Oct. 23, 2011

The dunes at White Sands, New Mexico are speckled with fall colored shrubs. Oranges, reds, and vibrant greens pop out against a snow-white backdrop. One expects to mount a dune and discover the light blue waters of an ocean. Instead one only finds more mounds of white encircled by craggy brown desert mountains.

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Our first day in Old Town Marrakech found me leading Boy through a plaza of snake charmers, men with pet monkeys, women selling henna designs, fortune tellers, and booths full of oranges and limes fresh-squeezed into tart juice. We entered the covered market in search of adventure and a tiny elephant (a tradition when I travel now).

“Si vous plait, je cherche á un petit éléphant.”

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Color.

Color is what makes Morocco unlike any place I have seen before. India is full of colorful outerwear, but Morocco is splashed with color in every form and vibrant shade one never thought possible. Crack open the cobalt found in the Atlas Mountains and your taken aback with sparkling purples, pinks and blues. Speckled blacks and whites. Famous Moroccan carpets dyed with indigo and alfalfa. Spattered with patterns woven in shades too rich for even Crayola to attempt. Blue blue scarves and red red shirts. And most of all, the color of spices.

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This blog is in the process of moving. PLEASE check out the new site! It will very soon contain brand new adventures in Europe and Morocco starting mid-September. Don't miss out!

http://kristajoweishaar.wordpress.com

Blogspot, you have been good to me. You just couldn't do some of the organizational things that I required for my own personal sanity. The new site is more professional looking. I am very excited about it! I hope you are, too.

Click over and leave me some comments and advice. What would you like to be different? What do you like better?

Cheers!

It is my birthday month and my wonderful mother heard my raves and rants about saving up for a backpacking pack from REI. So instead of seeing how long this poor adventurer would take (it has already been years), she hit the REI Labor Day Sale and made my little mountain-hiker dreams come true!

Behold! The newest addition to my adreneline-junkie and slightly masochistic existence:

The Gregory Deva 60 Pack from REI

Mine is the red and gray one! LOVE!!!

I put pillows in it and wandered around the yard adjusting straps and getting the general feel of it. My mother made fun of me and said practicing with pillows won't do me any good when I am hiking up a mountain with REAL weight in it.

I stuck my tongue out at her. We all get to be children in our birthday month! Well, usually just on our birthdays. But I'm everywhere this month so my birthday is extended to different locations and even though it isn't until the 22 of September, I'm celebrating my own existence ALL month! Because I rock. And the world is more interesting with me in it. At least I think so.

That said...

Virgo's are bad-ass!

And check out my new bag.

I have named her Gregory.

While I may have ended my PC Senegal experience before it really began, the months I spent in West Africa have sent my life in amazing directions. I have spent the last two years doing things that I never dreamed of doing! And I can't say that I don't sometimes regret leaving the Peace Corps. I do. But only for a moment here and there and only until I remember my reasons for leaving. I know I made the right choice. And my regret isn't really regret. It is nostalgia for things almost had and lost, for friends made and potential friends never realized, and for a family that I will love forever.

Two years have gone and now the PC-Senegal August '09 Stage is leaving Africa for home. I see those I knew briefly posting on Facebook and on their various blogs their final thoughts of Senegal. Their binge-eating of American foods. Their completed projects. Their farewell photos.

I left that world they lived in and most may not even remember my name or my story. But I remember. And the morning I left we took photos. So many photos! And it is my privilege to have on my camera the FIRST photo of the PC-Senegal August '09 Stage Trainees before they were sworn in as volunteers.

And so, in remembrance of the little time, too much time, love, hate, health, sickness, and many meetings and partings...

In honor of those that served for one year and to the glory of those that served for two...

Here is the August '09 State remembered in photos:

PC Senegal August '09 Stage - Trainees

During staging in DC.

The T.F. Girls and Bamba.

Those who first met in DC.

I just want to say: luck to those who are now returning and will be returning soon. Thank you. And may grace guide you into your next adventures!

Cheers!

My rucksack isn't worth much. I think I spent maybe $25 on it before joining up with Peace Corps Senegal. I wanted an adventure bag. Something romantic that I could envision on an African safari. I was, after all, moving to West Africa. I didn't want anything too big, just a small day pack. But it needed to be big enough to fit a few days worth of clothes, a macbook, a journal, a good book, and some toiletries in. I wanted something specific, of good quality, and cheap.

I found it. It was perfect. Modeled after some vintage European rucksack. Two outside pockets for normal use, but easy to avoid while traveling in pickpocket heavy areas. A simple internal pocket in the one big pouch that I can keep my passport/money in. And a hidden back pocket that lies underneath the straps for easy access to my camera when I need it, but inaccessible to others when I'm wearing it. Perfection!!! Note: I found the link.

An original (but I think mine was tan).The inside flap contains my name (for rather obvious reasons) and a list of the places I have been. Originally it was to be a list of the places my rucksack had been, but I think I was bored and in possession of a pen, so it became a list of my own. It is forever being added on to and re-written due to fading, although I have NEVER washed my pack. (see picture at bottom of post)

But with any romantic rucksack dream, you imagine it faded and warn and used. You picture it carrying the years of love on it's face. When I embarked on my PC journey, it was new. Logic dictates that I shouldn't try to destroy it to give it that Velvateen Rabbit type look, so I respected it and used it. Little did I know how far my bag would travel.

I broke my beautiful rucksack in on an Oregon Coast camping trip with two ladies in my PC-Senegal stage...

My rucksack started it's real journey during my PC Staging in Washington, DC...

It acted as day pack in Africa where it carried my clothes, band-aids, Wolof notes, tree manuals and wretched purified water...

From there it went to Southeast Asia where climbed over the ancient ruins of Siem Reap Province and wandered the grounds of Angkor Wat...

It joined me in learning to drive a motorcycle on Koh Chang, Thailand...

It bravely entered the strip clubs and pubs of Walking Street in Pattaya, Thailand...

Then it went on to tote texts, homework assignments, and need-to-be-graded tests of my Cambodian students...

It converted into a pillow and travel pack on an epic backpacking trip through Northern India. Where it aided me in breaking into the train station (on accident, of course)...

...wandered the streets of Varanasi (Banares) and the banks of the Ganges...

...held my shoes as I walked barefoot through the Lotus Temple...

...accompanied me through the Red Fort, the "Baby" Taj and the Taj Mahal (not pictured). It lived up to it's potential as my perfectly romanticized desert rucksack in Rajastan (sadly, I don't have a picture of this either) and a mountain pack in the foothills of the Himalayas...

Then my rucksack and I flew to Mexico City. We lounged on the beach just north of Acapulco and climbed mountains to Aztec ruins where some strange little creature searched it for food...

It toured the Western United States with me. To towering and majestic places like Zion National Park...

...and was awkwardly behind me as I kissed a rock face at Antelope Canyon...

...it crawled through ancient Pueblo ruins ahead of me at Mesa Verde...

...and other such adventures where it was having shy days and avoided the camera.

Finally, it labored in the New Mexico desert, supplying me with water and a trowel during an archaeological dig and climbed the cracks in the cliff-face at Chaco Canyon...

The drawstring finally snapped in Jaisalmer, Rajastan, India. I temporarily replaced it until I could get some bootlaces, which I braided together and, after removing the metal rings that had worn down the original string, have been using ever since.

There is paint on the bottom of the pack from when I dropped a roller while painting mine and my roommates New Mexican adobe house ridiculously vibrant colors. I left it there. It adds another story.

Ever since PC Senegal, there has been a little piece of cloth tied to one of the straps. It is almost completely faded from its original, vibrant Senegalese colors and is just long enough to act as a blindfold. Coincidently, that is exactly what it was for. We were blindfolded and guided to a spot on a map of Senegal painted onto a basketball court. When they were removed, we were standing in the mini version of our new homes. It has ever since been a permanent feature of my bag.

One of the straps is wearing down where I always grab it when picking it up and lobbing it over my shoulder. I mended it with black tape. I am reconsidering and may secure my black tape with duct tape in the future.

The New Mexico desert finally destroyed the front pocket zippers and, instead of doing what is practical and purchasing a new bag, I am replacing them by hand in anticipation of my next adventure.

A good view of the paint and in-process zipper mending.The black tape and PC Senegal blindfold.The inside flap and the new drawstring made of bootlaces.I am mending my bag because of our history. I would never dream of replacing it. This bag has been through more adventures in two years than many people get in a lifetime! It carries within it the dirt of three continents and one subcontinent. The stains of sweat, blood, antibacterial ointment, vomit (yes, vomit, but I wiped it off), beer, and coffee. Most of all, within its threads are the tears I shed when Isaa died. I cried on this bag. And someday it will be there again for adventure. For loss. And most of all for love.

It is now faded. Warn. More perfect than ever. It has been patched, sewed, glued, and taped. And it will last for many more adventures when I'm finished with the new zippers.

Our next adventure fast approaches...

Somehow I managed to delete ALL the photos from my blog and now they are coming up as empty rectangles with little blue question-marks in them. I have remedied this issue in the Mexico and India posts. The PC-Senegal and Teaching/SE Asia posts will be fixed in due time. Sorry about that! In the meantime, here is a picture of what I've been up to lately...

New Mexico Archaeology!!!

An ode. A final movement to that paradise just north of Acapulco. A lifetime lived out in a weekend jaunt to that small strip of land between ocean and lagoon. The end of the road through Pie de la Cuesta, where river and lagoon and ocean meet each year. Sharing stories of when they were apart. But we come to this place during their parting and walk along the sandbar that separates our Pacific with it's friends.

We step onto a flat-bottomed river boat. Our feet sunburned from the days before. Our heads full of Mexican heat. Our bodies overdosing on Vitamin D. And we ride up the tree-lined river. The boat gently pulsing against the soft current. Farther we go and the sun sinks behind the trees.

We rest in swimsuits. Sitting in plastic chairs with cold Coronas in our hands in the middle of the river. The sand is so close to the surface that we wade in water only to our knees. And there we sit. Water lapping our ankles, our legs, our thighs. Stretching our toes into the sandy bottom and watching the sun set behind those trees.

