tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74177843221972755882024-03-05T21:18:24.300-08:00Coconut RadioCeleste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.comBlogger121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-76762640903866070442014-12-03T12:28:00.000-08:002014-12-03T12:28:33.141-08:00Passports With Purpose Round Five: Honduras
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It’s that time of year again. For the fifth time in the
last six years <a href="http://www.kamokapearls.com/" target="_blank">Kamoka Pearl</a> is donating a prize to <a href="http://passportswithpurpose.org/donate/" target="_blank">Passports With Purpose</a> via
my blog (last year I was so crazy busy that I missed it). I really love doing
this since it’s a way to blend my travel writing with my family’s Tahitian pearl
business in a way that reflects my values and I hope, the values of my work.</div>
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<a href="http://passportswithpurpose.org/donate/" target="_blank"><b>Passports With Purpose</b></a></div>
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Each year Passports With Purpose seems to find a grassroots
organization to support that resonates with whatever happens to be going on in
my life at the time. They <a href="http://coconutradio.blogspot.com/2009/11/passports-with-purpose-help-build.html" target="_blank">funded a school in Cambodia</a> the year I went to
Cambodia, they <a href="http://coconutradio.blogspot.com/2010/11/pearl-for-passports-with-purpose-round.html" target="_blank">built a village in India</a> the year I left my small village in
Tahiti, they <a href="http://coconutradio.blogspot.com/2011/12/passports-with-purpose-round-three.html" target="_blank">built libraries in Zambia</a> the year I got serious about writing and
publishing my memoir (it’s now agented and in the works) and this year they are
donating proceeds to teach sustainable farming in Honduras – I grew my first
successful crop of organic tomatoes this last summer. </div>
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<a href="http://www.sustainableharvest.org/" target="_blank"><b>Sustainable Harvest International</b></a></div>
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Whatever Passports With Purpose chose to support, their
travel savvy team finds organizations that do exceptionally meaningful work
with the funds procured. Sustainable Harvest International will use this year’s
money to teach rural farmers in Honduras sustainable farming techniques that
will help them move away from slash and burn agriculture. From the funds, one extended family will get sustainable farming training and coaching for five years. Not only does slash
and burn deplete the soil and make farmers constantly need more land to farm
(which can encourage the cultivation of virgin forests), but it can also leave
them destitute as when they run out of land to use. Find out more about
Sustainable Harvest and their successes <a href="http://passportswithpurpose.org/2014/09/10/get-to-know-sustainable-harvest-international/" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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<b>The Prize</b></div>
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This year <a href="http://kamokapearls.com/" target="_blank">Kamoka Pearl</a> is donating a $250 gift certificate
to use at our online store. I’m a co-owner of Kamoka, raised my babies on the
<a href="http://kamokapearls.com/pages/our-history" target="_blank">remote Tahitian pearl farm</a> and now my husband Josh Humbert and I are running an
<a href="http://www.kamokapearls.com/" target="_blank">online boutique</a> of Kamoka jewelry here in the US. Our pearls are the most
<a href="http://kamokapearls.com/pages/sustainability" target="_blank">sustainable gems</a> you can find on this planet and we pride ourselves on
producing fine quality that’s in tune with nature from a farm that provides a
great place to work for many islanders and their families. We’ve been featured
in <a href="http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2013/08/130811-eco-friendly-pearl-farming-kamoka-polynesia-oysters-environment/?rptregcta=reg_free_np&rptregcampaign=20131016_rw_membership_r1p_us_se_w#" target="_blank">National Geographic</a> for our sustainability and Josh was a keynote speaker at
the first <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qog8fC62bzQ" target="_blank">Sustainable Pearls Forum</a> in Hong Kong this year. At the forum, Josh
was accompanied by industry leaders like Paspaley, Mikimoto and Tiffany’s --
although those names are the biggest in the pearl world, little Kamoka Pearl is
a far bigger name when it comes to sustainable pearl farming and Josh was able
to inspire the big guys and teach them a thing or two. </div>
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Use the gift certificate towards any <a href="http://kamokapearls.com/" target="_blank">Kamoka products</a>. We’ll
also provide free shipping via USPS Priority Mail to anywhere in the world. The
certificate will be good for one year and can be used multiple times until the
full amount has been used. Check out our <a href="http://kamokapearls.com/" target="_blank">online store</a> to see what’s available!</div>
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<b>How it works</b></div>
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To enter to win the Kamoka Pearl gift certificate or one of
many other great prizes, just head over to the Passports With Purpose website
and go to the <a href="http://passportswithpurpose.org/2014-prize-catalogue/" target="_blank">Prize Catalogue</a>. Each $10 you bid on a prize will enter you one
time to win that prize. The money you bid will be donated to the Sustainable
Harvest project in Honduras. </div>
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So thanks and best of luck! Josh and I also bid on a few
prizes at Passports With Purpose each year and you’d be surprised how easy it
is to win. We won a wine tasting tour around Washington one year and many of
our friends have won prizes too. </div>
Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-18261984750504281692014-05-23T14:37:00.000-07:002014-05-27T09:06:22.771-07:00Money Rise Luck & Broken Dreams At Chiba's Golden Bathtub<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When you're naked and the only white person among around 50
Japanese women, you expect to be noticed. But here I was wearing nothing but a
folded hand towel on top of my head and not an eye turned my way. Whether it was from politeness or antipathy, I don't know, but I was very appreciative of the anonymity. <i>Onsen</i> are for relaxing and the stage was well set.<br />
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I'd heard of Japanese <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">onsen</i>
(hot springs) that are in gorgeous natural settings next to rivers, in forests
or steaming in the snow, but Ryugujo Spa Hotel Mikazuki isn't one of these. The
10-story concrete building is in an industrial zone on the Chiba Prefecture
shore of Tokyo Bay and is a simply designed, modern complex gargantuan enough
to get lost in. </div>
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Aside from it's popularity with Japanese, its lack of
tourists or ex-pats and its proximity to Tokyo (1.5 hours by train), the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">onsen</i> stands out for the presence of the
world's only pure gold bathtub, a thermally-fed vessel made of 18-karat gold.
(Actually there are two of them: one in the women's bathing area and another in
the men's). Bathing in this tub is said on the website to bring "luck,
luck, money rise luck," so you can relax your body and hope to cosmically
ease your financial woes all at the same time.</div>
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I had ended up at this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">onsen</i>
on a tour that centered on sites popular with local Japanese. As soon as I’d
learned about the tub, I was intrigued because, really, how often does a
person of mortal financial means get to bathe in a solid gold bathtub? When I arrived in the bath area, I scanned the pulse-slowing scene. A
few jet-tubs were in a row near the main window but they were plain white. Nude
bathers soaked languorously in tiled, thermally fed pools while admiring the
cloudy view across Tokyo Bay through a two-story-high wall of bright windows.
Other spa-goers shampooed, scrubbed with their hand towel and washed with hand
showers while seated in front of large mirrored vanity tables. The only sounds
came from the bubbling of the pools; the neutral-colored scene was blurred through
wafts of steam. There was nothing shiny or sparkly in sight. </div>
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Futilely looking for something while naked isn't much fun so
I decided to dip into the expansive selection of hot pools. Some twisted calmly
around tree-filled faux islands while others were swimming pool-sized, tiled and
frothy. I enjoyed the view then shampooed, scrubbed and relaxed like the everyone else. No one spoke to me or hardly to each other and all eyes were set at
half-mast as if in meditation. </div>
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It wasn't until I had almost given up on the golden tub and
was on my way out of the bathing area that I found it. There it was next to the
changing room and backed up against a very ordinary dark wall. Unadorned, it
sat on a slightly elevated platform enclosed by shower stall-like glass walls. The
tub itself was truly solid gold and sat in a thick, silver lattice stand. It
was an old-fashioned footed style tub with higher than ordinary sides. Five or
six women were in line goose skinned and impatiently clutching their
washcloths. Craving the experience but not wanting to join the grouchy and
chilly-looking queue after I’d just gotten so warm and tranquil, I decided to
give it a miss and get up early the next morning to try again. </div>
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I got to the baths the next day as they opened at 7am.
Luckily the only person ahead of me was one of the only other Western women at
the spa. Her name was Monique and she told me that she was especially interested in
the "money luck" aspect of the tub.</div>
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"Lord knows we could all use some of that," she
said as she lounged in the thermal water. </div>
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Monique and I chatted about the amazing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kieseki</i> meal served at the spa the previous night and the
likelihood of either one of us getting rich from taking a bath (verdict: not
very likely). </div>
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"Tub's all yours," said Monique after about five
minutes. "May at least one of us win the lottery from this."</div>
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I went up onto the bath's platform and stepped over the
golden sides. The water was around 104 degrees, hot but not scalding. I
immersed myself fully, feeling my body loosen, and stretched my arms to rest
along the rim. All around me was shiny metal in the near-copper color of
antique gold.</div>
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Yes, here I was in Japan bathing in a gold bathtub. How
romantic does that sound? I had expected to feel something special, decadence
perhaps, so I took a deep breathe, closed my eyes and waited. A few seconds
later I opened my eyes and there I was, still taking a bath in a pretty bathtub
in the dark corner of a spa. I tried to muster elegant, Cleopatra-like
sensations but nothing changed. There was something too communal and public
about it all. Simply put, it was completely mediocre.</div>
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As I came to this conclusion, a woman came up to the
platform to be next in line. Soon another woman joined the line and then
another. While I'd been able to totally relax in the other areas of the spa
there was real pressure here to limit my time absorbing good financial juju.
While no one so much as glanced at me in the other areas, here I was getting
impatient glares. </div>
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After about five minutes I got out. I'd bathed in a golden
bathtub and it wasn't that great. Go ahead ladies, I thought.</div>
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I happily spent the rest of my morning in the other pools,
anonymously listening to thermal gurgles and enjoying the reflections off the
bay through the window wall. As the spa filled with golden morning light, the
world and its financial troubles drifted far from my mind. Maybe just
forgetting about the bank account for a few hours is "money luck.” I felt
lucky to be there, that was for sure.<br />
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A year and a half has passed and no, I haven't won the Lottery. In fact, I didn't even sell a story about bathing in a golden bathtub (my fault entirely since I never pitched the idea to anyone). So while I'm pretty sure the golden tub didn't help my finances, I'm happy and thankful to have had the experience. It's these weird and wonderful moments that spark hope, make us think or even disappoint us, that make travel such a complex adventure -- and honestly, that's lucky enough for me. </div>
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Extra: Here's a video I found of the <i>onsen</i>. I wish I'd known about the buried-in-sand treatment. Guess I'll have to go back. </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/WkkqxaPCEjQ" width="560"></iframe> </div>
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Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-80635670993622257892014-04-29T10:19:00.000-07:002014-04-29T10:19:13.844-07:00The Historian
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I’ve read lots of essays about why people write and they
often start with something about how the writer couldn’t survive without
writing, how it’s what keeps their soul alive and that they’ve been a writer as
long as they can remember. </div>
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When I read stuff like this I feel like an imposter. As a
kid, I wrote because teachers made me do it. Luckily I was good at it without
trying, which boosted my not-so-great confidence and I grew to like writing. </div>
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I fell into my writing career almost by accident. After college
I went through a phase of wanting to ditch the over-intellectual life and learn to use my hands. This (and some romance) lead me to a
black pearl farm on a very remote atoll in the South Pacific where I spent days
scraping sea goo off of oysters or cooking meals for up to 20 hungry men. I got
pregnant, had babies and devoted all my waking energy beyond farm work towards
raising my kids. </div>
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I kept a journal through this time, logging my adventure but
unfortunately its contents would never make it beyond the atoll. In a very
dramatic, small-island crazed turn of events the farm manager stole my journal
and burned it which, paired with other equally deranged events, made my family
realize it was time to move on. It wasn’t until I lost my writing and the details
of my five years of experiences, that I realized I was a writer. The second we
moved to Tahiti and got an internet connection I started sending out
articles. When I told my stories and published them they would stay safe and alive -- I didn't want my history or anyone else's to go up in smoke again, so to speak. </div>
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I’ve now been a full-time professional guidebook and travel
writer for nine years. I officially have the writing bug but I’m still not that
person who would die if I couldn’t write. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of
the night and need to write something that’s brewing in my head, but if you
took writing away from me for a month I’d see it more as a vacation than
anything else (I work too much!). It’s important to me to have correct grammar
but I care far more about creating a unique metaphor that instills a sense of
place than about details like the Oxford comma. I can’t spell to save my life.</div>
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I write because it’s my vehicle
to tell stories and to share information that I’m passionate about. The art is
lovely but to me it’s secondary. Research and discovery excite me more than
getting it all on paper, but once I get to the writing part, I take pride in
doing it well. When I’m in the groove I dote on the shape of words, the cadence
of a sentence and how the mix of it all can run away until it disappears into a
dream world. So I guess, in a way, art follows the adventure and I appreciate
the time it gives me to process information and to look for the stories hidden
within it all.</div>
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Sometimes I feel like more of a historian than a writer. I don't "sit at the typewriter and bleed" (who said that?), I sit and and I recreate the places I've been and the characters I've met while telling an honest story. I come out of it with a stiff back and if things went well I'll have that same glow one gets when reading a good book.</div>
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In any case, I’m writing this because my friend Annika Hipple
asked me to take part in a “blog hop,” where writers answer a few questions
about their writing life. I am being a terrible blog hopper firstly because I’m
not going to answer any of the questions beyond this first part and secondly
because I’m not handing over the baton to another blogger. I blog for fun and I
just got past the fun part.</div>
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But you really should head over to Annika’s blog, see what
she wrote and find more links to why other writers write and what their writing
process looks like. There’s an amazing range of stories.</div>
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You can see Annika’s post <a href="http://www.annikahipple.com/blog/to-write-or-not-to-write-there-is-no-question/" target="_blank">here</a>. </div>
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And here's Annika's Bio -- she is very cool and has a diverse and flourishing freelance career (a rarity in this business):</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Annika Hipple is a freelance writer, editor, and photographer
specializing in travel, adventure, environment, sustainability, and
history. She has contributed to a wide range of magazines,
newspapers, and online media both in the U.S. and overseas. In
addition, she helps travel companies and nonprofit organizations
tell their stories through newsletters, website content, and other
materials. A lifelong traveler, she grew up bilingual and
bicultural, with two countries (the United States and Sweden) to
call home. She has ridden a camel in the Gobi, braved the winds at
Cape Horn, snorkeled with sharks in the Galapagos, ventured into
ancient Egyptian tombs, tracked cheetahs on foot in Namibia, camped
on a beach in the Ecuadorian Amazon, tubed through a cave filled
with glowworms in New Zealand, and stood face-to-face with the
massive <i>moai</i> heads of Easter Island. She blogs her travel
photography on her website, <a href="http://www.annikahipple.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.annikahipple.com</a>,
publishes the Scandinavia travel website <a href="http://realscandinavia.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">RealScandinavia.com</a>, and is
currently developing other blogging projects related to sustainable
travel and history. Alongside her creative endeavors, Annika leads
trips throughout the world as a tour manager and guide for a variety
of travel programs. </div>
Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-84355058774947439932013-11-22T20:26:00.001-08:002013-11-22T20:36:13.694-08:00My Dinner With Excellent<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Excellent Zhan invited me to dinner at his favorite restaurant
in Shenzen. It was my second day in China, I was there on pearl business and keen
to try some authentic cuisine, so of course I agreed to go. I also got a kick out of dining with a guy who had a name like a Klingon warrior.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I’d heard lots of horror stories about Chinese
dishes involving strange animals and internal organs, I thought I could
probably handle anything they served me. I’d eaten grasshoppers, bat and snake
so it was unlikely the Chinese could challenge me much more. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t actually liked eating bugs but if the
situation calls for being polite, I’ll chew up almost anything. And if it
happens to taste good, I don’t really care if it’s something I’m not used to
eating (I do however draw the line with rare or endangered animals). I would
soon find out that I just wasn’t thinking creatively enough.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Excellent was a stocky pit-bull of a man with a greying, tall
flat-top haircut that stiffly gave the finger to gravity. He didn’t speak a
word of English, nor I Mandarin, so our conversations were parlayed through
Candy, his young, delicate translator. Also along for the ride – or actually
giving us the ride – was Excellent’s chatty driver Amy who admitted to me (in
better English than Candy’s) that she had had her driver’s license exactly one
week. Excellent’s nervous-looking wife squeezed in the back seat with us,
turned her head to look out the window, and didn’t say a word to me the whole
evening.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We reached the restaurant safely and got out <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in front of a large red door with a giant
bronze gong-shaped knocker. The man guarding the entrance knew Excellent and they
fretted their hellos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once inside we
were led past a busy dining area to a private room with red walls and a
rectangular dark wooden table. Here we sat. Once he had ordered, Excellent
looked at me and began delivering a short welcome speech in my honor.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Excellent say this he favorite restaurant,” said Candy. “He
say happy he share with you food from he home in northern country. He happy you
here and hope we can do many good business. You like spicy?”<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I assured her I liked spicy food, which I do.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon the first dishes arrived with the wait staff that
brought the platters around to each of us. Every time something new came, our
small crowd chattered and whooped in admiration. Apparently we were getting all
the best stuff. And it really was fantastic. I don’t remember most of it
specifically except it was predominantly in red-orange sauce and had 1000 times
the flavor of any other Chinese food I’d ever eaten. There was a huge variety
and everything was exceptionally good.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then <i>it</i> arrived. From afar, the knuckle-sized bits of what I
assumed was some kind of meat didn’t look very interesting, but when everyone
else in the room realized what it was there was a surprised silence then near
applause. What ever this was it was the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
piece de resistance</i>.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The server offered me some of the mystery dish and I
cautiously took two for my plate. They looked like small rubbery tubes,
tightened through the middle and filled with some sort of soft, mustard brown
goo. Unlike everything else we’d eaten this night, it did not look appetizing.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What is this,” I asked Candy who was sitting next to me.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Candy thought for a moment.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No know how to say English,” she said.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By this time everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to
try this special dish and so I had to. I lifted the first one into my mouth
with my chopsticks.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It tasted just like it looked. The outside was a chewy,
rubbery sleeve which squirted out the slightly gritty, rotten banana-textured
insides. The overall flavor was bitter with a tinge of old-garbage odor. I
chewed and chewed and swallowed until I had cleared my mouth out enough to
politely smile.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Very delicious,” I said. Everyone around me was elated.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked at the remaining morsel on my plate.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Candy, can you give me at least an idea of what this is?” I
asked.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hmmm,” she said pensively. “It’s. . . inside of pig. Like
leeva but not leeva.”<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She added a slow “no” shake of the head to emphasize that
this was definitely not liver.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I thought, thinking logically with what I new about
mammalian anatomy, I am eating buttholes. Perhaps they weren’t buttholes, maybe
they were gall bladders or bile ducts, but whatever they were they were still
full of gall, bile or poo and tasted accordingly. I took the second one with my
chopsticks and tried to look enthusiastic as I popped it in my mouth while my
hosts watched me, proud of how they spoiled their foreign guests.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I chewed, trying not to get too hung up on the texture of
the pig-generated substance inside the calamari-like part, the serving plate
came my way again. There were still a few pieces left.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Take them all,” said Candy, generously.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took one more.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t want to be too greedy,” I said. Candy translated
this and it met with nods of approval. The plate was brought to Excellent and
his wife who hungrily ate the last of the precious sphincters.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t feel sick per se but I really didn’t want to eat a
third putrid, mysterious pig part.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looking around I wondered if I could possibly slip the last
anus into my purse. There wasn’t much sauce so it wouldn’t make too much of
mess. I slid it to the edge of my plate and vigilantly watched my dinner
companions. It would have been pretty easy except for Candy sitting next to me
in my blind spot. When I saw her turn her head away from me, I went to shove
the meat over the side of my plate with a chopstick but it was too late,
Excellent looked over at me with a well fed but business-like expression. I
picked up the last organ and, trying not to dwell too much on the now all
familiar taste and texture, chewed it, chewed some more then swallowed it.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this point I almost expected my host to stand up while a
Chinese reality TV host to popped out from behind a curtain to tell me that the
buttholes had been a really hysterical practical joke, but no. I think we may
have had a digestive beverage, I don’t remember what. And then I was taken back
to my hotel. I never got sick from eating pig butts but I brushed my teeth
really well that night.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward several years to when I write this blog post.
