TravelStream™ news feed for member jessamyjoy on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/jessamyjoy en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Mon, 17 Sep 2007 14:56:38 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1189967460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1189967460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1189967460/tpod.html Mon, 17 Sep 2007 14:56:38 -0400 Senegal

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Dakar, Senegal

This afternoon I met with Oumar, a Senegalese I had interpreted for on my last job in the States. He picked me up from the hotel in a cab and took me to his NGO headquarters. He works for a human rights organization and today was the fourth international day for Darfur, so they were having a special event to create awareness and talk about solutions and possible intervention. We met with various people and chatted about Senegal and traveling, he and I reminisced about our time traveling in the States and the funny characters in our group. He had heard that the Angolan man had since been arrested for his participation in that program in the States...I expressed that I was also concerned for the woman from Zimbabwe who called her program certificate a "passport to harassment" on the final day. Even after talking to him, that reality is so far from my own experience in the world, that I have a hard time processing what that must be like...

When it was time for me to head back to the hotel, he hailed a cab, negotiated a decent price and sent me on my way. You have to understand that vehicles in Dakar are...well, vehicle itself is perhaps too generous of a word, but they do indeed get you where you are going. Everywhere you look you can see people with sudsy buckets and a tattered rag washing down their cars. They scrub the outside till it shines...but the untrained eye would never know this. Cabs are black and yellow. At first glance you think they are so battered and made from spare parts that some panels just happen to be yellow and some black, but then you realize that is actually the color of the cab. The color however is interrupted by dents, dings, scratches, rust holes, smears of other random colors and every manner of evidence of the lack of observation of traffic laws. Where there are hubcaps they are mismatched, tires are so bald and dirt covered they seem permanently flat. Windshields are cracked and pitted, some nonexistent altogether. From the outside, be it a cab or not, the average vehicle on the streets of Dakar seems to be held together with duct tape and many fervent prayers. You've never seen such a fleet of dilapidated motor vehicles in your life.

This particular cab was a doozy. When Omar opened the door, the thought occurred to me to help him lest it drop with a clang on the curb. I ducked my head to step in and had to duck extra low to avoid the looping hanging rubber falling from the window. The door closed with a nerve racking clatter. I leaned back and felt the metallic circle of every spring being imprinted into my thighs and back. Every detail of the construction of that seat, minus the padding that had long since worn away, reminded me of every bone and muscle in my own body for the entire 15 minute ride to the hotel. The seat "cover" was greasy brown black and left me smelling of gasoline. It was full of burn holes and rips to match the tears and slashes in the door panels. As we sped up the gears grinded their protest, when we stopped (which was rarely 'cause I think the driver was worried we couldn't), the breaks squealed. Every bump rattled the loose windows and every swerve to pass a slow car in front of us I feared would result in an essential component detaching and rolling swiftly away. The one thing that did work (thank the Lord in heaven) was the horn, which the driver used in place of the breaks when a car stopped or slowed in front of us. I have never in my life had more of an impression that the vehicle was literally about to collapse in a pile around me like in the old silent movies than I did today. But it would not have been silent. Truth be told, aside from the state of the actual car, we had only one extremely close call at an intersection where my last extremely close call took place because suddenly, despite the fact that it is a major road, regardless of the fact that there are no lines, lights or other apparent rules, all vehicles suddenly forget which side they are on and cross one another pell-mell as they merge and turn. Sometimes we go in front of cars to the right, sometimes behind to the left. Sometimes we honk, sometimes they honk. Sometimes we make it smoothly, sometimes those with less third world traffic experience shriek in horror. It really is a crapshoot.

The best part was when the guy asked me about ten questions as we approached the hotel. This hotel has signs for it from a mile away, huge ones, and it's a well-known hotel throughout this entire region. He asks me, "Here? Here?" I tell him, "Follow those two cars." They turn not a block away from us and when we get right behind them (as they are pulling through the gates), he asks me, "Here?" I say, "Yes, pull in and then you'll flip a U at the end." So he drives slowly up the driveway. At a little loop in the road (still not in front of the hotel), he asks me, "I go straight?" I say, "Yes, go straight and then right here on the right you'll drop me off." I sigh with relief to see the bellman reaching out to release me from this deathtrap but the driver drifts right past him. The poor bellman nearly fell flat forward on his face reaching for the handle as the car went by. So I did what was apparently necessary and added for the driver, "Right here is fine." I spared him the, "You idiot! In front of the door where every other car has stopped and you see people with uniforms opening doors!" Yikes. I was just happy to be home!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1189876320/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1189876320/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1189876320/tpod.html Mon, 17 Sep 2007 14:30:57 -0400 Senegal

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Goree, Senegal

Another week gone by and another weekend begun. I knew from the day I got here that what I wanted most to see was the island of Gorée because it is an important historical site. From there, thousands of slaves left Africa for the Americans in the 18th and 19th centuries. Weekend after weekend went by and excuses were invented by our supposed escorts, last weekend was rained out and Céline and I found ourselves resolute to go today with or without our ever-ready personal body guards (the necessity of which may be debated, but our gratitude remains for their tireless willingness to stand in the hot sun while we haggle with shopkeepers or to intervene when we've had enough and can't get ourselves disentangled, and especially the safety they offer going out to restaurants on foot in the lively night streets of Dakar). We hassle them and they hassle us, but I have been grateful not just for their protection but for their company. Fortunately, those who proffered nothing but excuses before...let me rephrase that. Some people abandoned us, but fortunately, others were game and ready and waiting this morning at 10 in the lobby to meet the faithful driver of the other team. So, four of us set out for this weekend's first adventure.

Dominique, our Senegalese driver, understands a bit of English, but when three Americans and a nearly-American French girl get talking in our speedy English, he misses most everything. No bother because he can speak in French with us two interpreters, in Spanish with the two instructors and, extremely conveniently, Wolof with vendors hounding us to buy things we don't need at outrageous prices. The line here in Senegal is, "But you're my first customer of the day...I'll give you a good price because it will bring me good luck since you are the first." Funny thing that from the time we arrived (on a ferry full of tourists) at 11:30 to the time we left at 3, we were the first customers at every hut on the entire island. I wonder what all those other people were doing? In any case, Dominique was handy to have along for random guide-like information and his diverse language skills. He was also fun because he thinks Steve (you have to hear a Boston accent when you see pictures of him) is the funniest man ever to walk the earth. No matter what the guy said or did, whether Dominique really understood or not, he would just laugh. When I told him Steve was trying to throw me to the sharks (there are no longer sharks here, don't worry), smiling, of course he said, "That sounds like Steve."