We talk of life and love and miscommunications. Of what we want and what we don't. And we have understandings; spoken and unspoken. This moment of beauty one finds so rarely between friends. And we know we are lucky. We are lucky to have a kindred soul to share in the moment with.

It is dark now and we make our way back to that sand-bar separating ocean from lagoon and river. We sit on the beach and feast on fresh fish and shrimp and cold beer. Ants bite my legs, but I don't mind. Many an ant has bit me before and I hardly minded then, either.

And in this, the last night at Pie de la Cuesta, we watch the sun in it's final sigh before sleep. No longer marred by river-trees. And then it is done.

The lapping of waves on beach is the most romantic sound in this world. What would a planet be without the kiss of ocean to sand? We came, hearts beating rhythms to impending adventure. Our first movement, a brisk walking pace. Melodies indicative of Mexican birds and Mexican tongues. Of fish on searing grills and sweat running down the bottle-faces of chilled Coronas. Our kettle drums, the brisk pounding of bare feet on hot sand. Our triangles, the tinkling of toasts to sun and sand and the salt sea. A whole orchestra of tastes, and sounds, and smells. And in the calming of that Allegro, we come upon our second movement. A new delight in the calm. The Adagio...

Red red wine. Salt sea air. The soft rocking of a hammock. The soft humming of alternating voices and languages. The soft breeze carrying warm air across wine-warm cheeks. Brushing across closed eyelashes. Tickling the small hairs of arms. A sip of wine. A rocking hammock. The lapping of waves on beach is the most romantic sound in this world. What would a planet be without the kiss of ocean to sand?

But here our Adagio is interrupted with spastic spurts of my personality coming out in 6/8 drumming rhythms. No, this isn't a metaphor. In the midst of calm seas and calm souls, I, in my inability to meditate upon things in this state for too long, insisted on teaching M.I.P. a drum rhythm I had learned in my youth. We proceeded in pounding hands to chests like Tarzan and Jane (a reference we, nerds both, made at the time) until the wine-warmth of our cheeks moved to our brains and our calm returned for the last notes of this movement. I, with slight motion sickness from the rocking hammock and the red red wine, turned my attention to bed and M.I.P. fell to sleep on the beach at Pie de la Cuesta where the lapping of waves on the beach is the most romantic sound in this world.

What would a planet be without the kiss of ocean to sand?

A glorious part of my Mexican adventure is Pie de la Cuesta. A little street lined on one side by the sea and on the other by a blue-blue lagoon. Small hotels line the beach, each with their own set of beach chairs and hammocks. Warm sand. Warm sun. Warm water. And me... looking like an ass-hole.

I was unequipped for the beaches near Acapulco. After the perfectly calm and luxuriously paradise-like waters of Thailand, I took for granted the awesomeness of the ocean. Perhaps it was the force of the waves, but I'm betting my sand-burn on my fatness.

No no... before you judge, hear me out. Mario had no problems maneuvering the incoming waves. But I had twice the physical resistance as he. The waves would crash against my thighs and my stomach forcing me backward. With no waste-line to make me aerodynamic, all I could do was ride the wave backward.

This force wasn't the problem. It was the out-tide moving under the incoming wave. I was off balance and could easily have found my balance again if the current at my feet wasn't pulling my bottom half in the opposite direction as my heavier top half.

There I was, rolling in the ocean like whale in a dryer with Mario laughing at me. Later, I could feel where the sand had stripped layers of skin off my legs. It felt like an invisible sun-burn. But at the time, my stubborn nature kicked in. I did not roll once, but continued to get back in the damn ocean again and again.

Oh, the ass that I am.

The waves weren't the only way that I ass-ified myself. While kayaking in the lagoon, I was pleased with myself for learning so many years ago to put sunscreen on my exposed legs. I nasty sunburn on a fishing boat with my grandfather is the reason for my caution. But alas, I got bored with the whole process and instead of continuing the coverage to all my exposed parts I globbed some around my ankles and then couldn't be bothered to get between the straps of my Tevas.

For the next few weeks I walked around with a painful, blistered, retarded looking sunburn on the tops of my feet. My favorite was the globby part around my ankles where I had crooked lines of red by white.

It is a good think some people find my ineptitude endearing. But I often wonder, how have I survived this long without major incident to myself?

The great Dr. Lauren R. Sternfeld, BA (BA standing for Bad Ass) once said, "They must call them relationSHIPS because ships are built to navigate rough seas & dark storms, sail into beautiful sunsets, carry baggage & some times people, some sink & leave a wreck for others to discover, they can change direction at a moments notice, they harbor in retreat but can open their sails & set out on new discoveries and adventures. That’s probably why they are not called a relation-skiff." (Sternfeld 2011)

I had planned to use Lauren's words as an introduction to some inspiring blog post or other, but instead I am going to use it as an introduction to honesty.

The truth is, I can only identify with one part: "some sink & leave a wreck for others to discover". I have never had a relationship that I put enough energy into to really understand what she is talking about. One, in college. And it was a good relationship, but I wouldn't call it serious. We enjoyed each other's company until we couldn't anymore. But we never really worked at it. I don't think either of us saw it as long term thus not worth really working at.

Love is like a crowbar to the back of the head. You aren't expecting it and it hurts. I loved Isaa. Before that moment, I didn't really know what love was. I thought I did. I had said it before. But I didn't truly understand. I didn't know! Not until I met Isaa. Then I fought the feeling for a long time, justifying it away. But my mind and heart had already chosen. That would have been the relationship to inform me of Lauren's words.

But then he was just gone. In a few compact moments I learned the amazing power of love and the immobilizing and searing pain of death. And as much as I pretend I am strong. As much as I pretend I am okay. Isaa's death broke me. And everything since has been the heel of a boot grinding the sand that was once me into the ground.

.....

Sitting at a restaurant in Mexico with M.I.P., he turned and asked of me, "What are you running from?" I jokingly questioned why he thought I was running away. Can't a girl just like adventure? Can't a girl just enjoy the homelessness and loneliness of nomadism? Of course!!! And I honestly do in some respects. But I brushed him off. I didn't want to think about my life since Isaa. It is easier to keep moving. I am always moving. It is in my nature and only amplified by my current state.

But the truth is, and I hope M.I.P. reads this, that I am scared. I am scared that people will like me, but when they start to delve deeper into my motivations for life... into who I am deep down... and all they will find are shattered pieces of a once strong woman. That they will run away as fast as they can. I'm afraid that people can't deal with the cracks in the concrete that was me.

There is a quote I like to tell myself to keep myself strong: "We are all a little stronger in the broken places." But it isn't true! I feel as if I'm held together only by duct-tape.

And the reason I continue moving through my life like a comet is because I am stubborn. Because I refuse to let people see that I am broken. It isn't strength. It is the fear of being found out... of being found broken... of being found wanting.

I am alone because I don't know any other way to be. And as much as this post seems like a cry for help, it isn't. I like being alone. I always have. That isn't the part of me that is whimpering in a corner for somebody to notice while hoping that I am not actually seen. That is the part of me that belongs with others.

Loss and fear have taken away my already limited social abilities to connect on a deep level. All that is left is my isolation and my cracks.

M.I.P., to answer your question... I WAS running from the broken parts of me. I am healing still, but much better. Only, I don't know how to stop running!

I don't know how to stop running.

And I don't expect people to stick around waiting for me to figure it out. So I don't let them too close to begin with. To make it easier for them to leave and for me to keep moving.

My Mexico adventure begins in a little place outside of Acapulco called Pie de la Cuesta. Standing on the warm sand watching the sunset awakens my sense of awe and insignificance. Standing at my side, M.I.P. turns to me and asks a question. Why do you love the ocean?

This is not the first time that particular question has been posed to me. Friends, lovers, my own mind. It has been discussed before. Pondered. Philosophized. I have pensively gazed at the vastness and ruggedness of the Oregon Coast many times over the years. Flown over the Pacific and the Atlantic Oceans. Staring down from airplane windows. Standing on cold northern sand, smooth Hawaii sand, deep Mexican sand, course Thai sand, wooden San Franciscan boardwalks, paved Senegalese sidewalks in Dakar, yellow-green grass under the Statue of Liberty, smooth pebbles of the French Mediterranean beach. My eyes capturing different hues in different lands. Grays, light blues, deep blues, sky blues, rich blues, blue-greens, translucent, murky, milky, wild and calm. My feet soaking in different textures. Ice cold as a million needles penetrating the skin, warm water in warm air, cool water in hot air, silky, sandy, oily.

Why do you love the ocean?

Because it makes me feel small. Insignificant. Because it is awesome. The real definition of the word awesome. My definition of the word. Your heart hangs in moratorium. It pauses between beats and you can feel the pressure of the pause. A weight on your chest. And you experience this not with thoughts, but with the lack of thoughts. It takes calculable time before you realize that you have stopped breathing. So you breathe. And in that breath comes the smell of a great force. Salt infected air. The only place air can be heavy and fresh in one delicious moment. You close your eyes to sense this great force. And you CAN sense it. In your bones. In your ears. In the breeze on your face and in your hair. Your fingers stretch to soak up it's power. Your back lengthens in desire to float up into the sensation. To fly. While your toes dig into the sand. Not to ground you but to act as a conduit. The energy of the ocean passing through sand and toes and calves and spine. Circling through veins and muscles and nerves. The tips of your outstretched fingers are charged and the wind whips the current around your face. Your mind sends it up into the sky and your being flies with it.

And you know that this force can kill you. Violently, softly, passionately, indifferently. It is vastly more than you. And you know that there is no God because there is THIS. To attribute it to some higher power is to cheapen what it is already. Incomprehensible. Powerful. Awesome.

I do not need to feel more powerful than the ocean. What a foolish notion. To feel your own insignificance is to feel your own beating heart. Because you may be small in it's wake, but you aren't nothing. You are a part of it. The moon dancing with the tides. The ancient creatures gliding under it's surface. The union of ocean and rivers, bringing tales of mountain peaks and warrior fish and it's contribution to man's electrical ingenuity. The rains falling to earth mixing flavors: soils, garbage, sewage, rot, mulch, death, life. All of this combined and collected in the ocean at your feet.

