiling, returning home and needing the jaws of life to get out of your now 10lb loaded with sweat t-shirt – absolutely worth it.

Any problem I may have in my life seems to dissolve into the ether for the time that I’m with the kids.

Amore vita.

Tonight was the last night for several of the volunteers with whom I became great friends. It’s tough. You’re basically together 24/7, living in the same house, sharing similar experiences, and helping to keep one another’s spirits raised. There’s a strong bond that forms quickly, and even though there’s always the knowledge that the time together is brief, when that time comes to an end, it’s tough to say goodbye. To celebrate our time together, a large group of us went to a restaurant called “Alex’s Café”, which I was keen to go to, since any restaurant that shares my namesake and all must be great. Pretty interesting experience to have English pub food in the Than Quy ward of District 7, but hey, it was delicious. Plus, it had one of the most adorable puppies I’ve ever seen romping around with a 3 year-old after whom the restaurant is named.

Safe travels to my friends, and I hope to see you again someday soon.

4.5.13

Already one week at Ky Quang - hard to believe. Today was one of the more difficult days, physically. I wasn’t minding my P’s a Q’s with water consumption, so I was real, real dehydrated, in addition to sweating buckets. (I drank three liters of water without even feeling the inkling of an urge to go use the loo for about 4 hours after I got back home). On top of that, there were just some minor inconveniences: got thrown up on, headbutted in the ear 3 times, an uppercut by a head to the jaw, and just couldn’t seem to do anything right. Then, on the way home, I was crammed, like usual, onto the #34 bus with about 40 other people. The difference with this bus versus the others was that the ceiling happened to be around five and a half feet tall. I’m just under six feet.

But there are of course always going to be days like this, and of course it didn’t amount to more than a big sigh, the enjoyment of a cold shower, and, always, inexpressible gratitude at the chance to be able to spend the day with the kids at Ky Quang.

4.6-4.7.13

This weekend, I decided to take a mini voyage out of the smog and motorcycles. Destination: Mekong Delta. $30 for a roundtrip bus ticket, bungalow on the water, two meals, and boat rides is a pretty good get. Highlights were: falling asleep to the sound of crickets on the river, sunset, making our own spring rolls at the homestay, holding a 7 foot python and not dying, etc. Good stuff.

Here are some shots from the Mekong.

4.8 - 4.10.13

The details of work at the orphanage on some days can start to sound similar, even though each day is unique and has experiences that won’t be replicated. So, I thought this would be a good time to discuss something that I have been grappling with for a few days, and trying to wrap my head around. All of the kids at Ky Quang – and any orphanage in the world for that matter – have been abandoned by their parents. Whether they were abandoned knowingly and on purpose, like the majority at Ky Quang who are left in the dark of the night as newborns in baskets or garbage cans, or as the result of their parents dying with no relatives to care for them, the fact is they have been abandoned. With that in mind, is it beneficial or detrimental for the kids, in the long run, for volunteers to show up only for a limited amount of time and form a close bond, only to turn around and leave and abandon them again? Does this perpetually revolving door of volunteers do more harm than good, and further amplify and serve as a reminder of abandonment?

I think the older children know that volunteers are each only there for a limited amount of time, but I don’t know what kind of effect it has on the younger ones. As I progress in my travels, I plan to ask this question to the older kids. I just have to think of the best way to phrase it.

4.11.13

It’s interesting to see how the kids respond to people who only stop by the orphanage for a short amount of time, and to see how these people respond to the kids. There was a couple who walked up to the gate of the daycare, donated 3 packs of gum, looked uncomfortably at the kids, took a lot of pictures without spending any time with them, and walked off. In effect, they treated the kids as nothing more than exhibits in a human zoo, their handicaps and deformities serving as a carnival of oddities. This happens a lot.