After a smooth ferry ride over, we arrived at the island. Anxious little boys ran from the rocky beach into the clear blue green water and swam up to the ferry, bobbing in the wake as if waiting for something that apparently did not come. The island is what you imagine when you hear the word "island". The sand is fine and soft, waves come crashing up onto black rocks, people of all colors laze under umbrellas on woven mats and the simple mud houses are painted in bright reds that contrast the palms and perfect blue sky. We trekked dutifully to the hotel that had been recommended to us...

We were happy to sit under a tent and enjoy the cool breeze, excited to start our day with a good meal. Skinny cats with wide eyes sat poised for any scraps, scraggly dogs scratched their flea-ridden backs on the bushes, flies zipped and floated and landed on the table, our glasses, our forks, the bread and eventually our food. The menu left something to be desired but we all found something we were willing to try and ordered. Something dropped from the ceiling into my fresh squeezed orange juice (orange Ex-lax says Pat next to me, referring to the unknown origins of the beverage and the uncertainty of the effect it may have on my system). Before I could even bat an eye, the server materialized out of nowhere, scooped the UFO out of my drink with a spoon and placed a coaster over it. I turned, blinked and asked Céline what had just happened. To this moment I still don't know what was in my drink, but I drank it...and I'm fine. Céline ended up with a giant swimming fly, but this time said server was not so stealthy and Céline refused his spoon life saver and told him to take the glass away. Ah, to be French...or have a spine...When the food came, mine looked like what I expected. I'd ordered poulet yassa, in English yassa chicken, which is a Senegalese specialty: chicken with white rice and a very oniony sauce. Céline and Pat had an assortment of itty bitty seafoods prepared in a variety of ways with toast on the side...covered in green mold. Yes, Céline refused to eat this, too, and while Pat had already eaten half before seeing the green, we sent it all away, not accepting the offer to replace it with more offensive bread. Steve's "filet" was not a filet and medium-well today meant pink...We asked for guava juice and the guy said no but we have guava sorbet, so three of us ordered it. He came back to tell us they didn't actually have any. So, thanking the friend who recommended this place for nothing, we decided to trek on to the actual focus of our journey.

Gorée is a beautiful island. It reminds me half of Monterey, because of the giant palm-like plants and succulents and spiky plants growing out of the sand, and half of the south of France, because of the narrow alleys between bright buildings that open into courtyards with colorful laundry flapping in the wind. In one courtyard, kids yell excitedly as they play football around a giant tree in the middle of their field. In another, women sit in the shade, letting us walk by without peddling their wares. Practically every street you walk down is lined with vibrant, energetic acrylic paintings depicting stick figures dancing, straw huts, baobabs and African life to sunset backdrops. Tapestries blow in the wind, huts packed with large bead necklaces, lively patterned fabrics and wooden carvings fill every nook and cranny of the small island. People approach us here and there. Men with two wooden balls filled with beans on the end of a rope that they knock rhythmically back and forth in their hands promise us, "Good price. Good price. First customer. Good price." as they shake and rattle away. Women with hands overflowing with clusters of gaudy necklaces push them toward us. Hearing our English they peck, "Hey lady! Lady! I have nice necklace. Give good price." In French we say no thank you, no thank you, we don't need any, and keep walking.

We step inside a Catholic church, remnants of the Portuguese colonization which gave way to the Spanish in the long history of exploitation of this peaceful island. We walk through alleys, up winding stone paths, past shops and huts and legless beggars scooting along, stopping to raise pleading hands. Compared to the bustle of Dakar, the island feels like a relaxing stroll in a calm garden. We only need to say "no" once or twice and people leave us alone to continue on our way.

Braving the gantlet of shops, we forge a stone path, passing between bleating sheep that look more like goats and piles of people wiling away the day in the shade. On our way, we find the shopkeeper we'd met on the boat and since she had promised that she owned a big shop with lots of things, we keep up our end of the bargain and follow her...to a small shack the size of all the others...a size that does not permit Pat to actually even step inside. But Céline and I do just to appease her. Céline ends up buying a pagne (material to be used as a skirt) and a scarf which the woman carefully shows me how to tie so I can later show Céline. I tell the women I already own several African skirts and escape her clutches. Pat is not so lucky and is disappointed to learn that even though he was the first customer and she was giving him a "good price" after bargaining for a while, he paid nearly twice for his items as I had paid elsewhere for similar items. Sigh. We carry on, brushing off the advances of pushy women who argue with us that you can't turn down an invitation (as if she were going to serve us tea and scones) before walking off in a huff.

Reaching the top of the hill, we see a sign reading "The edge of the world" and recall that we were to meet "Bob Marley" at the top of the tower and have cold drinks with him. Bob was there all right, dreads past his shoulder and rounded rotting teeth, but once we sat down he disappeared and after a few minutes we decided to move on and find ice cream or cold drinks elsewhere. Really no story in that, even though meeting "Bob" sounded like a good idea at the time...

Finally we made it to the slave house. The house itself is nicer than the homes of many people in Dakar and even there in Gorée with walls that must have been restored and few little evidence of the time that has passed. We walked in and out of the tiny rooms where 25 plus people would be kept, standing for days, maybe weeks, only allowed to leave to relieve themselves just outside and fed only enough to keep them alive. A three foot cubic room served as punishment for those who stepped out of line, men, women and children were separated and if men did not meet the minimum weight of 60 kilos they were kept in a separate room to be fattened up until they were acceptable to be sold. Women were judged on their breasts and virginity. Those who became pregnant by the European slave traders were left behind on Gorée and these mixed blood people became the aristocracy of the area...their misfortune taking a surprising turn for the better as they watched boatloads leave the tiny island never to return and maybe never to arrive at their destination. Families were systematically separated and the sick or infirm in any way were fed to the sharks, like those who misbehaved or tried to escape. The slaves wore heavy, iron shackles on their hands and feet, so narrow that even my thin ankles and wrists would be worn raw in short time. The quarters on the ground level were dark, damp and cramped. The flashing of cameras and talking of various guides prevented me from hearing the ghosts of the past, from imaging the misery that was contained in those stone walls for all those years. My imagination stunted, and gratefully, I talked with Dominique, regretting that human beings have always and will always be cruel to one another, that even today the very thing we were trying to learn from and not forget by preserving this site still happens around the world.

