J Kleb Stinky Feet: Latin America, Israel and Beyond

El'Urdun

2011-07-10T05:49:00.000-07:00

Kids play soccer in a parking lot across the street from my apartment. They take over Every evening they take over. Some wearing sandals, rolled up jeans, stylish button down shirts, occasionally two different shoes, gelled hair, cigarettes, big time swag. Nine or ten up through fifteen years old, these kids play hard. No such thing as a pass. It’s all about how badly you shake the person playing defense, make them take a seat, literally. Rollover to a pull back tipped up for three juggles before smoothly lofting the pumped but tattered ball over your shoulders, head trap down to another rollover or two before cracking a shot past the keeper – ‘Ahhh gola gola!!’ slew of amiyya’ curses, big grin, high five, then its back to the pavement. These kids dance with the ball – all of them. The older guys who have been out here for years have it down, putting it through legs and spinning around opponents easily. The younger ones try just as hard, laughing all the while.

I head out there with two roommates and a few other American students who live close by. As soon as we get there the games start. Some kids literally jump when we show up – immediately the jousting and making fun begins. We’re split into teams, exchange a few greetings, and go to work. They LOVE playing around us – we petty Americans who think working hard and making nice passes means something out there. No way. If you don’t have some skills you’ll be in net or sitting on the curb.

The parking lot is covered with loose rock and dirt, sends us sliding all over the place. So much fun playing with these kids, throwing around some Arabic, putting together beautiful one touch plays that end with a cross to header game winning goal. This is what they do. No Playstation or big screen TV’s, these kids ball hard, day in and day out.

Two or three American girls come out and play with us. They aren’t pushovers, quick to throw their body around and go in for a tackle. Some locals react positively, embracing the American women playing rough with them, forcing the girls to run in circles after the ball. Others are more conservative and will put up their hands and back away as soon as a girl comes charging in. I wonder if these kids have ever played soccer with a girl, let alone a young woman.

Always nice to recover after a few hours of streetball with fresh mint tea or delicious coffee. The trick when brewing coffee is to not pour settled coffee from the pot into the glass. Add the coffee and sugar into water just before boiling, and as soon as the rich dark juice begins to bubble up and over the edge of the metal pot tip the pot slightly toward your glass, simply guiding the spill. Taste is in the bubbly, thick, milky top layer, which is lost if you just pour from the pot. Be generous with the coffee, and the sugar. The grounds at the bottom of each glass are a welcome surprise.

________________________________

Beautiful sunsets here in Amman. The city of hills, as the sun heads to bed the sky brightens up for one last stand, neon green minarets pepper the horizon. Evening call to prayer, more soothing each time, rings out from several nearby mosques, always within a moment or two of each other. Cool breeze on our fourth floor balcony, perfect vantage point to watch the traffic lighten. Like the sky Jordanians come to life in the early night hours. Celebratory gunshots and fireworks ring out for hours each night – sometimes frighteningly close. I sit on my neighbors balcony and listen to stories from his years in Iraq, where he was born and raised, became a doctor, and only left after the death threats to his friends and family became too much too handle. He will never go back, ever. We live beside three young doctors, two from Iraq and one from Gaza. Our political discussions are gut-wrenchingly tense, but always productive and friendly in the end.

Nate and I keep ourselves on as tight a budget as possible. I often make a pot of rice, beans, veggies, and an uncomfortable amount of chili powder that will carry me through five or six meals. Occasional splurge for local hal’wiyat – deserts – at a nearby bakery, or a mansaf up near the University of Jordan. The drought here is no joke and we do our best to dry wash our dishes, shower every few days, and use little more than a dribble of water to brush our teeth.

My roommate and classmate Colin and I talk politics day and night. As conservative as they come, Colin and I beat each other up about torture, the morality of war, US domestic policy, the wonderful conflicts raging throughout the Middle easy, health care, what to do about drug dealers, and whether or not we should strangle China before she openly squashes our economy (as I write this Colin is claiming what I listen to isn’t music…and so it goes). For the first two weeks we not only slept in the same room, but we woke up together, ate breakfast together, walked to Qasid together, sat in class together, walked home together, spent evenings reading and working together, then replayed steps 1 through 734 every day. I recently enrolled in Tajweed, which meets every morning at eight. While Colin and I still have class together at ten, I’ve replaced our time together with 530am runs, lone breakfasts of left over rice and beans, fresh coffee, and a pleasant walk to Qasid with Nate – soft spoken, tall and lanky, distractingly kind and sincere, heavy southern accent. Our conversations lean more toward emotions and where we are spiritually, as he shies away from politics, and shares my unfortunate sense of wanting to be home.

Tajweed lessons teach me to recite the Qu’ran. Like reading Torah there is a particular trope for chanting the Qu’ran. That is what we hear five times a day with the call to prayer. Unfamiliar but exotic and deep, Tajweed lessons change the way I hear the Adhan. Now I understand why certain notes are held, why some burrow up in the nose and others burst out of the throat. Learning to recite the Qu’ran is a thrilling challenge. My reading skills are par but my singing skills are in the gutter. Half an hour a day I sit two and a half feet from a renowned singer trying to eek out decently melodic notes, often failing miserably. At least my voice doesn’t crack. I don’t have my own Qu’ran yet but I will soon, and it will be a treasure I pass on to my grandchildren.

__________________________________

Class is intense and enjoyable. Four hours a day, two professors, mostly if not strictly Arabic, homework every night. My class of nine is coming to speak and understand more confidently, we joke and ridicule in Arabic, we put together presentations and skits on short notice. I’ve warmed up to both professors, Ibrahim and Bana’an. He is short, loud, hysterical, overly energetic, and pulls vocab out of us. She is conservative, talks much faster, more critical and stern, but easing up to us every day. Just yesterday she administered an exam and came around with sweets half-way through saying ‘Kayef al’imtihaan, kayef al’imtihaan!? Ay su’ell? Jordan, Brit, Colin – ainda su’ell? How is it? How are you guys doing? Jordan, any questions? Brit? Here, have some candy, don’t hate me,’ as she passed out ginger sweets produced in Palestine, wrapped in Southeast Asia, and sold throughout the Middle easy.

Yesterday in class we were doing an exercise with new vocab words – one of us would define the word without using the word itself, the rest of the class would guess. My word was Fow’qa, towel. I meant to say ‘After I take a bath, I use a…!,’ the verb (to bathe oneself) being istahamma. Instead I mixed up the verb with ustoosheda and said ‘After I become a martyr I use a…!’ Classmates didn’t understand and were silent, Bana’an looked at me dumbfounded and expressionless. I quickly realized nobody had any idea what I said so I began frantically scrubbing my chest and arms, making an imaginary shower above my head, saying ‘You know, become a martyr! After I become a martyr I use a !!’ Ban’an said ‘I understand, ya Jordan, ana afham, where did you learn that word?!’

I realized what I was saying and replied, in perfect English ‘Oh. Shit. I am so sorry, professor, ya ustath. I didn’t mean that at all.’ Ban’an began to smile as I told the class what I had said – they roared with laughter as I smiled and turned redder than a baby butt spanked by a conservative Russian immigrant straight off the boat. Pretty funny moment, but I was silent for the rest of class. Of all things to say, go figure.

I’ve never been in an intense academic environment like Qasid. Little support from the administration and teachers so the students buckle down together, tutor and support one another. PhD candidates, wildly smart Ivy League button-down-shirters, academics, professionals. Out there melting pot of excited, motivated, lost individuals desperate to learn Arabic.

___________________________________

I miss home big time. Miss the brothers and the family, comforts of an easy life, my routine, close friends, being somewhere familiar. I’ve tried to convince myself that I’m not homesick, but just have a really good situation at home that I’m reluctant to leave, and if I’ve left it, I sort of want to go back. But that’s not being homesick damnit! I finally gave in to myself, home would be sweet right now. Jed is growing up too quickly, I don’t see enough of mom, must get more of Jesse’s unbearability while I can, too seldom do I stay up late talking with dad. Alas, home soon, where I’ll see little has changed, same old goodness as always.

Thoughts that keep me up at night bounce between academics and Phi Psi this fall. Not so different when broken down – I play with my role as a Community Advisor for sophomores and one of the pledge educators for potential Phi Psi brothers. As a CA I need to balance friendship and openness with residents alongside my role as a rule maker and enforcer. With Phi Psi, I wonder how I can command the respect of new brothers without screaming or barking at them. How can I ensure the pledge process is intense, with the pledges respecting and quietly fearing me, without turning into some abusive frat animal? Radomir was a monster in the gym, screaming and often beating us with his bamboo stick. Yet outside the gym he rarely spoke above a whisper, was compassionate kind and smiling, and would do anything to help anyone. How can I become a hero like Radomir?

Healthy, safe, and filthy with high spirits and a hunger for more Arabic, Middle easiness, and experience.

Lots of love,

SF

Sacrifice

2011-06-11T06:37:00.000-07:00

June 11, 2011

A passage from my journal:

482 Kilograms. We led it head-first off the truck through a dark hallway into a dimly lit room, one bulb hung from the ceiling. The bull didn’t resist. I wondered if he knew what was coming. The butcher was dressed in all white, I was nervous. His front legs were tied tightly. The bull reared up on his hind legs, buckled in front, but regained his upright posture, snorting occasionally. The butcher and his aids threaded a second rope loosely around the bull’s hind legs and in one well rehearsed motion pulled the rope taught bringing the legs together and knocked the beast onto its side. It bucked once or twice, then lay still. The butcher showed Ahmed were to cut, grabbing handfuls of skin by the bull’s neck.

The knife was sharp and sliced deeply into the animal’s neck. Blood spurted out from the incision and poured onto the floor. With each huff more blood spewed from his neck, now in pieces. The bull may have died after a few seconds but it continued to huff and jerk long after its neck lay in bits on the blood soaked floor.

Skinning was done carefully and methodically, beginning with one long slice from the neck to the anus. The butcher frequently sharpened his blade, cutting the skin from the bull’s contorted body.

We raised the beast off the ground to remove his insides. Cutting and pulling the butcher removed everything inside the bull, careful to separate what was edible from what was poisonous or inedible. The majority of this animal will feed families around Ahmed’s farm and those who work the land. Only a small portion will be ours to eat.

The bull cost roughly 12,000 Egyptian pounds, about 2,000 US dollars, a new MacBook Pro. It will feed tens of families.

I wish the bull had been killed quicker, almost guillotine style. I would have kissed it first, made it comfortable, given it a hearty meal before its death, then said a prayer before opening its neck. It shat as we tied its legs, just before we knocked it to the ground. I wonder what he was thinking, eyes wide scanning the room, moments before the knife touched his throat.

The atmosphere was relaxed. Butcher and aids smiled easily as they worked, not sickly, just casually, it was another day’s work. Blood and sweat soaked clothing. A cellphone rang every few minutes.

SF

Hebron to Cairo

2011-06-08T08:12:00.000-07:00

Nate and I were groggy as the sherut hit downtown Hebron. Classic head-bob wrench your neck bang your face against the window sort of trip from Jerusalem across the border to Bethlehem and south to Hebron. We stumbled out of the van wiping grime from our eyes and I had absolutely no idea where we were. The driver said Hebron but it didn’t look familiar. After a few minutes I recognized the street as one of the two main streets that run parallel downhill toward Hebron’s old city and primary settlement. Off we were, weaving through taxies and falafel stands, past the Lacoste and DKNY Jeans outlets, into the old city. Nate spotted the first crows nest, a small tin can looking pill box sitting on a rooftop protecting two or three IDF soldiers. We walked slowly through the market, politely declining local tour guides, offers for five shekel kufiahs, and handshakes from men exclaiming “I remember you! You’ve been here before, right!?” Nate knew I had been here one year earlier and thought the man was sincere. But once we heard that line a second and third time Nate caught on to the scam. We stopped to watch a man kill chickens. Taking each chicken by the tail, cleanly slicing its throat, once yelping now limp and silent. Methodical. Similar to the way men make falafel, scooping the delicious green mush and tossing it into the hot oil. Almost like a dance, killing chickens, making falafel.

Through two metal finger revolving doors into the site of Abraham’s burial and the settlement. Immediately I was face to face with an M4. Literally. This boyish looking soldier could have plucked my nose hairs with the barrel of his semi-automatic rifle. “We’re American, from Boston, tourists,” as we waved our golden ticket American passports. “Ahh,” the soldier replied, “Ray Allen! Paul Pierce!” “You got it,” and we were in. Nate too found himself uncomfortably close to a scruffy short soldier who wasn’t in the lightest of moods. Just like last year we were Christian to get in to the Mosque, Jewish to get into the Synagogue, and a weak combination of both as we explored the settlement. It was shabbos and the area was quiet.

Around one Nate and I took a seat on the steps of a run-down building to watch six soldiers arrest a young boy and what could have been his older brother. The boy perhaps 14, the man closer to his twenties. The Arabs were handcuffed and helped over a brick wall back into the settlement from the Arab cemetery were they had been arrested. They were told to sit/squat along a wall several meters apart. The young man was blindfolded, stuffed into an IDF jeep and driven away. The boy was taken by the arm and led deeper into the settlement. Just as the boy was being led away a settler came walking by holding his sons hand. Interesting sight, the soldier holding the Arab and the settler holding his son.

Just as Nate and I were making sense of the situation a short male settler, Yisroel, approached us. He spoke first in Hebrew then caught on that we didn’t understand. Within three minutes we established that Yisroel was born and raised in Brookline Mass, five minutes from Nate. Yisroel insisted that we join him for Shabbos lunch, then began calling us by our Hebrew names – me Reuven and Nate Yitzhak. Off we were.

After a short walk we entered his apartment – six or seven young women, four more adults, several toddlers, and food for an army. “Be comfortable be comfortable” he kept saying as he sat us down and began the introductions. Turns out Yisroel’s brother lives just a few blocks north of me in Manhattan – Go figure, here we are in one of the most violent cities in Israel, sitting down to Shabbat lunch with settlers who grew up or currently live within walking distance of Nate and I. The food was delicious – chicken, humus, salad, vegetables, kus kus, and juice galore. Nate and I had already eaten (three shekel falafel) but we did not hesitate for a bit more. The apartment was warm and cozy, conversations thrown about the room in Hebrew and English. One of the daughters in the apartment would be married on Monday. She is twenty-two.