I’ve also experienced volunteers - from the US, Europe, Australia - who have almost no interaction with the children outside of posing for pictures with them, feigning affection for a fleeting photo. Part of me can’t help but feel the volunteers who do this are volunteering simply to feel a boost to their karma and to show their friends back home that, “Hey, I volunteered and spent a good amount of time with these poor brown kids.” That’s just a knee-jerk reaction, though, and I can’t pretend to know a person’s truest intentions and volition for why they’re here. Maybe I’m being too cynical. If in their heart of hearts they’re there to truly lend a hand and be present, great. But if not…

4.12.13

Lights up, cameras rolling. Today was the first day of interviews for the Volunteer Adventure. I interviewed the nurse in the newborn room, and two girls who my friend Nhi helps teach English to in the afternoons. I learned a lot. The nurse, who has worked at Ky Quang for over 5 years, has cared for dozens of newborns and infants. There was recently an instance where a visitor stopped by the newborn room and stole a child. Because of this, they rarely let any outsider into the newborn room. Sometimes, the babies who are dropped off don’t make it to childhood. Her son became a monk at another pagoda and, when he made that choice, it meant severing ties with every relationship in his life – including with his mom. So, she doesn’t get to speak to her son at all anymore. I asked her how she felt about this, and she said she was proud of him, and his devoting his life to something greater is the most she could ask for.

One of the girls I interviewed was too shy to appear on camera, so I conducted an audio interview. She wants to be a magician when she grows up! The other, who is a wiz at math, was dropped off by her parents at the orphanage when she was six years old. Six. I have no words.

4.13 - 4.14.13

Waking up at sunrise and not instantly sweating is an experience I haven’t had in five weeks, but that’s a treat that I got when stepping off the overnight bus in Da Lat, a relatively small city about 7 hours north of Ho Chi Minh. Here’s what sunrise looked like.

If for nothing else than a brief excursion off of the surface of the sun, this was a great trip. It was also really scenic, the food was great, and I stayed in a hotel with air conditioning. I also found a store that sold only Johnny Walker’s and Spam. I ate at a restaurant where the owner painted me a picture with his fingers. I meditated under clear blue skies on the bank of a lake. I walked about 12 miles without breaking a sweat and was able to go for a run. My lungs hated me for the 6 weeks of almost no exercise while simultaneously sucking in the exhaust of about 34,568,391 motorcycles and packs of cigarettes (secondhand, though I feel like it'd make economic sense for me to pick it up at 75 cents/pack here).

4.15.13

This is my last week in Vietnam. In some ways, it feels like I’ve been here for two days, in others two years, but isn’t that always how it goes. I’m staying in District 1 right now, which is the really Westernized part of town. I officially finished volunteering through IVHQ on the 11th, and it was substantially cheaper for me to stay downtown than at the guest house, so I went ahead and booked Long Hostel, which I recommend to anyone who visits Ho Chi Minh – AC, comfortable bed, a refrigerator, and $7/night is hard to argue against. The experience staying here vs. District 7 is vastly different. I got propositioned for a prostitute – by both men and women – five times within my first hour of arriving, offered weed three times.

Navigating through the maze of prostitutes and drug pushers, I happened to strike up a conversation with a motorbike taxi driver. His name is Tho. He’s 65 and reminded me of my grandpa. He told me his story: he was an interpreter and code breaker for the US in the Vietnam War. Three of his sons, who were children at the time, died in the war. His wife died a few years back. He has two sons who survived the war, who he is incredibly proud of, and he has been a moto driver for the last 10 years. One of his favorite things is being a sort of diplomat for visitors to Vietnam, greeting them with a gentle politeness and practicing countless new languages.

I’m not a good enough writer to explain what the experience of looking into the eyes of a man who has no more tears left to cry because life has used him as a punching bag is like. Wounds heal, scars don’t, and there are hurts that time will never erase.

4.16.13

The head monk at Ky Quang is a man named Thich Thien Chieu. Until today, he was a person of myth and lore, for I heard about him and his work on almost a daily basis but never saw him. Somehow, I talked my way up the chain of command and secured an interview with him. He’s one charismatic dude. He has been the head monk at Ky Quang for longer than I’ve been alive, and has been directly responsible for helping to raise hundreds upon hundreds of children who have passed through the walls of Ky Quang. Here are some key takeaways from the interview:

There are a little over 250 kids at Ky Quang. About 20% are blind, 30% are physically and/or mentally disabled, and 50% have no handicaps. It costs about $8,000 a month to care for all of the children. When the children are old enough, they go on to become monks, attend university, or get jobs. Some of the kids aren’t physically able to leave the orphanage. Kids who pass on are cremated and buried in a plot in a public cemetery. His favorite memory out of his entire time as the head monk was helping restore sight to a blind child, but he says there is no happiness that matches what he receives any time he is able to spend time with the children.