Stepping again into the sunlight, a beautiful dual staircase leads to the brighter, more open quarters were the European traders would sleep peacefully, their consciences apparently unaffected by the shameful lack of humanity and utter degradation below. All the houses on the island facing the water were once used as slave houses, sending people mostly to the cotton fields of the southern United States. It's strange to see people taking smiling pictures in such a somber place. Even stranger to step just outside and return to the world where our skin color and language represent money, where our concerns are rushing past vendors and carefully selecting our food so as not to get sick. It's a strange world where some of us sleep in a hotel qualified as the best in all of West Africa, mosquito-free and air conditioned to our comfort yet complain about the cost, the bugs, the poor service...and others walk on the outside of their ankles because their feet are twisted in from birth but using their arms to lift their legs still manage to dance...others draw drinking water from a black brown pit where goats and sheep relieve themselves, garbage heaps and people bathe...elsewhere innocents are enrolled into armies, force fed drugs and given weapons made especially light so their pre-teen arms can carry them easily...What a world.

If it makes me grateful when I travel to realize the privileged life I live, it makes me ashamed and bewildered to be among the very few elite who do. We forget so easily when we stroll into a mall filled with sparkling jewelry counters, designer clothing and entertainment at our fingers for the amount of money most people earn in a month or several...I forget when I wander the plentiful grocery isles, selecting exactly what I have a taste for at the moment, reassured by the FDA that no matter what box I select off the shelves, no matter which fruit or meat, I can eat it and it won't make me sick. I forget the fish laying in the 100 degree sun, covered in flies, eyes rotting by the second. I forget the filthy water that vegetables are washed in to give them the appearance of being fresh. I forget that stomach parasites, bacteria, worms, malaria, typhoid and things we don't even know how to identify or treat at home are a part of daily life here.

In waxing philosophical I just hope to remind whoever is reading this that as glamorous as traveling can seem, especially from funny, harrowing stories and carefully chosen photos, what traveling should do is not reward hard work with a vacation, but open our eyes to the reality of the majority of the world. If you've traveled, you know how happy you always are to be home. Would that in being happy we recognized why and stretched beyond ourselves...for two days of Starbucks a mother in Africa could be given a 50% chance not to pass HIV/AIDS on to her unborn baby through the purchase of a simple pill. For $30 a month through any number of organizations, a child can be fed nutritious food, protected from diseases and given a chance for an education they otherwise would not have. How easy it is to slip back into the oblivious comfort that surrounds most of us in the States...We shouldn't feel guilty for our wealth, nor should we take it for granted. We should enjoy it; I'm not saying we shouldn't. But, "Of those to whom much is given, much is expected..." Each time we leave the safety of the hotel, I expect an adventure of one kind or another. Each time I recount the various adventures through this blog, I sift and select what seems most interesting to me (sometimes more successfully and succinctly than others), but heaven forbid that I not share the overarching impression that slaps you the second the vehicle passes the compound gates...poverty, lack of development, corruption, division, disease...yet life goes on. I just have to ask myself, "What is expected of me?"
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1189359480/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1189359480/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1189359480/tpod.html Sun, 09 Sep 2007 14:25:09 -0400 Senegal

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Dakar, Senegal

For you true football (aka soccer) fans out there, I have quite the story. As much as people can complain about the heat, the boredom, sometimes the danger, and everything in between, about the job that we are doing, we all have to admit that sometimes the benefits far out way the hardships. We did, in fact, work our longest, most physically demanding day this week in 120 degree heat. It was hot. We were all drenched in sweat and gulping liters of water, taking shelter in the vans idling with the AC on whenever possible. But, we survived, and we're all the better for it if you ask me. It seemed that for one reason or another this week was tough for several of us, but yesterday afternoon redeemed the entire week in only three hours.

We knew tickets had been purchased for us to go to the Senegal/Burkina Faso soccer game because of our "connections", but we didn't know for how much or where or how we were supposed to get there. I can explain our connections later if you were interested, but for now all you need to know is the team has been staying at our hotel this week. All I knew was to meet in the lobby at 3. At 3 we find out that not only were the tickets only $10, but we were to be escorted to the game as part of the team motorcade!

So we watched and took pictures with the rest of the hotel guests as the players loaded on their giant bus and then we filed onto our own tiny bus, directly behind theirs, taking our place in the middle of the motorcade behind cop cars and motorcycles, all of us with flashers on, heading out for the big game. It was fun to drive through town and watch people gather and wave. So much hope is placed on athletes...as if by the simple fact of playing a game for a living they have risen above the poverty, disease and despair that hold so many of their compatriots prisoner. Most, if not all, of these players actually play on European teams because you can't make a living as professional athlete here, but for Africa Cup they come back to their own Senegal and you could feel the pride as we drove through town.

Arriving at the stadium, the motorcade was ushered directly beneath it and giant metal doors slammed down behind us. Amidst the flashing lights of the press and the watchful eyes of our own (Senegalese) bodyguards, we snuck through the crowd and walked right across the middle of the field...imagining the thousands already in their seats an hour before the game wondering what in the world this gaggle of random white people was doing on the field. Of course we took pictures of each other and every one of us, no matter how many times certain had worked with VIPs or had similar experiences, expressed our excitement and disbelief at what we were doing.

We climbed to our excellent seats and settled in, eyeballing the cold bottled drinks which were only $1 (Can you believe it? At a national sports stadium!), the bags of homemade, already sliced bread, the baskets of peanuts in the shell and little girls with trays of fruit passing between spectators looking for their seats. Thank goodness for an overcast sky, 'cause the heat was a bit much anyway. We were just below the overhang of the shelter and felt like we were melting, even though we could reach our hand out and feel cold air just two feet in front of us. At halftime I stupidly decided I might as well find a restroom. Well, seeing as how neither the guys on our team or the other ever let us go anywhere alone, two jumped up to accompany Céline and I to the bathroom, along with our Senegalese driver.