After about two hours Yisroel decided it was time to take Nate and me on a tour of the settlement. Yisroel turned out to be a big shot in the settlement and claimed to be a tour guide, student, and event planner. This wasn’t your average tour. Yisroel took us to five different apartments throughout the settlement. In each we met children of all ages, their parents and family friends. More cake, biscuits, ice-cream, and a soda-like beer, more stories, more “These are my American friends, they just finished Taglit and had no place to eat Shabbos lunch.” Each family was open and welcoming, never hesitating to place a plate and cup before the foreigners. Immediately Nate and I felt a part of this close-knit community.

Yisroel took us around the settlement pointing out a four-thousand year old trash covered wall, various places where family and friends had been shot, one-time markets and newly constructed living units. He showed Nate and I a side of the settlement we could not have dreamed of ever experiencing. When we returned to his apartment for one last cup of tea the conversation turned political. He asked what the Palestinians thought of the settlers. I answered carefully and related that the locals only see the bricks used as weapons, violent soldiers set in place to protect the settlers, and barbed wire fences around their market. No local Arab has ever been inside a settler’s home, or shared lunch with six families in their respective homes. They knew nothing about settler life, and I quickly realized I was in the same position.

I have never perceived settlers in the West Bank as loving compassionate human beings. I have only known the side I see in the news, the violent extremist side that leads settlers to travel with automatic rifles and attack Palestinians. I pointed out a settler to a friend while our group was in the Old City. A middle-aged man, innocent face with puffy cheeks and unkempt curls, walking toward his car beside his family. White button down shirt, kippah, tzi tzit, in his left hand he held one son (perhaps five), and in his right he held a daughter on his hip. Inches below her butt was a 9mm tucked into his waste. If she bounced up and down she might knock it out of her father’s pants. The family got in their station wagon, a curtain was pulled around the rear windows, a small Israeli flag raised in one window, and off they were. Our birthright tour guide said the M16 was the most popular firearm among the settlers.

What to make of this adventure. Yisroel was a sweetheart, as were his family and friends. They related stories about living through the second intifadah, listening to gunshots day and night, coming home to bullet holes in their doors. Alas, life must go on. They were happy, proud, probably fanatical and blind to outside opinion, but nevertheless kind-hearted human beings.

Nate and I left the settlement exhausted and upbeat. Pretty fricken spectacular way to see the inside of Hebron and a settlement. Next would be a short pit-stop in Tel-Aviv to grab our bags before heading over land to Cairo.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Ten am overpriced shwarma and we were out. Late start. Nate and I would grab a bus from Tel Aviv’s central station south to Eilat, where we would cross the border and head west to Cairo. Few minutes wait in the station but we were in no rush. It would be a fiveish hour shlep to the southern most city in region, the hottest spot vegas esk resort town along the sea, Eilat.

The bus was mellow, we sat in the way back, had a nice guy sleep on my shoulder for several hours. At one point two young Israeli women broke out in a screaming argument. They began yelling in English, I assume so less people would understand, which was great for Nate and me. After several tense minutes Nate turned to me and made me promise that that would never be us. I said I would make sure to leave him before stooping so low as to criticize the size of his butt, his willingness to sleep with strangers, or the color of his hair.

We caught the last bus from Eilat to the Taba border crossing – six and a half shekels. Eilat looked pretty, if you’re into ugly resorts, crumby casinos, and the complete absence of the teeney weeniest culture. 24 hour border, no problem on the Israeli side. 101 shekel exit fee, stamp, warm smile, expensive duty free, and we were walking to Egypt. There it got a little bit more interesting. Turns out you have to buy a visa in advance, woops. Not only does the visa cost 15 dollars, but you have to purchase it through a travel agency, or have the guarantee of a travel agency, or have some seal of approval sent to the Egyptian government (is there one?), or have your name on some stupid hand-written list that doesn’t exist proving nothing – except that it costs 60 dollars. After some hooting and hollering about how little money we have, how bogus this border nonsense was, how every border ‘officer’ looked like a miserable bum with nothing better to do than harass tourists, Nate and I forked over 40 dollars. It sucked. Too much money wasted on some crumby tourist trap. Every man for himself.

Strutted on past a few cabbies, each had a better price, one guy drove alongside us blasting music drumming on his steering wheel. If we didn’t get in before he did this little dance there was no way in hell we were getting close to this cab after that performance. After checking with several people we learned that only two buses travel from the border to Cairo every day, one at 1030 am and the second at five pm (which we missed by minutes). We would have to spend the night here in Taba. We picked up two cans of pre-cooked beans and decided the beach would be our home tonight – spending two hundred dollars at one of the three resorts, not including the additional 30 dollars for internet, was not exactly in our budget.

Strolled into the Movenpick resort looking for a place to eat our beans and a safe place to sleep – turns out this is the biggest, most beautiful, most secure resort around. We were escorted out within 30 minutes (dirty looking travelers with shoes hanging from their backpacks don’t fit in at this absurdly luxurious resort). We didn’t need them anyway!

Alongside one wall of the resort was a dark ally lined with barbed wire and two high walls. Thinking it would lead to the beach we walked down. Groups of locals passed us in the alley, we stopped to grab water from a fountain – if the locals drank it I figured we could too. The alley opened into a garbage-strewn shanty town. Hanging exposed bulbs revealed single room units, broken fences, rusting vehicles, windowless and doorless homes. This is where workers in the nearby resorts lived. Two hundred yards away European tourists threw money away on lavish dinners, high-speed internet, beautiful rooms balconies beds tours drinks and activities, while the men cleaning tables and washing linens returned to this ghetto. Then again, who are we to judge? These men were probably earning a decent living, perhaps sending money home to a family.

Nate and I walked through this shanty town, down to the water, and onward along the beach for a few minutes. I was lucky enough to step in raw sewage. At about 830 we found a low wall far enough from this community and the dimly lit road to afford us some isolation. We propped our bags against the brick and lay down. A strong wind blew trash over and around us, but we were comfortable. Cloudless warm breezy evening, sleeping 25 yards from the sea, bellies full, spirits high, this was our adventure. Couples of men walked nearby though we were quiet and were not disturbed. At about eleven we woke up to a man standing above us. Talk about creepy! This guy was literally two feet from me looking down at the two of us! His only English seemed to be “I police! Open bag!” Yea f that this shmoop was in sweat pants and a T-shirt, police my ass. He seemed to motion that we couldn’t sleep by this wall. Under who’s authority I have no idea. We were sufficiently freaked out to pack up and leave immediately.

We walked several hundred meters along the main road until we came to a partially concealed drop, what Nate calls the ‘Ski Slope.’ We lay down under a tree, bracing our butts with our shoes so we didn’t slide down into the water. The road was just two or three meters above us, but we were low and hidden under a tree. We ‘slept’ here for the next few hours.

Around five we were too awake to sleep, the sun was rising, so we decided to head back into town. Grabbed a few dusty sodas, four and a half hours to kill before the bus. Nate needed an ATM so we decided to check out the Hilton, maybe grab some Wifi. Like the Movenpick wireless in the Hilton was FAR from free. We did, however, luck out with breakfast. For ten US dollars it was an all you can eat buffet, from 7 to 1030. At 715 we sat down and began stuffing our faces. Juice, coffee, sausages, eggs, potatoes, fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and DANISHES. For three hours we ate, went to the bathroom, ate again, revisited the toilet, wrote, laughed, plate number nine, twelfth cup of juice, and schemed about stealing food. Ten dollars well spent. We cut out for the bus at 1015 laughing at the resorts.

Comfortable bus, packed, but strong cold AC. Just as we were leaving the border we passed one final checkpoint. 75 Egyptian pound port tariff. Are you kidding?! More?? We were livid! We had avoided this the night before nearly coming to blows with the guy trying to squeeze the money out of us. Here it was not avoidable. It was the same man as the night before, walked on to the bus, stood beside us, “Remember me?” with some poop-faced grin like he had won. And he did, we paid. Rules of the game. We are dollar signs before human beings in this part of the world. Pay up.

Couple of checkpoints later we were in Cairo, late afternoon, perhaps four, 430. Even before we stepped off the bus taxi drivers were screaming by the windows. Blew past them and began walking. Every few minutes we would ask for Tahrir Square. It was between ten and 15 kilometers away, but we would walk most of it. A nice young student steered us toward the metro, which we rode for half a pound each. I prayed before we stepped on. This train was so broke down falling apart rusted out ghetto-crackin oh man kiss your life away sort of car. But it went, and so did we. Jumped out a half an hour walk away from the square.
It felt wonderful to be back in Cairo. Not sure what it is about these city streets but I find this place exhilarating. We were nearly skipping as we came closer to Tahrir. We hadn’t been in touch since Israel and Nate now realized his phone was gone, so we made it a priority to find an internet café. Found a hostel near Tahrir which let us use their internet. The first facebook message I see was from one of our Birthright trip advisors telling us to get in touch immediately! The police, Brandeis community, friends, family, and US embassy were all looking for us. The world had lost its head when Nate and I went quiet for 24 hours.

Emailed and messaged a bit, then skyped Ahmed, who was also freaking out about us. He agreed to come snag us by Tahrir Square. We stood on the raised grass courtyard looking out for Ahmed who claimed his car was too small for all three of us. Couple of creepy guys moved in on me and Nate. One offered us cigarettes, another stood silently staring at Nate, a third shyly approached me and began talking about giving me a message. Lucky for us Ahmed came screaming by in a drop top Mini and we were OUT! Tossed our backpacks in the car and jumped in. Nate sat shotgun, I sprawled out in the back. Off we were, safe and secure with Ahmed. First to his apartment, then dinner on the street, then shot out to his farm house in the suburbs outside the city, bongo drums and Stella in hand.

I melted into bed around midnight, exhausted after a few loonng sleepless days and nights. This week with Ahmed will be wild. Cairo is too much alive. She is loud, obnoxious, expensive, beautiful, frightening, and welcoming, even to a few lonely Americans far far from home.

Couple of quick notes – I’ve been sick for over a week. Coughing and sneezing like its my job. Nate lost his wallet and cell phone on back to back nights, both of which were recovered. My left pinky toe is a giant blister, Nate is struggling to remove a dead toenail from his left foot. Ahmed is pissed that he hasn’t shaved in two nights, little does he know that Nate and I have been wearing the same underwear for five nights and haven’t showered in four.

We are both relatively safe and having an incredible time. Cairo is not in a state of ruins. There is as little order as there was before the revolution.

Lots and lots and lots of love,

SF

Last Act: Failing to Understand, Let Alone Solve

2010-08-11T05:30:00.000-07:00

I learned to spell ‘Forgiveness’ in Hebron; a West Bank city where Palestinians, Settlers, and Soldiers clash – often violently - every few minutes.

Spray-painted in clear capital letters on cement blocks draped in barbed wire sealing an alley, or road, preventing passage between the Jewish settlement and Palestinian neighborhood. Forgiveness. Thick black letters offset by the sunburnt, dusty, colorless crumbling stone buildings. In english, almost as a compromise. A meet-me-halfway. Not in Arabic or Hebrew. A concession. A call for both sides to lower their weapons, and for the passersby, the tourists, the foreigners, to take heed of what is going on.

That image will never leave me. The word Forgiveness painted on nine or so cement blocks. Similarly, the sight of a colorful animated hop-scotch court touching a wall of these cement blocks and barbed wire, is burned, ingrained, tattooed somewhere deep inside me.

__________________________

I left Israel four weeks ago and began traveling around the Middle East. Fending off hawkers in Cairo, hitch-hiking between Hezbollah communities in southern Lebanon, sleeping under the sky on a shattered glass covered run-down roof in Amman, and splitting my time between a local family and IDF soldiers in Hebron. I found myself down and out when I was denied entry into Syria. I begged, pleaded, yelled, refused to leave, and was finally physically removed from the entry office. What a waste, I thought. I would now have to throw away more money and fly to Jordan. I decided to spend the week I would have given to Syria in the West Bank. I learned more during that single week, about the conflict and the Middle East, than I could have dreamed to learn during ten months in Yaffo.

I was detained while crossing from Jordan into Israel via the King Hussein/Allenby Bridge. It was foreseeable; my story was pretty ugly. Two and a half months ‘working’ in Israel, a new passport, Lebanese stamps, no cell phone numbers or places to stay in Israel. They detained the crap out of me. Hours and hours, four or five interviews, unpleasant questions about my beliefs, my family, my education and upbringing. I sat for four hours in an enclosed sitting area. Stiff metal connected seats, calmly, patiently, just waiting, not doubting for a second that I would get through.

There were 45 or so other people in the sitting area. Each woman was fully covered, many with only their eyes showing. Men were dark, many in religious attire, bearded. I sat down beside the only other white person there, a woman married to a Palestinian man and living in Bethlehem. She was flustered, tearing up, panicking, totally out of sorts off kilter uncomfortable freaking out. At first she just complained – moaning about being awake for 50 hours, not having eaten since the previous day’s lunch. My eyes traveled from her to the young girl sitting across from me, perhaps fourteen years old, beside her mother.

This girl had a backpack twice her size, her head was covered except for an innocent, full, smooth face, and was slightly hunched forward from the pack. She sat silently. Motionless. Never once complaining, getting upset, or even asking for food, water, or to use the bathroom.
I had seen her seven hours earlier (5:30am) at the Jordanian border in the exact same position. I can only imagine how ordinary this was for her. How normal it was to sit and wait. To be interrogated, to be held up, to be told to step out of line, fill out additional paperwork, and wait for further questioning.

I had no sympathy for the woman next to me. She began to cry. I asked her if she could imagine going through this every time she wanted to visit family, friends, to travel, even for work. She stopped crying for a moment, looked absently into my eyes, glanced at the girl, and continued to bawl. I moved to another section of the waiting area, disgusted. Weak. Get over yourself.