Here you are. A part of THIS life. Why? Why would you ever want to miss it in favor of a dream of a different life where you are not your own? I don't understand. If you gaze upon these oceans and attribute them to God then you are not paying attention.

8 February 2011. Mexico City.

Early Tuesday morning neighbors reported seeing a chubby American woman chasing a local Toluca man, M.I.P., down the street. The incident, of the kind unheard of in this quiet new suburb, was reported to security by one of the community's groundskeepers.

"It was horrible!" He said, "She stalked him like an animal. Quietly maneuvering until she was close enough to pounce." Luckily, Mr. M.I.P. was quick enough to dodge and escape the fat girl when she would get too close for comfort.

"This sick 'game' went on for twenty minutes!" Another neighbor exclaimed. "She kept creeping up and he kept running away." Authorities are baffled as to why Mr. M.I.P. didn't just run away and leave the crazed foreigner behind as he was in excellent condition.

It has since become known that this unsightly incident began as an early morning jog. Ms. Weishaar, of Oregon, was visiting Mr. M.I.P. when she was inspired to a sunrise exertion. In hind-sight, any psychologist might have warned that such behavior is indicative of a lapse in sanity as Ms. W. is not a "morning-person". Some scientists believe that the high altitude affected her judgement and general capacity to behave as a normal Homo sapiens sapiens.

When reporters of Baobabs, Pagodas, and the Taj Mahal asked Ms. Weishaar about the incident, she stated matter-of-factly, "It is okay to act like a child in a foreign country. It just depends on what parameters you've set for 'acting like a child'." The horrified neighbors do not agree that children generally behave as African predators by stalking or pouncing on other children.

Sometimes I get crazy ideas in my head and I am like a child on Christmas. I just HAVE to know what is going to happen. My most recent such notion: a vacation to Mexico City. Now, unlike many of my other exploits, this location had a draw - my new friend, M.I.P. This is the first trip I’ve taken in a long time where I wasn’t in control. The farthest my task went was figuring out which terminal I flew into. M.I.P. took control and it has been an amazing time!

This particular trip took me from Sacramento to Portland where I spent an overnight layover with my dear friends, Angela and Justin. I love Portland. I love the smell. I love the food. I love the rain. I love the streets and the houses. Even when I have to place there it feels like coming home every time.

Upon my arrival, Angela and I went hunting for Lebanese food. Not just any Lebanese food, but that amazing place on Hawthorn by the yarn store. By the time we got there it was, sadly, cold. So we went next door to the Thai place. But alas, it was also closed! So across the street to the Ethiopian place. Also closed!!! But the downstairs bar wasn’t. So we ate Ethiopian food and had drinks and talked like only soul sisters can.

We then returned to the beautiful home, nestled snuggly in NE Portland where we opened a (large) bottle of red wine and stood talking in the living room with Angela’s husband, Justin.

I need to take a moment to describe Justin. He is an amazing man. Kind. Warm. He looks at my Angela with adoration and love one only finds in somebody completely open to giving the soul to some one else. I browse their mantle pictures and he picks up one of Angela’s face in her wedding veil and softly states, “This is my favorite of her.” I know that love is complicated. Life is complicated. But love like that, no matter if it lasts three months or thirty years, is worth having. Thank-you for loving her that way, Justin.

We tried to sleep off the wine for an hour before leaving the house at four in the morning. This amazing woman and her amazing husband drove me to the airport at an ungodly hour. I love you guys. If I find a job in Portland I’m taking you up on your offer of your spare room!

A shout out to the lovely lady, Angela Lamb! I will be crashing on her couch tonight during my layover in Portland. My favorite city in the world. Bon vin et une bonne amie!

Then bright any early tomorrow morning I will be on a plane to Mexico City to chill on a beach with M.I.P.

I have everything that I need. Jogging/outdoor gear, a little black dress, and sunglasses. If I am MIA don't fret. I'll be back with pictures and posts soon enough.

Au revoir. ...I should start learning Spanish and give up my Frenchie ways, but I just love everything French!

I concluded my Indian narrative by boarding a plane. It seems reasonable enough unless you read the three sentence cliffhanger paragraph toward the end, which you can find by clicking *here*. I wrote:

"...I sat near a very interesting person on the plane. I think my life is the better for it. But that is a story for a different time and place (and this isn't the place)."

There is a good song by Death Cab for Cutie (okay, they have a lot of good songs) called Brothers on a Hotel Bed. One of the lines describes the state of their relationship as "both a beginning and an end". Whilst the context of the song isn't relevant to my life in general, the line describes how I am using my handy cliff-hanger paragraph above.

So let me re-use it.

On the plane from Delhi to New York, I sat near a very interesting person. I think my life is the better for it. But the story hasn't been written yet. My pen is hovering over a blank page... So it is, that the plane to New York was both a beginning and an end. An end to an amazing period of my life in Asia and a beginning to something else. Something that may start (or not) in Mexico City.

Perhaps it will start and end there. A brief visit into the life of another. But with me as with life in general, you never know what will happen next.

This interesting person I will henceforth refer to as M.I.P. These are not his initials, but a corny joke about his name. Sorry, you don't get to hear it. I know, I'm cruel. But he needs to be called something anonymous... so M.I.P. it is.

Because I have been in a referencing mood... do you remember that line from Good Will Hunting? "I gotta see about a girl." Good film.

In five days I will be in Mexico City. I gotta see about a boy.

With all of that said... this is a travel blog. So the next few posts under the label "Mexico" are not about my friend, M.I.P. They are not about my future doing whatever I may end up doing (I'm currently in a quarter-life crisis without a plan). They are about a trip to Mexico City and all the adventures to be had there.

.............................

UPDATE:

Even though I only wrote this blog a few minutes ago, I already have reservations. I am concerned that it seemed like I was interested in changing my entire life for M.I.P. who I specifically referred to as "my friend" to prevent controversy. I am concerned that it seems like I'm looking for a future in Mexico City. I'm am looking towards the future in general but not specifically in Mexico City, this is a short vacation. If you are curious about my future-search, see my posts on California. They are more relevant.

Then I thought, why do I care what you all think?! I do what I want anyways, despite my reservations on writing about it. I know who I am! I know what I want and what I don't want and what I don't know I want (that one is tricky)!

So I am not taking back my statement because it is honest. I want to know this man. I don't know what that means or if it will end up meaning anything. This trip could just be a fun time with a new friend. Or it could break my heart. Or it could be amazing. I DON'T KNOW. But my personality is such that I HAVE TO give it a chance and find out. So again, I stick to my statement.

I gotta see about a boy.

Also, I stick to my other statement: this is a travel blog. And these posts about Mexico will be just that... about Mexico.

I realize that it pales in comparison to my other adventures on this blog, but my next move is to California. I have decided to live it like it is a new adventure and write some blogs about the more interesting things that I plan on doing. These could include all of those New Year's Non-Resolutions that I previously mentioned. So expect some good photos and blurbs about hiking, camping, rock climbing, kayaking, surfing, and any other amazing outdoor thing I plan on doing.

My goal is to make my Cali adventure as exciting as West Africa/SE Asia/India combined! Bon chance à moi! It sounds like a daunting task creating my own adventure as opposed to seeking one already whole unto itself. But that will be half the fun!

So in honor of my adventurous desires I am creating a new Tab of blogs simply titled: California.

I don't have any New Year's Resolutions. I just know that I need to do something with my life and end up someplace warmer. So here is my list of non-resolutions but things I want to do this year:

1. Backpacking/Camping/Hiking - a lot!

2. Learn to rock climb

3. Go to Mexico City and Costa Rica with M.I.P.

4. Live in a city where I can ride a bike to work/play.

5. Be outside - a lot!

6. Live in a city that is WARM/HOT. I am already sick of this cold weather crap.

7. Go Kayaking for the first to tenth time.

8. Go Bungie-Jumping for the first time.

9. Find a job so I can afford to do these things.

...anybody know of a job in a place where I can do some of these things in the USA?

Now what? You are all just going to have to wait until I have a new adventure. I am adding all three of my current labels to this post: Peace Corps/Senegal, SE Asia, and India. I am doing this because this post applies to all of them. Okay, that is a complete lie. It applies to none of them in any way except that if you only read one section of the blog I wanted to make sure you read this pointless post. All these places represent amazing times in my life, but I'm still young. I already have the travel angst. I am already ready to run away into the world again.

This post is really meant to say: don't go away. I will be back in full force with more adventures in the future. And knowing me, which I do because I am me, it won't take very long for me to go searching for new places to bum around and explore.

And just for good measure, here is a picture of me doing something that looks adventurous (jogging in the PNW), but isn't really. And also because the post is rather dull.

Majestic. That is the word. The Taj Mahal is majestic. It's light-kissed white marble glows as the sun's beams play off it throughout the day. It's shimmering mass hints at magic and fairytales, but it's sheer size and shape make it purely and unarguably regal. It stands on the edge of the river as if a guardian. It is hard to explain, but the Taj doesn't just sit there as if plunked heavily into its foundations like most buildings. It stands tall like a proud woman looking down on the passing currents of gray water. Not bent forward, not melancholy nor pensive, but neither indifferent to it's place. It is aware. It is as if it belongs there and nowhere else, that just being there is its purpose and in that purpose it takes pride. It is majestic.

From every vantage point in the city of Agra, the Taj carries this attitude. From the window of our quirky guest house, from the gardens across the river, from the grand and intimidating Red Fort, that tall and proud woman stands white in the golden Indian sun.

Of all the glorious architecture to be seen in Agra, the only one that compares is wrongfully names the "Baby" Taj. Older and smaller than the Taj Mahal, it is no less worthy of praise. Made of the same white marble, what it lacks in sky-piercing height it makes up for in intricate mosaics. It's gardens are fresher and the grounds are nearly empty of people, unlike it's famous grandchild.