When we reached the outer walkway of the stadium that from the inside could be anywhere in the world, we found ourselves again in Africa. Young boys facing Mecca kneeled and prayed on sheets of newspaper, women sold stacks of fried bean cakes, peanuts and fruit and the scent of body odor and unidentifiable garbage wafted softly as people rehashed the first half. Our driver pointed to the restroom and the four of us Americans exchanged confused glances. The open door was crowded with people coming and going...but only a few of the people were women. We asked the driver if this was a unisex restroom and he said it was but maybe best to wait until the game started again for the crowd to thin. Imaging stall-less toilets side-by-side and not even considering the cleanliness, I agreed and we wandered around for a bit. Soon enough the crowd had disappeared and while the other Americans chickened out, I, mostly out of curiosity, decided to venture in, fully aware that I could always just come back out and hold it for the rest of the game as I wasn't in urgent need anyway.

Unexpectedly, the driver accompanied me in. We entered a large room, tiled from ceiling to floor in tiny, square, white tiles. To our left there was a slightly raised border demarcating the non-existent urinals, where several men relieved themselves against the wall, from the rest of the wet floor. To our right were four stalls, all marked with the universal man symbol, all closed. He checked and they were occupied. When a man came out of the first stall, the driver pushed the door open and recoiled in disgust. I wasn't surprised to see a hole in the floor with typical footprint sides, but to see that it was completely overflowing and the floor was covered in waste. The driver quickly turned around, shaking his head and gestured that we weren't using this one.

You probably didn't want those details, and neither did my companions. Céline by this point decided she didn't have to go that bad, but since the driver was so gallantly offering to accompany me, I didn't want to resist and turn down his assistance, so we set out across the stadium for different restrooms. This was the true adventure, as people were packed into every seat and sitting buns to buns on every step. We squirmed, wiggled and pushed our way up the stairs and then sucked in our tummies and slid past the stats tables, leaning gingerly over the heads of people sitting beneath them. We pushed and tapped and grabbed random shoulders for balance and after taking several minutes to go around only one section of seats, emerged into another open hall. This time, despite the standing unidentifiable liquid on the floor, there was indeed an actual toilet, itself covered in unidentifiable liquid...If ever I wished I had hand sanitizer, despite having only opened the door with the back of my hand and not touching anything else...today was the day! So we made our way slowly back through the mass of hot human bodies and by the time I got to my seat, my shirt was soaked, my forehead dripping and I was very glad to sit down.

The moral of this story is that stadium bathrooms are never clean and they reflect accurately the generally cleanliness of the streets immediately outside, whether they be in New York or Dakar. Take hand sanitizer or don't drink anything!

The game itself was amazing. I'll spare you the play-by-play, but you should know that Burkina beat Senegal in Burkina a while back but had since been eliminated from the Cup...lending that much more importance to a victory for Senegal. Not to worry. 5 to 1, Senegal, and the crowd went wild. The two teenage girls behind Céline and I tapped us on the shoulders and we exchanged high tens all around. The armed military and police posted around the stadium were visibly prepared to keep the crowd in the stands, but despite the fact that last time they lost crowds apparently threw rocks through their bus window, injuring some players, the crowd just filed happily and peacefully out of the stadium.

We waited our turn and when we were given the signal, our escorts started controlling the crowd to make room for us to get through. The file of people on the stairs was stopped by a guard with a stun gun while we jumped the rail and preceded to the now nearly empty field. We were briefly stopped by some military guys until our guards caught up, explained who we were in Wolof and the response changed to one of grateful recognition instead of suspicion. So we were led to our little bus where for the next 20 minutes we observed the patient crowd waiting for one final glance of their heroes of the day.

Our motorcade advanced very slowly as the crowds rushed in around us, running alongside, shouting and waving. At some point the crowds were pushing a little too close and we started to wonder if someone would get run over in their zeal to cheer their team. A couple security agents jumped out of the buses and began running along side, brandishing stun guns and startling the excited crowd with sudden shocks for those who didn't listen to the orders to get back. Probably angry that a handful of white people were part of the motorcade or just generally angry, one man ran alongside us at full speed, his middle finger raised as he gained speed...until suddenly another runner in the opposite direction slammed directly into him and he was knocked to the ground. Of course this brought an eruption of laughter from the guys in the bus and when the runner caught up, he hung his head and turned away. What goes around...

Seeing the security agents control a crowd that was running alongside their team in support, we hated to imagine what would have happened had the team lost and the crowds turned on them...and us. But we obviously were perfectly fine and the vast majority of the town came out of their homes and shops to wave and cheer as the team passed by.

At the hotel we were met with more security, more cameras and more fans. We were ushered to the elevators, the "VIPs" that we are, and headed down for some dinner.

When I get home, not only will I not have sat behind the wheel of a car for 5 weeks, I won't have observed any semblance of traffic laws and I'm pretty sure I'll expect any and all traffic to stop and let me pass just by me putting my window down and waving at them...you could really get used to this traveling in a motorcade!

That was my excitement for this week, as my Senegalese friend that I met on my last job in the US came down with the flu this week and wasn't able to show me around town as planned. Hopefully he'll feel more up to it next week! Having told my only story for this week, I leave you with some pictures...





]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1188154440/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1188154440/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1188154440/tpod.html Thu, 30 Aug 2007 18:01:59 -0400 Senegal

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Dakar, Senegal

Sunday morning several of us piled into a bus and headed out of Dakar in search of a monastery where we'd heard the monks were renowned for their Gregorian chant and hand-made products. Of course, you'd think we'd learn a bit faster, given that we've all worked and traveled quite extensively around the world, but we didn't leave enough time for traffic, wandering cattle and numerous unpaved roads. We arrived at mass, everyone dressed in their Sunday best, a little bit late. Fortunately, we were quickly escorted to the balcony and settled in for the homily. The shiny bald heads of five elderly French monks broke the line of the 15 close-cropped black heads of the Senegalese monks as they sang, chanted and prayed. The small chapel filled quickly with incense, rising to the back and filling our lungs with more of an urge to cough than a spirit of contemplation. It drifted out the open doors on ground level and up and over our heads out the pane-less windows near the vaulted ceiling. The wall behind the priest was painted with the stations of the cross in black and bright reds and oranges. Geometric patterns lined the rafters.
The chants were deep and peaceful, wafting like the incense, intermingling with the calls of exotic birds and the shuffling of the monks standing, sitting, kneeling and bowing. After a few hymns, a harp begin to add its haunting melody and wooden xylophones the rhythm of Africa. Catholics and non-Catholics alike couldn't help but join in the simple worship.