I went to the newborn and toddler room with him after the interview, and took pictures of him playing with the children. It’s clear that he fills the role of father to almost all of the children, and they respect and adore him. I also had the chance to interview two of the nurses that I work with in the daycare, and was able to gain added insight into their daily lives and of the kids I’ve been working with over the last couple weeks. Beautiful people.

4.17.13

Fred and Sarah, two really nice Canadians (is there any other kind of Canadian) that were staying at the same hostel asked if they could come to Ky Quang with me to volunteer for just a few hours. I could tell they actually wanted to work with the kids, and it wasn’t just about a photo op. They brought balloons and the kids lit up. Always really great to see and hear all of the children laughing.

After work, I – along with four other volunteers - was invited to dinner by one of my fellow volunteers, Nhi. Her aunt and uncle live just around the corner from Ky Quang. Incredible food, wonderful company. I also happened upon Cobra Kai practicing in the park for their rematch against Daniel San.

4.18.13

It’s my last day at Ky Quang, and in Vietnam. There’s an inexorable truth that I’ve found in every minute with these children, and it’s because of this and the incredible gratitude that I feel at the opportunity for their allowing me to be a part of their lives that I’m not a blubbering, weeping old fool right now.

Here’s some pictures that’ll serve as a reminder to me when times get hard, and they will, that there is still beauty, truth, and boundless good in the world.

4.19.13

Today, I hopped onto a bus, navigated the border crossing out of Vietnam (the process of getting the visa felt like people betting on a cockfight), and moved onto my next destination: Cambodia.

Vietnam Recap - Weeks 1&2

Sun, 31 Mar 2013 12:03:46 GMT

Gia Dinh + LTK = Amazing Kids x Infinite Smiles.

I’m writing this from the top floor of a six story building in District 7 of Ho Chi Minh City. This is where I’m living during my five weeks in Vietnam. Here’s a picture of what my view right now looks like:

It’s pretty strange to think I’ve only been here for two weeks – feels longer, and not in a bad way. Working with the kids at Gia Dinh School for Children with Special Needs and LTK Hospital Daycare already ranks up there with some of the best experiences of my life. My days usually consist of the following: At Gia Dinh, helping the children with their homework, assisting the teacher in the lessons, and dancing with the kids. At LTK, most of the children have cerebral palsy. I help them to dress themselves, feed and clean them, and help them continue to learn how to walk. Next week, I start at an orphanage run by Buddhist monks in a pagoda called Ky Quang, and I’m going to miss the kids at Gia Dinh and LTK a lot. The locals in Vietnam are incredibly polite, helpful, and caring. Really, really good food and drinks is about $3 for an entire meal. And there are some of the most incredibly awesome t-shirts I’ve ever seen in my life. (For example: Iphone 5 – Why So Much Beer? Or Waiting on a Supernova. Come on Apocalypse! 1965.)

So without further ado, here are my reflections and ramblings over the last two weeks, broken down into days with some of my favorite pictures. I love and miss every one of you, and I’m so, so very grateful for your support in helping make this adventure a reality.

3.15

It’s 4:30PM right now IN THE FUTURE (at least if you’re reading this in the US or Canada or what have you) and it’s hot as allllllllllllllllll get out right now. It’s also pretty noisy down on the street, what with the neighborhood dogs barking intermittently, roosters and hens clucking before their heads get lopped off, and motorcycles racing around one another and narrowly dodging pedestrians who are doing their best traffic two-step to avoid that whole “death by being run over by a motorcycles, bus, taxi, or car” thing. So that brings me to two things that really stood out to me in Vietnam from the jump - the heat and the motorcycles. They were right there when I first stepped off the plane. That’s saying something, because I arrived at 2am after traveling for 30 hours. Let me explain.

1. The heat: imagine being in a sauna with 99% humidity, no discernible air movement, and no escape from the heat (unless you’re super rich or staying with someone who is and can afford air conditioning). Or, just imagine Tampa, but with less Republicans.