While looking for images I have discovered that pig anuses are actually quite
popular in Asian cuisine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the few
photographs I could find however, I now think I may have been served pig
fallopian tubes. No matter. In early 2013 there was a scandal, soon discovered
to be a hoax, that a product called imitation calamari was made of pig anuses.
From the descriptions of the rubbery nature of pig rectums, it doesn’t seem
like a stretch to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I came across all
sorts of fun facts -- such as that a deboned inverted pig’s rectum, sold at
Asian markets averages two feet long and two inches wide. I’m not sure why I’m
telling you this now but for me at least this puts a sort of closure on my
story.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In conclusion I’m afraid the tale is not much more than
this: I ate something really gross with a guy with a funny name and I still
don’t know what it was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-34617459910587034322013-08-28T11:01:00.001-07:002013-08-28T11:16:57.607-07:00How I learned to never take rides from strangers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8bkWZXAWOQTSHqJMeyJi-oNrtvE-6o2AeXdCN0AkDi7QP8we9suJTTWtD_gZJjUgyBqjoo_DLnUV5j44VjIplgdr-7A14DjMAxcMnpk92DEK_fxAcHjPHAzgvJYWzXimjLZFfo27IBro/s1600/C's+Ahe+Sillhouette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8bkWZXAWOQTSHqJMeyJi-oNrtvE-6o2AeXdCN0AkDi7QP8we9suJTTWtD_gZJjUgyBqjoo_DLnUV5j44VjIplgdr-7A14DjMAxcMnpk92DEK_fxAcHjPHAzgvJYWzXimjLZFfo27IBro/s320/C's+Ahe+Sillhouette.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I just read an article that
made me wince, not because it was bad, but because it so eloquently explained
ideas I've wanted to write about for years. The article was "<a href="http://www.salon.com/2013/08/27/dangers_of_traveling_while_female/" target="_blank">Dangers oftraveling while female</a>" by Tara Isabella Burton on <a href="http://salon.com/">Salon.com</a> and yes, the
title is terrible. Burton doesn't talk about the dangers women encounter in
foreign countries; instead she expertly shows how female travel writers and
adventurers have to give up many possibly amazing opportunities in order to avoid
becoming sexual targets. But the kicker is the last half where the article
winds into what I wish I could shout at the entire travel world: women's travel
experiences might not be the same as men's but we see another angle of the world,
the female angle, that makes up about 50% of the complexity of the human
experience. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">So what does this have to do
with taking rides from strangers? My first solo travel adventure was to
French Polynesia when I was 19 years old. Like Burton I imagined myself as the
classic Indian Jones-type character, chugging off into the sunset on supply
ships, swimming with sharks and living off of raw fish. Actually I did all
these things but along the way I made one terrible mistake: I forgot that I was
a woman. Because of this, the scariest experience I've ever had when traveling
happened on this first trip. I still often forget that I'm a woman and then,
before I do anything too stupid, I remember this story.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Here's what happened:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">On a cloudless, perfectly
tropical day I was waiting for Le Truck (the local bus) from my Tahitian hostel
into the capital of Papeete. I'd been waiting maybe 10 minutes, enjoying the
cackle of voices from a nearby fruit market and the smell of burning leaf piles
in the air, when beat up Pugeot with a bunch of windsurf boards tied to the
roof puttered up next to me. A smiling, slim but strong Polynesian face asked
me if I wanted a ride. I recognized the guy as the sun-weathered windsurfing
instructor of my hostel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">"Je t'ai vu sur la
plage," he said [he'd seen me on the beach], after his offer for a lift.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My 19 year old self didn't
see this statement beyond that I had in fact been on the beach and it was
normal that he would have seen me there and thus recognized me at the bus stop.
In my head I was a swashbuckling voyager, not a bikini babe so instead of
seeing this guy as a person who may have been hitting on me, I imagined it as a
possibility for an authentic connection with a local.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I hopped in.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I can't remember what his name
was so let's call him Teva. Teva spoke no English and at the time I spoke
minimal French. We clacked along in his low-to-the-ground car past giant mango
trees, small waves crashing against the black lava shoreline and plump women in
colorful pareu herding children along the slim shoulder of the road. Teva
chatted with me the whole time, even though I only understood about 20 percent
of what he was saying, and often took his gaze away from the road to try and
look me deeply in the eyes. By the time we reached the traffic-filled market
area of Papeete I wasn't sure, but it seemed like he had invited me to go to
Moorea with him and I had agreed. I had no intention of going to Moorea with
Teva however since, after all the leers and what seemed to be flattering comments
about my appearance, my instincts told me that Teva was not going to provide
the type of authentic local experience I was hoping for.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Still, when Teva suggested
that we both run our errands then he'd drive us both back to the hostel, I
agreed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Our meeting place post-errands was a busy French bakery with outdoor
cafe-style tables and chairs set up in the main walking area of a small indoor
mall. When I got there Teva had already bought me a plate of fancy pastries and
ordered me to eat them. I like pastries but his aggressive tone put me on edge.
I ate one and pushed the rest aside. He knitted his eyebrows together, gave me
a look like I had just broken his favorite toy and brusquely said we had to go.
This was fine with me, I was ready to be back at the hostel and rid of Teva.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">When we got in the car parked
along a dirty curb, he had several wrapped gifts waiting for me and told me to
open them. Especially after the weird bakery scene I had not expected presents
so this caught me off-guard. I opened them - one contained two cheap tourist
T-shirts and the second was a Tahitian pareu and a book on how to tie it. I
thanked Teva for the gifts but he was obviously still angry about the pastries
and would hardly look at me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Off we went, taking a freeway
that led over a small hill with a beyond-my-dreams view of the geometric
silhouette of Moorea, which I had never seen before. It was then I realized we
were going the wrong direction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">"Where are we
going?" I asked, trying not to sound too alarmed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">"To the most beautiful
place on the island," he said in French. Suddenly he was no longer angry,
his voice was soft, nearly patronizing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The most beautiful place on
Tahiti for Teva was the Maeva Beach Resort just outside Papeete. It was a
block-style waterfront resort on a small white sand beach with that same
outrageous view of Moorea. Why at this point I didn't bolt out of the car as
soon as we parked I have no idea. I think I needed things to get really bad to
learn this lesson. And so, we went in to the hotel and out to the beachside bar
on a patio a few feet from the fine white beach. Caucasian tourists, mostly
aged 40 and up looked at me with that surprised look of disdain that's only
given to a white woman who looks like she's bonking a non-white male. I would
experience this a number of times later in life but this was my first
experience with an icky racism that prevails in all cultures and skin colors
around the world; it made me feel dirty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Teva ordered himself and me a
beer without asking what I wanted. Beads of condensation dribbled down the
sides of the glass, reflecting the glare of the sun off the sand. I immediately
told him I wasn't going to drink a beer. At first Teva really looked like he
was about to hit me but he took a breath, then sat sulking, taking long sips of
his beer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">"It's expensive
here," he said. "You're wasting my money."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">After maybe 20 very
uncomfortable minutes Teva had finished his beer. Mine sat warm and flat, no
longer attracting luscious tropical flashes of sunshine. We got up and walked
towards the hotel. Teva's movements were fast and stiff and I had trouble
trying to keep up with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
was an elderly American couple in the elevator that took us up to the lobby
floor that accessed the parking lot. I looked at them and thought that maybe I
should tell them about my predicament, that I was scared of Teva and didn't
want to get back in the car with him. I also didn't know how I would get back
to the hostel at this point without him. A very stupid blend of politeness, shyness
and the inability to raise a scene stopped me from saying anything and I
continued, with Teva back to the car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">This is where my memory gets
blurry. I think we drove out of the parking lot and got on the freeway. Teva
was proclaiming some sort of love for me before pulling over to the side of the
road, grabbing me, cramming his face against mine and sticking his tongue down
my throat. I wish at this point I had kneed him in the balls or gouged his eyes
out but no. I did however manage to get loose, open the car door and escape, I
don't remember how. Teva yelled some Tahitian explicatives at me and screeched
away leaving me alone on the side of the freeway with two T-shrts, a pareu and
a book about how to tie them (how I managed to end up with these I have no
idea. Maybe Teva threw them out the window at me?).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How was I going to get back to my hostel? Again, my memory
here is blank but somehow, I got back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Later when I told the cranky,
chain-smoking ex-pat American owner of the hostel what had happened she said in
a loud cracking voice, "Oh Teva's OK, just don't sleep with him." </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Not surprisingly the hostel
closed down a few years later after several women complained about being
harassed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">My biggest take away from
this experience is that it could have been far worse. Teva was a scum but I was
lucky that he was a soft scum who would warn me about the greater evils in the
world. Now, not only do I never take rides from strangers but I would never
agree to go to Moorea with someone to be polite or hang out with them a minute
longer if they even suggested this. I wouldn't accept an inappropriate gift, I
would insist on at least splitting the cost of pastries and I can firmly say
"no" without feeling rude. The list goes on.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">But far worse is that, when
say a guide offers to take me out alone at night and for free to watch sea
turtles nest on remote Malaysian beaches, I turn him down. When I'm about to
pass out of heat exhaustion in Thailand and a big van with two men inside offer
me a ride, I choose heat exhaustion instead. This is the bad deal we have as
women.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The flip side is, as Burton
writes, that I get to see into women's lives and experience a world that men
will never see. Instead of seeking out authentic experiences with surf
instructors, I try to befriend local women, hold their babies and maybe learn to
cook a local specialty. The travel world has not caught on that these types of
experiences offer adventures that can make for beautiful and exciting stories. Women's worlds are
as interesting and rich as men's and yet we know so much less about them. In
fact, this is a whole other story that's longer, greater and closer to my heart
than I may ever be able to condense into a single blog post. This is what I want to write about, now and for the rest of my life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-31820111472882699342013-05-03T17:32:00.000-07:002013-05-03T17:32:13.117-07:00The Myth of Paradise
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGSfksWYykoX5a-7ZFqeHSxcHWTLlXeMqZQntEBZT0Ia6qrgJaERul3AnuS_ctdx6R0EwcVAHsbJVf_mrF0-hLTyptS8OYr08BpvUv7L-AVib0R_SChHZlVlN96ZsVa3Wp_H3eZBCoSC8/s1600/Raivavae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGSfksWYykoX5a-7ZFqeHSxcHWTLlXeMqZQntEBZT0Ia6qrgJaERul3AnuS_ctdx6R0EwcVAHsbJVf_mrF0-hLTyptS8OYr08BpvUv7L-AVib0R_SChHZlVlN96ZsVa3Wp_H3eZBCoSC8/s320/Raivavae.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="js-tweet-text">
A few days ago I tweeted " I love you Tahiti but I
gotta say that coming back to a sunny Portland is no bummer." I instantly
lost around 15 followers. I'm not too concerned about losing that many Twitter
fans but this made me think about something that I've encountered since I chose
to move from Tahiti to Portland, Oregon about three years ago: people want me
to live in (or at least revere) "Paradise" because it helps them
believe in a better place. </div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
<br /></div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
The chance of any of these people ever packing up
their lives and living on an island or even visiting that island on vacation is
small at best, but when I say that I currently prefer a US city to their image
of vacation land, it's like telling a child there's no such thing as Santa
Claus. That tropical island is like Dr Seuss's Solla Saloo "where there
never are troubles, at least very few," but like the place in that story,
one set of troubles is only replaced by another. This is life, this is planet
Earth and I hate to be the one to burst people's bubble but after the glow of
first love fades nowhere is perfect unless you have personally achieved some
kind of Nirvana.</div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
<br /></div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
Here's the thing: wherever you go you will probably have
to work to survive and if you grew up in the US, Europe or anywhere else
brimming with action it will be hard for you to slow down to the point where
gazing at the sea (or road or palm trees in the wind) for a few hours will
fulfill your activity needs. Not to say I don't love doing this in theory.
Right now as I sit on my deck writing to deadline to the sound of traffic,
hanging out and watching hermit crabs make trails in the sand sounds awfully
nice but years of this with little else going on? Not at this period of my life,
thanks. </div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
<br /></div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
It takes approximately 3.5 hours to drive around Tahiti.
Think about that for a minute. Nearly every inch is surrounded by a gorgeous,
tepid lagoon and the mountains hold lush plantations of bananas and papayas, as
well as tall cascades gushing into crystal clear pools. I love all these places
and really I don't tire of them, but over the 15 years I lived there I have
been just about everywhere, dozens of times. As much as I enjoy swimming and
hiking I am too complicated a person to be able to be happy doing only that, in
the same places, over and over again in my free moments in between work
(because wherever you go you still need money to survive). Life here in
Portland means pubs, restaurant, skiing, beaches, berry picking, varied live music
any night of the week and, most importantly, the ability to drive for hours to
get to a multitude of other places. Right now this is what I want. Maybe as I
get older I'll tire of this and want to settle back down to slow island life
but I'm not done with the continent-based lifestyle yet.</div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
<br /></div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
Also, your shit is your shit and no matter how balmy the
temperatures or blue the lagoon, it will be with you, always. Other people have
their shit too and you will have to deal with it anywhere there are other
humans. </div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
<br /></div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
Example: Last week I returned to my village, Teahupoo for the first
time in 2.5 years. A few years before I left, one of the area's biggest
families put up a gate blocking the area's other biggest family from being able
to access their homes, land and fishing grounds without paying the first,
road-owning family around $375 a piece for gate access. The whole town is in
turmoil about this and guess what? After all the time I've been gone nothing
has changed other than a few fists have swung. </div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
<br /></div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
On a more personal level, half
the village comes into my yard and steals my lemons, a "friend" went
in my house when we were gone and stole my kid's bunk bed and a local woman
threatened to go in my house and "break everything" because we fired
her as a house cleaner when she began working hours we never asked her to and
then demanded money from us. None of these things are a big deal on a grand
scale but to me they equal out the lonely anonymity of city life. Island
problems are more personal and they'll get to you if you don't adopt a very Zen
state of mind. Are you ready for your house and property to be communal areas?