When mass was ended we filed out among the worshipers and tourists to the gift shop, of course, and then were offered a guided tour by one of the head monks. He showed us where the young monks, eat, sleep, study, work and pray, described the hours of silence and the participation in farming everything from cabbage to cashews to grapefruit, raising pigs and chickens, building furniture and running the mechanics shop. We all had many questions and enjoyed the peace of a stroll far from the bustle of the city. We didn't fail to appreciate the irony of this quiet man describing his simple life dedicated to God's service answering the musical ring tone of his cell phone between rows of fruit trees in the Senegalese countryside. We thanked him and headed to the bus for our long ride home, all grateful for a break from the strewn garbage, noise and stress of the city but looking forward to the spectacular Sunday brunch at the hotel. Let me define spectacular. This brunch is $45. I have yet to eat it. The reason it costs so much and the reason I have yet to eat it are one in the same. It is filled with a multitude of creatures from the sea who stare at me from the plates of my seafood-adoring colleagues. Giant crab and lobster legs and tails look like they will pinch or thwap me if I get too close, unblinking fish gaze dumbly across the plate at slimy oysters on the half shell and all manner of mysterious unrecognizable things for this land-locked Wyoming girl. The most mysterious and unappetizing of which are sea urchins. One, being me, was not aware humans ate such things. The spiny black balls cut in half reveal black membranes holding down orange, bubbly mush that those around me happily squirt lime on and suck down without a second thought.

When you flip over these lovely spiny domes you see that the spines continue to move although the animals are no longer living, protracting and shrinking back in randomly in the hands of their predators. Let's just say I didn't jump on the opportunity to "try something new" which is my usual motto. After several meals watching plateful after plateful be devoured around me, I gathered up the courage and days in advance announced that I would try the sea urchins at Sunday brunch.

So I did. Here's the evidence, because if you've ever heard me use the term "cartoon bee-stingy" I know you need to see this with your own eyes. It was cold, slimy, limey and the first and last time I will eat a sea urchin.








]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187549940/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187549940/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187549940/tpod.html Thu, 30 Aug 2007 17:57:20 -0400 Senegal

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Lac Rose, Senegal

When you drive through Dakar, you notice several things. Your eyes become accustomed to the herds of boney goats trotting haphazardly through the streets, the straight-backed women with their loads of cloth, mangoes, bananas and plastic bags of water nimbly avoiding the unaware goats, the vendors waving their wares at the van window...but the thin horses pulling two wheeled carts stand out amidst the brightly painted public transit vans and bustling cars in various states of disrepair. They haul piles of branches, old tires and people swinging their legs in the clouds of dirt. They don't blink or hesitate. They are just another mode of transportation rushing down the streets. In the dark of dawn, towering minarets dance with the setting moon and the rising sun to a backdrop of waves on the rocky shore. Throughout the day, whether you are in the back room where lost luggage lives at the airport, a military compound, a grocery store or in the middle of the street, you see men whip out their mats of various shapes and sizes and kneel toward Mecca for prayers, often with cars, goats and all other forms of life, busyness and distraction whizzing by unnoticed. The final thing that you notice, when you leave Dakar, are the baobabs-the great, monstrous trees with medusa hair branches and trunks so solid not far from here there's a hotel of nothing but baobab tree houses for adults. I hope I make it there before I leave!

Several of us set out for a day trip Sunday, to the Lac rose (Pink Lake) where the Paris-Dakar rally ends up. I'm sorry, basically all I know is it's a car/truck/motorcycle race that starts and ends in the obvious cities, crosses the desert and is apparently quite interesting. Its destination certainly is. Lac rose is actually pink because of the abundance of algae and bacteria living there since nothing else can because of the salt content higher than that of the Dead Sea. You can't swim in it because you can only float. Along the banks are piles and piles of salt that has been drug up from the bottom of the lake by men who cover themselves in shea butter to protect themselves before diving down with a bucket which they empty into their small wooden boots. They bring them back to shore where women unload them. The salt is then shipped various places to be processed or not for cooking, wintry roads (not here obviously) and other useful things like that. Interestingly, not 100 yards from the lake you see giant hole after giant hole, dug to retrieve the fresh water that is again, not very far from the surface. The land all around this dead lake is fertile, growing cabbage, corn, beans and mangos among many others.

I didn't know any of this when we first arrived because the wily vendors snagged me on my way to see the water. My colleagues zipped by but I decided to chat and barter. Of course, if you're weak (I like to say "friendly") like me, you never make it past the first couple huts anyway...But in the first...or second...one guy spoke English 'cause his brother lives in Ohio. So we chatted in English, which I congratulated him on. Then of course he set in to pointing out his wonderful products. He leaned in and laid a hand across my shoulder, whispering, "Since you are very nice, I'll make you a good deal." Of course I had to tell him I wanted to keep looking and then come back. With very little resistance, he gave me his "business card" hand written on the back of someone else's and regretfully watched me walk away. I didn't get far before another guy sucked me in. This time he had something that caught my eye. Teak wood pipes. I'd bought Jeff some great tobacco in Georgetown so it only seemed fitting. Of course I stupidly showed interest. In each shack they ask you which is your favorite anyway and I figure, eh, I'll compliment them and see if that helps me. So I did. I don't know if it worked or not. In any case, the price for the pipes was too much, no matter how much he insisted on polishing each one individually and showing me how nicely they cleaned up. As a last resort, he snatched a necklace from the display and put it around my neck. "It's a gift, from the heart. From the heart. That means you don't have to pay and there's no obligation to buy. You are very nice. It's a gift from the heart." Fabulous. So I left anyway. Of course I didn't make it anywhere and then there was a guy with annoying tourist American dollars who wanted to exchange CFAs for them...well, I didn't have very many but I told him I'd ask my friends.

In a street lined with vendors, your head spins. Calls are coming from left and right, "Hey, hey, over here!" "Half price, for you, half price!" "Come see the beautiful things I have. Good quality." Those of course are in French but you have broken English now and again too. Most people have more or less the same things and even worse, all of them will lean in and whisper, "Shh. Confidentially. I'll give you a good deal because (fill in the blank). Normally we sell this to tourists for (fill in the blank) but I'll give it to you for (most likely the price they actually usually sell it for)."