From the border I went south to Hebron. After shacking up in one of the two stupidly expensive hotels, I went out for dinner. I walked into a nearby restaurant, indicated that I was looking for dinner, and said (with phenomenal hand gestures) I wanted something BIG (hands fly out wide) and CHEAP (rubbing fingers to indicate money, then shaking my finger to illustrate I have none). Blank stare, no comprendo, the man must have thought I was crazy. A kid piped up behind me and in near perfect english told me to head around the corner for a great Shwarma. On the way he asked to hang out after I had finished eating. I was skeptical, as I am about every english-speaking local in the Middle East, but found I had little choice when the boy kept popping his head into the dive spot to make sure I was still there.

Tye was his name. An ‘activist’ to use his words. Well traveled, into making films, originally from Dubai, hates Hebron, and is dying to get a copy of the new Starcraft computer game. A friend of his was there too, Subeherr. Also spoke english, but not quite as well as Tye. Subeherr began smoking cigarettes and Nargilah when he was 13. With four sisters and stylish clothing he is all about the girls.

If Subeherr could go anywhere in the world it would be Jerusalem, then the United States.

A big futballer, Subeherr was slapping hands and kissing guys up and down Hebron’s main drag, while we walked sipping luke warm sodas.

That night they told be about life in Hebron. They go to an all boys school, are forbidden to look at let alone speak with girls, and find little to do except smoke cigarettes and walk up and down this street. They travel to Bethlehem after saving three weeks worth of allowance, where they can meet girls and go to a cinema.

Tye and Subeherr are terrified of Israeli soldiers, far more than local criminals. Both boys had multiple stories about horrific encounters with the IDF. Subeherr recalls a night a few months earlier when he was stopped and beaten by a soldier for walking on the wrong side of a street. Tye recalls stepping out of his father’s car, with his entire family, and watching two soldiers tare it to shreds looking for weapons and explosives.

_____________________________

The next day Tye took me into Hebron’s old city, and toward the Jewish settlement. He wanted to get some footage for a film he was making about “how crazy the conflict is.”At one point he pulled me across the street to avoid two soldiers standing guard. He told me to watch out and stay clear of the soldiers. He was not able to give me much of a tour because he is Palestinian.

I spent four days in the old city and Jewish settlement. Two nights in a hotel and two nights in Tye’s home. He was scared of what his parents would think or do if they caught him bringing an American in to their home, so he had me sneak into his room. From a back alley, I climbed a ladder, crossed three roof tops, walked through an abandoned building, and crawled into Tye’s bedroom window. I would arrive late and leave early.

I became close with Yaron, an IDF commander in the settlement. I spent two six hour shifts with him, just sitting, talking, enjoying each others company. Long moments of silence, speaking softly, white broad smile behind a dark leathery face. He told me a few gut wrenching stories about his time in the army, and from before his service. In 2006, during the war with Lebanon, a rocket decimated his home. Luckily his family was out for the evening. Had they been home, Yaron would be without a mother, father, and four siblings.

At one point we heard over the radio that a rocket hit Sderot. It landed a few meters from his close friend’s home.

Yaron told me he fights because he is not sure that he will have a home tomorrow. He longs to get out of the army, after which he plans to work with children. He has one year left. I told him I would pray for a quiet year.

Yaron’s 17 day tour in Hebron is up on August 12, after which he will spend four days with his family in Haifa. I leave for my home on the 12th. He invited me for shabbos, and was very disappointed when I had to decline. He gave me one of his shirts as a parting gift. I have great respect for Yaron. A young man, 21 years old, who has seen so much, has endured and suffered and struggled through death and pain, but continues to smile. Continues to hope for a better tomorrow. Continues to laugh, to be open and caring, even with a complete stranger from the other side of the world.

I hope to see him again, perhaps in a different setting.

_____________________________________

I went to a demonstration outside a main gate entrance into the Jewish settlement. 60 or so foreigners, many Scandinavian, big cameras, Christian Peace Makers (fucing twisted ass activists wanna be peacemakers trouble causing close minded Americans who use their religion as an excuse and bring shame to the word Peace), signs, a few older male Arabs, one with a drum, and a donkey draped in an Israeli flag covered in red arabic. They screamed, chanted, beat the drum, all in the face of the IDF soldiers who were gathering outside the entrance. There was a fight. A man decked a soldier, taking him to the ground, rolling around. Immediately there was tear gas, screaming soldiers, and an armored vehicle roaring its engine. Kids went running into the old city.

A few minutes earlier Tye helped me speak to a small Arab boy. I asked, just as the demonstrators approached, if the boy was ever scared. He said “only when they shoot.”

I stood near the demonstration, but not close enough to be considered part of it. I didn’t agree with the objective, the method, the movement, none of it. When it began to disintegrate I caught up with the leader, a male Arab roughly 45 years old, and began arguing with him. He said the goal was to ‘tease’ the soldiers. I didn’t get it then, and don’t get it now. ‘Tease’ the soldiers.

And there I was. Jewish to get into the settlement and synagogue at Abraham’s burial, Christian to get into the Mosque and while I walked Hebron’s littered, lustful streets with covered women and angry boys. The synagogue and mosque are side by side, separated by bulletproof barriers and barred windows. The muslim side is quiet, a few men praying, carpeted, closed. The Jewish side is full of men women and children, a tour passes through, open to the sky, soldiers in the corners. I wonder if tours ever pass through the muslim side.

That to me was the conflict. Listening to Tye and Subeherr retell terrible stories of abuse and suffering at the hands of young IDF soldiers, while Yaron speaks of dead comrades and friends, losing his home and nearly his family. There is no good guy and bad guy in this conflict. No side in the right, and side in the wrong. Just immeasurable suffering. No end in sight. No peace, no coexistence, no resolution.

________________________________________

The Hezbollah museum in southern Lebanon, Mileeta, has captions beneath artillery and beside bunkers which portray Israel as a terrorist state with bloodthirsty soldiers and fanatical leaders. It was clearly exaggerated, one sided, and favoring Hezbollah. Nevertheless, I found messages that used language in a similar distorted manner in the Jewish settlement. One sign read, “These buildings were constructed on land purchased by the Hebron Jewish community in 1807. This land was stolen by Arabs following the murder of 67 Hebron Jews in 1929. We demand Justice! Return our property to us!” A sign just a few meters away went into greater detail about the 1929 fighting, and said that the Arabs in “1929 suddenly launched a murderous terror assault…ghastly massacre [in which] 67 elderly, women, and children were tortured, raped, burned, and butchered.”

I did not take quotes from the Hezbollah museum, but both sides seem to be extremist, fanatical, manipulating, and of no benefit to those passing by or reading the messages.

I was reluctant to leave my new Palestinian crew, and found it more difficult to depart from Yaron. But I did, as we all do. I spent a few nights up north in Nablus. No soldiers, no cement blocks and barbed wire - just one side, just the Palestinians. I spent hours walking through the old city, run-down, dirty, narrow cobblestone passageways. Every door, window shutter, sign post, and flat surface is plastered with pictures of Arab fighters who have been killed in this conflict. I am dancing around the word Martyr. To the local population, the posters are of Martyrs. To others, perhaps murders. My father told me to choose my words carefully, but which do I choose? To Subeherr they are liberators, fighting for a better world. To Yaron, they are terrorists. To me they are victims. However you call them, the man with the M-16 or the boy with the AK-47 decked out in camouflage with a Palestinian-flag colored bandanna covering his nose and mouth, they are people who are now dead. A husband who has left his wife alone with her children. A son who has left parents to grow old alone. A brother who has left his siblings to fend for themselves. A future father who will not have children or a future politician who cannot advocate for better working conditions or a future shop keeper who cannot provide for a family or a future peace advocate, who will not help raise, rather than condition and indoctrinate the next generation.

A group of boys threw stones at me in Nablus. Perhaps they thought I was Jewish or recognized that I was a white foreigner, and therefore a supporter of Israel.

_________________________________________

A quick quote from my journal written while in Nablus –

“ Nas and Biggie as I sit in the hotel windowsill watching Nablus close down for the night. Family run barber shop across the street just closed, now the alley is dark. Cats. Older men pushing carts with leftover vegetables. Boys walking arm in arm. Minaret overlooking, offering its neon green blanket. Six gun shots. Cars obeying traffic signals. No soldiers or heavily armed guards like Hebron. Signs of Martyrs plastered all over old city walls. Kids with guns.
Now it’s A Tribe Called Quest while I dress an infected blister. Thinking about Yaron. Maybe he is on shift. Hopefully quiet. Orange street light fills my room. Fan, but doesn’t move the air. Sweat, walking or lying down. Never dry, never fresh. Two shekel falafel for dinner. Poverty, but people aren’t starving. Goodnight.”

_______________________________________________

From the West Bank I crossed into Jerusalem. A city where extremist Jewish settlers can visit freely but innocent young teenagers like Tye and Subeherr will only dream about. I stayed at a hostel just inside the Jaffa Gate. I realized quickly that there is very little I like about the old city. I find it superficial, not pretty, not historic and only slightly interesting. However, there are one or two images that will stick with me.

Early morning and late night in the old city, boys pushing three wheeled carts with goods for their shop. Skinny, well dressed Arab boys. Heavy carts overflowing with vegetables or merchandise. Pushing pushing pushing these boys worked hard getting carts up and down stairs. I’ll never forget the dance they did to turn the cart.

The carts were makeshift and heavy, difficult to turn. Each time a boy wanted to turn the cart, even slightly to avoid a foot, post, or ditch, he would have to push, jump and land on one handle pressing all his weight to lift and pivot the front tire. A jump press wiggle shake and prrrressssss lean heavily on the left handle to push the cart slightly to the right. Every time he had to maneuver the cart, whether avoiding a tourist or swinging a 90 degree turn, you could catch this ritual dance. Ever two or three steps, the jump wiggle while laughing, calling out to men and boys on either side, yelling this and that, just doing his thing. If he needed to stop the cart, there was a tire dragging behind the cart attached by a chain that he would jump on while leaning back to slow, and eventually stop the cart. A very very very cool little act to watch.

Another image was the boys carrying tea on an elaborate sort of hanging tray. Whirling through crowds these boys would carry four six even eight cups of tea, swinging them around people and avoiding walls, all with perfect balance, delivering tea to elder men.

____________________________________

And so it goes, another blog. Another attempt to capture thoughts, emotions, experiences, and fears with the right words. Not too many, not too few. Trying to include all of those powerful sights but failing miserably, to even begin to convey how I am feeling or what these past few weeks, months, have done to me. It’s so tough. I try to pour it out, to stay somewhat peaceful, diplomatic, to paint pictures that help you understand what I am going through, but it’s not easy. I guess that’s what makes a great writer.

I am ready to go home. I miss my family, my brothers, my parents. I miss my routine, the comforts of an easy life. I leave Israel far more confused than I arrived, with unanswerable questions, desires to see people I will never again meet, to explore the same rundown shacks and buildings that will be gone when or if I return. I do not know where I stand with Judaism. Do I let the man in Mea’Sharim, who screamed at me for not wearing a kippah calling me a terrible Jew and saying I do not belong in Israel, get to me and push me further away from Judaism. Or do I focus on Yaron who will pray tomorrow morning for peace, for security, for good health and accuracy if the moment arises. Who the fuck knows.

One thing is absolutely clear – This summer has been dynamic, frightening, eye opening, wild, delicious, wet, and mind blowing. I am a stronger healthier human being for doing what I did and seeing what I saw this summer.

I am not looking forward to the Middle East’s near future. I do, however, look forward to being a part of whatever that near future is, for better or for worse.

There is nothing better in this world than leaping outside of your comfort zone and drowning yourself in a different world. I did that this summer.

L’Chaim

SF

The Middle East I Shouldn't See

2010-07-20T06:36:00.000-07:00

I left Israel for Cairo on Saturday evening. After a 12 hour layover in Istanbul, Justin and I landed in what would become the beginning of a true adventure. I will cover a lot in this blog - reflection about the time in Israel, conflicts both internal and external, as well as anticipation for what awaits beyond borders, safety nets, and comfort zones.

Its been weeks since I last wrote in my journal or blogged. I have not yet taken a single photograph. I regret the former, but understand both. Writing has always been a passion, and more recently a tool for me to open up, to process, understand, to explore, and to hide. I have been living in Yaffo, and by living I mean far more than sleeping, eating, and spending most of my time. I mean really living; dancing in a far off seemingly unfriendly culture comprised of people who look, sound, and act in a manner I have been taught to fear, or question, even challenge. I was not a tourist in Yaffo. Living through each day, allowing what I encountered to seep into my person and my spirit.

Yaffo became a part of me. The cats fighting and children crying. The smell of fresh tobacco, steaming tea, succulent vegetables covered in flies, handled by Arabs, Ethiopian Jews, covered women, and dirty children. It was no paradise. No sheltered community protected from the realities of blood, politics, religion, and safety. It was my conflict. People who were tired of war, of loss, of suffering. Tired of children carrying rucksacks and fully automatic rifles. Tired of a life shaped by paranoia and mistrust. It was not easy for me to leave Yaffo. It is not with support for once side or the other that I leave Yaffo. But rather a taste for what prolonged violence can do to an innocent population.

The objective of SCB (and this could be entirely wrong) was to send me to Israel where I would 'experience' the 'conflict,' intern in a cross-border NGO, and even 'help' something or someone. I wonder if I fulfilled that mission. My apartment was beautiful, looking out over Tel Aviv and Yaffo. I ate well, went out in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem with friends, friends of friends, and strangers. I spent time on the beach playing games, living life, enjoying youth. How did I experience the conflict? At the Peres Center? Enclosed in a protected, air-conditioned, gorgeous cement and glass ultra modern building 25 paces from the most beautiful beach I have ever seen. We often had lunch along the water, dropping 35 Shekels on a Shuk Shuka or hamburger.

Was it through the people I met? Cab drivers in Jerusalem, in the West Bank, the police or store clerk in Sderot? What did I do, if anything, that came remotely close to experiencing the conflict? I'm not sure, and I don't think I will know for a very long time.