India thrives with bright colors. Drying sheets of laundry on the ground of all different hues, yellow painted cows and blue dotted donkeys, painted faces of children during a movie festival that crossed our paths many times during the day, saris on women, flowers on bushes, clothes in shop windows, and the red red red of henna stained hair and beards on the heads of men. There is no way to describe the colors of India!

We spent one night and two days in Agra and like all of the places we visited during our Indian breakfast, it was not nearly long enough. Two days is enough time to see every "must-see" place, but it is like taking in the sent of a bottle of red wine and then not getting to taste it. Alas, all to soon, we were back on a train to Rajastan... my favorite of all the States.

After our wild dunk into the world of Indian train sleeper cars, we were whisked into the holiest Hindu city in the wold by a 27 years-old Japanese girl and her 20 years-old Indian boyfriend. They led us into the maze-like streets near the Ganges river. Down steps that almost make Angkor Wat's stairs seem mundane...almost. After dodging cows, dogs, motorcycles, monkeys, bicycles and donkey carts we get to a point on the waterfront where the Raja Ghat is visible. Our friends point...it is over there. You can make it from here. Hmmm...

After the floods of the rainy season the lower half of the Ganges River stairs are covered in dense mud. At the time of our arrival, not all of the mud had been removed. The largest section of unremoved-as-yet mud lay between us and the Raja Ghat, next to which sat our guest house for the evening. So that is what my previous "Hmmm..." was referring to.

We got lost. Again.

But this time instead of illegally breaking into the back of a train station, we had to crawl back up the riverside stairs, dodge more donkey carts/motos/bikes/monkeys, and just as we almost made it to what we hoped was our guest house, maneuver through a heard of water buffalo in an ally no more that 12 feet wide. Needless to say, we weren't thrilled about where Lonely Planet had led us...

...until we actually found it!!! It was the best guest house that we stayed in. And nevermind the heard of water buffalo. In our lost state, we wandered in the back ally. The front ally only had donkey carts/motos/bikes/monkeys, no herds of large bovines. =)

This city was amazing. So many different religions fit together like tiny puzzle pieces. Banares was everything I was told it would be. That documentary I saw in college was dead on! It didn't even have to glorify it. The Ganges is the dirtiest river in the world.

In the waters of the Ganges you find:* dogs and water buffalo lounging* tourists taking sun-rise boat rides to view the Ghats (crematoriums)* floating flower-candles* burning pyres with wrapped bodies in them* people washing their clothes* people washing themselves* bloated corpses floating in the water* holy men sitting on the steps* elderly people slowly climbing up/down to purify themselves in the river as they have done every day for too many years to count.

It was amazing!

We took the boat ride. I watched a ceremony at night that ended with hundreds of flower-candles placed into the river. We visited Buddhist Temples, Ghats, and a Hindu temple and university. We took a bicycle tuk-tuk. And (almost the most exciting thing) we didn't get lost finding the train station this time!!! And again, we were off. This time to Agra and the Taj Mahal.

FYI: for those who decide to travel to India, it is common for cows to wander in and out of random places. Just in Varanasi we saw cows in store front doorways, inside the train station, poking their heads into temples to escape the rain, and sleeping in the middle of the already over-crowded streets!!! That is right, sleeping. And people just go around them. It is part of the Hindu/Buddhist attitude of co-habitation.

Our last Indian train ride we took in style. We rewarded our adventurous selves with an upper class air-con car for all our brave and dirty dealings with the sleeper classes to previous cities. Well, partly a reward. In reality, my mother put her foot down and demanded a car where we didn't have to eat sand and smell toilets and man-sweat. There were sheets, warm from the dryer!!! And pillows, and blankets, and the beds were bigger, and there were windows that closed. Actually, the windows didn't even open because this was an air-con class car, which we shared with a nice young Korean couple. That's right! We only shared it with two other people. Not 10. 2.

As exciting as this car sounds, we made a logistical mistake in choosing it. This train ride took us to the foothills of the Himalayas. In case you didn't know... the Himalayas are the world's highest mountain range. It is cold up there! Brrrrr!!! We were not hot enough to need air-con and we couldn't open the windows for warmer air, because they didn't open and there was no warmer air. The grass is always greener in the other train car...ummm...you know what I mean.

Luckily this was only a five hour train ride. We were in Dehradun by 5:30am and ready to wander the town for a cup of coffee.

Dehradun has all the delights and annoyances of a tourist town. More so than the other cities we visited because Dehradun is small. The whole town seems affected by tourism. Beggars were more insistent and bitter. There were more Western restaurants than I had seen before. I am sure Delhi had a Pizza Hut, Dominoes, etc., but it was so large that they weren't primary attractions. Dehradun was like re-entering America at the end of an incredible Indian adventure. It was rather like when we went to Nice, France after touring the Italian and Monaco countrysides. For all it's modern Western traits, Dehradun is missing one quintessential Western experience for the Western tourists that it caters to: the coffee shops don't open until 9 or 10 in the morning!!!

WTF? We had to wander around for four hours waiting for coffee after a 5 hour nap (in place of sleep) on a freezing train car, almost two weeks bumming around India with poor diets, showers, and sleep, our backs hurt from carrying our packs, and have I mentioned that I NEED coffee in the morning to function like a normal human being and not a screaming blob of angst (whatever that might look like). Needless to say, I may have behaved in a way that was unbecoming and I may have misrepresented future American tourists. I apologize. I took it all out on my mother, not on the poor people of Dehradun who had to witness crazy coffeeless lady. Sorry about that, mom. Truly, I am.

Our guest house was operated by descendants of a Royal Family, who clung proudly to their heritage. They displayed their status in photographs on the walls. And if you took the time to listen to their stories and their lineages you soon realized that the important family members are really their 2nd cousins. But their distance from any real monarchical power or status in no way diminished the exorbitant $25 charge for the worst room we stayed in the entire trip. Our room at the Sawa Niwas Guest House in Varanasi (best room EVER) was $10. And it included good company, the expertise of the family, and an amazing location. The Palace Hotel in Jaisalmer was much pricier (w/ an ACTUAL royal family living in one wing of it), but it was an incredible hotel with a restaurant and a museum. This place in Dehradun was the house of a pompus local and the nicest people in it were the two servant men. Needless to say, I don't recommend it. I will not bash it directly on this public blog, but if you are taking a trip to this region of India then you needn't stay in Dehradun anyways. I promise you that it is much better to stay in Mussoorie.

Mussourie is about 12 km straight up the mountainside. From there you have easy access to hikes and views of the bigger Himalayas (on a sunny day, which it was not). It is perched on the top of the "foothills" at about 9,000 feet about see level. The drive is amazing. A 6,000 foot climb in 6 miles from Dehradun. And as you climb you can see a distinct change in the vegetation. The trees change. The animals change. The clothes people wear change. The farming changes (to step farming)! And suddenly you are at the top. Just the top of this "hill", which is still higher than most mountains that I have ever seen. Mussoorie is a gateway into a different world. A world that, much like Pakistan calling to me in Rajastan, has to wait for another time. Mussouie is a must sea place. It is my second favorite place in India. The art and culture are distinctly different than the other provinces we visited. And the area is highly influenced by Tibetan Buddhism.

The final day of our journey took us to the Forestry Research Institute in Dehradun. An incredible complex that houses six museums completely dedicated to Indian forests and land use. It has large grounds broken up into distinct and themed arboretums. All based on certain ecosystems throughout India. It was incredible! I am such a nerd!!!

Then we took a plane back to Delhi, basked in the glory of the New Delhi Radisson, and boarded a plane to NYC. It was over. But at the end of it all, when I was exhausted and didn't think I could cram any more adventure into my little brain...

...I sat near a very interesting person on the plane. I think my life is the better for it. But that is a story for a different time and place (and this isn't the place).

Here ends my adventures in India. Until I get back on a plane (still have to hit Southern India and Sri Lanka). Or until I remember something else that I forgot. It will happen. I already have a planned blog post for random things I left out. It was an intense trip and I only skimmed the surface of our experiences.

Weary and sand-covered we enter the desert-oasis city of Jaisalmer. After being bombarded by heat and sandstorms during our 10 hour train ride, we arrive at the end of the train tracks. Hungry, tired, dirty, and utterly content with our situation we climb into a land rover and head to our palace hotel. The city was like a dream out of Arabian Nights if this had, in fact, been Arabia. The Pakistani border taunts me from a few hours east, luring me into a new adventure, but I am bound by the promise of the adventure I'm already on. It is for another time.

The entire city is made of golden sandstone and it shifts and shimmers in the heat of the desert. Camels chill on the roadsides waiting for tourists to hire them for an adventurous desert camping trip. And the people remember you. It is such a small place that after two hours you run into people that you have already met around the city and they greet you by name.

In the fort there are the expected textile shops, only here when you buy something and are later accosted by another seller with the same wares and they ask you how much you spent because they would have given you a better price... you tell them and their response is, "Really? But that is the local price! You must be a good bargainer!" Then they leave you be. There are also jewelry stores with wonderful silver necklaces and colorful bangles, herbal medicine and massage centers, and leather shops where everything from luggage to sandals to photo albums are made of camel leather. You can find dolls, quilts, books, and henna. And in the midst of all this are cows and dogs and monkeys all lounging in the small streets together in the shades of Jain temples that dominate the fort.

The nearby lake is scattered with small water temples and colorful boats. The sun shines off the blue-blue water and the golden buildings. It is the perfect picture. We lay under trees and watch birds waddle along the steps of the shore. Soon, a group of colorful-sari clad women walk up and proceed to drop bread crumbs into the water. The result is a bubbling mass of huge catfish. The perfectly serene lake has a dark side in the form of slimy, whiskery kitty-fish. Ewe!!!

All too soon we are back on the train, dreaming of camels and amazing spicy Rajastan food. After meeting so many interesting people during our train excursions, I feel guilty picking favorites. But the father-daughter pair we met on the train back to Delhi were amazing people. We taught the daughter (a university student) how to play Go-Fish. She had never played cards in her life! And during the 14-or-so hour train ride, we upgraded her to Gin.