Eventually I was tired of such things and returned to guy who gave me the necklace. I bought the pipe for only slightly more than I had originally hoped after he continually explained to me how bartering worked in hopes of getting me up even more. I asked him about the mancala games he had (not what they are actually called here) but just at that moment a colleague showed up and, being French (and hence, well, let's say, more demanding) insisted that IF I were going to buy the game it would have to be sanded and varnished first so I didn't get slivers. The vendor wasn't so happy with this new, stronger-willed victim, but eventually he agreed and sent someone to prepare the game. In the meantime, he opened another and challenged me to a game. If I won, he'd give me something for free.

So I settled in on the bench and a couple people gathered around. We explained the rules to my colleague and set in. I was laughing at my poor math skills and we were joking around as you do. I told the guy next to me it wouldn't count if he helped my opponent, so he sat himself down by my side and declared himself my supporter, even holding out his hands to hold the seeds I'd won up to that point. I asked questions here and there but already knew the game, so things moved along smoothly, until, suddenly, unexpectedly, my opponent found himself with no seeds to move from his side and enough seeds remaining on my side...that I won! He had a flash of surprise but then jumped up, grabbed two more necklaces and showered us again with compliments. We took a photo together, he wrapped up my treasures (there were more, but I'll spare too many details) and we head out, to the shaking heads of our male colleagues. (Of course they'd bartered and bought ceremonial masks and other souvenirs themselves but we're the only ones who got teased.) I think it's because we hadn't realized they were waiting for us to go on the next adventure.

Beyond the lake from the side you arrive on are sandy, palm-tree dotted dunes. Of course, we rented a large open roll bar-protected Land Rover and set out for the dunes! Our driver didn't change the plans for us two girls among the boys and hit hill after hill at top speed, sliding down steep dunes with only one or no tracks before us. We whipped around corners, hit bumps and enjoyed the wind in our faces and the view of the pristine ocean-one of the cleanest, most abundant areas on the coast because it jets out beyond the pollution and into clear waters that supply the crab, lobster, urchins, shrimp and fish I've never seen before Sunday brunch buffet at the hotel.

On the ride back, we saw a herd of camels. At first we calmly approached them but then they got scared and ran away. If you've never seen a camel running, you are missing out! The poor guys just aren't built for that particular type of exertion and their awkward knobby legs flailed in every direction as they moved just hardly faster than they had been walking.

Instead of spending the very last of our money, since some of us couldn't even pitch in for the "dune buggy," we took the ride back to the hotel and ate our usual expensive, but good, dinner there. Everyone agreed that those who hadn't come with us had really missed out and everyone would have to come back again to do a whole day at the beautiful beach, a picnic and this time 4wheeling in the dunes...I may be sitting at the pool by the hotel that day...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1188500220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1188500220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1188500220/tpod.html Thu, 30 Aug 2007 17:49:37 -0400 Senegal

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Dakar, Senegal

This week we didn't make the Saturday outing, as the pool looked cool and inviting and the thought of lazing in a chair napping far outweighed any interest in schlepping about in a van over bumpy roads to wander around in the heat, no matter how interesting the site. I have to admit, well, let me say a bit about our accommodations. Eventually I'll say, "I have to admit, it's nice to come back to this hotel after a hard day of work." However, my adventure this week was not the usual tourist adventure. It was the following. The hotel is probably the single nicest hotel in Dakar. If you see photos of it you image luxury paradise. To be honest, inside the rooms you feel a bit more like Motel 8. The prices, however, resemble much more those of the previous. Let me give you a small example. We have made arrangements with a Senegalese woman outside of the hotel to do our laundry for 7,000 CFA per person per week. This is US$14 which to me sounded a bit much when I first arrived so I considered washing clothes by hand. Now, washing pants that are muddy and sweaty by hand is do-able but when the humidity prevents things from drying and mold is a looming possibility...not so much. I had heard and had no trouble believing that the hotel's laundry service was so expensive that $14 sounded like an amazing deal, but hadn't bothered looking into it as I figured I'd take everyone's word. So yesterday I round up my clothes, count the various items and make a list (last week a couple things were missing from my colleagues' returned laundry). I wrote my first name on the bag. Now, yes, this is the laundry bag provided by the hotel. But in order for them to take my laundry, process, clean and return it, they ask that you fill out the form provided in the drawer, conveniently in both French and English, then call them to have them come pick it up. I did none of this.

When I returned that evening, I thought my key had worked in the wrong door because there were clothes hanging just inside...but they seemed very familiar...and very clean. Then it hit me. There were little red tags with my room number stapled to my dresses and my underwear in a plastic bag folded more neatly than I thought was possible. I immediately called downstairs to say I hadn't requested this and could they first of all tell me how much I was being charged.

The first person passed me to the next guy who passed me to the next and then the next said he'd call back. After 15 minutes I called back myself and was again passed through four people until I got the manager who said he'd call me back. After 20 minutes I called back myself (are we noticing a pattern?) and was told he was gone and they didn't know if he'd be in tomorrow. Well, by now I'd calmed down enough to see that the maid had not only taken their form out of the drawer and done me the favor of completing it for me, she had taken the paper on which I'd written the items (including colleagues' room numbers, a to-do list and other things I no longer remember!). The price for the cleaning of what amounts to one, yes one, load of laundry was more than 55,000 CFA, which, if you are following the math here, is just over $110. Not exactly in my weekly budget.

To make a long story short (too late), I went to the front desk in person, having rehearsed my speech about how unacceptable it is to take someone's clothes from their room and remove a piece of paper that had important information on it and how I absolutely was not paying and if I had any choice I would not stay in this hotel, etc... Surprisingly enough, I was met by the extremely friendly and apologetic manager who had failed to call me back last night and apologized profusely on behalf of the entire hotel and seemed as shocked as I was to discover that the laundry list had apparently filled itself out in my absence. He promised everything was taken care of, but you better believe when I'm checking line-by-line over my $5 apple juices, $30 entrée-only dinners and $300 internet charges, I'll be making sure laundry is nowhere in there!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187723940/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187723940/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187723940/tpod.html Tue, 21 Aug 2007 15:24:16 -0400 Senegal

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Dakar, Senegal

Random advice for future visitors to Senegal: don't eat overripe fruit (feeling the effects of learning this one the hard way...); re-apply sunscreen; even though you think a safari style hat with rim all around will get you made fun of, it will actually make people jealous-wear one; watch out for snakes and scorpions in the bush (no worries, this one's random advice, not personal experience); before talking to anyone or asking any questions, always greet them and ask how they are. The entire, "How's the family? And work? And the health? And the house..." etc. does not seem to be necessary, but if you don't ask how they are doing, you'll appear rude and more than uninitiated. Finally, if you aren't used to eating seafood (me), don't order something "just to try it" expecting it to be served how it might be at home. You will find eyes staring up at you, appendages moving and shells to be removed. Try someone else's first and order it yourself next time knowing what will be set in front of you!