I should not downplay my time at the Peres Center and in Israel. Powerful encounters with adults and children. I had the privilege of observing activities through the Center, and met one or two dozen hard working, respectable individuals who are giving the prime of their lives to good, honest work. Holding Kazaam rockets in Sderot, walking in and out of bomb shelters, hearing a nine year old girl excitedly describe them as "gifts from the government."

One of the most powerful moments was at a barbecue marking the end of a two year program bringing Palestinian and Israeli youth together. These were not kids, they were nearly adults - sixteen and seventeen years old. Both sides had gotten extremely close, many communicating on a daily basis. The scary part came when I realized the Israeli participants, the ones who had become so open and deeply connected with the Palestinians, would within a year be IDF soldiers kicking down doors, gutting cars, and patrolling the borders. Some said they would be different soldiers, but at the end of the day, how different can you really be?

In retrospect, the conflict I experienced is largely internal. Battling with Judaism and deconstructing my own perceptions of the Middle East turned my time in Israel into an emotional, spiritual battlefield. I felt pushed away from Judaism at Brandeis. Orthodox students are cliquey (I apologize for the generalization, just my take), often loud and usually in big groups. I find they act older than they are, but at the same time, am intimidated by their closeness to one another and the religion. During this time I questioned my relation to Judaism. I began to think of religion as a cult, an excuse for people to act certain ways, as a justification for harmful practices and beliefs. Only those religions (Hinduism and Buddhism come to mind) that called for, above absolutely everything else, peace of mind, body, and soul, as well as introspection, do not fall under this cult category. Upon arriving in Israel, I realized how much I dislike (from a purely superficial, judgmental, ignorant, even malicious perspective) the look of many Orthodox Jews. Young men with dirty, scruffy beards. Sweaty, smelly, wearing unsettling clothing day and night. So often they seem to be in a hurry. I found myself almost disgusted with such an extreme, unattractive look. How different, I wondered, are they from someone who covers their entire body except for their eyes, or wears a white full body length cloth and a red turban. The images that comes to mind when someone mentions 'terrorist.' Is it so far from an adult, male Orthodox Jew? (once again, I apologize if what i've written above is offensive. I do not mean to liken religious Jews to terrorists, or anything of the like. What I've written above is me being completely honest, open, and forthright about thoughts and emotions I deem worthy to be shared with others).

I began to see another side here in Israel. In Jerusalem one Friday night, I went to services for the first time in a few years. Several young men came in separately. All seemed to be roughly my age - casually dressed, each with a kippah and sidur. As they came in, they embraced one another - deeply, with kisses, hugs, and warm smiles. Almost as though they had returned from war.

I watched enviously as they prayed - reciting silently, singing loudly, all by heart. While I, sitting in the back, stammered through the prayers and sang softly. Were they bound by religion? Perhaps experience, or just growing up together. For whatever reason, these young men joined hands in shul, where they opened up to each other and seemed to pray as though they would meet God tomorrow.

Every Friday night Shirel had me come over for shabbat dinner. Boy can she cook! A few blessings, BIG meal, wine, laughter, pointed jokes and plenty of roasting. That, to me, is what I realize I love about Judaism, and religion in general. To look beyond the extremists, the politics, the rigidity and self-deprecation, toward the love, community, support - three things we could all use a bit more of.

I find myself yearning to adopt certain principles of Judaism, but brace myself against others. It is with this mindset that I am drawn to Islam. To fully covered, hidden women. Piercing eyes, soothing voices, masked, protected, terrorist. I like it. I love it, here in the Middle East, with these people, and Arabic. I feel alive here, in this culture, so far from what I know and love. A complex, misunderstood, rich part of the world.

I will return once more to the idea of 'experiencing' the conflict. How can I begin to understand, let alone experience what is taking place between Jews and Arabs, Palestinians and Israelis, in the Middle East. I am no soldier kicking down doors, or gutting cars. I am not a bereaved parent or sibling, and I have not encountered a ruthless IDF soldier in my bedroom. If anything, I am a tourist. Not even an original or adventurous traveller. Just a Brandeis student. I ask questions, read a book or two, argue, follow the news. In no way does that sound like anything except spending time in another country. I believe that I cannot begin to understand (anything) unless I am that soldier or that victim. Unless my house is destroyed, my brother killed in a suicide bombing, or my daughter given 15 seconds warning to sprint from her classroom to the bomb shelter and wait, terrified, until the alarm quiets. Not only will I not understand these people or this conflict, but I ought not fool myself into thinking that because I have done my research or asked my questions that I know whats going on.

I approached Gordon Fellman midway through 1st semester last year carrying my decision to join Army ROTC. I was confident if anyone could steer me away from it, he could do it. I told him weakly that one reason for my joining the Army was to experience the military. To feel combat, to meet those on the front lines, to feel the terror, stress, love, fright, and pride so closely associated with combat. I told Fellman I refused to continue judging my military, our wars, our soldiers and their actions when I myself had not been there and seen what they see every day. He countered by saying we judge things every day - Rape, murder, autotheft, for instance, are acts we condemn without experiencing them. At the time I felt defeated, he was right, I was wrong.

Thich Nhat Hanh wrote that to fully understand, to be capable of empathy and any degree of support, we must become one with that person. We judge and condemn these criminals, but we do not understand. Perhaps these are two separate issues - groundless judgement and understanding. Nevertheless, just as I have decided to join the Army (in part) because that is the only way I feel I can understand the machine, the people behind it, and the reason for it, I will not understand this Middle East conflict until I am in it. Living in Yaffo, working at the Peres Center does not cut it.

As I mentioned above, I write this from Cairo. In just three days the experience I have shared with Justin, with a few locals, and myself, is beyond this blog. On Wednesday I will fly to Lebanon, and hopefully gain entry into Syria, before moving south to Jordan and back to Israel. I am falling in love with this culture, with these people, and with the language. I will not tell people I am Jewish, and I will not talk politics. I am confident I will be met with smiles, people trying to get my money, support, warm handshakes, delicious food, advice, and moments that will change my life.

I am eager for new cities, scary lonesome dark streets, challenges, and encounters that will shake my deepest most concrete beliefs.

Although I have failed to experience the conflict, I am, and will continue to experience life without borders, without preconceived notions, without shame, fear, hesitation, but with an insatiable appetite for adventure and understanding.

Lots and lots and lots of love

Stinky Feet in the Middle East

2010-06-26T03:06:00.000-07:00

"How can there be peace when the only way to peace is not peace" "A country is not only what it does, it is also what it tolerates" "Here is a wall at which to weep" "Martyr for God" "Our blood is the same color" "Live love love life"

These are words grafittied on the wall, or barrier, or fence, or whatever politically sour word you choose to call it, on the outskirts of Bethlehem. It is massive, and ugly, looking down on anyone walking by. I have a similar structure near my home; it was designed to insulate highway traffic and give us a more quiet, peaceful setting.

"The wall is screaming," I noted in my journal after leaving the West Bank city. Such an emotional trek exploring Bethlehem, Deisha, and standing at the base of the barrier. We started at the Church of Nativity, where Jesus was born, or ate, or spent some time, or who really knows what. Beautiful, with high arches, uneven steps leading deeper into a musty, claustrophobic spiritual cauldron, ornate chandeliers, and dark corners. Tourists with their cameras, expensive, flashes, poses, to show to their East Asian or French or Italian or American friends that they were here, at this historical church, in the West Bank. I guess you can tell I wasn't so turned on by our time at the church. Perhaps things would have been different if fewer people tried to sell me jewelery, or give me an 'official tour,' or if there wasn't such a phony rush to take every possible picture, or kiss the exact place where Jesus was born. The adventure after the church was quite the opposite.

Leaving the church we decided to explore Bethlehem, or at least what we could find near the church. I took the lead, a potentially grave mistake. We crossed the church's courtyard, passed more tourists, more pictures, more expensive cameras, a small museum, a few pricey restaurants, and headed for the market. The street narrowed, arts and crafts became vegetables, became fish and meat, and tourists became locals. I took us left through this narrow tunnel around this stand, crossed over and back the other way, and made sure to get shamelessly lost.

The market opened up into a crowded city street lined with small shops, vendors, cars honking and trying to waddle through this mess of people. Not a single tourist. Not one. A Stinky Feet victory - lost, potentially unsafe, but no tourists. We were five - Shirel, Wajida, Anushka, Dan, and myself. Some stared, others smiled. A young boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, came by pushing a rickety rusted shopping cart. We made eye contact and he immediately threw out a hand for a classic, internationally known, hand-clap finger interlock 'dap' handshake.

It was truly impressive. Here we were, two Americans, an Indian, a Pakistani, and an Israeli, strolling through a part of Bethlehem that was so totally alive with business, culture, music, and food, fifteen minutes from a major tourist attraction, but so authentic. This was a glimpse at life in the West Bank. No soldiers, no molotov cocktails or violently gutted cars. No rockets, no bomb shelters, just life, humming along. Lost as we may have been, we managed to grab a phenomenal lunch at a small shwarma and falafal shack, and get back to the church in one piece. From there we grabbed a taxi to Deisha, one of three refugee camps in Bethlehem.

After a ten minute drive the car pulled over and the driver said "here." No sign, particular building, or any indication that we were in the right spot. We crossed the street and entered a sort of back alley which looked like it would open up. It did. We were absolutely in the right place. An upper-class shanty town, half constructed concrete homes, garbage strewn along the street, Arabic and Hebrew graffiti on every wall, and children. "Welcome welcome" they yelled, or "Hello, how are you?" in perfect English. It was likely the only phrase they knew, because we could not solicit any other words from them. I say "them" and refer to kids that peaked out from behind walls, children that called down to us from behind barred windows, and a few fearless ones who walked right up to us.

I played a little ball with one who was convinced I was Michael Jordan. "Bye Michael!" he yelled while laughing as I walked away.

As we were leaving the camp I met a young boy walking with his two younger brothers, Wayid. Collard shoes, gelled hair, white teeth, stylish but scuffed jeans, and a dirty, bare feet. Although his brothers trailed, he walked shoulder to hip with me. After greeting and exchanging names, we spoke about football. He was rooting for Argentina, but couldn't quite explain why. It didn't matter. Gave him a big hi five, his brothers too, and he was off - to where? It was Tuesday at one thirty, he should have been in school.

We stopped by the wall just before the checkpoint. To most, ugly. To some, vital. The graffiti was powerful, whether it called for Arabs to destroy the Jewish state or called for both sides to tear down the wall. I consider it to be the symbol of apartheid, of struggle, of inequality, of a reluctance to embrace the creativity and ingenuity that would end this conflict.

The checkpoint was terrible. Ugly, barbed wire, looked like a prison. The dying potted plants and tourist posters depicting Nazareth as a paradise tacked on the orange wall make it all the less bearable. Sadly, those words come from someone who will never truly pass through the checkpoint, never begin to understand what it represents, or empathize with those who are forced to wait hours each day just to get to their menial job and put the bare minimum amount of food on their family's dinner table.

I live in Yafo, a predominantly Arab city a few minutes south of Tel Aviv. Similar to Brooklyn, Yafo is an up and coming trendy spot for young wealthy Jews, entrepreneurs, and boasts a gorgeous coastline and a generic 'old-city.' My flat is in a new compound, five minutes in from the coast (where one can tour the old city, eat at a gratuitously expensive sea side restaurant, or lounge in a cafe overlooking the water), on the border between expensive cafes and hustle bustle city life. I shop at an Arab market where I rarely understand what I am buying, but always enjoy the surprise. Fresh pita every morning, the best Hummus and Mesabacha in the Middle East from a small restaurant called Abu Nassan. Open six days a week, Abu Nassan has seats for roughly 15 people, but is always preparing food for at least forty. They have no official open hours. When they have food, they serve it. If they run out of Peta or hummus, they close. I was once on line with about ten people and out came one of the older men who worked there saying in Arabic, Hebrew, then English, "We're out of hummus, my sorries, my sorries. You'll have to come back tomorrow." And we did. People left without hesitation, we all knew the food would be there tomorrow, and it would be fresh, and warm, and delicious.

The four other SCB Fellows live together in Jerusalem. In many respects I live alone. My flat is quiet, large sliding doors that are always open inviting a cool breeze. A roof overlooking Yafo, part of the water, and Tel Aviv in the near distance. Its a good energy, clean, cozy apartment. I could not ask for anything nicer.

I often hear the Adhan while reading, or eating, from three nearby Minarets. I find the call comforting, even inviting. I am fascinated by Islam, even the extremism.

Quickly about work with the Peres Center for Peace. Young, vibrant, motivated staff, doing incredible work. Whether it is team building with small Palestinian and Israeli children, or bringing a group of 45 Palestinian businessmen to a convention in Jerusalem, the work is powerful, and vital in the struggle to create a lasting peace in the region. Although I do not contribute much, and my day to day tasks are generally small research projects, filing, typical intern right-of-passage busy work, I have had the privilege of meeting Arab and Jewish individuals who are committed to bringing peace to the Middle East, and attending the grassroots activities that lay the foundation for a future of coexistance. It is an honor to be at the Peres Center.

I have done my best to dive into the conflict throughout the past five weeks. Reading the news every day, reading testimonies published by human rights groups, books on the 48 war, on the origins of US-Israeli relations, all of it. Drinking as much of the stuff as I can get a hold of. I find it frightening that you can find brilliant, credible intellects and scholars that support completely different approaches to ending the conflict, and create opposing histories of the nation. What to believe, who to read, how to argue, piece together, understand. I had an Arab-Israeli coworker tell me the other day to 'go home, don't worry about us. This is our problem. Why bother yourself with this nonsense, you have a comfortable safe home. Don't stress. Let us deal with this."

How do I respond to that?

I say its an honor to be at the Peres Center, it is also an honor to be here, working in Israel, as an SCB Fellow. Proof that there are many people out there, students and adults alike, who have decided to bother themselves with this conflict. To act, to observe, to learn, to spread messages and call for more support.

I, as well as the other SCB Fellows, are here in what seems to be a historical moment. The Flotilla, culminating intolerance for the blockade, and looming war with Iran. A melting pot of emotions, politics, and discomfort, for all of us, myself included.