A 1/2 day stay in Delhi before catching yet another train. I wandered around a Sikh museum and learned the stories of the Gurus. We ate at McDonalds...twice (shh...don't tell). And we rented a room in a guest house that we hadn't planned on and slept for a few hours to prepare for our very short 5-hour train ride to the "foothills" of the Himalayas.

So much to write and so little time. After running around Delhi for a few hours we were dropped of by our taxi driver at C......., near the train station. We ate at a McDonalds which more resembled a KFC. It only served chicken! No no no!!! Don't eat the holy Hindu beef! After our tummies were full we tromped towards the train station. Where is that pesky train station? "Excuse me, ladies. Where you go? No no, you need to go that way. It is better for you." Walk walk walk...this doesn't look right. "Excuse me, ladies. Where you go? Oh, it is back this way. I will show you the road." Walk walk walk...this is where we started. On we go. On and on and on...shouldn't we be there by now? We see the tracks. "Excuse me, where is the railway station?" "Go straight turn right." There is a fence here. "Maybe he meant a little farther. Nope, that is just contruction." Back back back. "There are other people going around the fence. Come on!" "It doesn't seem very reasonable that there are metal detectors and bag x-ray machines at our hotel, but to get on a train you have to jump the tracks!"

We climbed down onto the tracks and crossed between parked rail cars onto a platform. Then started wandering around looking for information. Eventually we came to a staircase down onto the Main Station! Turns out there was a real entrance...with security gaurds, and metal detectors, and x-ray machines, and army guys!!! "Oops, we broke into the train station!!!" Later it turned out that the metal detector wasn't really on and the guards didn't care. =) Onto the all night train to Varanasi.

We find our seats and this young Indian guy greets us. "Thes are yours seats? That is my seat. But we are all friends here so we can switch and share and whatever we want. Don't worry, chicken curry!" And so (days ago) we set of with three Indian guys and a Japanese girl. It was a hell of a train intoduction. But it is days later and I am writing this from the Rajastan desert. By this point we are experts!!!

Mom's and my journey led us next to Jaipur. It is the capital city and port of entry to the desert state of Rajastan. Our brief half-day sojourn to this, the Pink City, took us to a maze of royal tombs nestled against a hill outside of the city. There we climb and ducked through random pathways and mom lounged against some relief covered pillars.

There was a short stop during our drive from the royal tombs to our late lunch at a lake sitting between the hills on either side of the city. And in this lake sat a golden palace. And in this palace, well, I'm not sure what was in it. But the palace sat in the water and was aptly know as the Water Palace. I have lost the ability to write poetic words about the architecture in India because every place we saw is worthy of praise and I have grown tired of my own ramblings on the subject. Just know that it was beautiful. Out of the thousands of pictures I probably took on this trip (a lot of them of food), my favorite one is that of the Water Palace in Jaipur.

We visited a textile factory where we were shown the process of constructing intricate silk blankets. I am not going to romanticize the Indian textile industry. Our multiple experiences of it were aggravating at best. They are designed for one purpose, and if you thought differently then you must not think much at all, to part you with your money. They show you the process of making textiles and proudly show you their exploited labor made up of Pakistani immigrants. I make this sound nicer than it is. They actually brag about how and why they get these young Pakistani men to work so cheaply. Then offer you a chai while you sit in a room covered from toe to head with shelves and shelves of goods. And they show you ALL of them! Well, that is a vast exaggeration. They show you what you ask to see, but they show you a hundred of them. We asked to see scarves that we wanted to purchase as gifts and we saw scarves ranging from $5 to $250 in all different colors and patterns! Part pashmina, pure pashmina (I wanted to cry at the price of this one), cashmere, and silk of varying mixes and quality. And once you have picked thrice as many as you set out to, because they are beautiful, they try and show you other sections of the shop. Bedspreads more beautiful than any you have ever seen in America, wall hangings made of silk, handmade paper, saris, long scarves, traditional clothes of many styles, and SO MANY COLORS!!! At this point, if you are not used to escaping sellers of their skill, you will be lost to Silk Store Heaven and never return. But between my worldly experience, my mother's worldly experience, my hard-core "No thank-you", and my mother's sweet "I'm sorry, but my daughter is leaving and I have to go to"...we rocked the world of Indian markets!

We climbed a rocky road at dusk to the monkey temple. I feel as if this temple wasn't named properly. It should be called the monkey/goat/cow/pig/& puppy temple. All of these animals wandered the steep cobblestone street. The puppies were as cute as any puppies and it was hard not to play with them, but it was getting dark and we had to climb. The goats were friendly and came up to say hello, making me miss my little African goats that lived outside my window. Never touch an Indian monkey...you're tempting fate. But the cows and pigs might be okay if you don't think about what they eat and sleep in.

At dusk we saw the Hawa Mahal long enough to snap a picture before catching our next train to the end of the tracks. No really. The very last stop on the tracks in the desert before the train turns around. We headed towards the Pakistani border. Through heat and sandstorms we endured with our new scarves (that were amazing at keeping sand out of our mouths...thank you pushy seller man) and our train Chai that we had, at this point, grown to love. Into the heart of Rajastan to my favorite place in all of India thus far... To Jaisalmer.

I woke up this morning after what should have been a good night's sleep and wasn't. Dad phoned me with the plane ticket information I needed (thanks!) at midnight (no-thanks, but I needed the info) and then Ibrayma phoned me at one in the morning. I never even have that phone on, so he must have tried to phone me a lot in the past 10 months to get me the first night I have my US phone on. But I was so tired that I'm still not sure what he said. French is hard enough when you are fully rested. But after a 12 hour cramped Cambodian bus ride with screaming children and smelly boy-men, wandering around Bangkok for an hour, and, remember it being one in the morning, being woken up from the dead of much-needed sleep it is near impossible to comprehend. At the end I remember some form of the verb "dormir" and then the end of the phone call. I think Ibou realized that I was too asleep to understand anything. I had to check in my call log in the morning to make sure he actually phoned...I thought it was a dream!

I was taken to the airport before the sun was up. In that dark gray pre-pre-dawn mood with rain pattering on the windshield. I lugged my bags full of all my earthly belongings from Cambodia into the Bangkok airport and stood for no small amount of time in front of the Departures screen. Searching searching searching for my flight so that I would know which line of the many lines of counters to walk down to check in. Searching searching...wait...did the Indian looking guy next to me just say my flight number? Is he pointing? Where is he pointing? Why do the columns on the board keep changing?...for Vishnu's sake BKK, just get a bigger board! Okay, now he is looking at me because I'm pretending to be a part of his family so that I can hear. Apparently I look suspicious being a blue-eyed brunette with white skin encroaching on a large Indian family at the Thai airport. Quick Jojo! Make a joke! "Flight 854! Man! I've been staring at this board forever trying to find it!" Now smile. And back away quickly before they think you need to go into a mental institution.

Up to the counter, give passport, drop off bags, take boarding pass, away from the counter. Up to the counter, exchange currencies, away from the counter. Up to the counter, give passport, away from the counter. Up to the belt, remove computer, walk through fun walless-beeping-door...oops, it isn't supposed to beep...back up, remove shoes, back through the walless-unbeeping-door, collect shoes and move on. COFFEE. COFFEE. Crap, no money for more coffee. Why are the Arab guys smiling at me? Come on Abu-Dabi-type boys!!! Are you seriously hitting on me?! What do you expect to get out of a 5-minute conversation in the Bangkok airport? Ugh...men are the same EVERYWHERE!!! Up to the counter, give passport, away from the counter. Up to the counter, give passport, away from the counter. Up to the door, give boarding pass (at least it wasn't the passport again), board plane!...then sit in plane because it takes off late. Sadness!

The plane ride is 4 hours. I sit next to a large Indian family who are very nice. But the Indian guys behind me are just as bad as those Arab boys in the airport. SEE!!!...men ARE the same everywhere! This was the first time I have ever been asked the question, "Would you like the regular or non-vegetarian breakfast?" Umm...I'll just go with it. Mmm...omelet with chicken. Sorry nice vegetarian Indian ladies sitting next to me. I realize it smells like flesh in here. To be completely honest, the vegetarian breakfast looked better than mine and I regret my decision to consume meat.

Yay!!! New Delhi! Of course, it takes 5 extra minutes to pull in because there is a plane in our terminal. Then they don't have the forms...7, and I mean 7, tables for form filling and not one form. So we wait for forms... Damnit, there are those guys from the plane. And how did the Arab guys get to Delhi? = JOKE! I mean joking about the Arab guys. The other guys were actually there. Okay, think Jojo. They all have shades and jewelry and popular clothes. Obviously trying to look really cool. Plan: talk to the very religiously dressed 20-something (I think he is Sikh). Get them all confused about why you would choose him over them. Score!! It worked. Finally the forms come. Then out to baggage claim. Now where are the bags?!! Wow. That took forever.

Out of the airport in search of a cheap way to an expensive hotel. Not easy, let me tell you. Prepare to be charged extra when they find out your going someplace fancy. Wait, there is a guy with my name on a sign under the name of my hotel? I didn't know I was being picked up! YAY!!! No taxi fee. No haggling. Into the hotel where they actually let me check in without my mother's credit card and travel agent id. And OH MY GOD!!! => Did that man just say that the café is open 24 hours?! I love this country.

Now, how do I turn down the air-con in my room because I am freezing?! I had to put on socks and a jacket for the first time in 10 months...and it is 100 degrees outside! It is like a bad game of hide and seek. If you don't find the remote then you'll freeze to death in one of the hottest places in the world. ...I'm fading fast... ....so .....ca...ca...cold.......

In about 16 hours I will be on a (long) bus-ride from Phnom Penh to Bangkok. In about 43 hours I will be on a (short) plane-ride from Bangkok to New Delhi. In about 46 hours I will be wandering the streets of Delhi looking for a phone card and a long scarf to wear while bumming around Northern India and hopefully not wandering the streets of Delhi looking for my hotel.