2. The motorcycles: words fail to adequately convey the sheer magnitude of motorcycles and scooters there are on the streets here, so here’s a picture to do it justice (though that almost doesn’t cover it either)

To put it another way, there are 30 million motorbikes in a country of roughly 90 million people…right around 1 in 3 people have one. The maze of motorcycles would be overwhelming in and of itself, but there’s the additional wild card of not being any discernible street signs or lanes to direct the flow of traffic. Motorbikes go wherever they want, whenever they want: sidewalks, against traffic, into your leg…

Awoke at 5:30 today to perform some semblance of a workout today before leaving on placement orientation at Gia Dinh School, one of two places I’ll be volunteering for the next two weeks. (Already 80 degrees + pushups on a linoleum bedroom floor = lots of slipping onto my face). Caught two buses on about an hour and a half commute, which takes me roughly 10 miles – by my math, about 7 mph. My placement is in the Binh Tanh District of Ho Chi Minh, in the central eastern corner of the city. From the gazes, laughs, and stares of the locals, this doesn’t seem to be a place many white folk wander. There’s an open air market here which pretty much redefines my notion of what “fresh” is. Frogs tied together with string, fish flipping out of their bowls, and chicken being butchered straight out of the coop. Plus, of course, motorcycles weaving through the whole of it.

Gia Dinh - View from the Classroom.

Placement #1 - Gia Dinh: an inner-city school for children with Down’s syndrome and severe Autism.

When I arrived at Gia Dinh, I was welcomed by smiles and hugs by the teachers, and cautious waves and handshakes by the children. Understandably so – someone completely new encroaching on your space is always an interesting thing no matter who you are. Goal #1? Achieve genuine smiles and high-fives from the kids while helping lend the teachers a hand. After introductions, there was an assembly for me and the other volunteers – and Gangam Style. I was always so-so on the song, but it’s pretty incredible to see how it can be used in a setting where it is helping the kids learn body movement, rhythm, and counting. (Psy - I apologize for doubting your artistic integrity, my friend).

After the assembly, we went to recess with the kids, aged 5-15, and played basketball, catch, and balloons. We then went to a class where a couple of the older kids use looms to make really, really impressive and beautiful wallets, purses, and bags. One of the girls, whose name I have not learned the proper spelling of (but will when I bring paper and a pen), danced to a techno version of Hotel California, which was honestly really good (the dancing, not the song. Not an Eagles fan).

Back home after a nice morning and afternoon at Gia Dinh. Cold showers never felt so good.

P.S. Mosquitoes in Vietnam are no joke. They’re also on some super stealthy ninja mission, because I never see them, just wake up with more bites each day that turn into an awesome sack of fluid and blister and pop. AND THEY AREN’T EVEN SATISFYING TO ITCH!

P.P.S. My Heart Will Go On, from Titanic, is still huge here, in some form of techno mashup.

3.16

Having been born and raised in a moderately-sized coastal town, I never experienced waking up to a rooster until this morning. As soon as the sun comes up, around 5:45, the roosters drown out the almost constant walla of motorbikes to announce the new day. It’s just as well, since there are few better ways to adapt to a 14 hour time zone change than by getting an early start to the day, pushing the body through a walking comatose state until the evening, and crashing. Hard.

After pumping a good 3 cups of coffee into the bloodstream, I experienced my first taste of the bus system, on the way in to District 1 of Ho Chi Minh City. I can say with absolute confidence that the most crowded New York or London subway car has absolutely nothing on marginally crowded buses in Vietnam. Imagine a normal city bus. Now cut it in half. Now pack 50 people on it. You’re almost there…Be that as it may, I wouldn’t trade the bus travel for a taxi given the option, because this is a great place to meet strangers, learn Vietnamese, and get travel tips from the locals who are all more than happy to oblige, and even brush up on their English.

I went with a new batch of volunteers, led by a couple of volunteer guides, to see some historical sites of the city. First stop?

*cue monster truck rally voice guy*

THE POOOOOOOOOOOOOST OFFFFFFFFFFFFFICE.

(No but really, we went to the post office). To be honest, though, this was basically the Taj Mahal of post offices – about the size of Grand Central Station. Huge mural of Ho Chi Minh in the back, about 30 workers feverishly taping boxes, and knickknacks out the wazoo for purchase. I tried to track down some stamps and postcards, but no luck.