I am about to leave the Jerusalem flat for Tel Aviv. It was yet another wild shabbos, with delicious home cooking thanks to Shirel, drinks, laughter, and emotional breakdowns. Its thrilling to be here, alone and with the other fellows.

I have my sights set on Egypt, Jordan, and Lebanon. Who ever said 'one step at a time' was flat out false. A no name bum status nudnick who probably had a lousy life. I whole heartedly disagree. Skipping steps, jumping down entire stairwells, or riding banisters is a much better way to go about life.

All is well. Moderately safe, clean, and healthy. My feet have been black for a few weeks but that hasn't been an issue.

I miss home very much. Only when you leave behind the routine, the values, challenges, comforts, good space, parents, brothers, emotions, drama, indescribably immature inside jokes and stories, do you begin to appreciate it.

Thoughts and emotions frequently tap into my joining the Army. Particularly here, in a culture where boys and girls carry fully automatic weapons every where they go.

Much much more to come

Lots of love from he who hast ferociously stinky feet

Onward!

How Real Men do Machu Picchu

2009-05-10T10:07:00.000-07:00

End of Friday May 1st - Monday May 4th

'Joe and I agreed to make this an early one, tomorrow morning we leave for Machu Picchu. Unpacked and repacked my big bag, tried to get ahead of the game for tomorrow - Joe chose not to do the same.

I crawled home at about 3:30 this morning, fell out of bed at seven to begin getting ready for our trek. Joe was no where to be found. We agreed to leave at nine, so I figured he would be back at any moment.

I put together ten ham and cheese sandwhiches, double checked my bag, put what I decided not to take in storage, and melted into a couch in the Hostal. Still no Joe. At eleven he walked in, eyes bloodshot, skin pale, barely able to walk let alone formulate a complete sentence. This miserable heap of young adult managed to tell me he didn't sleep last night and woke up at a hostal in a stranger's bed across town. Sounded like a great night, just not before our trek.

Slowly but surely he began to pack. I had already put together a few apples, oreos, the sandwhiches, two big cans of Pork n Beans, and five liters of water. At the last minute I thought we would need a bit more food, so I boiled eight hot dogs and threw them in a plastic bag for the adventure. We left at 11:45, Saturday.

Half hour walk out of town to the Santiago Bus Terminal where we each paid 15 sol for a ticket to Santa Maria, half way to Quillabamba. Forty five minute wait, busted out a few sandwhiches nad Joe fell right to sleep sitting outside on a rusted bench. As we sat waiting for the bus, I noticed two young girls staring at us from the crack between a wall and door across the street. Each time my eyes met theirs, they would giggle. A few minuets later they shyly walked over towards where Joe and I were sitting, each holding a broken slab of concrete. They began to mark the pavement right next to me. 'Hopscotch' I heard Joe mumble. Sure enough, the squares and numbers were etched into the ground and without a moments delay out came the laughing, jumping, and beautiful spirit of these young Peruvian girls. They both wore shiny black shoes, tattered jeans, and a stain covered pink zip up sweatshirt.

The bus was an hour late, but when it did finally arrive it was comfortable. Joe and I had back row seats. The road was literally U turn after U turn, us back row boys felt each turn as though we were on a rollercoaster. The next six hours turned out to be the most beautiful bus ride of my trip. Looming snow capped mountins, riding above and below the clouds, frost forming on the windows, tiny huts growing out from the side of mountains, an occasional waterfall. Magnificant bus ride. Even though Joe slept the ENTIRE time, my appreciation was sufficient for both of us.

We arrived in Santa Maria just before eight pm. Quick and easy finding a colectivo for the one hour schlep to nearby Santa Taresa. All three drivers bumrushed the bus, somehow they seemed to know where we gringos were headed. Multiple drivers makes bargaining easy. Five minutes after stepping off the bus we were off to Santa Taresa for two and a half sols each.

Santa Taresa, like Santa Maria, is tiny. To say we arrived in the center is mos o menos the same as saying we stopped at the outskirtsof town. At nine we paid the 85 cents for the colectivo and set off on foot. The sun had long since set, slight drizzle, just cool enough to see each breath. Our first Point of Reference was the hydroelectric plant two hours away. From there it would be two more to the botttom of Machu Picchu, leaving one final blood bath 2400m slippery dippery climb to the top. We got off to a terrible start.

A kind woman directed us to the road that would lead us 'straight' to the plant. We didn't find the road. It took another pleasant elderly woman and finally a five year old to lead me literally by the hand to the stone steps down into dark abyss that would mark the beginning of our five hour walk. Five minutes later the stone path split four ways. FUCK! We took the path that lead towards a futbol pitch and what appeared to be a school.

There was an open lock on the gate, we pushed it open and walked in. Gavbe a few yells, sent up a prayer or two so as not to be shot. A young boy (12, 13 years?) came out with a headlamp and kindly pointed us in the right direction. He told us we would need to cross the 'puente.' I then asked Joe the second very stupid question of the trip. Thinking back to the Lost City trek and tiny, baby river crossings, I asked Joe if he was going to tkae off his shoes for the crossing. Little did I knowthis was no little river. This was a white rolling roaring ripping screaming fucking bucking bronco of a river! Death to he who set foot too close to the edge!!

After this kid pointed and we set off again, we still didn't make it. Walked right past the path down to the river. Luckily the kid had kept an eye on us. He came out and walked us to the path. Finally we were good to go, or so we thought. Four wrong turns, four people helping us and it wasn't even 9:30! Lord be with us...

We reached the puente and crossed the bridge laughing about my ridiculous question. Realizing then that my question earlier this morning about whether to wear shoes or flip flops was equally fricken retarted!

Incident free for roughly 20 minutes, after which we came to our first fork in the road. No easy logical reason to go one way or the other. Joe said one path looked a bit more beaten, I said we should try going up the other for 15 minutes but went with Joes better judgement. Glad I did because 30 minutes lter we asked some people in a small home half hidden from the road and they pushed us on the same way laughing and smiling while patting our backs. They dropped the same key phrase, 'straight,' which I took to mean no more intersections, one road one direction.

Before we had worked up even a slight sweat not only did we come to another fork, but there was another bridge! An hour in and we were stuck. Nothing to do but sit back, have a sandwhich, and choose one way to go. Joe wanted a spliff, I was too concerned. Its late, dark, raining, cold, and we are two lost lonely gringos, WHAT WERE WE THINKING??!!

The bridge led back towards Santa Taresa, I said we should keep on, continue hugging that lion of a river. Spent the next few minutes walking silently, up hill, down hill, barking dogs, silent homes, not knowing if we were going the right way. Both of us tired, little down, needing motivation.

Just when we needed it most, a colectivo came driving by. Sure enough we were heading towards the plant. Laughing at us through gritted teeth the young dude offered us a ride, even for free. We were too jazzed, sent his behind packin!

At eleven we reached the hydroelectric plant, right on point with the two hours. Fence, metal, lights, sleeping guards, nothing pretty or attractive but it was a victory for us. Nearly half way!!! The next two hours would be along train tracks. Nice and 'straight,' ish, we hoped.

We ducked into a small restaurant and paid a gratuitous amount for the best Powerade and Sprite we had ever tasted. Hung out there for an hour, I got some kip as joe skinned a spliff, avoiding the rain which had gathered significant strength.

A security guard told us to stay on these tracks until the third SALIDA sign, at which point we would just need to make a right and continue straight. My understanding was that that third sign would appear in more or less two hours. It sprang up in ten minutes. Slightly confused we left the tracks and began following a fuzzy path up hill through the woods. Note - My headlamp is a Saint that deserves to be knighted! Godsend!! We wound up at another set of railroad tracks, left, rainy, dark, right, rainy, dark, no signs, another intersection. Decided to go left, the same direction we had been heading in all night.

So it began, two horus, 120 minutes, 7200 seconds, looking down skipping block to block. Still drizzling, thick brush seeming to creep in on us from both sides. We were in good spirits. Joe decided to light up, I joined figuring there could be no better time than at 12:30am, in the rain, while walking alone along treacherous defunct train tracks with nothing (and hopefully noone) for miles in either direction. I tried the stuff a few years ago and really did't like it. Spitting, no high, itchy eyes, fuck that I thought, I've got better things to do with my time... until now.... Slow, shallow drags, trying hard not to cough. It was the first time I got high, and boy did it make those train tracks fun!! What better activity when stoned than walking on slippery train tracks in the dark... BRILLIANT! (sounds like something a Klebanow would do! idiots)

The endless laughing ensued, conversations with colorful topics ranged from fruit to Brazilian animals, and then we came to the mother of all bridges...

The metal rungs were slippery, widely and unevenly spaced, and I could not see the end with my torch. Laughing we said LES DO IT!! and started across. Not only did we not know how long it was, but it was the highest we had come to, shakey blocks, water roaring 20 ft below. About 15 steps in Joe stopped - 'Jordan my legs are shaking, I can't do it man I'm scared (maybe he meant to say stoned?).' He began to sit down, slowly bending over placing the joint on a nearby block. ' Joe!!, pass me the spliff, its all good, were going back' were my words of comfort. At that moment as we were beginning to head back I turned and saw a walkway on one side of the bridge. Reached land kisisng the ground and dying of laughter. After taking the path we realized there were about 150 steps to the bridge - ENORMOUS!!! We would not have been happy campers.

Off we were, on the rungs again, chatting away like old women. At about 2:15 we saw street lights not far from the tracks. Came to small factory alongside the tracks and decided to investigate. After straying from the tracks we crossed a daughter sized bridge and found that we had reached the base of Machu Picchu!! We knew this because a big sign read 'Welcome to Machu Picchu.' Not too excited though, victory yes, but we knew the pain that was about to become reality with the final one hour hike UP. During the day most people jump on the seven dollar (DOLLAR!! not sol, dollar!) bus ride to the top. At 2:30 in the morning its pretty quiet. Onwards!

It was painful. Hard enough after some sleep and a meal, but we were going on no sleep, largly empty bellies, and after four hours of trekking about! Slow go, especially for me with four liters of water and the canned (beast 570g cans!) beans. Alas, we made it. Reached the top thoroughly dead at 3:40am. The place was a dead as Joe and I, no security, no fellow bums. Found two benches near the ticket window. Joe ate his last sandwhich, I dropped mind (Sticking to the five second rule would have gotten me the dirtiest sandwhich I have ever seen, I though better of it). We had about an hour and a half ot go before tickets would be sold. We got 'comfy' on the benches.

Just after we laid down it began to rain hard. The canvas over us was full of holes, offered us no protection, cold and wet we were not happy. Neither of us slept.

How many people can say they were the first into the park!!!!! Victory for the exhausted miserable smelly bums!! Followed the signs to Wayna Picchu but chose to return at 10am. Heavy fog slowly began to lift, surrounded by mountains, above the clouds, it was awsome, inspiring, powerful. I am not one to hoot and hollar about the actual stones, ancient stairs or baths, sculptures, but I have never seen a landscape as stunning as the one from the top of Machu Picchu.

Joe and I had trouble functioning. Walked around for a while but quickly found a nice rock drenched in sun to sleep on. As is normally the case, Joe fell right to sleep. Took me longer but I eventually succeeded in using my knee as a pillow.

The climb up Wayna Picchu was greuling, but not quite a bad as up Machu Picchu itself. By our ten o clock date with this hidden beauty overshadowed by Machu Picchu, the sun had done away with the fog. One could see for miles in every direction. I don't have the words to describe the sensation experienced sitting thousands of meters above water, drowning in a sea of mountains. Just don't know which phrases do those moments justice.

Three hours at the main site, two more slipping and sliding around Wayna, we had seen enough. Time to begin the long haul back. At 12:45 we found the exit. Sandwhiches gone, ate our last four hot (raw cold) dogs, last apple for me, out of water as well. We inquired about the cost of a bottle of water at the MP restaurant shindig and were told a small half liter bottle went for eight sol (roughly $2.66). Bear in mind we bought our 2.5 liter bottles for 2 sol (66 cents) back in the city. We couldn't believe it, decided to go thirsty.

The walk down Machu Picchu was tough on the knees, ankles, not fun. Joe and I were beyond tired, our spirits low, especially without water. Not as much talking, uncertainties as to our making it all the way back to Santa Taresa on foot. I decided to fill an empty bottle with stream water when we came to the first bridge. Only a little bit of garbage, one or two toxic waste barrels floating by, nothing a yank like me can't handle. It was delicious!! Gave me new life! Joe had bought a bottle for three sol a few minutes earlier. Looked like we were going to make it after all!

Next issue at hand was food. I still had two giant cans of Pork n Beans. Thought about making a fire by the tracks, didn't seem doable. Three horus into the walk, when we reached the hydroelectric plant, I broke down. Busted open a can with my knife and went to town. Joe waited to see if I would turn green or shrivel up befoer venturing a bite. Like the water, the beans were awesome! You can't go wrong with canned beans, cooked further or not, they are a five star grade A non kosher DELIGHT!

The walk back to Santa Taresa was warm and bright, aka boring! But we made it. Colectivo to Santa Maria where we sat outside for two hours waiting for a bus. When it arrived, it was full. Standing room only. For the first half hour Joe, myself and a few others stood in the aisle. For the rest of the ride, Joe lay sprawled out in the aisle and fell asleep. I sat knees to chest stuffed in the aisle between seats so as not to roll around. It was a miserble ride, and it takes a lot for me to say that. Eight hours in that terrible position, I didn't sleep for more than five minutes at a time. Obnoxious women kept pushing me around, stepping on me, felt a hand make its way to my butt with my wallet on a few occasions. Bus rides are really never fun or enjoyable, they're usually bad or less bad. This one was awful!

Arrived back in Cuzco at 5:40 Monday morning. I didn't realize until I got off the bus and tried to tell Joe something that I couldn't speak. Literally, no sound, nothing. I had developed a nasty cold on the bus (still sick more than a week later). I felt horrible. We had a laugh about it in the taxi back to the Hostal. What a fucking adventure. 16 hours of walking after no sleep and little food, 14 hours on a bus, two and a half in colectivos, and a few unaccounted for. We made it. Fourteen dollars round trip, there and back. Compared to the normal 100 dollar train fare or 150 dollar tour.