Today is my last day in Phnom Penh. I have spent the last two weeks walking everywhere to experience the city once again. Okay, that is a lie...I've been walking everywhere because I was too lazy to fix my bike tire and too cheap to pay a moto driver to take me. But the resulting taking-in of Phnom Penh is the same. Cambodia has been good to me. It has treated me very well and we shall remain good friends. I set out to teach for 3 months to 1 year and feel that I have accomplished that. I have been in Asia for 10 months and taught for nearly 7 months...not bad at all. =)

Before, when I would change the location of my life I would feel like it were an end and a new beginning. But this time I feel somewhere in the middle of a journey. It isn't over, but I don't know where it is going to take me and I'm not even sure what the journey is about. I have a few theories, but I'll keep them to myself.

India, India. I have always wanted to go to India and now I am. For only 12 days! It isn't a large enough bite, but at least it is a taste. And I get to share it with my mother! I am so excited to see her and to share this with her. She has that adventurous spirit that people keep mentioning about me. Where do you all think I got it from?! She is braver than me, stronger than me, and lets face it...I get my good looks from her because she is prettier than me! She would have to be all those things to allow me to drag her around India in cheep train cars and $5 guest houses. It has to be hard for her.

I try to imagine how a parent feels when their kid gets their driver's permit. Sitting in the passenger seat only able to voice concern and direction (but not daring to lest their kid gets testy). Relinquishing control and allowing their kid to grow up. To take a step forward in life. And even though you are there in the passenger seat...you aren't really a part of it. It is all them. Now, imagine how a parent might feel when their kid gets a backpack and a passport...and you don't get to see them learn how to do it, instead you get to see the result. And you have no idea what they have learned running around the world on their own. But here you are again, putting your life in your kid's hands. And doing it in one of the craziest places in the world: INDIA!!!

Thanks Mom, for meeting me in India. I have to see it before I die and it is going to be that much more incredible with you there. Now, where can I drag Dad off to and torture him someday?

Oh my Buddha! ...and we're off!!!...

I am debating a return to the states. For it to be a periodical, a liminality, or a permanence is yet to be decided and at this point I wouldn't dare to state for sure as it has been a long time since I have allowed myself to be sure of anything. I spent a whole day in August deciding whether I have place related commitment issues (very probable) or people related commitment issues (not at all possible) only to decide that I honestly just like the unpredictability of my immediate future and would like to keep it unpredictable. My learning curve is steeper than ever it has been before. Although my tan line curve isn't. Turns out my skin has super anti-tanning powers! Sunscreen? What on earth is that?! My freckles don't even make up for the lack of bronze. Well, at least I don't look as corpse-like anymore. I digress: if I return to the states in time for the holidays, here is a list of stories that you all must ask to hear about. I have been very naughty at keeping up with my blog and I have so many good stories that I take for granted in the everyday craziness that is the developing world. Here goes (sorry about the format...my enter key still doesn't work): Homely French man and an...umm...offer. Cambodian weddings. Nigerian weddings. Racing an elephant down the street...elephant vs. fat girl on bike. My students and the big red ants. Hookas. Khmer Karaoke. Monks and oranges and the color orange. Chickens and pigs on motos. The puppy! Koh Chang and learning to drive a moto. I have so many more. But I have to think about them and remember all that has happened this year! 'Till next time.

Buffalo Island I am assuming is an island. Surrounded not by ocean or sea, but by rivers. In a celebratory day trip with some of my students from the University of Puthisastra, I spent several wonderful hours under mango trees eating delicious food, staring at a river scene with Asian fishing boats and a pagoda across the water, and dodging scary red ants that look like flakes of fire in the sunlight but are no more harmful than cricket. My students were relaxed. I imagine their relief with the stress of final exams wafting away under the warm Cambodian sun. A day of friends. Of singing and dancing. -- While my students were at their complete ease, I was experiencing the acute heartache from the nostalgia inflicted by deja-vu. Those very mango and banana trees. The smell of water and dust. The cooking rice and the dull thud of somebody pounding spices in a tall wooded bowl. The good-humored chuckles of boys playing cards under a mango tree. Did I step back into Africa? It was as if a portal somewhere up the road had transported me to a different continent. But it isn't the same, my brain said to me. Where are the tall, dark bodies of men and women? Where are the goats and where is the mosque? But the largest affront to my sense of "already": where are my Baobab trees?! My beautiful and unearthly Baobabs. This can't be Africa if it is missing its heart. That mighty tree that is the African peoples. It is the jungle and the desert. It is the farmland and the wild. It stands stout and sturdy against the African sky. Its pulse, the beating of its heart, slow and laborious, coming from its roots up through its branches and outward into oblivion. The pulse and throb of the heart of Africa, beating, sustaining its continent. Oh my beautiful Baobab. I have replaced the mosques with pagodas, but nothing can ever replace the Baobab tree.

I'm sorry to everybody in my family and friends who read my blog. I have been very busy teaching and settling in these last few months. But I have tons to write about. In the next week or two I will start updating my blog again with the works: funny stories, culture notes, and photos! Start holding your breaths!...

Do you know how it feels in your chest when you realize that the noise you thought sounded an awful lot like a gun shot is a gun shot and that the girl 30 feet away isn't holding her foot to check out her toenails when blood starts pouring into her hands. There is a sinking feeling. But there isn't enough time to find the bottom of the sinkhole because the second shot moves you. Faster than you think it could and slower than you wish it did, but it moves you. It moves you into bushes under stone fences and then it pauses. It listens to one, two more shots. It calculates the silence. Then it moves you again, to a safer place where you can stay.

The calmest person is the girl with the partial bullet in her foot. Shock maybe. But we don't move. Khmer and Westerners alike. We stay. We wait. Four shots, but we fear for more. None come. In time the girl's friends take her away to find a clinic that will take the bullet out. Molly and I have a drink to stop the shaking. It doesn't work, but we don't drink more. Then two shining lights. Smit walks in, somehow informed of our misfortune, and Dara behind him. They put us in the tuk-tuk. Dara rides my bike and Smit drives us home.

Don't worry Mom. Don't worry Dad. I know that you will which is why I haven't told you yet. I don't want to wake you up in the middle of the night again with this news. You would never sleep again. I phoned you after Isaa's accident. I'm not phoning you now. This is important: I don't feel unsafe. I just feel unlucky.

Christine, my friend and roommate, and I took a two day jaunt to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) in Vietnam. We spent 12 hours there but that was enough time to see the downtown area. We went to the Vietnam War Crimes Museum, the Cathedral, the Post Office, and the Opera House. We had great self serve ice-cream. And more importantly we had great Indian/Pakistani food. I got what was recommended to me by Tahseen, my new friend.

There isn't much to say about the trip. The war crimes portrayed in the museum were terrible. I am ashamed sometimes of what America has done in the name of patriotism at times. But we all know that the Vietnam War was a terrible and crooked affair. There is no reason to say any more. I took photos, but I am only posting a few of the happy ones. Not because I don't want to post the sad ones, because I think they should be seen by as many people as possible lest we forget our pasts. But today I don't want to post sadness.

For those of you that can't keep up: I spent two weeks in Phnom Penh, Cambodia at the beginning of February taking TESOL courses. Then I spent two weeks in Pattaya, Thailand student teaching and two more weeks in Pattaya hanging out and hoping for a sweet job (that I didn't get). Then last week I moved back to Phnom Penh, Cambodia. I am now chin deep in job hunting and had a promising interview today. I have a flat, a bike, and a hammock...all a girl needs to survive! Although we still need a cutting board. And today, finally(!), we got a PO Box.

Ms. Krista Jo Weishaar

P.O. Box 971

Phnom Penh

Cambodia

...I expect some mail around September *wink*.

Thiya (pronounced Tia) is the daughter of our landlord. She and I made arrangements today for free language lessons. She is engaged (April 8th!) and they will be moving to France to make money, then returning to start a business. But poor Thiya doesn't speak French...but I do *wink*. French for Khmer, an even exchange. Yay! We also scored invitations to the wedding and tomorrow morning she is taking us to a tailor so we can get dresses made (and I need some pants for teaching/interviews) and to buy fabric. So nice to have Khmer friends. You don't get screwed as much (I know that is blunt, but it is true). I'm off to sit in my hammock!

The Sanctuary of Truth is this incredible structure-in-progress just north of Pattaya on Rachvate Cape right against the ocean. Because I can't describe it like it deserves to be described I am referring to a different site:

From: http://www.pattaya.bangkok.com/thesanctuary.htm

"Rising 105 metres into the sky and exquisitely carved entirely out of teak wood, The Sanctuary of Truth is a gigantic woodenconstruction that's one of a kind in the world. A strange fusion of religion, philosophy, art and culture, it's neither a temple, nor palace 'even though it looks a bit like a hybrid of both. Best described as a monument to Thai craftsmanship, and a place to reflect, its awe-inspiring wooden sculptures and cravings pays homage to and is a reflection of the “Ancient Vision of Earth', “Ancient Knowledge'and “Eastern Philosophy'. It's also the only place in Thailand where you can get up close and personal with two delightful and very playful dolphins…

It's easy to get lost in thought wandering through the Sanctuary of Truth's impressive structure and admiring the equally impressive and ornate carvings that adorn every square inch of the building inside and out. The brochure speaks of “understanding ancient life', “life relationship with the universe'and “common goals of life towards utopia', all of which goes over the heads of visitors (and mine!). But the eerie silence inside is evidence of the admiration visitors cannot help to have for the ten years and hundreds of thousands man hours that have gone into the project. And the guide informed me that it's ongoing, that it will never be fully completed…

Also from the brochure: “From the Cold War era until today, the world has been under the influence of Western civilization, accentuated by materialism and devotion to advanced technology. Many natural areas have been degraded, and men have drifted away from their old values in such a way that morality and spiritual contentment have become irrelevant to many people. Their attempts to control nature have transformed many people into egotistical individuals who are out to destroy one another through incessant wars and economic plundering…'Some serious thoughts to ponder.

The Sanctuary of Truth was conceived from the vision that human civilization has been achieved and nurtured by religious and philosophical truth 'created, in other words, out of goodness drawn from religion, philosophy and art. Through elaborate carvings and sculptures, it pays tribute to the seven creators “man cannot be born and exist without': Heaven, Earth, Father, Mother, Moon, Sun and Stars. Deeply embedded into all of this are ancient Buddhist, Hindu, Brahman and other spiritual and philosophical elements."