After hanging out in the DMV and the Vietnamese branch of the IRS for a couple hours, we found our way over to the Reunification Palace. It’s pretty wild to stand on the same ground that the president of South Vietnam called home during the war until the fall of Saigon in 1975. Here are some pictures of the inside of the palace. They still use some of these rooms for conferences and meetings today.

In 8th grade, I remember seeing a traveling replica of the Vietnam War memorial before I saw it in person in college in DC. Anyone who has seen this knows that few things can prepare you for the emotional impact of seeing the names of thousands upon thousands, who were once living, breathing, smiling loved ones, on the same pursuit of happiness that we all share, left to history as a few square inches on stone. People who could have been our teacher, our doctor, our baseball coach, our aunt or uncle…they became ghosts of the pasts, living on through the memories of those that loved them. It’s overwhelming to see the immediacy of sacrifice of fellow patriots. Having seen this memorial, I thought I’d be prepared to see the Vietnam War Museum in Ho Chi Minh. I wasn’t.

It’s one thing to read about the effects of Dioxin and Agent Orange in A People’s History or online (I don’t recall many textbooks in school including this), but it’s another to see the result, in person, looking back at you. Two generations removed from the Vietnam War, there are children in the lobby of the museum who are all victims of Agent Orange. One boy, in his teens, was born with no eyes. Another, physically deformed and confined to a wheelchair. Still others deaf, blind, handicapped, and despite it all, they smile. Play music. Sing. Make arts and crafts. Introduce themselves to all who enter the museum.

I hope to someday realize and practice 1% of the forgiveness on display in these incredible children. I can’t fathom it, really…looking in the face of someone from the country that is responsible for your lifelong suffering and truly, genuinely greeting them with loving kindness. I’d like to imagine the same thing happening in America if a country fought us on our own soil and polluted our atmosphere with poisons that left damaged fingerprints on following generations, but I don’t know if we are capable of it as a nation. Fox News and all of the turmoil that followed over the potential building of a peace-loving Mosque near Ground Zero makes me believe otherwise.

May we all one day know true forgiveness.

3.17
Note to fellow travelers that you probably already know: voltages in other countries are different. Check the label on your plug and make sure it can accommodate 100-240V. Otherwise, you’ll be like me: fully bearded and electric shaver-less after you plug it into the wall and blow the fuse and unsuccessfully try to MacGyver the damn thing back together.

3.18 – 3.19

                Yesterday and today were full volunteering days – basically, 6am-6pm. It’s important to note, though, that the children at most Vietnamese orphanages, daycares, and the like take 2-3 hour naps. So, this time is usually set aside for an extended lunch break for the volunteers. I found an all-you-can-eat buffet in a hotel restaurant for 32,000VND, which is about $1.50. A plus, in addition to the cheap food is the fact that the place has a modicum of air conditioning. I can see myself spending a bit of time here in the hot afternoons.

Goal #1 of having the children at Gia Dinh give genuine smiles and high-fives, and lending a hand to the teachers: check. It seems that, even though it has just been a few days, the kids are becoming accustomed to me. Which is good, because they are incredible – so full of life and energy. The teacher I assist is a 40ish woman named Khang, who has such a tangible joy for teaching these kids. It’s inspiring. She teaches me Vietnamese while I help the kids count, and the kids teach me numbers while I teach them English. Also, the principal looks like my kindergarten teacher, which I can’t help but view as a good sign.

LTK is a hospital in the north of the city, and it’s here where I’ll be spending my afternoons. I’m glad that’s the case. There are about 20 kids here, along with three nurses who help to take care of them. The kids have distinct disabilities, most of which are on the severe end of things. The majority have cerebral palsy. During my time with them, I try to assist them in developing their motor skills, by playing catch, or standing behind them and helping them walk, or drawing. I’ll take some pictures as proof, but I might be the worst drawing grown-man on the planet.

It takes me a while to process experiences like spending time with the kids at Gia Dinh and LTK. To me that’s just…life, in its most raw and pure. I wouldn’t consider myself a religious man, but I do believe in something more than just my experience. Something that unifies us all, our collective energy which manifests into moments like this: where the smile and the eyes of a kid lying on the floor, gasping for a sparse breath between bouts of using all their energy to painfully swallow a morsel of food, say more about the universe and god and life and stardust than any astrophysicist or preacher or genius or dude like me could ever express. Life definitely isn’t about me. This much I know. But I can’t help but feel my chest fill with inexpressible gratitude at the chance of being a part of this cosmic two-step, these kids some of the best dancing partners there ever was or will be.