VICTORY FOR THE BUMS IN BLUE!

Fell asleep sick and fully clothed at 6am Monday morning. '

Not much more to say, that's enough of a plate full.

Hope all is well on the homefront, everyone is healthy and safe.

My love to you all!!

xx

Lost City

2009-04-20T06:07:00.000-07:00

I have taken the following directly from my journal.

April 3 - 7, Ciudad Perdida

(Taganga, Colombia)

' Joe slept like a baby last night. I know that because I didn't! I was eaten alive by man-sized mosquitos! Joe and I shared a double bed that had a mosquito net but we were both too tired and drunk when we crawled in and lacked the good sense to tuck the net in under the mattres. We both suffered from this laziness, though I suffered in addition to not sleeping. I woke up with thirteen fat miserable sleeping mosquitos on the inside of the net.

I emerged from this den of sweat and bug-bites at 7:30, began unpacking my big bag, leaving just the necessities for the trek. Joe continued to sleep. Quick breakfast, Mark had left-over hard boiled eggs, oatmeal, milk in a bag, and fruit. Stored our bags at the hostal. Failed to lock down beds for when we returned in both Taganga and Medillin. Oh well, hope for the best. It's nearly Semana Santa, places will be booked, reserved, full, overflowing, streets crowded, drugs and alcohol everywhere, and we may end up on the street. Cool!

At 9:15 it arrived, the jeep that was to take us into the jungle where we would begin the trek of all treks! The Toyo (The 'ta' had either fallen offor been stolen) was an unbelievable mess of a sight - one side mirror was missing, the other dangling by the driver side door, the passanger door had no handle, drivers door had the long metal tool normally used when stealing cars as a permenant means of entering and exiting the vehicle,. had we been pulled over we could actually really claim to not know how fast we were going because the spedometer was broken, reading a consistant zero (negative five actually) kph. Furthermore, the engine was super hot!, and oil empty according to the two other gauges (that were both broken). Six of us sat like stuffed smelly olives facing each other on two benches behind the driver and passanger (this was the setup, I=, if thats not crystal clear...). The rof had been ripped up, gutted, leaving exposed nails and shredded insulation, to give us a bit of head room. To top off this hunky grade A Colombia Hoopdie, the rear door would pop open every time we began to drive. No matter how hard we or the driver slammed it, the door would break free! Lucky for us the tire on the back of the Toyo had some srot of latch this twist that configuration that was in decent shape. Thus the door would pop open but was held to six inches. We (two of us being pressed up against that rear door) would make it after all!

Don't get me wrong, our Toyo/monster truck did have three things going for it: Military grade beast status tires (that needed air every fifteen minutes), a nice little shiny radio, and a cute box of Kleenex tissues secured to the passanger flip down mirror. Those came in handy when beer began seeping down through the roof getting our hair a bit tipsy.

We threw our bags on the roof, crawled in to the truck arranging knees between legs, feet under over between butts close to ears, elbows in ribs, laughing all the way.

The drive took two and a half hours. The first hour and a bit was through Santa Marta, on paved 'comfortable' roads. The final hour (after passing a military checkpoint where sixteen year olds who barely had peach fuzz but strapped fully automatic rifles to their boyish chests, live ammo in pockets, cigarettes hanging from slim lips, menacing faces with hair +/- 0.034 cm long. One kid had two mortar rounds in his pockets. These guys were prepared for war!) was in the jungle, on a road taht would be a great spot in New York to test Hummers and military vehicles. Hair pin turns, boulders, ditches, river crossings, this beast got a workout as it bounced and tumbled along. I forgot to metion earlier while describing the Toyo that the steering wheel wasn't properly alligned, or perhaps it was, but in any event it took a LOT of work to maneuver the truck through the slightest turns. Hand over hand has never seen such a good day. Operating like a ferocious little dishwasher the driver had to turn the wheel almost one full rotation every time a slight turn came about. Jesse could have fixed it!!!

The drive out there was calm and relaxed. Our driver looked to be 50ish years old, slowed for every bump, cautious, efficient. The six of us smiled and had a good laugh as we conquered the road. The drive back was a different story.

This motherbtich was out of his go&%·%? mind! He drove SO fast, flew over bumps and ditches, literally slid around turns, one hand the entire time (in the same car!!!) and it moved so fast there was practically a strobe light effect. To make things worse, he blasted this terrible local music where 15 songs sounded exactly the same. A glimpse of that drive:

' ACORDIAN ACORDIAN my wife (BUMP! Jordan - WOOHOOO!!!) left me on the (EEEERRRRRRCCCHHHH! Driver - HHAANNGGG ONNN) farm with (ACORDIAN TRUMPET GUITAR - ROCK!) our children (BANG! Heads smash into roof maybe a nail or two), and now I sing to mourn (Mark - Haven't these motherfuckers ever heard of a piano!) FWOOMPH! we're all thrown to one side elbows hitting ribs cheeks kissing each other hands flailing trying to catch hold of something fixed - Joe - Yo where's the spliff?! Jordan - Army! Put it away! BANG another rock, OOP SPLASH, river crossing, water pouring into the back of the truck. More singing and accordian, Mark still furious about the poor quality of music.

Note - The driver's only two words of english were Hang On, and Mark was miserable every moment of the way, the music was another ant in his pants.

And so it went. We made the four hour jungle crazy road drive in under half an hour. We heard after returning from the trek that some paramilitary had stopped a similar tourist-filled truck on the same road and executed the driver, not harming a single tourist. Maybe that explains the new driver, and increased speed. Nevertheless, we made it back to Taganga, sore, smelly, certainly NOT in one piece.

The trek itself was dagone great! Set out on foot friday midday after a huge, tastey lunch. The walking took us up and down hills, very challanging inclines that had us working our butts off and sweating like animals within minutes. Stepping on stones to cross rivers, avoiding mud that was knee deep and swallowed shoes. Had it rained my K Swiss hole ridden old garbage appropriate sneaker wannabe hiking boots would have been eaten, by the mud, and gone forever. But they made it! Still intact, not really wearable, but still in a piece or two!

We hiked the following hours per day: Four, four, six, seven, four, stopping a few times during each set to swim, chow down on fresh fruit, candy, chocolate. Saw a few beautiful cascades, we visited a cocaine factory where a local (who was suspiciously good at what he did...) showed us the entire process of making blow. Didn't let us take pictures of him... little bit fishy....

The food was phenomenal. Portions that were too big, a variety of well prepared fresh meat, vegetables, the fruit was some of the best I have ever tasted. Chocolate milk and coffe every morning. Our guides and helpers worked tirelessly to make sure we were comfortable. They were fun, helpful, crazy, our guides Lalo and Gustavo (the latter is 18) made our trip unforgettable.

Bugs were an issue. Every hour of every day we were attacked. I found three ticks (in places I will not disclose), other people found more. Spiders in our beds, mosquitoes that bit through socks. Did I mention, bugs were an issue?!

The trek itself was more fun that the Lost City. 2500 steps (that I did barefoot!!!!!) circular foundations, breathtaking views, huge military presence, ok, that about wraps it up. Maybe I'm a bit too critical, it just didn't really do it for me.

Our six person group hooked up with another larger group midway through day two. Mostly laidback but wild stoners, certainly a fun group. It was wonderful to see the two groups slowly become one, as drinks and spliffs were passed, stories exchanged, friendships developed.

Overall it was an outstanding few days. Mentally and physically challanging, beautiful, out there, fun and stupid. Wild dogs following us, Lalo (and eventually all of us) screaming 'Vamos a la Playa!!!'. The indegenious people carrying packs twice or three times their size up inclines I had to do on all fours. The swimming, cliff jumping, laughing, tumbles while crossing rivers. Become close with Mark and Joe, as well as Bibian and Fernando. The lunch and drinks after reaching civilization after the five day trek. Powerful experience. Awesomeness.

We ended up shacking up in a small, new, unknown hostal for two nights after the trek. I was kind of hoping to end up on the streets. '

Mark Joe and I have stuck together since the trek, travelling south through Medillin, Popoyan, into Ecuador and Quito. Colombia is hands down the most beutiful country (people wise) I have been in thus far, I am refering to the women. Incredibly beautiful women, but not the arrogant, high fashion, expensive clothing type. These women were behind cashiers, washing the floor, serving lunch (or cooking it). A natural, exotic look mixed in with a turn your head down shyness, but keep eye contact boldness. Beautiful beautiful beautiful, I could not believe how attractive the women were. I had heard stories, but you really need to see it to believe it.

I've already written too much, so I'll wrap it up. I hope the journal entry wasn't too raw, I tried to edit it while leaving its spirit untouched. The past few weeks have truly been a trek, getting close with Mark and Joe has made it all so enjoyable. Mark left today for the Galapagos, just me and Joe for a bit. We'll be together down into Cuzco Peru, then its anymans game.

My health is where its been the entire time, more or less ok. I realize the key to traveling is standards. If you lower your standards enough everything is fantastic! My standards are below the ground, thats why I'm having such a good time :)

Hope to be in touch again soon. My love to you all.

SF

South America!

2009-03-30T12:07:00.000-07:00

My watch read 4:10am. I double and triple checked the time, starting at the orange point that indicates 12:00, counting off the hours to the right. 12 to 1 is one hour, then comes two, I think thats three, four, yep, its 4:10am, time to go. The 4x4 to the coast would be by the hostal at 5, I was packed and good to go but worried I didn't have enough food. I made a quick run out to El Rey, the 24 hour grocery store around the corner, and picked up fruit and Oreos - if the rice beans and pasta failed me, at least I would have some sweets to fall back on. Six liters of water, three cans of pork n beans, two of mixed vegetables, a few apples and oranges, two pounds of pasta, medium size bag of rice, loaf of bread, and 24 oz of hot sauce - all set for five days on the water.

The 4x4 made a fantastic first impression. Man oh man, I thought, a Lexus to take us to the water, silver, shiney, looked clean, almost expensive. Is this really Panama? Once we piled in I realized it was no Lexus. The truck was some sort of stipped down plastic seats ash tray by your elbow no leg room lousy Panamanian off road high class wanna be beast, that feasted on diesel fuel. The two hour drive from El Congrejo, Panama City to the Golfo de San Blas would mark the beginning of a wild trip by sailboat from Panama to Colombia.

Trying to sleep for the first 45 minutes left me even more tired and with a bump on my head from banging into the driver side window each time I began to doze off. We conquered rocky roads, mud, small mountains, a two and a half foot deep river, a military check point, and made it under an electrical wire from which a sloth hung, cchhiilliinn, moving ever so slowly across the wire, one extremity at a time (paying absolutely no mind to we inferior humans and our miserable flashing cameras). For days I had been asking why we couldn't take a bus out to the San Blas Islands, our only option being this 25 dollar 4x4 drive. It quickly became clear that no bus, even with one of those classic out of control local drivers, could make the trek.

We reached the water. Mark, Joe, Gustav, and I stepped out of the truck and found ourself in the middle of nowhere. I mean n o w h e r e. Jungle, water, a few locals, not even a sign for Coca Cola - we had really made it out there. We were directed toward the lancha (small boat) that would take us across the gulf to Porvenir, where we hoped to connect with a larger sailboat. I had a nice moment, standing on the dock looking out into the gulf, heavy dark clouds over head, rays of sun peering through the clouds. The water was rough. I stood, back to land, front to water, so proud of getting here, proud to be out there doing something I would talk about for the next 70 years, proud to do something wild.

Lancha is an appropriate term to describe a small boat, what we were stepping into was more of a splinter than boat. Pretty much six slabs of wood thrown together, is there such thing as an 8 by 4? If there is, thats all the splinter was. Water crept in through the boards, drowning our poor little toes. The driver covered our bags with a plastic tarp, though the sight didn't boost my confidence. Three minutes into the ride we were drenched. Mark, sitting with his knees up against my back (the splinter was 1.4 persons wide), handed me a red plastic rose filled picnic bench table cover to stay dry. The covers came straight from that terrible, cheap restaurant with one waiter, three tables, and bugs!

The covers didn't work. At all. Not even a bit. I was drenched, thoroughly.

Who ever coined the phrase 'soaked to the bone' clearly wasn't that wet because I was soaked to the marrow, to the marrow of the bones forming the marrow of my bones, and wetter. It looked as though we gringos had just jumped into a pool fully clothed (with my camera in my pocket!). For half an hour I held my hands up (as though screaming Praise the Lord!) clutching my laminated table cloth trying to form some sort of a wall from the water. To Mark's advice I gave up and embraced the salt water as part of the experience. And that, it certainly was.

For an hour and a half, we sat single file in this miserable little splinter, getting soaked from the small waves, practically drowning in the medium waves, and laughing hysterically when the big mommas came, filing our boat with water and our soul with smiles.

At one point Mark (a forty some od year old Phys Ed teacher from Canada who loves to laugh and goes for the same crazy adventures as me)tapped me on the shoulder and spat 'Ey man, what happens if we don't make it?' I said 'Mark, let's be clear, we probably won't make it. Anyway, its even less likely that if (when!) we do capsize someone on land will hear of it and come to rescue us. If THAT happens, and some poor fellow does catch wind of our distress, it is VERY likely that he will send an equally shitty perhaps smaller splinter to come save us, which will 100 per cent absolutely not do us ANY good! Are you religious?' We laughed, during which salt water poured into our mouths, we pushed on.

In any event, we made it. I was actually somehow cleaner after the splinter ride than before. Dirt from under my nails and between my toes just up and disappeared with the waves. Sadly, the sailboat turned out to be a larger splinter - dirty, uncomfortable, crowded, far from sea worthy, but perfect for the adventure. We crawled aboard, dripping salt water, threw our (equally soaked) bags down below, and engaged in a fierce spanglish argument with the lancha captain over the price of our little salt water bath/ruinallyourstuff boat ride out here to El Porvenir.