These are not all from personal experience, but I'm happy with vicarious learning by advice and from observing others! Even if you aren't such a learner, at least now you'll know what you're getting yourself into on some things. Hopefully I'll have more to pass on later.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187459400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187459400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187459400/tpod.html Mon, 20 Aug 2007 14:49:03 -0400 Senegal

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Dakar, Senegal

My flight from Denver to Atlanta was late, leaving me to run 15 minutes across a huge airport, wait all 5 train stops to the final terminal, hear the final boarding call and be yelled at to immediately board the plane upon rushing up, breathless, to the counter to get my boarding pass. The simple question, "Do you know if my bags are on the plane?" was met with, "Ma'am, you should be on the plane already. Board immediately." Now, at that point there were twenty minutes until departure time. Nearly an hour later when they announced, "All the bags are on board," and we actually left, the truth would only be known upon arrival in Dakar...my bags were not on the plane. We'll get to that.

Happily, I sat next to an American woman and her daughter who have lived in Dakar for three years as the dad works with the Peace Corps. They filled me in on places to go, things to see and what to generally avoid. They also gave me some francs CFA since I had no way of getting any for my taxi ride to the airport and their phone number "just in case." No movies were shown and the screen was in Spanish instead of French...glitch somewhere in the system, apparently. Maybe something like the "all bags are on board" announcement.

Informational note (I figure these could be of interest to some of you): The currency in a large part of at least West Africa is francs CFA, a remnant of a certain colonial occupation. They are impossible to get anywhere but in Africa and the exchange rate is generally b/t 450-500 francs CFA to the dollar.

Aside from the three nearly perpetually crying babies which I didn't really mind 'cause they were cute and I would have cried if it wouldn't have been a bit shocking to my cabin mates, the fact that they ran out of the choice of food I (and many others) wanted halfway through cabin and the worst turbulence I've ever experienced, the flight went well. I arrived in Dakar at closer to 6 than the 4:39 announced arrival time feeling ready to go.

Almost 90 degree heat at that hour of the morning might slow one down, but the curiosity about my bags propelled me to the conveyor belt where I was met with a blaring lack of two familiar bags. But, since I expected this, I calmly shuffled through the steamy, tile-floored open room into an even steamier cement-floored room filled with piles of unclaimed bags of various descriptions. When I announced that my bags had been lost the friendly man at the door to the office offered, "Let's say they were "delayed"." If you want to. Happily, they were in fact merely delayed as they'd been sent via Paris. They're due tonight after 10 pm. Let's hope they get here, given the nature of the work I will be doing Monday. We'll get to that, too.

First of all, at 6 in the morning, Dakar is a happening place! Several nightclubs were overflowing with revelers all along my drive to the hotel and a French chain bakery's parking lot was full of the after party crowd grabbing snacks before turning in for a very late, virtually nonexistent night.

Where I'm staying is gorgeous. Dakar is beautiful too, with sandy beaches and rocky shores. Traditional Senegalese long boats can always be seen floating along, full of more than 5 passengers. Looking over the city, you see unfinished cement structures among tans, oranges and golds of mud and stucco. The same nearly-shanty, corrugated metal-roofed shop stalls line the narrow, unpaved side streets like they did in Benin and do throughout Africa, and hundreds of old yellow taxis speed left and ride, using traffic laws more as theoretical guidelines than actually requirements for safety. Lazy or heat-soaked guards lean back in white plastic lawn chairs outside the compound walls of nicer gated houses. In the countryside and some in the city, you see nothing but mango trees, lean cows and goats and the occaisional (my very favorite) baobab tree. Of course, I don't want to clean up the image too much; you also see extremely dirty water pooling in the large ruts of the majority unpaved streets, ferile cats and dogs wandering for the rare treasure of scraps and garbage piling and blowing in every possible area where it can collect or escape.

It all seems familiar and extremely foreign at the same time.

This morning after wrestling myself from my rock-like sleep, Céline, a friend and colleague who graduated a year after me from MIIS, came to my door laden with bottled water, fruit and Kinder chocolates. Suffice it to say, we are both very happy to be working together! After a big hug, she came in and I recounted my missing bags, she filled me in on the personalities of various colleagues and the difficulty of the work ahead and we agreed to meet everyone for lunch by the pool.

All of my colleagues are really great. One of the best things about working as an interpreter is sharing stories with clients and colleagues because people have been everywhere in the world, interpreted the most random subjects or otherwise done things you just never think of doing. Among us, people speak Spanish, Thai, Haitian Creole...I know that's only three but I already lose track! I bet between all of the colleagues here we've nearly been in every country of the world...maybe some have done this on their own!

I guess that's it for my long uneventful first day. The great thing about being in a new place doing a new job is that everything is interesting and fun. It may be hard to adjust, you may have jetleg (which I don't really) and whatever else, but it's an adventure and it's great discovering a new place. The Senegalese pride themselves on hospitality and as far as I can see, they do so with good reason.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187226300/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187226300/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/dakar/1187226300/tpod.html Mon, 20 Aug 2007 14:46:32 -0400 Senegal

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Aurora, Colorado, United States

Talk about last minute! But the truth of the matter is I went to Monterey Institute of International Studies (hereinafter MIIS) and kept up with my French because I wanted to work and travel in Africa. So I'm excited to have this job so early in my career and the opportunity to do exactly what I'm trained for more or less right out of school. I thought I'd use this first quick entry to explain what exactly it is I've done and do for those of you who are less familiar with the mysterious world of T&I (translation and interpretation).

90% of the time I do translations from the comfort of my own home or the nearest coffee shop. I receive files over the internet from translation agencies, companies and individuals around the world. I currently work for more than 10 agencies from time to time, mainly out of France and the US, and am the translator for the International Justice Tribune and part of a team of translators for the weekly online real estate newsletter Business Immo. I receive the files in French and send them back in English so that, as much as possible, they can be set side-by-side and look and read the same. I've already helped translate one book for IJT and we're about to start on our second! This will only be my third job actually interpreting, but since I like both aspects of T&I, I'm happy with whatever I get!