3.20

I’ve had a pretty wicked rotator cuff injury that I haven’t been able to afford checking out, and it has been building and compounding for quite some time. So, when some of my housemates invited me into town to get a massage, I thought it a good idea to get some physical therapy on my shoulder. An hour massage for $9? Deal. But there are two things I didn’t know. First, half of it would be a Thai massage. Second, Thai massages are basically you lying there and getting the piss beaten out of you. Pain before beauty, they say. I’m still waiting for the payoff.

3.21

The fourth day at Gia Dinh started with an assembly from a nearby private school. One of the girls sang “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables, some of the kids from Gia Dinh performed a symphony on homemade violins, and others made speeches. I had no idea what half of it meant, but I know it was still pretty great.

Bich Uyen. I work with her a lot of the class.

In class, I really had some breakthroughs with a few kids. Two that were initially (and understandably) standoffish to my presence actually requested that I helped study with them – both have Autism. My experience with Autism in a classroom setting is admittedly limited, but it seems to me that the biggest hurdle is simply building a rapport in an organic way, and letting the ‘teacher-student’ stuff follow naturally.

After class, the principal invited me to a dance lesson with an instructor and the rest of the staff. I’m the kind of guy who, on the rare occasion I go to a club, will either, a)be perfectly content having a White Russian or five while I let someone else fill my spot on the dance floor, or b) if I’m there with a lady who wants to dance, I’ll pull the “I-got-my-drink-in-my-hand-and-I’ll-hold-it-to-the-ceiling-and-salute-other-guys-doing-the-exact-same-while-she-takes-care-of-the-dancing-for-the-two-of-us” dance. Unacceptable here. Cha-cha and tango? Check and check-minus.

Went to the hospital and met Minh, whom I hadn’t met before. He’s 20, speaks pretty great English, and has severe cerebral palsy. His favorite sport is soccer aka football aka soccer, and his favorite team is Manchester United. I don’t know much about pro soccer, but I do know Beckham used to play for them, and that Arsenal is one of their rivals. So I spent the next half-hour telling him why Arsenal ruled, even though I have no idea if they really do. If there name is any indication, they do, indeed. We both seemed to enjoy that. Helped a few of the kids continue to learn how to walk, played a modified version of catch, and called it a day.

3.22-3.24

If there’s one thing I learned this weekend (and, at most there was indeed only one thing I learned this weekend), it’s this: Sicknesses in Vietnam are pretty funky! Woke up on Friday with a super elevated fever, diarrhea, and just all around no-goodness, so I slept for about 18 hours, which is a personal record for me. And, when I wasn’t sleeping, I was at or near the toilet. I also had a seizure, which wasn’t the most pleasant experience in 100 degree heat, but…not much else to do but rest up so I can hit the ground running on Monday!

Quan.

3.25

Still feeling a little less than stellar, but I only have a limited amount of time to volunteer, and I’m not too keen on wasting it sweating and fevering under a mosquito net, So onward it shall be.

Today at Gia Dinh I worked most of the time with a boy named Quan, who has severe Autism. In his workbook, he’s supposed to trace the letters in the Vietnamese alphabet. Sometimes in the middle of writing, his pencil trails off as he looks off into the distance. When he does that, I erase it. He started to pick up on it and, with a twinkle of mischief in his eye, would write the letter perfectly and then draw a straight line next to it just so I would erase his “mistake.” And then do it again. And again. I’m also helping him with his English, which is surprisingly varied and clear. Right now he just knows select words, and every now and then he’ll shout “Hexagon! Cucumber! Watermelon! Snake! Rhombus!”

The kids at LTK were inspiring as usual today. My cheeks are sore from smiling all the time.

3.26

After work today, a group of us volunteers went into District 1, which is where all the fancy pants restaurants and stores and hotels and Westerners stay, to have a goodbye dinner for a few of the volunteers who leave tomorrow - Katja, from Germany, and Rumika, from Japan. We ate at a place called T9, which has little grills at each table where you cook all your dishes yourself. I had deer and vegetables and beer. It was delicious. And at $4, it almost felt wrong. There were also two birthday dinner groups. For each, they turned off all the lights, popped those confetti in a bottle things, and played techno. Silly!