That was Thursday Morning, March 26. We spent the next two days in the beautiful, picturesque San Blas Islands. Crystal clear, warm water, tiny islands home to just one or two palm trees, locals that paddle in their canoe up to one's boat to sell fresh fish, lobster, shark, or to haggle you for a magazine. We got dangerously sunburnt snorkling and doing absolutely nothing save soaking in the beauty and peace of the islands. From there it was a 50 hour journey in the open ocean to Cartagena, Colombia. Rough seas made heating up a can of beans (without spilling them EVERYWHERE) a chore. Most of us got sea sick, the Captain and his first mate drank every drop of our liquor the first night, so what we thought would be one long party turned into eight guys stuck in a cramped sailboat, sober, sick, and eating beans for four days - I LOVED IT!!!

Personally, I didn't think we would make it. I made peace with the fact that I would never see my family again. Alas, I was reassured by the fact that I am proud of my last blog entry, I had recently sent a few nice emails, and I had had an INCREDIBLE last few months - Not making it could have come at a worse time.

Never fear, I write this from a Hostal in the beautiful, lively, romantic city of Cartagena. The five guys from the boat and I have become very close. Most of us will continue to travel together up towards Ciudad Perdida, before heading south to Medillin.

I can't say I've done many things that rival taking a sailboat from Panama to Colombia on the 'wild' scale. I felt myself changing every step of the way. Ditched half of my clothing, nearly tossed my guide book overboard; maybe some of the recent desire to get out there and just be, doing whatever, with whoever, wherever, living, loving, finding life - comes from reading Keroac's On the Road. The other part of it is seeping out from somewhere within me, a place still undiscovered, a place I hope to dive into sooner rather than later.

Although I am not learning much spanish, I am learning the language of Travel. Be it speaking, sign language, body language, or some other form of communication, I am finally learning to let go and travel. Its thrilling. Scarey, funny, intense. Sensational.

My last blog was from Leon, Nicaragua. I spent a few days in Leon, followed by Granada and eventually Isla de Ometepe. I caught up with my good friends from Guatemala Edan and Kevin, spent nearly a week with them on the island. Shot down through San Jose, Costa Rica allllll the way (17 hour bus ride) to Panama City. There, for five days I marveled at the Casinos, found absolutely NO good local food, and wound up in a Club which I took to be heaven seeing as the male to female ratio was 1:5, and every single woman was drop dead gorgeous. Little old naive me, this was no heaven, it was a club full of prostitutes (lo mismo?). Squeezing back out through the same door I had entered, with a grin big enough to light up Central America, I was off in a few hours to the San Blas Islands, from there to Colombia!

I am healthy, happy, still smiling, still stinky. Reading and writing every day, enjoying the trip more and more. Missing home of course, reluctant to email. I dig drowning in this world, this place outside of my reality where people come to experience culture, color, life, through a completely different lens.

I think I'll head north from here. Who knows. I don't. I have some idea, but not much. Thats the way it should be, thats the way I like it.

Love Always

SF

March, Eight Weeks Yesterday

2009-03-13T07:10:00.000-07:00

Hola Hola!!!

During the days and weeks before I left for Mexico I was quick to say 'Ahh I'll travel for four, five, or six months. I'll get through all of Central and South America,' so on and so forth. I realize now how naive and blind that attitude was. A third of a year is a long time! More like VERY long! I look at how far I have come (I write this blog from Leon, Nicaragua), at my destination (Lima, Peru), try to think of the time away from home in a general sense, and I am left feeling that four months is an incredibly long time, though not nearly enough to see (properly) the countries I am travelling through. Alas... I've adopted the classic (Arnold Schwartzasomething)attitude 'I'll be back... within the next thirty years, come back to these regions and explore what I missed when I was young and restless.'

My last entry came from San Pedro, by Lago de Atitlan in Western Guatemala. It would not be kosher of me to say I don't have the words to describe the past two weeks, because although thats how I feel, the next painful hour and a half will be devoted to that task alone. Nevertheless, if my experience up until the last entry had been an eight out of ten (discomfort adds points in my eyes), its has now reached at least an 11.73. The food, the travel, the people, the sights, cities, vibes, volcanoes, cliffs, beaches, all of it, unreal. I have finally become very comfortable, so much so that I have begun to tell myself - Its ok to want to go home, Its not out of homesickness or lonliness, its simply out of wanting to be back home in your routine, its ok jordan, there there - . From the Lago de Atitlan, I traveled over through Antigua and Guatemala City up to Coban, where I spent a few days exploring the caves and waterfalls of Semuc Chempey near Lanquin. The trip from Coban north to Rio Dulce was easily the most memorable day of travel so far (Monday March 2, 2009). I thought after that day to devote this entire blog to the one short trip, copying the six page journal entry to the net. Being the lazy bum I am, I waited nearly two weeks during which I had many similar experiences in transit, so copying that entry didn't seem appropriate. From Rio Dulce it was a quick jump up to Livingston, followed by Puerto Barrios and the Honduran frontier alllll the way south (in one day) through San Pedro (second largest city in Honduras, San Pedro from Lago de Atitlan's daddy)down to Agua Caliente, a city on the boarder between Honduras and Guatemala, but very close to El Salvador. After one night in Agua Caliente it was crossing the small corner of Honduras down into El Salvador via El Poy. Two more buses In El Salvador got me south to Apopa where I caught an onward bus to Santa Ana. A few nights there before the coast for one miserable, lousy, expensive night by Playa Tunca. One night in San Salvador got me on the bus to Managua, Nicaragua early early early the next morning, from which I got off in Leon - Landing me where I am now! WHOA, quite a trek.

The literal transit, the buses, camionetas, cars and trucks for hitchhiking, boats, has become a continual highlight of the trip. Getting stuffed into a twenty year old yellow school bus (that is certainly not yellow, it most likely has flames, crome horns, a shiny grill, things hanging from every nail window and opening) outfitted as part church, with quotes from the bible on every wall, pictures of Jesus, colors, images, trinkets (none of which cover the mandatory 'your child's safety is our primary concern,' and the 'how's my driving?' signs bolted above the driver seat) and part human stuff sack with seats and standing room that fit roughly 75 people when 45 would be the US legal maximum capacity.

And those are just the buses...

Camionetas are the old vans that serve as public, multi person taxis. They FLYY around, doors and windows WIDE open with the driver hanging out of his window screaming and honking, while his partner (the man in the back who gets out to harass people, collects money, and handles luggage) literally hangs out of the van the entire ride yelling at everyone standing on the street, climbing up on the roof while we drive at lord knows what speed, all the while the driver pulls U Turns, slams on the breaks, spins the tires (Jesse on a bad day perhaps? :) ), pulls out the cell phone, and the latin music is loud enough to pop an ear drum or two.

It was wild. Chaos. My first time in a Camioneta was making a transition that wonderful day between Coban and Rio Dulce. Got off the bus from Coban in a bustling, orderless, frantic, beautiful in some odd sense junction El Ranchon. 'Got off' deserves some explanation because the bus only slowed down, never stopped. Two seconds after I had jumped down I realized the bus that was driving away had my bag underneath. With lightning reflexes I ran after and banged on the bus until someone got out to give me my bag - even then the driver didn't stop!!! Then came the Camioneta.

I was taken (literally) by the arm from a guy who ran over to me screaming Gringo, Ay Gringo, where you going, where you going!!! Shit if I could turn this guy down, I told him Rio Dulce (four hours away) to which he replied Direct Direct and pushed me into a van. There I sat, in the back row clutching a bag with my valuables, as the volume was turned up, pedal pushed to the floor, rules of the road disobayed, doors not closed, and destination in NO WAY achieved. Still a thrilling ride!

The story of that day gets much much better (forgotten passport, hitch hiking away from a police checkpoint) but there is too much else to talk about.

Every day I meet new people. There is never a bus ride, night in a hostal, internet cafe, or tourist atttraction without a new encounter. Although its easy to find down time to be alone, read, write, reflect, there is certainly no shortage of company. I have made good friends and met people I hope to keep in touch with; not just one or two day friends, forgotten immediatly after parting ways.

A few quick highlights -

In Santa Ana I went to the same street vendor two nights in a row for Pupusas. Margharita, the chef, stood behind a small table with delicious food, and arranged three little tables with a few chairs for people like me (not gringos, or travellers, just other hungry folk). The first night was simply nice, she and I spoke a little bit, I ate WAY too much, a little connection was made. The second night I arrived to find each seat occupied save for one, at a table across from an older man who appeared very poor, tattered clothing, sunken cheeks, dirty hands and face, but warm eyes. When he (Josef) saw me look at the open chair, he immediatly smiled and beckoned me to sit with him. I did not hesitate and soon found myself speaking to a wonderful man. We spoke and ate, spoke some more while eating, Margharita sat down and chimed in, her two (adult) sons showed up and joined in, family pictures were brought out, stories exchanged, free food and drink brought to the table. It was unforgettable.

Broken spanish and english, smiles, laughter, these were charming, endearing people, so quick to bring me into their small community.

I walked away glowing - two hours later.

That experience has not been a single occurance. I have had so many encounters with hospitable people, helping me to navigate bus systems, directing me to local streetside restaurants, joining me for walks through the city. Almost daily I can tell a story with this underlying element of human connection, openness, warmth, or however else one may describe it.

I have written too much but could easily continue for hours.

Throughout the past few weeks I have found myself stepping in and out of cultures, getting a hint of this, a glimpse of that. I love the fact that I am jumping around, getting a bit of every flavor. Though the next few weeks are going to be even more hectic. I found a very inexpensive flight out of Lima to New York. Thats the destination and I don't have too much time. It'll be a challange, finding the balance between moving toward a destination quickly, knowing time is of the essance, but making sure to enjoy every moment, not passing up on any of these experiences. Im excited, energized at the thought of what is to come, anxious, missing home, loving Central America, eager to read and write, full of love and happiness, and proud of what I am doing.

The cities I visit, the roads I travel and places I flop, are not less travelled. I am not (as I had so naively predicted) falling off the grid, escaping civilization, braving new frontier, though I am on a personal level.

I would love to write about the music down here; the music from the stores and restaurants, from the buses, from their brakes, their smog producing engines. Music in the faces gazing curiously at the gringo entering their territory, from the sickly animals prowling the street that eye longingly when you sit down to a meal. Music in the foods that are brought to you sitting on a sidewalk. Different in every country, different in every city. Music that sounds very different from the rhythm of New York City. But music that is music, however foreign to the ear. Music is everywhere, and when one learns to quiet down and listen up, wonderful sensations are experienced.

I am healthy (Not sure how thats possible, you should see my diet! holy moly the things that have gone through me. I'll spare you the details), as always suffering from a slight funky smell, feet are in TERRIBLE condition, but getting me from point A to B without fail.

All is well by me. I enjoy SO MUCH reading your emails, and still give myself a hard time for not responding. I am less and less inclined to enter the cafe, sorta just want to be... though I welcome every bit of news from home.

Another blog to come, not soon, but it'll appear this year.

My love and affection to all

sf

First From Guatemala

2009-02-25T16:27:00.000-08:00

Good Evening Good Evening!

This post comes from a tiny internet cafe in the ever so small city of San Pedro, a community along the shore of Lago de Atitlan, Guatemala. I have been here four days, spending almost all of each day in a hammock by the water. The atmosphere here is tranquil, healthy, beautiful, enriching, purifying, the list goes on. San Pedro is well known in Guatemala, but has remained out of sight to most of the world. Lago de Atitlan is incredibly beautiful, protected by sleeping volcanoes, towering mountains, and providing shelter for a very small indigenous population. It is no wonder travellers get stuck here for weeks on end.

From San Cristobal I took a shuttel to Antigua, Guatemala. It was a true day of travel; four buses, two sets of immigration facilities, six cities, 13 hours, seven roadside hold-ups, one meal, and two bathroom breaks. I slept like a baby that first night in Antigua.

I was not so excited to see Antigua. From what I heard, read, and ultimately witnessed, Antigua is nothing like Guatemala. Clean manicured streets, endless restaurants, fashionable shops, more tourists than locals, expensive meals, theater, the notion that life is good and easy, Antigua is simply a little paradise city. One does not spend time there in search of the 'real' Guatemala. However, the city does boast nearly 75 language schools, which is precisely why I chose to spend nine days there. I enrolled in a language school almost immediatly. For one week, five days, it was back to the books; four hours of class, four hours of homework and self-study, not being able to hide in the back of a classroom because it was one on one, the week was long but fun and well worth every moment of study.

Even though it took me a while to warm up to Antigua, I found myself sad to leave the city. Antigua is cozy, very warm with people that are both helpful and fun, the surrounding volcanoes make for a stunning backdrop, and it has a generally good feel to it. I had trouble with Antigua because I found it to exhibit a false sense of Guatemala, nevertheless, I enjoyed my time there very much. I had a wonderful experience in the hostal for nearly one and a half weeks, I met new people every day, and the class gave me a real push forward in learning the language.

I have spent the past few days here in San Pedro with three great guys - two Germans and an Israeli. One of the Germans, Kevin, is 19 years old (the youngest backpacker I have met thus far!!!). He and I immediatly clicked, and we've been having a great time together. Kevin started in Panama City five months ago, and just pushed his flight back for another four months. I envy what he has done and will do, though I'll be happy coming home after just a few months.

Tomorrow I'm jumping on a bus from San Pedro over to Guatemala City and up to Coban. I look forward to passing through Guatemala City as fast as possible. Coban should be a nice city for a few days, though the nearby waterfalls and cliff-jumping of Semuc Champey are the real visions in mind.

I continue to read and write, and read and write all the time. The emotions have quieted as I have become comfortable with the changing environment, with the backpack, and with myself. Part of me wishes I could be home tomorrow. This trip has brought me to understand the idea of - valuing what one has only after he has lost it - under a completely new light. I miss just about everything from home, though not enough to cut this trip short for even a moment!

Growth and maturity are an every day occurance. Finding the strength to do certain things, overcome various emotions, finding the inner peace and tranquility to breath, relax, take in my surroundings, these are objects of my every day.

I look upon the people I meet with wide eyes and respect. The stories Shared between me and friends, both comedic and serious, have given shape to my time away from home.