I don't really know much about this job, but I know a bit about Senegal and hope to learn much more. That's what I'm hoping to share with you through this! I'll send pictures when I can and random stories about people we bump into. You can always contact me through this blog or by e-mail or Skype.

More from the other side of the ocean!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/africa_2005/1123709340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/africa_2005/1123709340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jessamyjoy/africa_2005/1123709340/tpod.html Sat, 27 Aug 2005 17:44:32 -0400 Two months translating, interpreting and serving with SIM in Benin, West Africa

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Weminuche Wilderness, Colorado, United States

One might imagine that after spending two months sitting in an office, not to mention recovering from malaria and a quinine treatment, that backpacking in the Rocky Mountains would be some what of a challenge. It was a challenge I had been looking forward to for the past few weeks as Jeff teased me on the phone about these "big surprises" he had in store for me upon my return to the States. I was sceptical about my physical abilities, but once I got in the fresh mountain air, I was set to go and at no point did I feel weak or tired or...actually, compared to the last backpacking trip, even sore. Jeff obviously carried the vast majority of the weight, but I was extremely grateful to discover that I could still hike, climb and rough it with the best of 'em (i.e. Jeff :0).

We started out in Durango, Colorado, near the Four Corners and were so disappointed when the woman at the ticket window for this old fashioned steam engine train from Durango to Silverton told us that particular train didn't stop where we had planned on getting off to start our trip into the mountains! Jeff told me to go away and let the ticket window lady in on his "secret", at which point she pulled a sympathetic girl and talked to the conductor who agreed to stop the train in the middle of nowhere just for us! The ride up is beautiful. We sat in an open car and could see the wonderful mountains and river all the way up, soot and ash blowing in our faces. Everyone on the train was loving the experience and we all chatted and bonded over our old style trip into the mountains. When we were dropped off, literally everyone on the train (even those in cars far from ours) waved and wished us "be safe" and "have fun". We felt so special. :0)

This story could be really long so I'll cut to the chase. One night, after yet another day of rain, the clouds cleared away for a beautiful sunset over our hilltop campsite looking down a gorgeous valley and surrounded by tall pines. We laughed and joked about this creepy scarred up deer that kept circling our camp and was so curious and unafraid of us that she made us afraid! We called her Nicky 'cause the poor thing was so nicked up but she sure snuck up on us more than a few times in the dark and made us pretty nervous even if we both thought it was fun. We ate dinner all the while keeping our eye out for her.

Then we sat around a blazing fire, stars finally sparkling overhead and sang some worship songs. We prayed together. And then Jeff tells me he needs to get something. Now, I'd been trying not to get my hopes up and you all know what I was thinking at this moment. But seriously, kids, what could he POSSIBLY "need to get" in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, with no one around? Well...he came back and sang me a song and then he got down on one knee and opened up the box that he had gone to get and asked me to marry him.

I said "yes, yes, yes" and gave him a big hug which he had to squiggle out of to laughingly remind me, "You didn't even look at the ring!" (I already had what I wanted. :0) However, it is the most beautiful ring I could ever imagine. He spent so much time researching and just plain searching and designed it just for me and I love it to death and it's a perfect symbol of our love.

As if this perfect romantic moment couldn't get any better, he whips out these collapsable backpacking wine glasses and what I thought was full of stove fuel turned out to be full of the best wine I've had in years! So we toasted and sat cuddled around the fire dreaming about the future.

The last day of our trip, hiking down the mountain, I got a horrible stomach ache. We'd been eating tiny strawberries and not exactly ripe raspberries as we went along and whether it was that or the tripping over myself being a girl and staring at my ring glinting in the sun that got to me, who can say, but I was so glad to reach the trail head and "civilized" camp ground! Once there I just wanted to collapse (by now I had actually developed a collection of rather uncomfortable blisters) but Jeff says, "Let's check out all the campsites." Well, I've never seen so many campsites exactly the same, but it's hard to be annoyed with your new fiance so we wondered a bit and then he went to "check on something". Again. What could that possibly mean?

So there I am, feeling sick and tired, wearing my horrifying camo rain gear, standing there in the drizzle all alone and here come two girls in hoody sweatshirts asking if they can stay in my campground...They pull off their hoods to reveal Samreen and Doreen (two of my best buddies in the world)!!! I literally stood there with an open mouth and in disbelief studdered, "How did you guys get here?" Then, like cartoons when their eyes suddenly well up and burst, the three of us simultaneously hugged and cried and jumped up and down (gingerly, my stomach still hurt mind you). Doreen's sister and Jeff's brother Nate were there as well and they'd brought cake and all kinds of "real" food. We spent the next two days camping and playing together in the mountains and I was overjoyed to get to share my engagement with my buddies.

It's been quite the summer. I feel blessed beyond belief that I've found a man who really understands and lives the biblical admonition to love his (future) wife like himself and like Christ loves the church. Jeff spoils me. But he is also my greatest accountability, most honest and loving critic and my best friend.

So plans are under way and we are excitd for the future because God is so faithful...look how he's taken care of and blessed us so far. There are many joys in store and we are looking forward to facing and conquering trials together as well.

Thank you all for your prayers and love. I thought I'd throw this in here since it was part of my insane summer and close this blog with the rest of the map pins showing my busy journeys. This has been a summer like no other. I welcomed Jeff home from Thailand, my dad got married, I spent two months in Africa, survived a bout with malaria, visited my sisters who both moved to a new state and got new jobs, went to my college roommate Sana's wedding, went off trail backpacking for a week in the mountains, got engaged, returned to California for grad school...So, more than 6000 miles of driving, 9 plane rides and innumerous stops for innumerous reasons later...life goes "back to normal". Well, does it ever really? I'm not sure. But the point is that this "travel journal" has officially come to an end because this particular journey (or set of journeys) has ended. I will sleep in the same bed, shower in the same shower, return to my trusty cereal and juice, sit in the same classrooms, sell the same clothes to the same clients, laugh and cry with the same friends...for a while anyway. Until the next journey. I'm looking forward both to so-called normal life and whatever the next journey down the road turns out to be.

All depending upon what that journey is, maybe I'll blow the dust off my keyboard and open another one of these, but if you're reading this entry you can relax and know that you don't have to come back and check this page for anything new for a long while and I'll let you know when that is! Thanks for sharing in my adventure! I love you guys. Signing out for now...
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