3.27

                 This is my first day traveling solo on any of the buses, and to be honest I kind of like it. No offense to the fellow volunteers with whom I’ve been working – they’re very authentic, polite people – but it’s nice to be able to zone out and not worry about feeling any obligation to engage in a discussion. Pretty tired after a long night and early morning, but there may be no better remedy to grogginess than a roomful of kids who are excited to learn. We did yoga together today. It was pretty great. Just by virtue of how hot it is outside, it’s like doing Bikram (sp?). Also, at recess, this little guy kept chewing on my t-shirt and imploring me to lift him up so he could dunk into the 5 foot hoop. Tough to say no.

I found a sweet little Pho shop next to LTK and, even though it’s probably standard, run-of-the-mill in Vietnam, it’s better than the best Pho I’ve had back home. After lunch, I hung out in the lobby of the hotel to steal their AC and wifi. A Vietnamese couple, dressed up like they were on their way to prom, asked if they could take my picture, which involved me posing with them for the next 5 minutes. Awesome. Also, booked my ticket to Nepal from Cambodia.

                At LTK, there is a boy named Ang. Ang was born with both genitalia, a mental handicap, difficulty hearing, and pretty intense psoriasis that encourages him to take his clothes off in the middle of the ward and wander around naked on some days. Today was one of those days. The only person he wanted to have dress him? Me. I didn’t realize how difficult it is to dress somebody else until today, probably because I’ve never done it before. But after helping Ang change, several of the boys with cerebral palsy wanted me to lend them a hand. Some of them cannot bend their arms or legs, so putting on a t-shirt takes several minutes of slowly wriggling and stretching the shirt past their head, shoulders, and elbows while trying not to rip it. It’s an incredibly humbling experience. In a couple days, I’ll no doubt take dressing myself for granted again. But, for the next couple days, I don’t think I will or can.

                After class today, I got a ride back home on a motorcycle by the parent of one of the kids at LTK. I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, and starting off by navigating the wild west of motorcycles that is Ho Chi Minh City seemed as good a way to start as any. We drove around to several of the districts and to the outskirts of town, where I saw a lot of development and construction underway in some of the more undeveloped parts of town. Western stores are spreading out here, too, like GNC and KFC. I don’t know how I feel about this. On the one hand, a society and culture should be free to change or evolve any way they see fit, in an autonomous way. On the other, I can’t help but feel that I wish some of our cultural influence here maybe isn’t for the best. This is clearly a culture of boundless community, natural beauty, and shared sacrifice. When some aspects of Western influence spread into the culture here – rampant consumerism, the commoditization of the individual, our ideal of beauty permeating into the movies and billboards and magazines…it doesn’t feel like it’s for the good. In 5-10 years, I bet it’d be tough to tell that this is the same city it once was in 2013.

3.28

Dance lessons again today at Ghia Dinh. At LTK, there were folks painting murals in one of the rooms, so all of the kids were confined to another room. It’s interesting to see the increased camaraderie that comes about as a result of not being able to spread out as much. Kids that I hadn’t ever seen play together were talking and laughing. Good stuff. Here are pictures!

3.29

No matter how old you are, there’s one constant that will always remain unchanged: water fights will make you feel like a little kid. Here are some shots of the kids learning about volume and containers by throwing water at each other and the staff (below, with the other pictures).

On a sad note, today is my last official day at Gia Dinh and LTK. I’ll be starting at Ky Quang Orphanage on Monday. It’s tough to communicate in writing how much of a connection I feel to the kids after only two weeks of being with them. I mean, in the whole scheme of things, two weeks isn’t much. I think it’s because there’s a strong bond that’s formed through activities like helping dress or feed them, helping teach them how to walk, them teaching me Vietnamese or about soccer or about foods to eat and foods to avoid. But most importantly, they helped remind me how to laugh fully, live authentically, and worry less. I’ll never be able to thank them enough.

Best smile ever.

An amazing nurse, an equally amazing kid.

Chubbiest cheeks ever.

Waiting for his mom to pick him up.

The kids in my class and Khang, the teacher.

The aftermath of the water fight!