Do you mind having things you do meld into conversations that get warped into
gossip via the "coconut radio?" If so, go try living in Polynesia.</div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
<br /></div>
<div class="js-tweet-text">
At the end of the day for me, I'm taking a break from
both the intensity and calm of island life. It's something I'm not sure anyone
who has never lived on an island can understand. Tahiti is a wonderful place
that I love with all my heart but for now I need more. If that works against
your faith in a perfect world I'm sorry, but I suggest you try meditation.</div>
Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-1076784995036761242013-01-07T10:34:00.000-08:002013-01-07T10:49:10.888-08:00My first travel adventure: Baja 1977<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ffq_EugxrMdQe9mGGCHcTcrWIXuePSUp0XHX_hS0sqzvTYDU6KNA6xggbw2O_eaRp8-dGEX_9nVDj2JqM82VIp_bbo6y6ex67-3ZEOkzt4PbL-2yZtb2DtIeCGC_osWdNvX4_x1L3pg/s1600/Me+&+Jessie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ffq_EugxrMdQe9mGGCHcTcrWIXuePSUp0XHX_hS0sqzvTYDU6KNA6xggbw2O_eaRp8-dGEX_9nVDj2JqM82VIp_bbo6y6ex67-3ZEOkzt4PbL-2yZtb2DtIeCGC_osWdNvX4_x1L3pg/s320/Me+&+Jessie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I'm guessing it was 1977. I was about six years old and my
parents decided we'd caravan down to Baja in our 4WD for an off-road adventure with some good friends who had three
kids around my age. We lived in the San
Francisco Bay Area where we'd just moved to the year before from Brighton,
England. Traveling half way across the world by plane had been long and boring
- I was told that this car trip would be about as long but with lots of fun
stops on the way.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course my memories are hazy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We drove a big green Chevy Suburban. It was used when we
bought it and already pretty beat up. The back lacked cushioning but had lots
and lots of green-painted, cold metallic space. The truck's name was Emmylou II.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emmylou II had a tape deck and this seemed really high tech
to us. We had two tapes for the trip: Stevie Wonder's Greatest Hits and the
Star Wars Soundtrack (as in the whole movie on tape). The trip from San
Francisco to Baja is around 10 hours so you do the math. To this day every time
I hear Stevie Wonder I think about that trip to Baja.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember stopping at a rest stop somewhere in Southern
California and climbing a tree that had brush-like red flowers and cylindrical
nut clusters. I hid in the tree, most likely running away or to Marcus who was
my age and who I adored in a bratty, teasing, six-year-old-girl sort of way,
and picked off all the round, berry-sized seeds off one of the clusters. Then I
probably threw them at Marcus. It was incredibly satisfying. I still love these
types of trees. There are lots of them in Southern California.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we were in Mexico on the beach. I had a pair of swim
fins that I was really excited to try out even though I couldn't swim. My mom
helped me put them on and we waded out into the warm brown water. I can still
remember how silky and bathtub-like it felt up to my knees. But the sand was
more like mud and soon one of my fins was stuck. I had to pull my foot out but
the mud just ate up the fin. My parents dug and searched for the fin but we
never found it. I was sad about the fin but more than anything I was awed that
mud could just swallow something like that. I gained respect for mud.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were fishermen selling small sharks on the beach and I
think we bought one then cooked it on a fire maybe. I doubt I liked it. I was
an extremely fussy eater. I remember that urine-like shark flavor a little bit.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a small shop near where we were camping and a
rotund Mexican woman shopper took a liking to me and fawned all over me. No one
in the US did this much so I loved it and my parents did too. While my dad was
chatting with her in Spanish I wandered through the aisles of the store and
found an open package of . . . Skittles maybe? My parents didn't let me have
candy that often so I grabbed the package and slipped them in a pocket. Later
my dad asked me where I got the candy.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Oh that Mexican lady must have given them to
her," my mom said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This worked fine for me so I silently let them believe it.
Still I was a little scared eating the candy since in the US at that time there
were all sorts of scares about kids getting poisoned by candy given to them by
strangers. I hoped the Skittles weren't poisoned but felt they were worth the risk.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone camped on the beach but little girl Jessie, who was
two years younger than me, was afraid and wanted to sleep in our truck instead.
I said I'd join her because she was the person I liked sleeping next to the
most. The first night went well but the second night Jessie got bit all over
her face by some sort of bug. The bites were small, red and they itched.
Somehow they didn't bite me or maybe I just didn't react to them. Jessie was
really little so she kept scratching and eventually she ended up with scabs all
over her face. I felt bad for her and was really thankful those bugs didn't get
me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We drove inland over all kinds of crazy 4WD roads with
cactuses all around and up and over dry, bristly hills. Near dusk we descended
a hill and there it was: a motel. Maybe we all needed a shower or maybe we were
lost but the parents decided to splurge to stay there the night. I had never
stayed in a motel or hotel before so this was very exciting.</div>
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I don't remember the rooms beyond a sort of mildew smell,
but there was a swimming pool that was full of frogs. They were so loud we
couldn't sleep so my dad had all us kids go out and yell "Campbell
Soup!" at them as loud as we could. I don't think it worked (it never has)
but I still yell Campbell Soup at noisy frogs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My last memory is crossing back over the US/Mexican border.
We had to wait in a very long line of cars to get to the immigration
checkpoints but there were vendors everywhere selling food and colorful
souvenirs like piñatas and ceramics. My parents never bought me much stuff, or
at least I didn't think so, but here they bought me a big, cartoon-looking
ceramic piggy bank. I can't remember anything more about it so it must have
broken not long after we got it home. It was brightly colored and would have
really stood out in my room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Overall the way I remember the trip is the sense of freedom.
The beach was huge and safe and the other kids and I were probably left on our
own to roam around quite a bit. Mexico was warm, salty and had a light sour, flowery
smell to it. I think my parents must have given me lots of Cracker Jacks
because they too remind me of this trip to Baja. Back home things were still
pretty free - this was the 1970s and we lived in the suburbs - but the feel of
a different type of air against my skin, exotic smells and the warmth had me
hooked. Aside from a few family trips to England my next trip wouldn't be till
I was 13 years old and mature enough to enjoy that sense of freedom even more.</div>
Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-6425714190135510582012-11-29T09:31:00.000-08:002012-11-29T09:31:17.244-08:00Passports With Purpose Round Four<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_KaTjTl0XPMGV6eH3WzU-I1KhuXiMN7BUDjXAt0Lyiu0zYYBj9gDuo_LlTv_r8c2BiitG-ligDhU_v0ohdbtbdKf-EJxc16w1Qr4eZH5IDKXlhYftctTl8USBxoLg8dzoW1XTbnPqFk/s1600/pwp+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_KaTjTl0XPMGV6eH3WzU-I1KhuXiMN7BUDjXAt0Lyiu0zYYBj9gDuo_LlTv_r8c2BiitG-ligDhU_v0ohdbtbdKf-EJxc16w1Qr4eZH5IDKXlhYftctTl8USBxoLg8dzoW1XTbnPqFk/s320/pwp+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's mind boggling that it's been three years since the
launch of <a href="http://passportswithpurpose.org/donate/" target="_blank">Passports With Purpose</a> and the first time that I, in collaboration
with <a href="http://buy.kamokapearls.com/" target="_blank">Kamoka Pearls</a>, have donated a Tahitian Pearl (or more) to the cause. And
what's amazing is that every year the wonderful folks who organize this
fundraiser seem to come up with even more vital causes and raise significantly
more money.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year to me is the best yet: clean water. There's not a more
basic need than that. And the location, Haiti, is where this should happen.
With donations towards the unusually special array of blogger prizes (tours, gift vouchers for flights and hotels and even a ukulele) PWP hopes to
raise $100,000 this year and proceeds will go to <a href="http://water.org/">Water.org</a> to dig wells for
clean water in Haiti.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never been to Haiti (I lived in Tahiti for 15 years
and I cannot count the times that people have mixed the two up and asked me
about the earthquake) but I'm fortunate to have a colleague Paul Clammer
(<a href="https://twitter.com/paulclammer" target="_blank">@paulclammer</a> you should all follow him) who wrote the <a href="http://shop.lonelyplanet.com/caribbean/dominican-republic-and-haiti-travel-guide-5/?lpaffil=lpdest-shoppod" target="_blank">Haiti guidebook</a> for
Lonely Planet and has more recently written a very comprehensive <a href="http://www.bradtguides.com/Book/578/Haiti.html" target="_blank">Haiti guide</a>
with Bradt publishing. Through Paul's tweets and Facebook I've followed photos,
stories and snippets that have made it clear how desperate things are over
there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Throughout my travels I've met heaps of aid workers and
villagers who have things to say about aid workers and I've never heard more
glowing reports than of a Peace Corps volunteer in Vanua Levu, Fiji who almost
single-handedly brought clean water to a remote corner of the island. The
villagers told me that within the first year they noticeably saw their children
become, bigger, healthier and more thriving. I can't imagine how it would be to
raise a family while constantly getting parasites or worse, and hoping that
whatever came along wouldn't be strong enough to kill. Eradicating that fear
and seeing the whole community thrive has got to be the biggest game changer
there is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there it is. In hopes of helping this year's drive reach
it's goals (I have no doubt it will so let's go for way past those goals) my
husband <a href="https://twitter.com/KamokaJosh" target="_blank">Josh</a> at Kamoka Pearls and I have donated a truly spectacular pearl.
It's dark and bright with a liquid-y, deep orient that makes you want to touch
it, hold it and wear it against your skin. It's mostly green with hues of
purple and pink. We decided to mount this pearl with a very simple loop to show
off how gorgeous it is, in no need of extra fanfare. If this were in our online
shop we'd price it at $430. It's a gem.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So go over to Passports With Purpose and <a href="http://passportswithpurpose.org/donate/" target="_blank">donate</a>! We always
donate too and last year we won a fabulous wine tour of the Walla Walla area of
Washington State. Not bad for a donation that felt good anyway!</div>
Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-14997496196356332442012-10-11T09:36:00.001-07:002012-10-11T09:36:57.671-07:00How I Packed For Five Weeks in South America in a Daypack<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBqFkOzZgZaivMSgkeD0FkM8Lm-aGwV4obwjQK4xykjEfHYhZhaFBcrzKYYcb7amyu7TyXglJ7tfkfM4Iynvh1mWkckxudtAOQvRIj4OztAGJxAw_9b4-1tZuC6OHCs2kkq5QWjbltoA/s1600/199169_10151181269192340_708362016_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBqFkOzZgZaivMSgkeD0FkM8Lm-aGwV4obwjQK4xykjEfHYhZhaFBcrzKYYcb7amyu7TyXglJ7tfkfM4Iynvh1mWkckxudtAOQvRIj4OztAGJxAw_9b4-1tZuC6OHCs2kkq5QWjbltoA/s400/199169_10151181269192340_708362016_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK so it was a big daypack but, even though I usually carry
a small-ish travel pack, this was the lightest I've ever traveled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
<b>Why I did it</b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been through the Guianas (Guyana, Suriname and French
Guiana - all on the Caribbean coast of South America) once before so I knew it
was going to be rough going in beat up 4WDs or minibuses, over pot-holed muddy
roads and I'd perhaps have to hike some distances with all my stuff. I also
knew it was going to be hot as hell. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
<b>Why I was happy I did it</b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I didn't know prior to my trip was that packing such a
small bag would allow me to travel quickly and cheaply through southern Guyana
via motorbike. This was only possible because my bag was small enough to strap
on the back of the bike, thus sandwiching me between my stuff and my driver.
Even if I'd had my normal travel pack it would have been too big and I'd of
ended up having to pay hundreds of dollars more to charter 4WDs. Packing light
gave me freedom, saved me money and let me enjoy some of the most beautiful
country I've ever seen in it's full glory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
<b>How I did it</b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'd like to tell you that my packing process is highly
refined, organized and detailed, but that would be a huge lie. In fact, I was
working to deadline on two other Lonely Planet books and finishing up my taxes
until the point I walked out my door to the airport. I don't do any of that
"pack everything you need then remove a third [or half or whatever]."
No, I just very logically think about what I need - not what I romanticize
myself needing ("Teach Yourself Dutch" book? Disco shoes? Uh uh).
This of course all depends on destination - if I was going to Italy for example
and eating out at nice restaurants in a relatively wealthy country where people
take fashion seriously, my packing list would have been much different. The
Guianas are poor countries where looking too nice makes you stand out and
become a mugging target.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
<b>What I packed</b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Clothes</b>:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 pair lightweight, wicking safari pants that roll up to
capris</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 pair more city-friendly capris</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 pair long cotton pants</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 pair lightweight nylon shorts</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 T-shirts</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 wife beater-style tank tops</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 spaghetti strap fitted tank tops</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 nylon wicking long-sleeve button-up safari shirt</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 long sleeve cotton shirt</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 lightweight casual cotton dress</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 bikini</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6 pair undies</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 pair socks</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 headband</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 hat</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 sarong</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 lightweight jacket</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 pair hiking shoes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
flip flops</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Gear:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfOS0zSmcOAlTbS-4Iob-fOFuglug2AEPexlj0g21fnIYSzGnaCRFAWuxa58DYx8ZbuAxt_bmQjiivHzob7HPDIV_KnI23acXc1J0i3kCnhC60mi6PkWKKdWA1fcvOX0lJZMzOoujlt4/s1600/camera+etc.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfOS0zSmcOAlTbS-4Iob-fOFuglug2AEPexlj0g21fnIYSzGnaCRFAWuxa58DYx8ZbuAxt_bmQjiivHzob7HPDIV_KnI23acXc1J0i3kCnhC60mi6PkWKKdWA1fcvOX0lJZMzOoujlt4/s320/camera+etc.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Compact, nylon, mosquito netted jungle hammock</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
small binoculars</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Canon G12 camera</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Swiss Army knife</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
small sewing kit</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
iPod</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Netbook</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sunglasses</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
small travel lock</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
flashlight</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
plug converter</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
chargers </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfOS0zSmcOAlTbS-4Iob-fOFuglug2AEPexlj0g21fnIYSzGnaCRFAWuxa58DYx8ZbuAxt_bmQjiivHzob7HPDIV_KnI23acXc1J0i3kCnhC60mi6PkWKKdWA1fcvOX0lJZMzOoujlt4/s1600/camera+etc.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Toiletries</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbk96SHJAwMKQ6BarhzfmgUXdYG58Ab8oHdJxJ5RuuiFxo2DquL1mVAPlg1KPX0B_jyxH5RsTvfEeX5ZO9phvdTu4P4U1TTrA7sXd4S0qeee5rvDC-YpPKfWNZgRi34v9MX-SenV4zCm4/s1600/toiletries.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbk96SHJAwMKQ6BarhzfmgUXdYG58Ab8oHdJxJ5RuuiFxo2DquL1mVAPlg1KPX0B_jyxH5RsTvfEeX5ZO9phvdTu4P4U1TTrA7sXd4S0qeee5rvDC-YpPKfWNZgRi34v9MX-SenV4zCm4/s320/toiletries.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything I needed for showers/personal hygiene I carried
in travel-sized bottles to fit in an 8-inch toiletries case.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Big tube o' sunscreen</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 tubes of insect repellent </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First aid kit (my own compilation)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Individually packed wet wipes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
meds</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tide to Go</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Food & Drink</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6 Luna bars</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
water purification tablets (because my Steripen filter is on
the fritz)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tea bag</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emergen-C packets</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Books</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtqKqOhDWGmBOfUwhLKV0AIBGySpNXc7meiZIBsN6cix1Bp4FHJCGXv0YrxdONlVUDxAB5AHfF2iHau62tMPtJar1hQYYBIAuCMpA3HHp_UM-CYYXTcw-O9vHYizWakk__njKVGgKT4-Q/s1600/hammock+etc.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtqKqOhDWGmBOfUwhLKV0AIBGySpNXc7meiZIBsN6cix1Bp4FHJCGXv0YrxdONlVUDxAB5AHfF2iHau62tMPtJar1hQYYBIAuCMpA3HHp_UM-CYYXTcw-O9vHYizWakk__njKVGgKT4-Q/s320/hammock+etc.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 guidebooks (I was there to update a guidebook so had to
bring these)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3 ripped out portions of 3 other guidebooks</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A big hardcover reading book I promptly lost and replaced
with a small paperback</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this was too much stuff. I never used the hammock (I
showed it to one of my guides and he laughed at me) so sent it back with a
friend after two weeks. I could have done without one of the T-shirts, never
used my binoculars and only wore one pair of the socks (I usually hike in flip
flops). But otherwise I used everything and was glad I had it. I never wished I
had anything more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
<b>How did this differ from how I usually pack? </b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I go to countries that have beautiful oceans I pack a