I rode an elephant down to the Sanctuary, pretended to carve wood with the woodcarvers as they took my photo, took a tour of the incredible structure wearing a hard hat as builders worked above me, watched the cutest dolphin and cat (thats right, cat) show and kissed that dolphin, and then climbed up some wooden stairs and went home to upload photos so everybody could see them. It was incredible.

I have already wrote about my student teaching experience here in Pattaya, Thailand. Now let me tell you about the city itself. Imagine Las Vegas. Thailand style. The expression goes: This isn't Thailand, it's Pattaya. The sex industry capital of Thailand, Pattaya is a huge tourist destination. It is the Southeast Asian equivalent of Amsterdam (so I'm told) and Las Vegas. People come here from all over the world including large populations of Western Europeans, Americans, Australians, Africans, Indians, Russians, Chinese and a variety of people from the Middle East. Some are here to vacation. Warm weather, cheap beer, very accessible island paradises just a ferry ride away. It is nice that way. Some are here to partake in that part of the tourist industry that I would never take part in. And there is somebody for everybody. Lets see if I can get this right... There are Thai and Laos woman for Western men, Russian women for Thai men, African men for Thai women, and a few more that I can't remember. And you can find all of them on Walking Street.

I have been to many gogo bars in my time here with both women and men. During happy hour you can find good cheap drinks and decent music. I enjoy speaking with the girls or boys who "dance" there. They are usually very nice, have very interesting stories, and love to talk. A lot of the people in their have no sexual intentions. Some of them do. But generally you can learn a lot by speaking with them. It is fun. In a place like this there is no point in judging. People have different motivations. A lot of the girls have family they support, rent they pay, and whatnot. Of the people that partake in the Pattaya night life, many of them are being themselves for once. Hear me out. A lot of them are probably lonely. Sick of putting on a show wherever they came from. I might not agree with the lifestyle of Pattaya, but it is the most honest city I've ever been in. People are who they are. They let all of their flaws show, weather it is a sex fetish, a bulbous beer belly they are usually ashamed of, or a broken heart. It is there for all to see. And everybody accepts that. And even though this city is grungy, that in itself can be beautiful...until a short, chubby, homely, balding, old French guy offers you money for sex and says that fat American girls are his type. Then it is time to go home to bed because the night could always get worse. Best not to face anymore of it. Ech! Never in his wildest dreams!

I did my student teaching for the Language Corps program at an international kindergarten called Phoenix with two to four year olds. The school is a multilingual institution. The students learn Thai and English as well as Chinese and Russian. Students aren't split up in any particular way. Each class has many different nationalities of students. Some classes are primarily taught in the English language and they learn Thai for about an hour a day. My class was a Thai language class. It wasn't normal for them to have the class taught in English, but they spoke it well (for 2-4 year olds).

I'll admit that it was very intimidating at first as the only experience I have with children are my cousins Matt and Kelsey's two incredible daughters, Mesa and Miley. And that just isn't preparation as they are wonderful and a little older now (just a little). But after the first day or two it all became more natural. We got into a groove and I began to really enjoy teaching children.

Everyday we sang the ABC song, the shapes song, counted to 10, colored pictures, and created stories which I would draw on the board. They had a few games that they already knew. One of their favorites is Simon Says without the actual "Simon Says" part. To their game repertoire I added Red Light/Green Light. They went nuts! They loved it. For the first ten times we played they didn't even know it was a race. They didn't care. We also learned the Hokey Pokey. They loved that too! My contribution over two weeks to my kindergarten class: Red Light/Green Light and the Hokey Pokey. Thanks mom for teaching me those so many years ago.

We arrived on the island of Koh Chang off the coast of Thailand after an excruciatingly long bus ride, a shorter but still painful van ride, and a brief excursion on a ferry from the mainland. Up up down up twist to the right no no to the left goes the road into town. A road that shames even the Road to Hana. We lug our overstuffed suitcases up one two three flights of stairs. Apparently Thais don't believe in elevators. And why should they, they live here and have no need to lug as much crap as we think we do. And the end of the trip...

...better yet, lets call it the beginning of a weekend adventure: dinner on the beach with fire dancers and a live band. So food that the best of us carried food babies in our bellies ready to burst. Some ice cream and late night boutique browsing and it off to bed for Jojo!

The next morning began one of the funnest days of my life. Christine's guidebook reads that unless you are an experienced moto driver you shouldn't drive on the island of Koh Chang as the roads are winding and steep, the path sometimes unpaved (an understatement), and the other drivers slightly manic. Okay, so I took some liberties with the language. The book still recommended against such an activity. So I decided it was high time to become an experienced moto driver...or a moto driver at all as I have never driven one before. Sorry mom.

The trip started off well. I learned that motos don't take much effort to keep upright. They do it on their own. And driving on the left isn't that hard to get used to. But at the end of the wonderfully straight road through down town came the first hill and the first corner. Oops! Who forgot to learn how to turn? That would be me! Luckily there was a guard rail and no cliff on the other side and me going really slow anyways. Thank you Chris for telling me how to turn. You are a lifesaver! Then up up up that road that puts the Road to Hana to shame. A hell of a road to learn to drive a moto on.

We drove around the island to the less touristy side and on our way stopped at an incredible spa just to look around. I felt healthier just standing there! Then we took a side road to Long Beach. Few venture this way. Only the strong of heart brave it. Or the yuppies that take the morning taxi. What wimps! The road becomes steeper and "less" paved. And what I mean by "less" paved is not paved at all. Hardly a road, really. A lot of big rocks and pot-holes. The few pickups coming up the road had a harder time of it than we did because our small moto tires fit between the mini-boulders. The task: dodging rocks while getting up enough speed to make it up the hill and not missing the turns and crashing down to the ocean far far below then at the top going down down down use the front break never touch the gas again don't miss the turn and often times use your feet so you don't fall over. I conquered you, road that puts the Road to Hana to shame!!! Experience-schmerience! I am officially an experienced moto driver. Full, mature, can do anything type of experienced after that Goliath of a drive.

When we arrived at long beach we walked down the beautiful sandy cove along the blue-green water glistening in the sun. We sat under a thatched rood on floor cushions and had the most delicious Masaman Curry that ever was made. While we were waiting for our food to arrive, Amelia and I swam in the warm water. I floated out there in the tropical ocean and thought that this is paradise. After the meal we drove back into town for a dinner at the other end of the road at a fishing village. The restaurants and shops all sat above the water on poles in this delightful little cove with pretty little boats. We watched the sun set drinking ice cold lime juice and eating parts of fish we didn't even know were edible before. For the record: (1) fish cheek meat is delicious; (2) fish eyeball is not; (3) thank Allah my fish didn't have a tongue attached because I would have had to try that too and the one fish tongue at the table looked squishy in a gross way. Odd fact of the day: there is a hard part inside of the fish's eyeball but you can't get it out with a fork. Instead you have to maneuver around it in your mouth and then spit it out like it is a pip. It is gross and the eye doesn't taste good anyways.

After dinner the girls got massages. It is the first Thai massage I have ever had and it was incredible. The other girls went for foot and leg massages. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we went for a second. They convinced me to try the foot massage and they got head/neck/shoulder massages. After, we chatted with the massage girls who were awesome and so sweet. Then it was off to a great night's sleep.

What could be better then that day? Waking up the next morning to a hike through the island jungle to a waterfall and swimming in the cool pool at its base. It was wonderful to wash away the humidity driven sweat of the hike with a bath in an inner-island paradise. After, we sat on the rocks. Then we made our way back through the jungle to a lunch of incredible rotisserie chicken and a lesson in eating sticky rice.

Back in the van, over the ferry, onto the highway. We delved farther into the borders of Thailand to Pattaya and our home for the next few weeks.

This last weekend the gang went to Siem Reap to see more ancient temple ruins than I can count...on one hand. But that is a lot of ancient temples in one place! The largest was the famous Angkor Wat. But my favorite of the ruins is the one we visited on Sunday (I'll get back to you on the name). We crawled up/over/through/under it. It was semi-extreme rock climbing in an Indiana Jones set! Not a real set. But it was very romantic. I could have stayed and lived like a Cambodian Thoreau in the ruins.

We eat white rice with an assortment of veggies, fruits, meats and nuts. Everything a girl needs to slim down a bit. It really is a shame that the beer is so cheap. Diet out the window!

I have very little to say at this point. I can't decide what to write about. But someday soon I will take a break from moto-riding, monkey petting, ruin clambering, and general Cambodian hooliganary style life to post a proper blog. Until then, my friends...

Less than two days in Cambodia and I already feel at home. The recent past of the Cambodia people is filled with sorrow and blood but driving down the street everybody smiles at you. There is a "Russian" closed market where it is so compact that you can get lost wondering the narrow people-packed passageways. Then, suddenly, you are in a long open space filled with low tables and cooking food. We visited the genocide museum and the killing fields on our first day. Welcome to Cambodia, does your heart hurt yet? On day two we visited the Silver Pagoda: the highest point in the city. It is a functioning Watt and depicts the four stages of Buddha's ascension; and the Royal Palace: equipped with incredible buildings and art, over two-hundred monkeys, and a banana greedy elephant.

Staying with me in the Villa is Elaine, the 70-something British widow who spent most of her life in Spain with her husband, kids, and their olive trees; Molly, the Australian pixie who spent the last few months with her father and his Thai wife in Bankok; and John, the strange guy from Texas/Maine.

Cambodia is incredible. I love it and may stay here instead of heading to Thailand. Not that I wont visit this countries neighbors. It reminds me in Senegal in so many ways. The architecture (of the non-palace/watt buildings), the motorcycles, the boutiques up and down the road, the bartering, the heat and humidity, even some of the plants. There is a constant fragrance of flowers in bloom in the air and small Buddhist shrines scattered throughout the streets. And the guy in the boutique on our block serves us energy drinks in plastic sacks with ice and a straw. He keeps the bottles and we get room for ice. It is awesome until somebody points out that it looks like we are drinking a sack of urine. Haha!