I am learning and have learned more during this year off than I have ever learned in six months time. I feel rich, healthy, and ready for all that is coming my way between here and South America.

I miss you all and look forward to being in touch again soon.

Hope everyone is well, in good health, and in good spirits.

I've been in the lake a lot so my feet don't stink right now -

(notso) SF

Final Moments in Mexico

2009-02-11T08:34:00.000-08:00

Good morning friends and family

I write you from San Cristobal de las Casas, the final gem city in the highlands of Chiapas. The days here have been sunny and comfortable, but the nights incredibly cold. The city is roughly 2100 meters above sea level, so not only has each hill (stair) winded me, but the nights have given real meaning to the thought of winter in Mexcio.

I stepped off the bus here with my pants rolled up, tank top loosly hanging from my shoulders, skin the color of a tomato, and flip flops. Within ten minutes I had bought a hat, scarf, and put on every bit of clothing in my possession (including pjs under my pants, two pairs of socks, and three shirts, I wasn´t playing around!).

Time on the beach was nice and relaxing, but nothing special. I am more interested in the rich Mexican culture than the surfer dude sleep all day drink all night be a bum lifestyle, which is very present in Puerto Escondido. I´m glad I was there, the scenery is beautiful and fish delicious, but I was happy to leave after a few days.

I arrived in San Cristobal early morning on February 5, after taking an overnight bus from the coast. While Oaxaca has become the favorite city of many tourists, San Cristobal earns just as many points in my book. The city is small and personal, warm faces of beautiful young children smile at you from their classroom windows, the early morning chill is refreshing, and the auroma of authentic coffee is irrisistable (even for me; my coffee career for the past 19 years has consisted of coffee ice cream and going to a Starbucks for tea!).

There are four language schools and an assortment of other universities, highschools, and primary schools here in Cristobal. I found that the vibe here is similar to Boston, a sort of young, hip, lets be alive and have fun sort of feeling. There is also a huge political fervor here seeing as the city used to be a hot bed for Zapatistas. All over town one can read political graffiti on the walls. Phrases like 'Bush Genocide,' 'Free the Political Prisoners,' and 'Iraq is for Petrol, not Terrorists,' can be seen in almost every side street and back ally. Occasionally one catches a glimpse of a young child wearing a red bandana over his or her face, a classic image of the Zapatista Revolution.

After three days here I left for the jungle and Mayan ruins in Palanque with a Finnish lady friend. We hunkered down in a Cabana for two nights in some heavy duty jungle. Don't let anybody tell you different; if you run out of Marvin, candles, and don't have a deep, baratone voice, there are no substitutions like a mosquito net, savage monkies, and the jungle to create that desired romantic setting. Nevertheless, being with someone for four days is more than enough time to have fun and get sick of each other. When she decided to head East to the Yucatan rather than come back to San Cristobal, I protested, a little, quietly, with as much energy as a cat meowing, and left her no time to change her mind when she made her decision!

The ruins and waterfalls near Palanque are magnificant. Such a wonderful demonstration of what we are capable of. I wonder, in 1500 years will some humble fellow unearth the tip of the Emire State Building? Or the Eiffel Tower? Or a MacDonald's M? What will they say about us? How we did not sacrifice the loser in every tennis match or football game. Interesting thought to ponder.

I was expecting a package today with a few more articles of clothing. Of course, customs this, lazy mexicans that(No offense, I love the people here, though when anything goes wrong, its always at the fault of those damn llaaazzzyyy Mexicans! The phrase has given me and a few friends some good laughs in miserable times), the package won't arrive for at least one week, IF I send a copy of my passport, itinerary, list of vaccinations, why and what I am doing here, a few candies, some more money, and an autobiography. No Sir E Bob! Maybe the Guatemalans won´t care about my two T-Shirts and guide book! Really dissappointed because even after I wash my clothing (very rare occurance) there is still this slight funk. Ah well, it is what it is. A friend compared that smell to our stomachs, because I haven't felt totally normal in about three weeks. It's just something to get used to. No worries, it could be worse.

I am about to pick up a bus ticket to Guatemala. I'm dropping big pesos to make the journey from San Cristobal to Antigua relatively easy. I am going to miss Mexico very much. The people here have been helpful and fun, the food delicious and forgiving, the travel easy, and overall experience unbelievable. Part of me hopes something will go wrong that sends me back to Mexico for two more months. One just isn't nearly enough time.

The past few days have really been pivotal for me. I reflect on the first two weeks and realize how hectic and difficult they were. I was on a bus nearly every other day because in transit I never felt homesick or lonely. I wrote about many of these emotions in my journal, and a simple image came to mind; me in the backseat of a car. That has been my life, someone driving and me following, being told what to do, occasionally getting out for a pee, but really just chillin in the backseat enjoying the ride. As soon as I got on the plane to Mexico, that was me getting behind the wheel. Being responsible for every single action, decision, move, was a lot to handle at first, and still is. Jesse always called it 'Seat Time.' ' Dad lemme drive, I need seat time!' is what Jesse would say when he was still a new driver (ahh the day!). I have now had a bit of seat time and am beginning to get comfortable, not quite there, but I can see the light. The bus rides for the first two weeks symbolized the re-entry into my comfort zone, letting someone else be responsible, make the decisions, all I had to do was sit and observe.

There is so much more to say, so many little anecdotes, emotions I would love to pour out, people I should tell you about, but this has already been a long enough blog. So much for terse!

I leave you with what I wrote my first night in Hermosillo. Afer realizing how unsetteling the first two weeks had been, I could feel the nerves within these few lines.

January 15, Night 1

It is just after nine pm as I lay down and begin to write this. The room is comfortable, with red tiles and a colorful bed sheet. The bathoom is moldy but has all the proper faculties, including an almost warm shower. There aren't too many bugs, though I try hard not to look into the dark corners because when I do, something moves.

My love to everyone and many thanks for all of the wonderful messages!

SF

Day of birth; 19 years later

2009-01-31T16:08:00.000-08:00

To those of you who still remember me -

I have been on the Pacific coast of Oaxaca for the past three days soaking up a mixture of sun, cervesa, and culture. I am still healthy, all bowel movements are in order, completed my first successful wash four days ago (meaning the tattered dirty rags I consider shirts are now tattered clean rags), and I continue to meet awesome people.

My last blog was posted from a hostal in Puerto Vallarta, since then I have been over and up to the city of Zacatecas (via Guadalajara), down through Mexico City to the city of Oaxaca, and am now on the beach allll the way down on the coast of Oaxaca.

In the past week I feel like I finally settled in to what will become a four or five month trip. At first I was a bit all over the place, finding it difficult to stay in one location (possibly because I felt lonely, maybe I felt pressed for time, who knows!) for more than a day or two, but I am now settling down and will progress a bit slower.

Everywhere I go I meet people, very simple. In Oaxaca I had a close group of friends, consisting of five or six (significantly) older folk, here along the coast I´ve been with the same few guys for two days and hope to see them again in Puerto Escondido tomorrow or the following day. I want to get out to San Cristobal de las Casas within the next five days so I can reconnect with a few people. The travel social scene is so alive and so attractive. The people I am meeting are passionate, energetic, cool people who really seem to do what makes them feel good; I have great respect for that.

I decided to begin working hard to improve my spanish. From the two and a half week here and by the look of a few people I have bumped into, its apparent that I can get by these next few months with very little improvement. The basics which I have from highschool are very valuable, but unless I work at it, I will not get any better. With that conclusion comes the recent realization of how important language is. I am so impresssed when I meet someone who is bi if not trilingual. Being proficient in multiple languages is admirable, as well as powerful. I hope to be very comfortable with Spanish after my time here (and all about), especially after one or two week long classes in Guatemala where it is very cheap. If all works out well, a third will become a new challenge at Brandeis.

Thus the story goes that this blog is more of an 'I am OK and still having a good time' than a 'this is what I have done every moment of every day' sorta thing.

Dan, I appreciate your insightful, constructive criticism and would like to inform you that the clear liquid you speak of remains a mystery, but the cheapest mezcal (which is also clear) is considered to be the mexican moonshine, and is WICKED! Cheap booze and travellers don't make a good combination.... or do they?

I love hearing from you guys. I am so sorry I don't respond quickly, if at all. Its not the 8 pesos an hour at the internet cafe that I dislike, but rather me being a lazy bum. Nevertheless, its great to hear about whats going on at home. I hear nothing of the news from the states (barely a murmer about the inaguration!), so when I hear about what you grandma, or you Lee are up to, I really enjoy every bit of it.

Pop, your emails are the funnest nicest (but very blunt) shortest emails a grandson could ever ask for. I write everyday, all the time, thoughts, emotions, a regular journal, all of it. I am alone close to 50 percent of the time, the journal has become a real companion.

I love you and miss you all very much. Seems like I made it to 19 years without tooo many scratches. Hope to fill the time between now and when those numbers are reversed with exciting, enriching experiences, which you will all hear about!

All the best, from the one with the stinkiest feet of them all.

x

Made it to day 7!!

2009-01-21T12:55:00.000-08:00

Hey all

I've made it to day seven, my toes aren't quite caked with dirt, my shirts are relatively clean, and my spirits are high.

I write this from a hostel in Puerto Vallerta, the Oasis Hostel, roughly one mile from the picturesque, popular beaches. This traveller's home away from home rests on the outskirts of an intimate working class city. I was hesitant to choose this hostel due to its isolation, but now recognize its great location. The twenty minute walk to the beach takes one from narrow cobblestone streets and crumbling buildings, to a bustling city with resturaunts and shops lining the street. Its interesting to see two completely different standards of living so close to each other, clashing in both appearance and atmosphere. It reminds me of the eight minute drive between the center of Cape Town and Khayelitsha, a nearby Township.

Quick rundown of the trip thus far, read this in one breath!

Flew into Hermosillo thursday night where I spent the night in the tiny, bug-filled Hotel Washington. Getting myself out of the hotel to dinner was a bit tough, but I grew some chesticles and took the city by storm! Bus west the next day to a tiny beachfront village Bahia de Kino. Absolutely breathtaking views, zero tourists, no english, very few anything to be precise. I spent two nights there, soaking up the peace and quite of the first true paradise I had ever been to. On Sunday morning I jumped on a bus back to Hermosillo (rode next to a man with a chicken), afterwhich I took a second bus 130km south to the port city Guaymas. I got off the bus in a seemingly rough part of Guaymas, bear in mind this is Mexico, most of the country is rough, but this part of Guaymas was very unattractive. After a half hour walk I said 'you know what, lets just keep going.' Walked back to the station and grabbed another bus south to Los Mochis, a city comparable in size (and intimidation) to Hermosillo.

Hotel here, restaurant there, from Los Mochis I moved south to Mazatlan, and from there further south to where I am now, Puerto Vallarta.

I have been walking everywhere; my clothing may stink and my hair may resemble a rug, but my calves GLISTEN in the sun! I think I take after Pop in that I refuse to take any form of a taxi.

To wrap this up, I know you are all busy busy bees out there, I should say that I have been alone the entire time, but have found myself feeling safe and secure in almost every environment. I am often overcome with a feeling of intensity when I think about what I am doing, and that has made this experience that much more powerful. I am glad to be alone, I sense myself growing and maturing each day.

I promise to have a few pictures and a more detailed, crass posting up as soon as the trip permits. I do not know where I'll be tomorrow, or even tonight, but I hope to make it over to Zacatecas safely and soon.

Hope all is well on the homefront, wherever that may be.

Regards,

Stinkyfeet (a most accurate description of my current condition)

Day Negative One, 21 Hours to Go

2009-01-14T09:56:00.000-08:00

The pack is packed and I am ready to go.

About two weeks ago I managed to get over the nerves, you know, not speaking the language, not having a plan, not nearly enough underwear or socks, and just general concerns surrounding a lone voyage into a third world country.

My flight leaves tomorrow morning at 9am from JFK. I'm flying from NYC to Mexico City, where I will catch a second, smaller plane (hopefully not duct-taped together) back north, to the small city of Hermosillo. My 27 lb pack is carry on size, but being that I have 1.7 fl (does the 'fl' imply full, as in you have a FULL 1.7 oz, not like a bag of Doritos where the bag is half full, or does it mean fluid. Head & Shoulders finds it necessary to say on a bottle of shampoo, that it is liquid. What a world.) oz of shampoo, and .85 oz of toothpaste, I'm probably safer giving all of my belongings to strange airport staff, who had better NOT take any of my shampoo, leaving the container not full, than attempting to smuggle it on board.

My mindset while packing was pretty simple, pack as though I will be away for one week (a quick trip from the beach to the desert to the mountains), then strip those items down fifty percent. The result is an adequate pack for five months.

In addition to the bare minimum of clothing and toiletries, I am bringing something wonderful for entertainment! Plato's Republic. I have never read or studied much philosophy, I figure I'll be reading all the time, why not?! I may be crazy, and end up burning the text three days into the trip, but at least I am going to give it a shot.

I have no expectations going into this trip. Since I was twelve or thirteen years old I have told myself, "one day I will pack a small backpack and travel the world not caring about hygiene or personal image, I will put myself in unforgiving environments, and I will leap outside my comfort zone." (I never actually said anything like that, but my thought process was something along those lines) The motto I try to live by is:

"Be Modest, Be Disciplined, Be Wild"

I look forward to seeing how this experience falls within that personal philosophy.

I cannot predict what the content of this blog will be. I assure you, I will not hold back or censor myself :) It occurs to me that mass emails are sooo last week, so I'm going to give it a go with this web blogging nonsense.

I'll try to keep my entries terse and border-line appropriate. I was called crass by my 11th grade English teacher, whom I love still today. I will steer away from those tendencies.

I hope you all find these entries interesting, and do get a chance to glance over them every now and then. I'll do my best to update once a week or so.

While most people find it necessary to wish me luck, I deem it more important to wish YOU luck; surviving that calc exam or a long stressful day at that same old job is far more challenging than the journey I am about to embark on.

Just make sure you enjoy what you do, I'll try to do the same.

Much Love -

(soon to be) Stinky Feet