mask, small swimming fins and a snorkel. Also, many countries I visit are
Muslim, which means I have to cover up more and can't get away wearing my
favorite tank tops. I usually pack a pair of ballet flats for nights out and
the plane. But otherwise this is pretty much what I bring, just stuffed into a
smaller bag.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-66676534472978494922012-06-19T22:45:00.006-07:002012-06-20T14:34:13.350-07:00Mamasa To Toraja Part 2: Christian Politics in a Muslim World<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQI7JorfkYcPrFUeIkXPUWgeNGJLba0NtdVTkPv-Dv2C6YUlTKo3naTb1XgdgsVzjBItK2PtGjvZ7h9XpP2__zOWZKTMgIM8JBQYPCWBs3ChEaikckXk-tew0r8QH6WmI4x3apNftTceA/s1600/domingus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQI7JorfkYcPrFUeIkXPUWgeNGJLba0NtdVTkPv-Dv2C6YUlTKo3naTb1XgdgsVzjBItK2PtGjvZ7h9XpP2__zOWZKTMgIM8JBQYPCWBs3ChEaikckXk-tew0r8QH6WmI4x3apNftTceA/s400/domingus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5755994513020514290" border="0" /></a><br />Our trekking guide from Mamasa to Tana Toraja was a Mamasan man named Domingus, which he told us is derived from the word Sunday, "Domingo" in Indonesian. The Mamasa region is known for being staunchly Christian, but because Indonesia is a very Muslim country and this is what both Emre and I were used to, we were more drawn to the fact that "Domingus" sounded Latin, not necessarily religious. Our guide however proved to be much more of the latter. <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Domingus was as clean cut a guy as you could ever hope to lead you on a trek. He had a big, round, smiling clean-shaven face, perfectly trimmed short hair with a few strands of distinguished grey and he wore brown dress slacks, a long sleeve button shirt and a guide's vest with an official looking emblem on it. Over the next three days he would wear this exact outfit every day and never get so much as a smudge of mud or a wrinkle in it. He never smelled bad or had a hair out of place. Emre and I would come out the Toraja end of the trip covered in stains, feet encrusted with dirt and hair flying in every direction. I have no idea how Domingus stayed so well put together.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">On our first night we saw him put up some political posters around the village we were staying in. He explained that he was a major supporter of the Indonesian Christian party and while he was on our trek he was going to spread the word about his favorite candidate to all the small villages who didn't get much news. That emblem on his jacket - ends up it was for his political party, not a guiding organization.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj74rPI7VjWO03tPexUPuh9HSOmifl9sbdGtQQ7JLMF0amp7Tw8W3UovrQznCrSFYM_gCA8kvY7Ul5AgxC-HgMDEFxO02PYj9XEVEh13txQu4YfjJH_BWALYwuDgJlNd1xV9-_Azonat0/s1600/Mamasa+pandemonium.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj74rPI7VjWO03tPexUPuh9HSOmifl9sbdGtQQ7JLMF0amp7Tw8W3UovrQznCrSFYM_gCA8kvY7Ul5AgxC-HgMDEFxO02PYj9XEVEh13txQu4YfjJH_BWALYwuDgJlNd1xV9-_Azonat0/s400/Mamasa+pandemonium.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5755995726519372802" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It's interesting to visit Christian areas in Indonesia because the locals immediately assume that white people have the same beliefs as them and therefore, they feel a certain kinship with them. Domingus and all the families we met made this assumption with me. As minorities in their own country (where they often feel discredited and mute) this kinship can be stronger than you might expect. Our group however was a little off kilter because Emre is Turkish and was brought up Muslim. I wasn't brought up anything but because I'm American no one ever bothered to ask me about my spiritual leanings and just assumed I was as Jesus loving as the Mamasans. This suited me fine. Domingus however was immediately a little suspicious of Emre and quietly brought me aside a few times to ask me about how strong a believer she was and if this was going to cause us any problems. Everything ended up happy and peaceful but it was interesting to feel what in Indonesia would be considered a sort of reverse racism. Here I was sticking up for my "Muslim" (Emre is slightly more Muslim than I would call myself Christian) friend in a country where most women wear veils. Emre later confided in me that as a Muslim she often gets preferential treatment in Muslim countries, even getting offered special discounts etc. This was the first time it ever really hit me how different we all get treated in foreign countries because of our perceived religion. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It soon became clear that even though Domingus was a perfectly good guide and knew the area well, his main goal was to spread the word about politics. Luckily, the Mamasans seemed happy to get any news or visitors at all and welcomed the news by promptly posting Domingus's posters all over the place. In fact, they seemed to genuinely respect our guide for bringing them this information. There were a few earnest conversations about the exceptional nature of the Christian candidate but for the most part the villagers were more interested in hosting two exotic white people in their homes than talking politics.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Snnt1BCvn4qKzj1msjhIHwqT8EbXqGFKBsE1bVRYhu-RaCVh_QZHgt8FSiQ3gnXfsFu3fiv2JnyTauSAYWXh4VOgQAXZS-0FuB2LdHRp3Ny4bBlIXqQLQvE24jK8fPpwvysmnQPDm94/s1600/mamasa+kids+with+fish.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Snnt1BCvn4qKzj1msjhIHwqT8EbXqGFKBsE1bVRYhu-RaCVh_QZHgt8FSiQ3gnXfsFu3fiv2JnyTauSAYWXh4VOgQAXZS-0FuB2LdHRp3Ny4bBlIXqQLQvE24jK8fPpwvysmnQPDm94/s400/mamasa+kids+with+fish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5755995560590710770" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The children had no interest in politics and followed us everywhere. From our first homestay two kids followed us a good half our before the returned home. At the second homestay kids came from all around and hung around trying to keep our full attention from the time we arrived (about 5pm) to nightfall. It was pretty exhausting trying to entertain all those kids after trekking all day uphill through a jungle but they were so sweet and had such good senses of humor that it was well-worth it. Plus we got some great photos and this video:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tNsOeQZJcho" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560"></iframe></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">That night we stayed up till the un-Godly hour of about 10pm in our one room shack drinking sour-sweet palm wine with Domingus, the owner of the house and our horseman (who is worthy of a whole other blog post I'll probably never write). Then to bed on our thick quilts that were supposed to be mattresses but fortunately some warmer blankets this night. We slept well.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyHYRtLsMJHqfOWdOhs32YRJcnvKiRT4uORp4VIHJyl6DzzENpyPZxnPzeMHfu4AYeA-0L6KSLTUcPHWkCKweJtCii_TzBbEK8jrxNTTnpElFKSB2did0JmeFRWycN5HzFlC_VDZlZGQ/s1600/Mamasa+rice+wine.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyHYRtLsMJHqfOWdOhs32YRJcnvKiRT4uORp4VIHJyl6DzzENpyPZxnPzeMHfu4AYeA-0L6KSLTUcPHWkCKweJtCii_TzBbEK8jrxNTTnpElFKSB2did0JmeFRWycN5HzFlC_VDZlZGQ/s400/Mamasa+rice+wine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5755995569085749730" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Then the next morning it was off again but this time downhill through rice fields, tiny one-room churches on ridges and villages of small wooden shacks on stilts.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-66882060115997185902012-06-08T22:58:00.006-07:002012-06-20T14:36:11.635-07:00Mamasa to Tana Toraja Part 1: The Long and Winding Road<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixADfLzWS89cghMt9-whzXgglwfRLatWId66_DI-ab3qKMc5ojTZ23UFaeK7fkyXU2risQu53ZQo_kpSZkPEpsj95ycjHK0JcL8tfgQ9zX9zpYQwEv2KHSWNmN3q_juGWvjEcLBDJC_jg/s1600/Mamasa+detail.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixADfLzWS89cghMt9-whzXgglwfRLatWId66_DI-ab3qKMc5ojTZ23UFaeK7fkyXU2risQu53ZQo_kpSZkPEpsj95ycjHK0JcL8tfgQ9zX9zpYQwEv2KHSWNmN3q_juGWvjEcLBDJC_jg/s400/Mamasa+detail.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5751913187134538306" border="0" /></a><br /><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">I move around fast when I'm researching for Lonely Planet but every now and then there's something I want to do so badly, I'll slow down and make time for it. The trek between Mamasa and Tana Toraja on the culturally-overloaded island of Sulawesi in Indonesia, was one of those things. There are two ways to get to Tana Toraja from Mamasa: a 13-hour barf-inducing bus ride over pot-holed mountain roads, or a three-day hike through a region of boat-shaped roofs, terraced rice fields, isolated villages and jungle mountains. Walking it seemed like the obvious choice.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVBViIM5ronagXw5Qh7fCbnqtWClE127whW0rxBJ8pPR6an455gi2S8xhl2sC_oL0w9Hbv6JqloZnZIy7YZ473tn_kY6Yxcj0Bh-GYsGzFeKKH4tvmZzJdFSnOR3YhKHO3hyytEeVheoI/s1600/traditional+house+mamasa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVBViIM5ronagXw5Qh7fCbnqtWClE127whW0rxBJ8pPR6an455gi2S8xhl2sC_oL0w9Hbv6JqloZnZIy7YZ473tn_kY6Yxcj0Bh-GYsGzFeKKH4tvmZzJdFSnOR3YhKHO3hyytEeVheoI/s400/traditional+house+mamasa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5751913415378425970" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Traditional Mamasa houses<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately for my travel buddy Emre, the long, long trip began straight from the airport. Her flight from Turkey arrived in Makassar, Sulawesi's capital, in the early morning and I hadn't been able to reach her via email to tell her the plan, so at 5am I met her at the gate, explained what we were doing (in hopes she was OK with this which fortunately she was) and took her directly to a bus station. The minibus from Makassar to Mamasa was a rickety, non-air-con tin can of a rumbler that was soon jammed packed with clove cigarette smoking locals, big boxes stuffed with food supplies and two giant television sets. It took over 14 hours to get to Mamasa, and half that time was spent bumping over the last 60km on a rutted dirt road that wound like a coil up into the mountains.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It was dark when we arrived so it wasn't until morning that we awoke to the green-hills and cool temperatures of Mamasa Village where we had a day to explore by motorbike. The traditional roofed houses here are similar to the famous, dramatically arched ones of Tana Toraja but are less curved and shorter so they don't pack such a punch. The biggest difference however between these oft-compared regions is that Mamasa has hardly any tourists. So while popular Torajan villages are swarming with photo-snapping visitors and insistent hawkers, in Mamasa families invite you in for tea and everyone wants to chat. We saw no other foreigners and were welcomed everywhere like royalty. It was magic.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHHjW2Zlfm0LoNvK8Ecy8VuCBzj-XFVVFm8KWd92wAUL7r2Sb1QJzwmkGjRmL0JoyFvVQzvZlxjsc6YgngM9s5ZNeedJHbFu8G2Q22pYXFbynVBL3ijHACwrc6B9TnTym7WpXEE6N9_s8/s1600/mamasa+lunch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHHjW2Zlfm0LoNvK8Ecy8VuCBzj-XFVVFm8KWd92wAUL7r2Sb1QJzwmkGjRmL0JoyFvVQzvZlxjsc6YgngM9s5ZNeedJHbFu8G2Q22pYXFbynVBL3ijHACwrc6B9TnTym7WpXEE6N9_s8/s400/mamasa+lunch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5751913397993180754" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">The lunch crew - near Mamasa Village</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">We spent the night before our trek began in a traditional house where we soon discovered the reality of what we were in for. There are no mattresses in Mamasa, just thick quilts on the floor and a synthetic blanket to cover you. It was so freezing that first night that Emre and I ended up under the "mattress" to keep warm. The floor with or without this light padding felt equally hard. Dinner had been noodle soup with hunks of home-butchered, gamey-tasting pork floating in it, that tasted as if it had been sitting in storage (no refrigeration) a bit too long. Emre puked hers up in the middle of the night. Dogs howled and a mosquito kept buzzing in my ear even though it felt far too cold for them to survive here. Neither Emre or I got more than a few hours of sleep.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3FkuqAgfnKuKKoLFDyubdfVnIBOQcYZXdl_aCIe78F2T-dFd6nGBdsR3ti4kIqrD-qKPAJ3nLP7_VFqBoOSc-t58dyX3U3rnkIqgx4an7_rEuWrKjcZxgY02fbjYrCVEP38XPQdoB1I/s1600/Mamasa+1st+night.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3FkuqAgfnKuKKoLFDyubdfVnIBOQcYZXdl_aCIe78F2T-dFd6nGBdsR3ti4kIqrD-qKPAJ3nLP7_VFqBoOSc-t58dyX3U3rnkIqgx4an7_rEuWrKjcZxgY02fbjYrCVEP38XPQdoB1I/s400/Mamasa+1st+night.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5751913402485769122" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Our house the first night</p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">But rest or no rest, we were up by six, breakfasted on sugary tea and omelets, said good bye to our smiling hosts promising we had slept marvelously, and were off to theoretically walk up hill until the end of the day. We had no idea what we were going to encounter and that was just fine.</p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-27709756567972478522012-04-19T15:03:00.009-07:002012-04-19T15:42:36.934-07:00Top 5 clothing picks for women traveling to hot, conservative countries<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2UkCAiWaPqoG1sM53T_64bwfoYH9zy7bQ3Fr3U6VfDYzxiiBJKjJo8sGaExVTzRwnx5dfZYx4rTS2t8ILMx5Bul5xqVuzb4MoCDLURaEzHOgs7z0-Lhn1URnfFu4hFxswD26vDKosOI/s1600/208_23023097339_581842339_690969_7074_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb2UkCAiWaPqoG1sM53T_64bwfoYH9zy7bQ3Fr3U6VfDYzxiiBJKjJo8sGaExVTzRwnx5dfZYx4rTS2t8ILMx5Bul5xqVuzb4MoCDLURaEzHOgs7z0-Lhn1URnfFu4hFxswD26vDKosOI/s400/208_23023097339_581842339_690969_7074_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733242002751559714" border="0" /></a><br /><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">If you're worried about looking like a dork abroad, know that not dressing appropriately in a conservative country is worse than looking silly, you'll also be acting like a jerk. I'm talking about most of Southeast Asia, the South Pacific, Asia, Morocco, Tunisia, small villages in Central and South America and more - in other words, those parts of the world that maintain a modest dress code without requiring something more hardcore like a burqa.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Figuring out what to wear while maintaining some style dignity can be hard for travelers, especially women, who have to cover up much more than men and who are more closely scrutinized. The question is, how does one dress conservatively, look a little nice and avoid overheating at the same time? After over 20 years of travel in these parts of the world and looking pretty awful through most of it, I've finally acquired a few key pieces that I feel keep the balance between comfort, appropriateness and fashion.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Here are my top 5 essentials:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">The peasant top</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Try to find one in a feather-weight, crinkly cotton that's not too see-through. Three quarter sleeves are best and make sure if there's a tie at the neck the keyhole part doesn't show any cleavage. Avoid mid-weight or heavy fabrics and any tight elastic. Think, breathable and keep it simple without a lot of flamboyant embroidery or other standout features.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Here's a current favorite of mine from <a href="http://oldnavy.gap.com/browse/product.do?cid=72302&vid=1&pid=898373&scid=898373032">Old Navy</a>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">T-shirt</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A good cut here is key. I hate boxy shirts that add a few pounds to my look but too tight is a no-no. I go for the lightest cotton possible that's still opaque, sleeves that are longer than a cap sleeve but shorter than three-quarters and loose enough to breath. Also make sure it's long enough that you're not going to bare any waistline when bending over etc. I personally like a mellow-colored print like ikat or tie-dye stripes to hide stains.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Capri pants</p> <p class="MsoNormal">If these go out of fashion again I may die. Mid-calf in a lightweight sturdy fabric is a must. A drawstring waist is another plus since you'll be able to adjust them so they'll stay up properly without a belt through all the stretching and washings and un-washings they will surely go through - as well as any waistline changes travel may bring to your midriff. I have a pair right now that are my all-time favorite: they have good button cargo pockets and are made of a fabric that looks like cotton but is actually a 100% silk weave that's cool, soft and sturdy. Go for dark colors. I like fairly low-waisted styles because these look better on me, but if you can pull off the "natural waist" look without looking like you were on a $2 budget at Goodwill or got a bitchin' Christmas gift from your grandmother from Royal Robbins, then go for it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Here are my favorite capris from Hei Hei but unfortunately they don't make them anymore.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOWjVctB2GoAtfigEnFU5K6vzQWVcXOJxKXP3DJdloSUMdn9DLA-hBW8ibSb9OALwVyP7xm5U4gwZNj01VgkZuQiFJGjkOd4T9lXQDMml3L-7-_7Q3v8oSICjwW-oHKFq0cjfGN69ek0/s1600/1_d8ab342cff0f708ea7ed5e0c58be73a9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 392px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOWjVctB2GoAtfigEnFU5K6vzQWVcXOJxKXP3DJdloSUMdn9DLA-hBW8ibSb9OALwVyP7xm5U4gwZNj01VgkZuQiFJGjkOd4T9lXQDMml3L-7-_7Q3v8oSICjwW-oHKFq0cjfGN69ek0/s400/1_d8ab342cff0f708ea7ed5e0c58be73a9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733239245554769890" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Mid-calf length skirt</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I actually don't pack these anymore since I find they're not practical for anything remotely active but if you're going to be hanging out in a city a lot or plan on needing to dress nicely at night, this can be an essential. Again, find a lightweight fabric that won't need ironing and don't get a skirt so full that it may get blown up by wind and give the conservative world a peek at your underpants. Length should be mid-calf.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Long pants</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In general, I only wear long pants for insect protection, cold or because they're the only clean thing I have left to wear. I also wear them on the plane so they need to be stretchy enough to sleep in and look nice enough that if by some miracle of fate I get upgraded, I won't look too sloppy to sit in business class. I like light, soft cotton or Tencel with something elastic-like in the waist that won't pinch or stretch. Again, I think "natural waist" is a sin, but that's a matter of taste. Straight leg works best; anything with a flared leg will get caught in stuff and provide a tunnel for bugs to crawl up and skinny pants will be too sexy and cling to your humid skin like soggy plastic wrap. Go for dark colored. I'm partial to slate grey.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Bonus Piece: Silk scarf</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Find the biggest one you can find that can compress into the smallest folded square. I keep one in my purse at all times on the road in case I need extra arm coverage or something over my hair for religious temples or particularly conservative places. It also can be used as a real scarf to add a little flair to your outfit (think: business class) and can provide warmth in unexpected air-con disaster areas like buses and cinemas.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-30055581460030564382012-04-13T09:40:00.014-07:002012-04-13T11:59:33.842-07:00Happy Island Kids<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ju2b-Kc6SjAkKKUFoFr0PU15dGLo5FNkx7FkFtOkj1hVHZZlRnP8P5GVzxL8PXM8bK4TIrXNRqmMphnYng8-fj8fuWLShbmVTf7fvu2SoOkyG2phCpuP_-o7a55oA9IiegOmlQI4CIQ/s1600/joshhumbert.com-05-indonesia.