My journey to Denver started as most journeys start: with a book. I picked up "Three Cups of Tea" at the Salt Lake airport during my layover and I read the first few chapters on the plane with a feeling that something incredible was in the works. The anticipation of a series of life-changing moments built up in my blood stream. Not the kind of moments that change the course of your life, but how you initiate that first meeting. The hello, salut, and as-salaam alaaikum that we great our forks with as we take our first steps down their detours.

If we are honest, journeys never start with the setting out. Their source is in the decision that leads to the moment of departure. I decided on a Sunday, I think, during a sleepless night. I set out on a following Tuesday. I was home by a few-days-later Friday. I decided to see The Idan Raichel Project in concert at the University of Denver.

I have so many reasons. All of them complex and interconnected. I have no use to state them here. Needless to say, they led me to Denver, Colorado. A city I had only ever heard tell of, but never seen. I walked its streets. Well, the two or three between my hotel and the concert hall. Road its busses and trains. Spoke with its people. I didn't really care about it. It wasn't impressive or special. It was just another US city. I give credit to the mountains to its west. The Rockies are beautiful.

The concert was incredible. People ranging from ages five to eighty came to see this Israeli band. Some had never heard of Idan Raichel and his project, but held season tickets at the auditorium and figured 'why not? it sounds interesting'. Others, like me and around the same age, came to see a band they treasured. There were many Jewish people wearing their faith proudly on the top of their heads. They came with their families; their parents, spouses, and children. And more still came: immigrants, students, and visitors from Israel to see their own dread locked prodigy and his band of sensational artists. The music inspired. Older woman clapping their hands, middle aged men dancing in their seats, children near the stage twirling to the rythms of different worlds. Powerful is only one of many words.

After the concert I had a borderline panic-type conversation with my mother about purchasing a very expensive taxi or finding the nearby train station that I hadn't located before dark. In the middle of an exasperating senence a man approached me and offered me a ride to the train station. He and his wife and their two friends had come to the concert and were about to leave. He seemed honest. Nice. The first smiling face I had seen.

Don't misunderstand me. The music brought people together the way only music can. But before the concert and after, no one smiled at me. No one cared who I was. Even if they were alone, they didn't act interested in conversing. It is a very American thing, to be standoffish in entry ways. There must not be any use to meet somebody that you probably wont be sitting by in the hall. Best to wait until you find your seat and chat with your neighbors. More efficient, but much less...human.

I decided to take that ride.

While walking to the car we spoke. They asked where I was from and I said Portland. When they expressed, what one might say a normal reaction, their surprise that I would fly from Oregon to Colorado just to see a concert, I explained that I had been living in West Africa and came home when my fiancé was killed. The music of the Idan Raichel Project was something Isaa and I had shared after dinner in the African evenings. I mentioned them earlier in this blog when I was flying back to the states from Dakar. Their music was in my ears during my loving and my loss. I said my comming was a tribute to that time Isaa and I shared.

...The next comment is where things became interesting.

-"Where in West Africa? Our daughter is in Senegal right now."

-"Really?! I was in Senegal. What is she doing there?"

-"She is in the Peace Corps."

-"No! I was in the Peace Corps. What is her name?"

-"I don't think you would know her. She has only been there for three months. Her name is Tamar."

-"Tamar Rosenstein! I was in her stage that left three months ago."

-"Ah! Your the girl she said came home."

Hugs all around.

Tamar, your parents are incredible people. I talked with your mother about you, the Peace Corps, and care packages. I had espresso with you father and we discussed news companies. I slept in your room. In your bed. And your father drove me to the airport at four in the morning. It turns out that I like Denver after all. It is a small world. An incredible, small world.

I could write more, but the story speaks for itself. I will leave it with a quote from "Three Cups of Tea":

No human, nor any living thing, survives long under the eternal sky. The

most beautiful women, the most learned men, even Mohammed,

who heard Allah's own voice, all did wither and die. All is temporary.

The sky outlives everything. Even suffering.

- Bowa Johar, Balti Poet

I was accepted into the LanguageCorps TESOL program starting on February 1st, 2009. I am very excited about the certification program in Cambodia and about teaching in Thailand for about a year. Part of the program is an excursion to Angkor Wat and I can't wait!

I am in the process of applying for a TESOL program and teaching gig in Southeast Asia. It will (in'shallah) mean a month of TESOL classes in Cambodia (and a trip to Angkor Wat) and a year teaching English in Thailand. I am really excited about the prospect and hope that I am accepted into the program. I don't want to say more and jinx the whole thing. But I think I need this. I wasn't ready to leave Africa. I am not ready to be back stateside. I really think this is what I need right now. Don't worry...I am not running away. Just finding away to continue living.

I dive deeper into life. I am working now on a TEFL certification, which I will (inshallah) use to get a job teaching English overseas somewhere. I am hoping the Middle East, but SE Asia sounds fun as well. I am not ready to be back in the states. I am doing everything I can to keep busy so I am trying to make a new future. A future for me and only me. The thought breaks my heart. But I met Isaa because I chose to live my life. I am not going to fear it after this. I have experienced love and loss. As much as the loss hurts, the love was worth it. An Ayn Rand quote sums it up.

"This is my pride: that now, thinking of the end, I do not cry like all the men of my age: but what was the use and the meaning? I was the use and meaning, I. That I lived and that I acted."

As I write this I am on a plane somewhere between New York City and Salt Lake City. I have had a rough week as many of you know. A week that I don't need to recount. One of the things I have been struggling with the most is the past tense. My brain is framing sentences about Isaa in the past tense and I am constantly doing battle with it because I don't want it to be the past tense. It is a battle that I was loosing. But writing in my journal on the plane while listening to The Idan Raichel Project's "Siyaishaya Ingoma" (Sing Out For Love) I wrote down the line 'I love him'. And it dawned on me that that sentence will never be framed in the past tense. Not that one. I honestly smiled to myself for the first time all week because after this realization an incredible calm swept over me. What I was left with were incredible memories of the two of us together. And I was happy.

I realize now that I will be okay. I still hurt unbearably, but those memories still make me happy. Happy as if he were still here. They are tainted by loss and absence, but they are still beautiful. They are still the holy moments that they always were. Love is never past tense.

Isaa Sekk is the man I fell in love with. He worked in my village and was Ibrayma's (my dad) best friend. The three of us spent all of our time together. It was an incredible time in my life.

I tried to rationalize away my feelings for him because I thought it was insane to be so attracted to a man after being in a foreign country for a couple of weeks. I thought, well maybe I am just lonely. I wasn't really lonely. I thought, well maybe it is just an intense crush and it will go away. It didn't. I thought, avoid this and if you still want to date there are plenty of guys in the world later. The problem is that I didn't want to date. I didn't want a man. I found myself attracted to nobody else. It was just Isaa. I lost my heart in a split second. Despite my efforts, I knew from the beginning that this man was different.

We started dating, modestly and quietly. Only a handful of people knew and that is what we wanted. It has been about a month now that we have been together. I was the happy with him. Insanely happy. Eventually we started talking about the future. Not too intensely because we thought we had two years. We had time. But we intended (inshallah - allah willing) to eventually get married. When I decided to go home I knew that I wanted him to follow me. We were great together. Our personalities, our sense of humor, the way we viewed life. To be honest, I am not sure he was really a Senegalese man. Obviously he was, but he was different.

I had intended to spend my last weekend in my village to say goodbye to my family and to be with Isaa. But his uncle died so he spent that weekend at his village. I was supposed to leave early on Monday morning and he wasn't free until late Sunday night. So we planned to meet at the forage at 6 am. He set up everything so that he could leave early and be there to see me off. We were going to talk about how to claim that future we wanted together. Ibrayma unlocked the forage and let me in. He waited for Isaa with me for about an hour and then had to leave. I waited until about 10 am. I just waited. I was frustrated, but I knew I wasn't being stood up. He had told Ibrayma that he had to be there at 6 to see me because he wanted to marry me. Isaa had been having problems with his motorcycle and he has no way to charge his phone in his village so it often runs out of batteries. Maybe he just got stuck and couldn't call. I was really disappointed that I didn't get to say goodbye. That I didn't get to see him.

That afternoon I returned to Thiès. I spent the evening saying goodbye to my friends in the Peace Corps. The next morning I got the phone call. Isaa had been hit by a car on his way to the forage. They didn't find him until a few hours later and took him to the hospital, but he didn't get there soon enough. He died Monday night.

I don't know how to write this to express how much it hurts. There are no words. I can't breathe because there is a pressure on my chest. I have fits of crying where I can't stop. It has taken me three days to be able to write anything and I only write it now so that I don't have to go through the pain of retelling this story over and over again.

The only man I have loved like this. The only man I have ever wanted to marry. The only man I have ever considered having children with. My boyfriend, my lover, my friend...my fiancé. Isaa is gone. And for the first time I am afraid to face an absolute.

The next couple of blog posts are going to be hard and many of you have some insight to what is going on. But I thought I would start at the beginning.

I am coming home. I love Senegal. The Peace Corps is a great program. I think that I would do great at this job. But I am not excited. I am not really happy. You can't do this job when you are not that into doing it. This is my life. This is it. This Peace Corps is everything that I expected it to be. I just reacted differently than I thought I would. Not bad. Just different. I want to do something with my life. Just not this.

The second factor (these aren't in order of importance, just ease of explanation) is that my Grandfather is very sick. I tried to handle this, but I am taking it hard. I would like to see him.

The third factor is that Peace Corps was a means to an end for me. I wanted to use this experience to propel myself into graduate school in Political Anthropology. I future that I no longer want. It changes my perspective of doing two years of development work here.

I have been sick a lot during training and when you are sick it is really hard to stay positive about living in an underdeveloped country. When I felt healthy I loved it here. I really really did. I waited until I was feeling good and back on track with training to think about early termination so that I could identify the right reasons for staying or leaving.

It turns out that one of the only reasons I wanted to stay was for Isaa Sekk, which isn't a good enough reason to stay in the Peace Corps. The two should not be connected. The next post will be about Isaa so that you all know.