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ju2b-Kc6SjAkKKUFoFr0PU15dGLo5FNkx7FkFtOkj1hVHZZlRnP8P5GVzxL8PXM8bK4TIrXNRqmMphnYng8-fj8fuWLShbmVTf7fvu2SoOkyG2phCpuP_-o7a55oA9IiegOmlQI4CIQ/s400/joshhumbert.com-05-indonesia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730934549568730930" border="0" /></a><br />It's Friday the 13th today so I thought I'd dig up some pictures from the depths of my (mostly unused) photo archives, of kids on islands frolicking, not worrying about bad luck and superstition and generally having a blast. I actually didn't take the first and second photos - these two were snapped by my husband <a href="http://joshhumbert.com/">Josh Humbert</a> who is much more of a pro at this photography stuff than me. Both were taken on Bunaken Island off of Northern Sulawesi, Indonesia. I love that in the second one these kids look like they're about to land on a bunch of rebar - don't worry, they didn't.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnccKdtoCA2xRZ0O2Izr3pY2Z_FcrBW_EyuXM_XCAhiZxl6kAZXrAdYAU-nFnt78RAjfcy3DBDLZE-k0FFHRqVOqAmmH_cGiNc4rjEwqihMDTPu6ZrCwcrxD6XMjRzvxJSz2ZyQpOQedc/s1600/joshhumbert.com-30-indonesia.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnccKdtoCA2xRZ0O2Izr3pY2Z_FcrBW_EyuXM_XCAhiZxl6kAZXrAdYAU-nFnt78RAjfcy3DBDLZE-k0FFHRqVOqAmmH_cGiNc4rjEwqihMDTPu6ZrCwcrxD6XMjRzvxJSz2ZyQpOQedc/s400/joshhumbert.com-30-indonesia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730934239337048402" border="0" /></a><br />I took this next photo on Ko Phayam in Thailand in around 2008. I went back last year and this kid is now a great big tall man but I still recognized him. Unfortunately, I didn't see the dog. Hopefully the burying him in the sand thing didn't get out of hand. He told me at the time that the dog liked be buried because it kept him cool.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKvn4Cin3yA8rmFdGnJ4JcFK6TX1RVAgtG4mhQ0ZrOtKYmhlyS8Kq5KJ4mTl8sjZFMp_c7dfaIzx4Xi88g3UF327wiv56jrJY-KzhEbgPI6Mlx-pagNV1QMAorLhCZvzG-6zCoo8QpZqU/s1600/thai+boy+and+dog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKvn4Cin3yA8rmFdGnJ4JcFK6TX1RVAgtG4mhQ0ZrOtKYmhlyS8Kq5KJ4mTl8sjZFMp_c7dfaIzx4Xi88g3UF327wiv56jrJY-KzhEbgPI6Mlx-pagNV1QMAorLhCZvzG-6zCoo8QpZqU/s400/thai+boy+and+dog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730934045968852498" border="0" /></a>It was just me and these three kids hanging out on the wee island of Namu'a in Samoa for a few hours. We spent at least an hour of this taking silly pictures and after each one they'd shout "Wanna see! Wanna see!" I wore out my camera battery flipping through all of the pictures. It was really fun.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUTzIIw__TkevIxEarNVV_jm8Knh10WtU9vNzBZpmHmZRRP3cN8kXZ_EMhoprlpF5b1jRVebQdwwNXXUOOgJUqd_lfSna0pePUXnEL55Ts0ZhrjbThRw1Qm-4lQebgzyTeh6Od35c5KuI/s1600/Samoa+tree+kids.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUTzIIw__TkevIxEarNVV_jm8Knh10WtU9vNzBZpmHmZRRP3cN8kXZ_EMhoprlpF5b1jRVebQdwwNXXUOOgJUqd_lfSna0pePUXnEL55Ts0ZhrjbThRw1Qm-4lQebgzyTeh6Od35c5KuI/s400/Samoa+tree+kids.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730933895618651586" border="0" /></a><br />Here is my son gracefully leaping off the oyster platform at my family's pearl farm in Ahe, French Polynesia. Speaking of kids growing into big tall men, this was taken a little over a year ago and now he's my height.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwyc4K96r11g8Lnw3VZ5dSInPTPdSJQ-_Jxsw1BHn2mDRI8M8p4cpyDEaRwDNdyK9tmQQ8iaIRKrRfVkztxNenlwxSPB_RRS9smSw7GIRSCy60R6Yvo4VVJssbVuXrSTZ-TN22TUHKaE/s1600/tevai+jump.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwyc4K96r11g8Lnw3VZ5dSInPTPdSJQ-_Jxsw1BHn2mDRI8M8p4cpyDEaRwDNdyK9tmQQ8iaIRKrRfVkztxNenlwxSPB_RRS9smSw7GIRSCy60R6Yvo4VVJssbVuXrSTZ-TN22TUHKaE/s400/tevai+jump.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730933779903901202" border="0" /></a><br />You may remember this scene from another post a few weeks ago. These boys in American Samoa were leaping into this pit of spiky lava with a huge and powerful swell heaving in and out of it. Danger was everywhere but they couldn't have given a flying and of course no one got hurt.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtjR88ZrpRpYgVCWY3TjUcJLH-2Dg507LKqB9rSgndJ9d69Ra9IVZYpu7b_zKEqUmH0iBst9JAayJ6dn_XqNouQf_evx-L_jNYMm2NA5IuuQyYhvg3RwClXAkb_AdzpSnUvonSpBr4MM/s1600/more+amsam+boyz.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtjR88ZrpRpYgVCWY3TjUcJLH-2Dg507LKqB9rSgndJ9d69Ra9IVZYpu7b_zKEqUmH0iBst9JAayJ6dn_XqNouQf_evx-L_jNYMm2NA5IuuQyYhvg3RwClXAkb_AdzpSnUvonSpBr4MM/s400/more+amsam+boyz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730933658972969442" border="0" /></a><br />And last, I love this boy. What a character and I hope you can tell from this photo. This is in Ovalau, Fiji. I stayed in a homestay and "Billy Boy," besides cracking jokes and constantly getting into trouble also knew how to drive the boat, fix the motor, cook, clean and sing loud and clear at church. He's a great kid. He's 12 years old.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcYdyQDt7wGGaOmPAy8ZiqfXTmwrgyMpG3t8d4sARzr9QXWYQpAhGTe_Iz7kmtHg5Z9KFoyinwgbpeeVORXZJ0J8mUgfpn5XlPvKr9FK_2MxbJYM8keJpwEeM6nkzj4DuZ-IzbWN7tdgE/s1600/fiji+boy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcYdyQDt7wGGaOmPAy8ZiqfXTmwrgyMpG3t8d4sARzr9QXWYQpAhGTe_Iz7kmtHg5Z9KFoyinwgbpeeVORXZJ0J8mUgfpn5XlPvKr9FK_2MxbJYM8keJpwEeM6nkzj4DuZ-IzbWN7tdgE/s400/fiji+boy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730933554904583602" border="0" /></a>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-67542900984915619652012-04-01T18:40:00.010-07:002012-04-02T07:40:52.068-07:00Samoan fale: The world's happiest place to stay<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydP6oIHcS4LR9mrxZvDsdjTd4Y7EENuRjfcquONzNkeQ_IcLagi9OnzB5EFhSQOjGTMDqy4wLup7rP04OPJQxAxBQx6h_nhMqD6RurlXz_Y9ueVqP9j7xQp6E6tRvIiBLVBRiCgSz7ZI/s1600/fale+kids.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydP6oIHcS4LR9mrxZvDsdjTd4Y7EENuRjfcquONzNkeQ_IcLagi9OnzB5EFhSQOjGTMDqy4wLup7rP04OPJQxAxBQx6h_nhMqD6RurlXz_Y9ueVqP9j7xQp6E6tRvIiBLVBRiCgSz7ZI/s400/fale+kids.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726615673427948562" border="0" /></a><br /><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">I'm not easily surprised by weird accommodation. Tree houses, cave dwellings and undersea lairs tend to make their way into my travel literature if they haven't made it in to my real life, and in most cases I'm in a country to get out and do things not hang out at my hotel. But Samoa's <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> not only astounded me, they won me over so much I will confidently say that they are my favorite type of holiday lodging. Period. They are part of the Samoan experience as much as eating the food or seeing the sights.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj422hmIjP2E-BwS6T6cyjIjABIksEnEQ0SkWD_kH0-M96aw47SO2enVkBjtZs7uAo7-DvzoOEa3d-aES5ZihI2sFoevzlKCO_bHhMjx4XXb2CWQYvkkMHSlo5sS63uuZd8p3VxQngCjEk/s1600/samoan+village.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj422hmIjP2E-BwS6T6cyjIjABIksEnEQ0SkWD_kH0-M96aw47SO2enVkBjtZs7uAo7-DvzoOEa3d-aES5ZihI2sFoevzlKCO_bHhMjx4XXb2CWQYvkkMHSlo5sS63uuZd8p3VxQngCjEk/s400/samoan+village.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726617260591109938" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I'd read about <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> before I got to Samoa. The Lonely Planet said they were traditional style, simple open-air structures on stilts. This is exactly what they are but the simplicity of the description didn't get into my head and form an image of what a <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> might actually look like. They sounded rustic, that was all.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZ_MjRapxiTp9PVPT850CrB3Bz6j28T4HJNHSRMVsAEAd4HSlfRjdQ7FxRdwRj_vEtBVM8m8uIg4QZigRoXC6ev65AiReVvr9UulCi08bBfjrkLwmoMm_ALOvg5sGbskwr-hFgVD36kQ/s1600/namu%2527a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZ_MjRapxiTp9PVPT850CrB3Bz6j28T4HJNHSRMVsAEAd4HSlfRjdQ7FxRdwRj_vEtBVM8m8uIg4QZigRoXC6ev65AiReVvr9UulCi08bBfjrkLwmoMm_ALOvg5sGbskwr-hFgVD36kQ/s400/namu%2527a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726618231129567778" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">After a few days at a mediocre hotel in Apia I set off to drive around the island. On my first night I decided to stay on a small private island called Namu'a that got rave reviews. On the way I drove past several of the most colorful villages I've ever seen, and all of them were made up mostly of the traditional-type <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> I'd read about. These family-sized <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> are elongated gazebo-like structures rounded at the edges with a semi-octagon shape and are usually about 20ft long by 10ft wide; palm thatched louvers are the only walls and these can be lowered or raised depending on how much ventilation or privacy is needed.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhzVdVAAxTeRUtyDORTFDqur_sVHYFtczlRfvAvkUxDTWU3q-b3IsYTVT-9Y_I03YgDuTmkag4x6Aeh-AF-BTdMjPgj1A4zd5sbFFg-LyrED9Aw8ivyfO8skkt7UdpZoD9It-oR0w5Ps0/s1600/fale+village.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhzVdVAAxTeRUtyDORTFDqur_sVHYFtczlRfvAvkUxDTWU3q-b3IsYTVT-9Y_I03YgDuTmkag4x6Aeh-AF-BTdMjPgj1A4zd5sbFFg-LyrED9Aw8ivyfO8skkt7UdpZoD9It-oR0w5Ps0/s400/fale+village.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726621138711247602" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">All the structures are painted the brightest greens, pinks, blues and yellows and are surrounded by gardens of flowers, tropical fruit and ornamental greenery. You can see right inside them where the floors are covered with woven mats, there is minimal furniture and usually a few people lounging inside. Still, it didn't occur to me that these were the same types of houses tourists would sleep in.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJeQcFSv-6cuRTcNwHizy2i89UQr1eRwy1MU2A0URkPmQ8kQHBGLWXzkBj_9m5o9F2XvVFPpokLK6_bCjGG6OB_3vG92_P5Uir2vqb15hbkYS_amsBHnS-yl5rx2eG1-lrVjLXqo87Kiw/s1600/fale+dogs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJeQcFSv-6cuRTcNwHizy2i89UQr1eRwy1MU2A0URkPmQ8kQHBGLWXzkBj_9m5o9F2XvVFPpokLK6_bCjGG6OB_3vG92_P5Uir2vqb15hbkYS_amsBHnS-yl5rx2eG1-lrVjLXqo87Kiw/s400/fale+dogs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726616520168038898" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It wasn't till I reached the beach of Namu'a in my host's tiny aluminum outboard boat that it hit me. There on the most perfect, palm-lined white sand beach you can imagine were about ten small, unpainted, palm-thatched roof <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> on stilts. Mine had been prepared for me with a mat on the floor as well as a mattress and a mosquito net. And that's it. The highlight of course is that sleeping in these is like camping in the open air without having to actually camp, and the fale are usually only steps from 80 degree clear blue water. At night, after a tasty meal of fresh fish, I was given an oil lamp -- the perfect light by which to drink a beer, gaze at the stars, play guitar and revel in the bliss of the moment. It's not fancy, it's not expensive, but even the most luxurious accommodation in the world cannot compare.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlE8L0TpdLyvmMVMjrzSBgqPmbJYP0s9dK_i4dIbreXUXG8xanpfQ_DL6O-Wpz4ynORqW8WwCOlOO0byBCYfKikK4sfOtg-k-u5wXs-xq5lHOMM5EmuJJVgbQg3GpIkpgGUJ03UCPSPBM/s1600/fale+sleep.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlE8L0TpdLyvmMVMjrzSBgqPmbJYP0s9dK_i4dIbreXUXG8xanpfQ_DL6O-Wpz4ynORqW8WwCOlOO0byBCYfKikK4sfOtg-k-u5wXs-xq5lHOMM5EmuJJVgbQg3GpIkpgGUJ03UCPSPBM/s400/fale+sleep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726615810966888018" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I continued around the rest of the main island, I found family <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> operations everywhere, usually on the very best beaches. Every one is owned by sweet local people offering meals (average price to stay is about US$35-50 per person per night including breakfast and dinner). Some <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> are a little fancier than others and may include waist-high walls, whole walls or even electricity; some are out in the middle of nowhere while others are clustered together in beach villages. Valuables can be often kept in safes but the family is almost always there watching so, as long as the place was run by good people, I never felt like my stuff was going to be ripped off or that unwanted guests would come into my <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> at night. Bathrooms are shared in most cases and showers are cold.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOcKx71o5HJAlsdLR6VjqJ9IL3o2q7Is4J5543CZFMFeIA2kjoox4AXE-XL2Q3EGROwCtlkaKnUXsaX4L-1-SkoeQIs4kkBi0jNJeCzJObeTryW8AC0O7UsWPMhdlp0T7Cd1B6hgX6kA/s1600/fale+night.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOcKx71o5HJAlsdLR6VjqJ9IL3o2q7Is4J5543CZFMFeIA2kjoox4AXE-XL2Q3EGROwCtlkaKnUXsaX4L-1-SkoeQIs4kkBi0jNJeCzJObeTryW8AC0O7UsWPMhdlp0T7Cd1B6hgX6kA/s400/fale+night.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726615738034121394" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">There's something about sleeping and living outdoors that raises happiness levels. Add the sound of the surf all night, always knowing the phase of the moon and feeling familiar with the stars and energy levels skyrocket - not necessarily in the way that makes you want to get up and run around, but in a way that makes you like everyone and makes them like you too. It's a natural high I suppose.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdJ3ll0_lPyrDSt6PazOd-h0a9aoZPnV4T_erc_HmQOmHiTkgFQqPQ3e7_qX65q9OAlRc61vzKWFptHwLKYSsV6ze3votn95UJwQzxSa_YDbkHOZdyC1vpudSXiCq3AUsXOyxmo55hpA/s1600/fale+virgin+cove.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdJ3ll0_lPyrDSt6PazOd-h0a9aoZPnV4T_erc_HmQOmHiTkgFQqPQ3e7_qX65q9OAlRc61vzKWFptHwLKYSsV6ze3votn95UJwQzxSa_YDbkHOZdyC1vpudSXiCq3AUsXOyxmo55hpA/s400/fale+virgin+cove.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726619343433978802" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I admit that after a few days it felt good to sleep in a hotel again with a hot shower but if I had my choice of a resort or those <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> on Namu'a I wouldn't even have to consider - it would be those budget <span style="font-style: italic;">fale</span> on Namu'a every time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-10702621492119677472012-03-25T13:26:00.003-07:002012-03-25T13:51:56.808-07:00Photo: American Samoa, Lava & Football Helmets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1o8xUwquoAIIYDv_1MpGkOcihQICiL61bAf1tpWlvlu8L7-LOdFG-wK5oMELqOUf7KGdJR-kcqhWcL_jF1xZiuMvB8z6FRE0RUJVATk0CMsf-hZLGbKLqp9H0EzGX6VG2lO3ylcDMsqI/s1600/Amsam+boyz+jumping.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1o8xUwquoAIIYDv_1MpGkOcihQICiL61bAf1tpWlvlu8L7-LOdFG-wK5oMELqOUf7KGdJR-kcqhWcL_jF1xZiuMvB8z6FRE0RUJVATk0CMsf-hZLGbKLqp9H0EzGX6VG2lO3ylcDMsqI/s400/Amsam+boyz+jumping.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723934038137122562" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal">I had low expectations of American Samoa. By all reports it was full of fast food chains and everyone was fat and unhealthy. I had images in my head of unsmiling people with most of their culture over-run by mini malls. I have never been so wrong about a place.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The above photo summarizes what I saw in American Samoa: A Polynesian island with beauty to rival Bora Bora and a culture as alive as in independent Samoa next door -- but with a touch of the USA. Yes there are some fast food places but these are overshadowed by the silky water of Pago Pago Harbor, the green jungle-covered mountains that frame everything and the blue water that you can see from almost everywhere. Kids like these in this picture aren't inside playing video games, they're launching themselves into a current-filled pool of jagged lava for fun. That's cool.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The most blatantly American thing about American Samoa I saw is their love of US football. The nightly news showed clips and results from the high school teams and when the NFL playoffs were on (as they were when I was there), a conversation couldn't be had without a few words about which team you were rooting for. This picture wouldn't have been what it is without that kid in his helmet.</p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-30166956380224728542012-02-06T21:55:00.000-08:002012-02-07T07:48:20.730-08:00There's no place like . . .where?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEick-8aaOa6mhGhQLcseilYPesAX3UEqiJvffF0qu4KDNnPYWQmaJ1vzhIYMtl82_3MaNxqVbZYIPb1he5XhVjxQ5RQb0CSml-6ax3rqOxEenKm1JGHj6MIa_UtODdDZH9V-l3dwtKr3LQ/s1600/ourhouse.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEick-8aaOa6mhGhQLcseilYPesAX3UEqiJvffF0qu4KDNnPYWQmaJ1vzhIYMtl82_3MaNxqVbZYIPb1he5XhVjxQ5RQb0CSml-6ax3rqOxEenKm1JGHj6MIa_UtODdDZH9V-l3dwtKr3LQ/s400/ourhouse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706268992052398674" border="0" /></a><br />"There's no place like home," but if I had Dorothy's ruby slippers they'd have to take me apart and bring me to several places. I imagine myself more like Great Oz himself fumbling around in a hot air balloon, wondering where I'll land. <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">When someone asks where you're from, they expect the answer to be a static place, not a long complicated story. So I have a hard time answering the question without a stammer - as I imagine many others do who aren't fixed to a map point. I don't know where home is. I'm not thinking about Kansas</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">My family and I have lived in Portland for a year and a half, mostly so the kids can go to high school here, and the region still feels foreign to me. Yet this is where we rent a house, where my father lives and where my children are so when people ask me where I'm from during a trip abroad, I'll probably tell them "Portland, Oregon," even though I'm not from there at all. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">A few months ago I spent the Christmas holidays down in Marin County, California where both my husband and I grew up. We stayed at my mother in law's 1920s-era house that's set between oak trees and has a view of the feminine silhouette of Mt Tamlpais. This is the house I've come back to as a base for the last 20 years since I met my husband, began traveling and eventually moved to French Polynesia. It's my favorite house in the world but it's not mine and one day my mother in law will sell it and retire. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I can name every little sub-district in Marin County, scarcely have to think when driving anywhere and run into people I know on hiking trails and in supermarkets. Every place here holds a story, like that pasture land named after a horse that my dad used to know as a kid (he grew up in Marin County too); or darker, that stop light that was put up after my friend's little brother was hit by a car there. Marin County is where I'll always feel I'm coming home when I visit to no matter where I actually live. But I haven't lived in Marin County for 20 years and chances are I'll never live there again (not on a travel writer's salary anyway). </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The place I've spent the largest chunk of my adult life is French Polynesia where my husband and I own a house that we designed and built, and where my kids grew up. This is home, the family base and the biggest asset in my family's economic hat. It almost hurts renting it out and thinking of other people living there but it would be worse to let it rot and loose the rental income. We will probably move back there someday but I don't know when. Despite how much I love the house, the land, our neighbors and the tropical splendor, we will always be thought of and treated as foreigners in Tahiti and I'm not sure I want to live with that forever. The locals ask me about my "home" in the US, and although they don't mean it badly, they will never see Tahiti as a place I should call my own.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">To complicate things more, I lived in England until I was nearly five and that's still where I have the largest concentration of family. I go back regularly and my aunts and uncles have all lived in the same houses since before I was born - right now I could describe each one's pleasant, homey smell. But I can't say I'm from England, my Yankee accent makes me come off as a fake.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So when asked where I'm from I cheat a little and pick the best answer depending on who's asking. "Portland" is the easiest as a conversation stopper (most people outside the US don't know where it is) and "Tahiti" gets me the most street cred particularly in places where it's not cool to be American (less of the world nowadays - thank you Obama). "San Francisco" (near enough to Marin County to work) is my answer when I feel like giving people what they want: something familiar.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I'll admit to feeling a little hip not being able to come up with satisfactory answer to the question "where are you from?" But deeper down I envy the people who can answer in one word without even thinking about it: "Quebec," "Wichita," "Berlin." It would be lovely to be able to have a home, that place where history, family, friends and a house collide without explanation. In my dreams there would be a golden retriever in the yard and veggie garden out back. But for now at least, life feels like a hurricane spinning us around in the air and despite how nice it would be to be on solid ground, Kansas or wherever home is, is about as real as Oz.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-8743162323454218912011-12-16T15:59:00.000-08:002011-12-16T16:08:16.305-08:00Food wars: Putting 'exotic' into perspective<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9q0KM5hyGLsk9E4BT7tasQ28tjrdYFsIDR3Cfz8NsHHE8oGmIj2w3DXohLKiAsn4gBXkhykr1soAtyX5keeuGNmikZm90EVUW0yH0ekFi5pH708XrgaMKMF4GCGWvOTJb77J1Suqn0XI/s1600/roaches.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9q0KM5hyGLsk9E4BT7tasQ28tjrdYFsIDR3Cfz8NsHHE8oGmIj2w3DXohLKiAsn4gBXkhykr1soAtyX5keeuGNmikZm90EVUW0yH0ekFi5pH708XrgaMKMF4GCGWvOTJb77J1Suqn0XI/s400/roaches.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686881930828669378" border="0" /></a><br />You've heard of Alien vs Predator, now how about sticking some monster food into the ring? Blindfold your cultural bias and see which food wins. <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">Durian vs Camembert</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Common ground</span>: Both have a stench that is tirelessly compared to old socks. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">In the left corner</span>: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Durian</span>. It grows on a tree, needs no preparation or additives and is choc-full of vitamins and minerals. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">In the right corner</span>: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Camembert</span>. Cheese is old milk that has been digested by bacteria. It's high in fat but also high in calcium and protein.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">Bugs vs pork</span></p><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Common ground</span>: Both are used as insults to insinuate that a person is slovenly and disgusting.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">In the left corner</span>: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Cockroaches</span>. These bugs can live almost anywhere on essentially anything and can be raised in vast numbers. With 37% protein plus plenty of fatty acids, iron and calcium, they are very nutritious indeed. For cooking ideas click <a href="http://moreintelligentlife.com/content/salma-abdelnour/should-we-be-eating-more-bugs">here</a>.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">In the right corner</span>: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Pork</span>. Pigs are highly intelligent, mammals. Most pork we eat comes from pigs raised in such tight quarters they aren't able to change position through most of their adult life. To reduce infection from the pestilence in which they live, the animals are pumped with antibiotics. Meanwhile the massive amount of waste produced by the animals pollutes the air and may seep into the ground spreading health problems.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">Kava vs beer</span></p><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Common ground</span>: Both dull your mental state and are used for relaxation and hanging out with the bros.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">In the right corner</span>: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Kava</span>. A bitter, muddy drink with a taste that improves as your mouth gets numbed by it. It's about the mellowest high you can imagine that's often described as an 'extreme well-being.' It makes you chilled out, no one ever fights. It's so imbedded into some Pacific cultures that a complicated ceremony has grown around it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">In the left corner</span>:<span style="font-weight: bold;"> Beer</span>. It can taste pretty awesome especially when chilled on a hot day. Ceremonially you say 'cheers' or maybe buy someone a beer as a nice gesture. But it makes some people violent and stupid. I'd hang out with a bunch of guys I didn't know drinking kava, but not beer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So who won? I'm not about to eat bugs for dinner but I could go for some durian and a beer about now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Cheers.</p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-29462895398884717002011-12-09T09:26:00.000-08:002011-12-09T09:45:11.277-08:00Searching for the Perfect Fijian Island<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBV_tLRoX7D_2J0w66A6mzKe3TezTdWpdtH3xwXHz1OCqn9PqqwgCNFroyBoJ-7gRiWW82AEpc0Wzdfv9o9yl6lDvV0hJH9AWyxb4F3SV-ee16scp7yoK-xhEMviQEBxSdRcYOEfL_hY/s1600/Fiji+Beach.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBV_tLRoX7D_2J0w66A6mzKe3TezTdWpdtH3xwXHz1OCqn9PqqwgCNFroyBoJ-7gRiWW82AEpc0Wzdfv9o9yl6lDvV0hJH9AWyxb4F3SV-ee16scp7yoK-xhEMviQEBxSdRcYOEfL_hY/s400/Fiji+Beach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684182654183555778" border="0" /></a><br />It was a tough job but somebody had to do . . . OK who am I kidding? Covering the remote islands of Fiji was possibly my most fun gig out of my seven years of working for Lonely Planet. Why? Well, it's not for the reasons you'd expect. The weather was terrible - I saw the sun maybe three hours in four weeks and I only got in the water five times; I drank about six beers total, had flights cancelled and skipped several meals due to my over-full work schedule. This wasn't your cliché fun in the sun voyage. No, the reason it was so great was for intangible factors that escape tourist brochures: the real, ever-present smiles, the way everything happens in the present (so forget planning or dwelling on anything), kava drinking at night to songs everyone knows, feeling safe all the time, a red hibiscus flower behind the ear, the list goes on. Fiji, to put it straight, is as heavenly for its culture as it is for its coral gardens and rainforests.<br /><br />My first stop on this trip was Labasa, a landlocked sugar industry center that the guidebook describes as dusty and of little interest to travelers. I got off the plane after about 20 hours of flying and transfers, got my bag and found a taxi. The driver was a plump Indo-Fijian woman who, within five minutes of chatting, invited me to stay at her house. I didn't take her up on the offer because I'd already booked and paid for a hotel and I was too tired to want to worry about the politeness it requires to stay in someone's home, but I was touched by her gesture. Then stuff like this kept happening - and Labasa was the least friendly place I visited.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzk6TOmB7DhdJaLwNWDKmPPJH-EtQgrkBfln7PXwOid1UFulXMzvvq4JJuRjR_o4EhNS7GwC_AGMl6PWDA1RIbXIlDQ21RLo85zJAO66YBJ2U8ZOyATim4sz3cVT6HwsPerWEABnTRXg/s1600/kava+ladies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzk6TOmB7DhdJaLwNWDKmPPJH-EtQgrkBfln7PXwOid1UFulXMzvvq4JJuRjR_o4EhNS7GwC_AGMl6PWDA1RIbXIlDQ21RLo85zJAO66YBJ2U8ZOyATim4sz3cVT6HwsPerWEABnTRXg/s400/kava+ladies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684183598626177266" border="0" /></a><br /><br />On the boat to Taveuni I met a woman with three children who invited me over for lunch. She was a school teacher. The house had three rooms without one piece of furniture although the walls were lined with giant sheets of brown painted tapa. We sat on woven pandanus mats and ate boiled eggs, toast and milky tea, laughed and chatted while the children gazed at me, intrigued - then her husband drove me to my guesthouse so I didn't have to pay for a taxi.<br /><br />My job looking at hotels the next day was probably the most pleasant I've ever experienced. I saw about 10 hotels and guesthouses on foot and each one I stopped at (whether they had any idea what I was doing or not) invited me in for food or drink and I ended up sitting and talking with them all at least a half hour - way more time than I usually allot. Although I'd never met any of these people before it felt like I was visiting old friends. When I walked down the street random people would come up and just start talking to me, pleasantly and without any motive beyond being natural and nice. And this went on everywhere I went.<br /><br />Towards the end of my trip I met another woman on a boat who invited me to stay in her village - which happened to be near several places I needed to visit. This was a highlight as anyone who has stayed in a Fijian village will tell you - I could write an entire blog post on this alone. The point is, you get invited, everywhere, and it's safe, fun and all warm and fuzzy.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcVulsmTMmpyl3TkOx92l8CfNIWsha2xsBXAvWEMXfiBHXjvvzWw6dhyphenhyphenY9NfDoJbtX-rAsz4UuJo00xu3qMvd-bC4vHdcbhhqphQAWHyZ3REg0LWEQxfCgyurRVV3h9bDlJel9e-FAtUo/s1600/boatman+fish.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcVulsmTMmpyl3TkOx92l8CfNIWsha2xsBXAvWEMXfiBHXjvvzWw6dhyphenhyphenY9NfDoJbtX-rAsz4UuJo00xu3qMvd-bC4vHdcbhhqphQAWHyZ3REg0LWEQxfCgyurRVV3h9bDlJel9e-FAtUo/s400/boatman+fish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684183364958966818" border="0" /></a><br /><br />When I hired a boat man to take me around islands he caught a bunch of fish and gave them all to me just because I said I liked fish. When 16 locals were drinking kava at night and playing music, they would make sure that every few songs would be an American song I'd probably know so I could sing along. They would figure out my music tastes without asking as the night wore on and would be able to dig up classics I not only knew but liked (4 Non Blonds' What's Up was a personal fave).<br /><br />In the meantime five minutes anywhere became an hour, flights were cancelled constantly so tourists were missing international connections and I lost two work days because of airplane malfunctions. And nobody, not even the most uptight looking tourists with business meetings to get to, cared. Anyone who has been in Fiji more than a week knows that there's no point in fighting 'Fiji time' and you just gel yourself into the moment where, hey, you're in Fiji, so enjoy. Stress seems silly. The Internet never works so email becomes irrelevant. No one wears makeup or fashionable clothes, there are rarely mirrors anywhere and you begin to forget what you look like. Someone everyday will beckon you in for a bowl of kava and if you don't like kava just go in and sit with them anyway and it's OK. Fiji is that place where all the world's crap has been raked away to expose a clean and shiny humanity. It's refreshing and mesmerizing and it stays with you after you've left.<br /><br />I spent my last few days on Viti Levu where I learned quickly that my pure Fiji experience unrolled the way it did because I was in the outer islands and not in the main tourist center. I got pick pocketed, ruthlessly hit on by beach boys and saw every other female I met get as aggressively hit on by hotel staff and local surfers to old Chinese shop owners. It was a transition back into the 'real' world, on the way to LAX with it's unsmiling TSA agents. Luckily my home is a good place and I've been tackling work with less stress than I usually do. The happy Fiji feeling will fade, this I know, but the lesson has been absorbed and I will try to remember that all this modern stuff is nothing compared to a smile and a shared cup of tea.Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-64164235031475860702011-12-02T10:40:00.000-08:002011-12-02T10:59:03.496-08:00Passports With Purpose Round Three: Pearls for Libraries in Zambia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijz6iPjNhUrvpJxeSt5x5sqMaq8baHVFCIy0pkkyifZTeEVontu4IV5yYNppXNdTC4W98KY1oP_ktEr65VsxSYDBmnX5_RJ5uJWdRlQNozKUFJjHYvNqR5wF3QAZWFZUhGPm2zWOAzPrg/s1600/mana+necklace.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73_bHMZqLLaBdyaBmtamlJ-lHO6wE6lYoaUdZnQ9EwbWjk1LBmQaTfdV0EUiwoyeIcxMItkRIwoQvlXUJogYK7-OQn6wanINhI7z1rk8jA6VQgcynIXTy3yNkQF4NRIK0QgJcmGocq8o/s1600/Anna+1+%25281%2529-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73_bHMZqLLaBdyaBmtamlJ-lHO6wE6lYoaUdZnQ9EwbWjk1LBmQaTfdV0EUiwoyeIcxMItkRIwoQvlXUJogYK7-OQn6wanINhI7z1rk8jA6VQgcynIXTy3yNkQF4NRIK0QgJcmGocq8o/s400/Anna+1+%25281%2529-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681605810929225426" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">The day before yesterday <a href="http://passportswithpurpose.org">Passports With Purpose</a> (PWP) launched its third fundraiser, this year to build two libraries in Zambia. I was on a boat, a bus and then a plane on the day of the launch through last night (making my way from a remote isle in Fiji back home to Portland), so please excuse my tardiness, it has nothing to do with lack of enthusiasm for this annual project!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I do admit however that when I first heard that PWP was going to build libraries this year I was a bit disappointed. Yes I love books and learning and want the world to have access to this magical realm but aren't there other things that are more important like food, shelter and freedom from violence? As usual, the universe came and answered me. About four days ago, whilst on that small island in Fiji, I met an English woman who told me this story:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Angela was traveling through East Africa by bus. At a random dusty stop she heard a little boy very loudly and confidently proclaiming: "Public service announcement! Bananas contain potassium and are very good for your health! I have bananas for sale, get them here."</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">She found this adorable but she didn't like bananas. The little boy stopped at her bus window and asked her where she was from.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"England," she said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"What part?"</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">She told him the town which was somewhere near South London.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The little boy then asked her what she thought of her local football team who he had seen play in a match on TV over the weekend - he knew the score. They chatted a little about football including the boy's favorite underdog team that happen to be the home team of another English couple sitting at the front of the bus.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Here," said the boy after a few minutes. "Have a banana."</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was free gift but Angela didn't want a banana or get a freebee from this boy who surely needed the money so she refused. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Another boy nearby said innocently, "You don't want to be his friend?"</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So Angela took the banana. With a quick thought, she decided to give the boys a magazine from the bus. The two boys immediately lit up, set down their bananas and poured over the magazine under a tree.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"All they wanted to do was read," Angela told me on that Fijian island. "I wished I could have given them a library's worth of books."</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">A light went off in my head; this is exactly what I was about to help do with PWP, except we're giving Zambian children two libraries worth of books. No it's not saving lives but it's certainly enhancing them and who's to say what's more important.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now about my prize.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijz6iPjNhUrvpJxeSt5x5sqMaq8baHVFCIy0pkkyifZTeEVontu4IV5yYNppXNdTC4W98KY1oP_ktEr65VsxSYDBmnX5_RJ5uJWdRlQNozKUFJjHYvNqR5wF3QAZWFZUhGPm2zWOAzPrg/s1600/mana+necklace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijz6iPjNhUrvpJxeSt5x5sqMaq8baHVFCIy0pkkyifZTeEVontu4IV5yYNppXNdTC4W98KY1oP_ktEr65VsxSYDBmnX5_RJ5uJWdRlQNozKUFJjHYvNqR5wF3QAZWFZUhGPm2zWOAzPrg/s400/mana+necklace.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681606079359999586" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The "Mana Necklace" is Kamoka Pearls' signature adventure and travel jewelry and something I've worn on the road for years. Everything is sustainable from the pearl, grown with care in Ahe Atoll's lagoon in the Tuamotu Archipelago, to the kangaroo leather which is taken to quell over population in native stocks (it's also some of the strongest leather in the world). </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The prize is a necklace on leather with a 10mm semi-round silver pink grade B pearl (great luster and two very small, nearly imperceptible blemishes) and an anklet with a 9.5mm medium tone grey-green-gold baroque grade B pearl (again very good luster with only a minor, scarcely visible scratch). You can see the details of the necklace line at http://<a href="http://buy.kamokapearls.com/collections/kangaroo-leather-line/products/mana-necklace">buy.kamokapearls.com/collections/kangaroo-leather-line/products/mana-necklace</a> but the anklet is a new product that isn't online yet - so this is a special pre-launch gift! The necklace is normally priced at $130 and the anklet is expected to be priced around $100 making the set worth around $230.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOM-dqhzAcengG3xyF6oqkunStd2vRpnsZTyT8pKwj7jniF5nGlgma_1RS1zcjrzPJxz8aX5o_XCAgdE7eCF99g760Ldwy7hR1eZ53F0Nm3o2u27TILbI7VfezTBuTXVqSgeydT9lLMk/s1600/mana+bracelet.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOM-dqhzAcengG3xyF6oqkunStd2vRpnsZTyT8pKwj7jniF5nGlgma_1RS1zcjrzPJxz8aX5o_XCAgdE7eCF99g760Ldwy7hR1eZ53F0Nm3o2u27TILbI7VfezTBuTXVqSgeydT9lLMk/s400/mana+bracelet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681606446357592930" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And if you're new here I might add that <a href="http://kamokapearl.com">Kamoka Pearl</a> is my family's farm run by my charming husband.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So please head over to the PWP website, <a href="http://www.passportswithpurpose.org/donate/">bid </a>on my prize and help build those libraries in Zambia!!!</p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-11492390918323978092011-11-06T15:29:00.000-08:002011-11-06T16:16:03.132-08:00On The Road With a Lonely Planet Author: A Kid's Perspective<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgfoTD2GXBuLJUz013vkgwO2Zy9yyBrA8MGn-VblfXq0iaJ6VuY1Sn6QJcOsWT6hyphenhyphenDFvsjqntPimZM-4v5qtr3fTYsIDDJSHN41UOrvS-AH2aNgUulkgf6f7X5P2Y4IqPil-OUY9Sunw/s1600/phi+phi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgfoTD2GXBuLJUz013vkgwO2Zy9yyBrA8MGn-VblfXq0iaJ6VuY1Sn6QJcOsWT6hyphenhyphenDFvsjqntPimZM-4v5qtr3fTYsIDDJSHN41UOrvS-AH2aNgUulkgf6f7X5P2Y4IqPil-OUY9Sunw/s400/phi+phi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672038117858712482" border="0" /></a><br />My first guest post to Coconut Radio is by my daughter, Jasmine. This was originally an assignment for her English class (about lying) but I liked it so much I asked her to re-word it a bit for my blog.<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br />Here's her take on what it's like traveling with me:<br /><br />When I was about ten my mom took me, my dad, and my brother on a research trip with her to Thailand. I had been on many “big trips” before but this time I was deemed old enough to be taken to work instead of being left with dad. I had always wondered what happened in the secret world of my mom’s work so I was quite excited.<br /><br />Shortly after arriving in Phuket we dropped the boys off at a hotel and, even though we were jet-lagged and tired from the trip, went to research a few hostels before the day was over. The first place we went had a grouchy American expat working at the front desk who was a little too enthralled with a half finished grid of Sudoku. My mom and I went straight up and asked to see a room.<br /><br />"What kind of room do you wanna see?" grumbled the woman, reluctantly looking up from her Sudoku.<br /><br />"Just a two person room," answered my mom.<br /><br />The lady got up from her chair and eyed us curiously. "You girls here on your own?" she asked doubtfully.<br /><br />"No" I said. "We have two other people with us".<br /><br />As she showed us to the room I caught a glimpse of a cockroach or some other exotic Southeast Asian bug and coughed from the strong smell of cigarettes. When the Sudoku lady finally opened the door to a simple white room lit by flickering neon lights with a bunk bed and a small, glass cube shower, I immediately went and to have a look. I soon regretted my curiosity when a dead gecko that had been smashed in the shower door fell onto my arm and made me jump backwards. The woman hardly reacted, apparently squished geckos in shower doors happened a lot here.<br /><br />Since I was distracted by wiping the gecko goo off my arm I only caught part of the conversation when the woman asked my mom why we were there.<br /><br />"My cousin and her boyfriend are coming and they want a good cheap place to stay," said my mom.<br /><br />"What?" I said from across the room. "When? Are we going to see them?"<br /><br />"Of course, we're meeting them in Koh Phi Phi remember?"<br /><br />"No, you never said anything about meeting anyone."<br /><br />Had I not been tired from the trip, and had that gecko not given me a shot of adrenaline I probably would have noticed the look on my mom’s face.<br /><br />"Well, you could save yourself some time and buy them the Lonely Planet" said the lady, with the kind of hoarse chuckle characteristic of life long smokers.<br /><br />"My cousin doesn't really trust the Lonely Planet" said my mom giving me the death stare.<br /><br />"What? Doesn't she know you wrote it?"<br /><br />My mom opened her mouth to say something but it was too late, her cover had been blown. The lady tried to be nicer to us by offering us tea and a free night at her hostel but she was obviously quite angry that we had come as normal people instead of with a whole crew of photographers and assistants, which is how a lot of people think guidebooks are written. Neither of us wanted to stay in that place any longer than we had to so when we finally got away from the woman who, was suddenly our best friend. We took a tuk-tuk back to the hotel.<br /><br />My mom was a little angry with me at first but she said it was alright since she wasn’t going to put that place in the book anyway. The next day we had much better luck with our research and luckily the word didn’t spread about there being a Lonely Planet author on the island. </p> <div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1320621801547106"><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1320621801547105" dir="ltr"> <span style="color:rgb(0, 0, 0);background-font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:transparent;" id="yiv337270153internal-source-marker_0.9192761191291337" ><br /></span><span style="color:rgb(0, 0, 0);background-font-weight:normal;font-style:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:transparent;" ></span> </div></div>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-51535274531396683012011-10-28T10:09:00.000-07:002011-10-28T14:59:00.440-07:00Culturally misunderstood small talk<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEQbyTMSyFoegg-c42nvn636Lq5bubqPOFZvMn0hr0SRJpSdYOD35BRiVdz90mnEIcLyvbRDrrgNWY6MPJz1YD4TkqbaDfcygudLLqisTHzoG3OOURPtO8FZy9amdh2p3-AuMld83sSM/s1600/poria+ladies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 332px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEQbyTMSyFoegg-c42nvn636Lq5bubqPOFZvMn0hr0SRJpSdYOD35BRiVdz90mnEIcLyvbRDrrgNWY6MPJz1YD4TkqbaDfcygudLLqisTHzoG3OOURPtO8FZy9amdh2p3-AuMld83sSM/s400/poria+ladies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668592492365924882" border="0" /></a><br />"Eh Celeste poria ia 'oe!"<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This means "Celeste, you're fat," and I'm frequently greeted this way by female Tahitian friends I haven't seen in awhile.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It's not a compliment. In the past rotundity may have been a sign of beauty for Tahitian women but the Western world has seeped in too deeply and now most people would prefer to be skinny. But the conversation starter has stuck and, unless you look almost sickly thin, or you're a known athlete, people will probably tell you you've put on weight or at least "haven't got any fatter." In a way it's like saying you look healthy and happy even though you're not going to win any beauty pageants.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">No one means offence by these comments but I still don't like being told I'm fat. I always get offended -- I can't help it -- but I let it go as a cross-cultural faux pas I'm only aware of on my end.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And this has got me thinking about other similar small talk that Westerners find uncouth.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In Indonesia and Malaysia the classic conversation starter is "Where are you going?"</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This question isn't meant to be answered literally although most Westerners don't know that so feel it's invasive.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Why is it this guy on the street's business where I'm going?" people ask.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It's not, so just answer vaguely with something like the classic "jalan jalan," which means just wandering around.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the same vein if you asked an Indonesian "How are you?" they'd find it weird. It's a pretty intimate question if you think about it. Why would you casually ask about someone's mental state? It's a big can of worms if you attempt to answer it honestly.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In China common small talk may start with "Have you eaten?" I like this one (perhaps because I'm poria). It insinuates getting invited in for a meal or going to eat somewhere yummy, although it's more of a polite thing to say than attached to any real expectations.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">These are just a few and I'm sure there are many more examples of funny conversation starters from around the world. Please leave some in the comments! I'd love to hear from you.</p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-6394825733883757792011-10-21T12:20:00.001-07:002012-06-15T14:37:05.766-07:00The Channel Islands: California's Ocean Sanctuary<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1O1LeKNg31qu0cYFY8NbSqWmBcEpUTexNstOVSZH4Eh3l0XD-PqNnFBZ0dd8ttqIOmPP4igGDl_Y1OprUq3VId1vX4msCuhoWI_Q_2yYEgaJXrDndVzrQsK6DUp6sRsUFV0taIS2TLr8/s1600/santa+cruz+pelicans.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1O1LeKNg31qu0cYFY8NbSqWmBcEpUTexNstOVSZH4Eh3l0XD-PqNnFBZ0dd8ttqIOmPP4igGDl_Y1OprUq3VId1vX4msCuhoWI_Q_2yYEgaJXrDndVzrQsK6DUp6sRsUFV0taIS2TLr8/s400/santa+cruz+pelicans.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666028517719461122" border="0" /></a><br /><br />When you fly from Tahiti to Los Angeles you pass over very little land mass. If you're lucky you may peer down at a coral atoll in the Tuamotus about 45 minutes after takeoff but after that there's nothing but clouds and lots and lots of ocean. The first dots that come into view on the flight map as you're approaching Los Angeles are the Channel Islands. When the small yellow specks appear, it feels like an event after so much blue, and their names sound so much more exotic than the big stinky city where you're about to land - - think with a Latin accent: Anacapa, San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz and Santa Barbara Islands. The fact that they're so close to major civilization yet relatively unknown makes them all the more romantic. Ever since I first flew over these islands 20 years ago I've wanted to visit them and I finally got the chance this last Monday.<br /><br />I went with my mother in law who used to live on a sailboat around the islands in the early 70s when she and my father in law had the first urchin fishing licenses in the region. She hadn't been back since. Her stories of those days involve wild storms, fixing broken rigging while eight months pregnant and plenty of crazy characters. Our day on Santa Cruz Island 40 years later was to be much more mellow.<br /><br />Instead of a homemade cement-hull sailboat <span style="font-style: italic;">a la</span> 1970, we set out on a modern catamaran complete with snack bar and commentary over the loud speakers. It was cold and foggy at our starting point at Ventura Harbor but the ocean was calm. Pelicans flocked on the rocky breakwater as we puttered out into opaque white nothingness.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihN5T6mh5jd9YYVyj-RonVW6198CfCtSt61dVceByggYlkIhAEwBa4ksBgl89a0tKnnDRe8LERdj6FqZ_vtEMoXqv66m_gODKIKw8KgtaI-eHfmeWehc6vc_itfzAufy7YlV63aCfks2Q/s1600/sea+lions.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 224px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihN5T6mh5jd9YYVyj-RonVW6198CfCtSt61dVceByggYlkIhAEwBa4ksBgl89a0tKnnDRe8LERdj6FqZ_vtEMoXqv66m_gODKIKw8KgtaI-eHfmeWehc6vc_itfzAufy7YlV63aCfks2Q/s400/sea+lions.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666030121730283570" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A few minutes out we stopped at a red buoy where a group of sea lions rested while others swam around in the blue-brown silky water. The commentator promised we'd see more marine life before we reached the islands, possibly even whales. Then off we went into the mist.<br /><br />Despite the fact that I get seasick on just about anything and everything, I didn't feel so bad this day. After about 45 minutes of un-eventful cruising a couple at the front of the boat spotted something that looked like whales. I went outside on the bow and soon saw two large fins surfacing and plunging like wheels in the distance. As we came closer the commentator announced that these were Risso's dolphins. Soon a few more swam near the boat, close enough that we could clearly see the black and white speckled markings covering their torpedo-shaped bodies. The adults of this species are easily ten feet long, with a particularly long dorsal fin. After a few minutes of oohing and aahing we motored away again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinb_Fdb-m4yIOrgt-2_D0jDhebE-Hnve4MyHGEKdYGYkx77MBNo3u2MsFPCM55IYbGSC3JJKdC0HLsWrqA_0TiFxefTw8OJoCwh7RbmS0wbZRo7PHzQmwRIltz5nlc2KX9CA8K1bp0bbw/s1600/dolphins.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinb_Fdb-m4yIOrgt-2_D0jDhebE-Hnve4MyHGEKdYGYkx77MBNo3u2MsFPCM55IYbGSC3JJKdC0HLsWrqA_0TiFxefTw8OJoCwh7RbmS0wbZRo7PHzQmwRIltz5nlc2KX9CA8K1bp0bbw/s400/dolphins.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666028077463819810" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Only a few minutes later we came into a massive nursery pod of common dolphins. Mothers, tiny babies, sisters and brothers all swam over to play in our wake. It was like a giant soup of mammals splashing or gliding just under the surface showing off their streamlined bodies. They continued to follow us as the silhouette of Santa Cruz Island started to immerge from the fog. Pelicans glided over us to rest on a white-stained rock. As we approached the dock at Scorpion Cove, the sky cleared just enough that the sun could reflect on the water exposing kelp beds through the pristine, clear bay - this cove is only about 20 miles from the California coast and yet the ocean is nearly as clear as Tahitian waters.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVqygxMR7x9wqHsyhzZL9Q61EizBR-dzwjwGqJoTDw3NMsF8cM_m4nJCaqxEQiwmVm4sRIPetPHAYe9slwc7vPO0Hs70I1JjFkd7JM7BqEtuedSg1Ib01AoIO1dR40ET1nOnr61_KJB8/s1600/clear+kelp.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVqygxMR7x9wqHsyhzZL9Q61EizBR-dzwjwGqJoTDw3NMsF8cM_m4nJCaqxEQiwmVm4sRIPetPHAYe9slwc7vPO0Hs70I1JjFkd7JM7BqEtuedSg1Ib01AoIO1dR40ET1nOnr61_KJB8/s400/clear+kelp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666027850861876914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Santa Cruz is the largest of the Channel Islands with 96 square miles of near-treeless grassy hills (the highest peak is 2,000 ft), rocky coves, streams, beaches and sea caves. Now it's a protected area but it was once a cattle ranch and Scorpion Cove is strewn with rusted old farming vehicles and equipment that look like modern art pieces. Before Europeans arrived, the island was inhabited by the Chumash Native American Indians for some 9000 years and you're constantly reminded of this my the shell midden in the trails running all over the island.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAZtbFkuyuQwSTuYwi64f_9kXkAcUhtSWgUV6GILCgqI0_Y8BLzuAZu6ClagSUEoIJRT1mXX0vOG91cWwZ_H29-kYSX2TF8AYeUjJ9GIzByrFGOY7Bx0g2egb6t3YMJ22RmsXeMDz4Rms/s1600/farm+art.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAZtbFkuyuQwSTuYwi64f_9kXkAcUhtSWgUV6GILCgqI0_Y8BLzuAZu6ClagSUEoIJRT1mXX0vOG91cWwZ_H29-kYSX2TF8AYeUjJ9GIzByrFGOY7Bx0g2egb6t3YMJ22RmsXeMDz4Rms/s400/farm+art.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666028251963014850" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We only had two hours which is far too short to get anywhere on this big island. Like the Galapagos Islands the Channel Islands' isolation means that there are 145 species of plants and animals that are found nowhere else in the world. I can't say I saw any of these, but we did get a good hike up to the top of a dry, grassy hill where the fog cleared letting us see the steep coastline and some of the old farming buildings in the valleys. Down near the dock we picked figs and dodged cawing black crows, mad that we were stealing their fruit. Then reluctantly we got back on the boat.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWv3vhwRv8PpxECXOTs_QorsUq8odl0Vf7y6WYm8dU9Y631XU6Bx12JFouqCOeAEgHW7so6JjERNUOYlYL5tn9kdJhMrJwi3pJ7LZNTbpuxRFqHtMmS2bOxpm8Wtyw0tiKyUe9kqqVRAI/s1600/scorpion+cove.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWv3vhwRv8PpxECXOTs_QorsUq8odl0Vf7y6WYm8dU9Y631XU6Bx12JFouqCOeAEgHW7so6JjERNUOYlYL5tn9kdJhMrJwi3pJ7LZNTbpuxRFqHtMmS2bOxpm8Wtyw0tiKyUe9kqqVRAI/s400/scorpion+cove.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666028775230814418" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A day trip is lovely but doesn't do these islands justice. Now I want to go back with camping and diving equipment, a kayak and at least a few days to explore. In many ways these islands are what California would have looked like without the effects of development and as an ex-native, this landscape feels like home. Only 250,000 people make it out to the entire park per year making this one of the least visited national parks in the US.<br /><br />Despite twenty years of dreaming, my expectations of the Channel Islands were met. With their complex history, natural beauty and a near-mystical allure, how could they not?<br /><br />Our round-trip boat ride to Santa Cruz cost $56 on Island Packers (<a href="http://www.islandpackers.com/">www.islandpackers.com</a>). For more information about the park go to <a href="http://www.nps.gov/chis/index.htm">http://www.nps.gov/chis/index.htm</a>.Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-46115415698696451742011-10-10T13:38:00.000-07:002011-10-25T16:51:58.091-07:00How I Became a Lonely Planet Author<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbVEQYLLn7M_m0qMdmOyRC_fP1xZqL4PTsI9ivnCawBm-pIHUdgaDmf_p_aqVxoY9SQtdxzwKvy0BdyzqBdu7gcN49_RKxu3tJ685pDFtxq-NikvcSLXTC8fNjOF3b7a0bftgVuA0LrA/s1600/kaituer+petite-me.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbVEQYLLn7M_m0qMdmOyRC_fP1xZqL4PTsI9ivnCawBm-pIHUdgaDmf_p_aqVxoY9SQtdxzwKvy0BdyzqBdu7gcN49_RKxu3tJ685pDFtxq-NikvcSLXTC8fNjOF3b7a0bftgVuA0LrA/s400/kaituer+petite-me.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661966326321246018" border="0" /></a><br />The question I get after "what's it like being a Lonely Planet author" is "how did you get your job?" My response is usually, "long story," because it is. People don't like this answer for obvious reasons so, in continuation of last week's low down on what it's like on the road as guide book author, here's how I got my job and some thoughts on how you can get a job like mine. Spoiler: it's not easy.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">For me it started in 1998 when I lived on Ahe Atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. All we had for communication was a short wave radio and a satellite telephone (that cost $10 per minute) that we used mostly as a fax machine in emergencies. Just to put where I was in perspective, this atoll had no roads, no plumbing and only one little store selling canned food. When you see those cartoons of a stranded guy sitting under a coconut tree surrounded by shark-infested waters, that's pretty much where I was. I also had a two year old and a newborn baby. So, imagine my surprise when I got a fax from an old school friend asking if I'd be interested in writing the French Polynesia guidebook for Lonely Planet.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But it wasn't in the cards that time. My friend (unknown to me) was working as Lonely Planet's publicity manager and when she heard they were looking for Tahiti writers she thought of me. I faxed her back to let her know I was interested but by the time the communication had gone back and forth, Lonely Planet had found someone else. A few months later I got offered Tonga from the Australian office but this time the communications seemed to just dissolve somewhere between my remote atoll and the satellite, so once again, I lost the job. Looking back this was for the best since there's no way I could have done what was needed to be done from my remote location and with two very small kids.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Fast-forward to 2001 and the Book Passage Travel Writers and Photographers Conference in Corte Madera, California. My family and I had recently moved to the much bigger island of Tahiti and I had started travel writing. I'd had a few things published and decided to attend the conference while visiting friends and family in the US. I had no idea Lonely Planet was going to be there and my school friend no longer worked there but I had had the seed put in my head that this was my dream job. Lonely Planet offered a workshop and I decided to take it.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the last morning they told us all to wear good shoes and a sun hat and to get there at around 7am - the reason was a surprise. They drove us all into San Francisco and dropped us all off for about an hour to update a guidebook section. We had that night to write it all up and whoever did the best job would win two tickets to Europe and a chance to become an author; I think there were about 30 of us. I'll skip the details here, but I won.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">We decided to go to Spain and Morocco that fall with the tickets. Unfortunately, a day before we were supposed to take the ferry from Spain to Tangiers, 9/11 happened. We were frozen, stuck in Spain with our two young kids, not knowing what to do. Instead of going to Morocco we got the first flight we could back to Tahiti. My husband's pearl business was severely effected by the plummeting economy and I suddenly had to work full time for him to try and save the business. Meanwhile, Lonely Planet's book sales dropped so dramatically that they closed the Oakland office where I'd just theoretically got a job, and everyone I'd just met was laid off. My chances of becoming an author again became just a dream.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Three years later, once the economy had settled a little bit, my family and I traveled to Mexico. Again, I'll skip the details of the trip but we ended up in this little coastal village called Chacahua on the Oaxaca coast. There were maybe four other foreigners in town and we became friends with an American woman at our guesthouse. Her name was Carolyn and, randomly, she was a managing editor for Lonely Planet. She also remembered me from the contest. We hung out for a few days and at the end she told me that, especially with my history with the company, that there was no reason I shouldn't be an author. Things had changed a bit by this time though so, via Carolyn writing a letter of introduction, I had to be accepted to write a sample chapter that would be reviewed by the recruiter. I was given the OK and then the sample took about two weeks to write (I did it once we were back home in Tahiti); after a few months of review and interview, I was accepted into the author pool.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Great, you think, but no. Getting accepted into the author pool doesn't guarantee work. A publishing schedule is sent out once a month and authors have to pitch for each individual title. Luckily for me, Tahiti was on the list and I secured my first gig within a few months. And the rest is history. Once the books I'm currently working on are out I will have contributed to over 30 Lonely Planet titles.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So how can you get a job? Honestly, it's harder today than it ever has been. The company hires very few new authors and only those who specialize in regions where they need people. To check the list go to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.LonelyPlanet.com/jobs">www.LonelyPlanet.com/jobs</a> - there were no listings when I wrote this post. This is your only hope.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was lucky to have had connection, be in the right place at the right time and specialize in a region Lonely Planet needed but ultimately I can't imagine what I would be doing if I hadn't got this job. I kept the goal strongly in my head for years. You may not agree, but I'm a strong believer in the power of will mixed with gratitude to make things happen. I think anyone who wants this job badly enough and has the skills and work ethic to go after it, will eventually succeed. It just might take a long time.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of course if you read my prior post about the realities of life on the road you might decide to keep your day job. For me though, through the hard pillows, blistered feet and days tied to my computer at home it's still what I love to do and what I hope to continue doing it for a long, long time.</p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-90031150977256361712011-10-02T18:52:00.000-07:002011-10-11T07:50:48.608-07:00Life On the Road For a Lonely Planet Author<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj27ER4atVLt2a-49hOTeWixK9Plxtmao7zV7bdfAx4Y0nD5X5LiabXzuikk2injuE5Q7Ccld_VNSYhg9PGFDVBZc_Sm9uR_9qEpMB2PAUJ3iBrfHR-ATsmOWkMPYp4ZMG9hVIyqXwi7iU/s1600/OTR+glamour+shot.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj27ER4atVLt2a-49hOTeWixK9Plxtmao7zV7bdfAx4Y0nD5X5LiabXzuikk2injuE5Q7Ccld_VNSYhg9PGFDVBZc_Sm9uR_9qEpMB2PAUJ3iBrfHR-ATsmOWkMPYp4ZMG9hVIyqXwi7iU/s400/OTR+glamour+shot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659082438643832210" border="0" /></a><br />It sounds like a dream job. Many people seem to imagine that Lonely Planet writers spend days on the beach with giant cocktails in carved out pineapples; nights involve lavish dinners, more cocktails and everywhere they go people are doing everything they can to make their stay in the country perfect. Often I hear hotels and restaurant I've visited complaining that I never even came through. This always makes me snicker because they must think I show up with a name tag, giant camera and a clipboard or something. Or maybe they just assume I'd introduce myself - that would be nice but honestly I don't have time to chat at length with dozens of hotels and restaurants everyday.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The reality of how authors research varies from author to author but, in my case, most places I go to never know I came through. I probably stayed in their cheapest room and I can't eat everywhere so usually I'll just stop in to a restaurant for a juice or maybe just ask to see their menu. They probably saw me and felt bad that I was on my own and wondered what would lead a woman my age to stray so far from home. They may not have noticed me at all. Other travelers never guess who I am either.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I often get asked "what it's like" and what I do on an ordinary day. So here goes. I'm going to write this as an average day in Southeast Asia since that's where I spend the most time. Warning: It's long and a lot less exciting than you think it will be.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">7:15</span> I wake up in a hard bed with a really bad pillow, wash-up in the hostel's shared bathroom, and put on clothes I washed in the sink the day before that have been drying draped over chairs and whatnot. I turn off the fan and get out the door in 15 minutes.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">7:30</span> Breakfast at my favorite local joint. This will often be a place I've put in the book for years. It's busy and I'm hardly able to get a table but I'm the only Westerner there. So much for Lonely Planet ruining places. If it doesn't serve banana pancakes and looks too foreign, people won't go there. I enjoy an amazing meal, check my email on my phone, read a local paper and map out my day on the back of a map I picked up at my hostel. I take a moment to enjoy the exoticness of where I'm sitting and I'm thankful of my situation; I pay then go.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">8:15</span> Nothing is open yet which frustrates me because I'm in a hurry to get stuff done. I walk around town to see which Western style breakfast places are open so I can recommend them for people who like to eat before 10am.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">9:00</span> I start looking at hotels. I have a list of new places I've found on the Internet, by traveler's recommendations, at tourist offices or through local friend's suggestions. I've mapped them all out as I heard of them. As I'm on my way to a place on my list, I pass another place I've never heard of, pop in and ask to see a room. The people don't ask who I am or why I'm there and enthusiastically show me around. I ask them a million questions and they tell me all sorts of fun stories about the place and give me their business card. It ends up being the coolest place I find all day. I sneak into a hidden corner once I'm back outside and jot messy notes in my notebook.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">10:30</span> After an hour and a half of wandering around, looking at hotels and seeing what's new I start to see other travelers eating their Western breakfasts around town. I note which places are the busiest, check the menus and get a table at the one that looks the best. I order a cup of tea, catch up writing notes in my notebook about everything I've seen that morning then text a local friend to see if they can meet for lunch. Meanwhile, I chat with a nice English couple at the table next to me who give me a great detailed, review of a bike tour I won't have time to go on myself. They of course have no idea that they just gave their input to Lonely Planet.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">11:00</span> There are a few places I have to see that are way out of town. I hop on a bus then walk about 10 minutes to find the first place, which has great reviews on Trip Advisor. From the mildewed outside and depressing, hard-to-get-to location I can tell it's a dud. I wake up a TV-hypnotized receptionist and she takes me to a stinky room with a stained carpet and a lint-filled air-con vent. A few confused looking older Americans are dining on white toast, jam and coffee in the cafe downstairs. I thank the receptionist but don't bother to get the price because there's no way I'm putting this place in the book.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">12:00</span> I walk high-speed back to the bus stop. The bus never shows. It's about 90 degrees Fahrenheit and 100 percent humidity, my face is bright red and I feel awful. It starts to rain. I walk about ten minutes in my plastic-bag-like emergency rain poncho while cars whiz past and I'm sure they're all laughing at me in my silly poncho that makes me look like an orange balloon. A big truck sprays muddy water all over me. I finally hail a taxi.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">12:40</span> I meet my friend who I haven't seen in two years at a new hole-in-the-wall she says is really good. She says I look like hell and laughs at my wet, muddy legs and plastic bag poncho. We talk about her love life, my love life then she orders all the stuff that's supposed to be so good. It's fabulous so I take extensive notes about it. We stuff ourselves while chatting about what's new around town. After lunch I decide to throw my ugly poncho away and buy an umbrella.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">1:40</span> It's raining and my friend has the afternoon off so she asks me where I need to go. I've been to most of the museums etc in town before and from asking around I've found nothing has changed, but there's a new shopping mall in a district I don't know well that I'd like to check out. We go but on the way stop at a temple I've never heard of where they do some sort of ritual that people come from all over the country to take part in for good luck. We go in and do the ritual, I talk to the abbot who tells me the fascinating history of the place. I take notes but once in the car I realize I'll never have the space to put this awesome place in the book - plus it's out of the way and a little spooky so, like my breakfast joint, hardly anyone would go there anyway. I consider returning to this place one day for one of the hundreds of non-fiction travel books I've thought about writing.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">3:00</span> We get to the mall and it looks like every other mall in Southeast Asia. I jot down the names of some of the stores, we get an ice cream then head back to town.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">3:45</span> My friend drives me to all the other out of the way hotels I need to go to. They are all really boring. She also helps me find a cheap umbrella. Meanwhile I get a text from another friend who wants to know if I want to go out to dinner with a bunch of couch surfers. I say OK.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">6:00</span> I go back to my hotel, shower and write a few emails. What I'd really like to do is take a nap but I'm afraid I'd sleep through dinner.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">7:30</span> I meet my local friends, three couch surfers and a random expat Kiwi English teacher at a food stall area. My friend has told them all about me so they all ask me about my job. They of course want to know how much money I make and assume I have to save all my receipts that I'll send back to Lonely Planet who will reimburse me for any and all expenses. I tell them that I actually work from a lump sum and if I spend more I earn less. No one seems to really care so I try and change the subject. I excuse myself during dinner and take notes on the new stalls that have opened since the last time I was here.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">8:30</span> I've managed to pick the brains of every person at dinner and have a few good suggestions for the next town I'm going to and another review of the bike tour I can't go on. I suggest we get dessert at a place I want to try.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">9:00</span> We go get dessert then check out a local night market. Then everyone but my local friend and the Kiwi guy goes home. The rest of us decide to go check out a new bar.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">9:30</span> It's sort of dead but we all sit and have a beer. By 10pm more people show up and by 11pm it's rocking.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">11:30</span> We move on to a club down the road that has a surprisingly decent cover band from the Philippines. I go up to dance, get hit on by a 50+ year-old Australian military dude and a Nigerian gigolo then decide this is more depressing than fun and I'd better go home. A drunk Asian girl I was dancing next to hugs me like we're best friends and tells me I can stay at her house next time I'm in town. I thank her but know I'll never see her again. My friends walk me home.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">1:30am</span> Back to my board-like bed with the too-tall pillow of rocks. I set my alarm for 8am so I can catch the 9am bus out of town. I toss and turn for about half an hour recapping my day, turn on the light briefly to check for bed bugs then fall asleep.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">After each research trip comes the write-up which, in general, equals the time spent on the road. My fellow author Leif Pettersen has captured this type of day on video better than I ever could in words. To see it click <a href="http://killingbatteries.com/2008/02/a-day-in-the-life-of-a-freelance-writer/">here</a>. Enjoy!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7417784322197275588.post-89221980963451777552011-09-19T08:40:00.000-07:002011-09-19T08:56:51.594-07:00Flower: Ko Lanta's One-Hit Wonder<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsPOhxVH40Dex1-zfUE1oPOXvOsRJErgNR8qRRVR8ovXFb-bhk4MGJaeYAqPeatnzaCkHEqw-Atswd6IdgEqektGj5clCWkFlE_U8fUh6cMXmhZf9qRjfD7hthHaONHQ1gRMBu_RZZrc/s1600/Ko+Lanta.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsPOhxVH40Dex1-zfUE1oPOXvOsRJErgNR8qRRVR8ovXFb-bhk4MGJaeYAqPeatnzaCkHEqw-Atswd6IdgEqektGj5clCWkFlE_U8fUh6cMXmhZf9qRjfD7hthHaONHQ1gRMBu_RZZrc/s400/Ko+Lanta.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654097376809584658" border="0" /></a><br /><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">She was around six foot two and skinny in a way that comes from ill-health rather than from exercise or lucky genes. The light bruises on her arms told me drugs were probably to blame and the poorly drawn eyebrows, thinning short blond hair and stubble on her chin told me she was less worried about personal hygiene than your ordinary transvestite. But she had an effervescent smile, and my spider senses told me she was a nice person.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Oh the tuk-tuk's a great deal, best on the island, but it's for two people and you have to drive it yourself and there's really no point if you're by yourself," she told me in a fast, nasal, up and down drawl.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had just stopped by to ask about a sign outside her door advertising a cheap rate on a tuk-tuk. This was on Ko Lanta in Southern Thailand so I had expected to meet a Thai person, not an American cross-dresser. I was still a bit taken aback.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Where are you from?" I asked for lack of anything better to say.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"San Francisco and LA mostly. And you?"</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"I grew up in San Francisco." I said.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Really? Wow I haven't met anyone from home in ages. Do you want to come in and have some tea?"</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Maybe it's because I'm from San Francisco and used to the freaks of the world, and I'm usually quite cautious when I travel alone, but I was intrigued by this person so didn't hesitate. In we went for tea.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"By the way, my name's Dok Mai which means flower in Thai," she told me, so I told her my name too. She smiled at me in approval.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Her home was on the ground floor of a shabby mixed commercial and residential block with a big parking lot in front. The floors were cheaply tiled and a stand up fan was blowing on a synthetic-upholstered floral couch. Along the wall were a few professional looking guitars. There was a lot of space and little furniture.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">She brought us tea in a flurry of apologies for the state of the house, which was a little sloppy but mostly clean -- then she wasted no time to start talking, as if she hadn't spoken to anyone in months.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Let me tell you about me," she said.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This made me happy because I wanted to know about Dok Mai and I was get tired of talking about myself with every new person I'd been meeting. Sometimes it's refreshing and relaxing to just get get talked at by another person without having to go into your own story. I was however a little worried about how long I was going to get stuck listening.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">First Dok Mai told me about how she had run away from California because she had racked up a $1000 per day coke habit she wanted to leave behind. A friend suggested she get away from her problems by going to Kata Beach on Phuket, so without doing any research Dok Mai bought a ticket. She loved Kata more than anywhere she'd ever been but then someone told her about Ko Lanta, she went to visit and found she liked it even more than Kata. She'd been there ever since.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"I'm a musician you see," she said about ten minutes into the story. "Have you ever listened to KROQ in the Bay Area?"</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Wait isn't that an LA station?"</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Have you heard a song called You Want It You Got It?"</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Sounds familiar."</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Someone told me they still play it. Here I'll sing it for you."</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">She went and grabbed an acoustic guitar and began strumming. She cleared her voice, then out came a sound I had not expected. The tune had real soul, a universal appeal and her playing was flawless with a hypnotizing style. But it was her voice that was the most astounding. Imagine Aretha Franklin meets Boy George trying not to wake the neighbors. What I was suddenly watching was pure talent, that thing that performers search for their whole lives and rarely find, and this was just in a living room. Dok Mai was absolutely mind-blowingly good. I can't imagine how beautiful she'd have sounded on stage.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">She finished and I applauded as enthusiastically as I felt. I was also pretty sure I'd heard the song before.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"That was amazing!" I said.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Dok Mai nodded knowingly.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"I'm playing in a cover band at the Somewhere Else bar tonight if you want to come?"</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I did want to see her sing some more so told her I'd try and make it but that I had to go.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">"Come back any time," she said as I left. Her eyes were a little glossy and she seemed a bit more out of it than when I had first arrived. I wondered if she hadn't taken a hit of something while taking the tea dishes back to the kitchen or something. Despite the awesome show, I was starting to feel uneasy - I was happy to be getting out of there.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I got back to my guesthouse that night I saw Dok Mai sitting at a table at the onsite bar. Whether she had come to find me or not I don't know, but the fact she was there resurrected that uneasy feeling; I slipped into my room without her seeing me and didn't come out till she left about a half hour later. I'm not sure what I was worried about but despite her artistic brilliance something had gone off and I didn't want to get in any deeper with Dok Mai than I had already. Her show was at a beach about 45 minutes away and I didn't have a car or the expensive taxi fare, so that cinched my decision not to go. I never saw her again.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Since, I've tried Googling "You Want It You Got It" to no avail. It's a great song but I don't even know what name she had when she released the song. I hope that Dok Mai is continuing to find her peace on Lanta, however she chooses to find it. She is a nice person, just perhaps with more baggage than most people, myself included, can deal with. Maybe next time I go back I'll get to see her sing on stage. I know she won't remember me so I'll just keep my distance and enjoy.</p>Celeste Brashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15320277479867366961noreply@blogger.com3