Proud farmers display their produce

The school garden was a great success last year. After our harvest of string beans and turnips we planted and reaped lettuce, tomatoes, sweet peppers, hot peppers, and carrots. We had such a bountiful harvest that we could not use all of the vegetables at the school. We sent some of the produce to the local shops and market and a lot of it to needy families. The profits from the garden will be used towards seeds and fertilizer for this school year and for the school nutrition program (more to follow). We are looking forward to planting more string beans, carrots, tomato, broccoli, and lettuce within the next month. Our sweet pepper and hot pepper plants are still bearing along with scallion and thyme the key ingredients in every Jamaican dish.

A local shopkeeper sells our tomatoes in his shop and at the market

Yesterday was the second full week of school. School let out early on Friday afternoon, as usual. I stayed later to let students swap library books. They were excited because they get to take two books on the weekends. However, after library time was long gone I was surprised to see a group of students still hovering in the school yard, debating the differences between sharks and dolphins. This is a Friday afternoon! Don't you want to go home throw off your school uniforms and have some fun? I guess I shouldn't have been. Jamaican children love school. In Westphalia at least children would much rather be in school than at home. Summer was boring and they are so happy to be back in school again. The teachers tell me it's because they have too many chores to do at home. I'm not sure what it is but Shhh! don't tell them they're not supposed to like it!

At the end of last year I asked my students if they wanted to continue reading classes over the summer, expecting them to say no. Another surprise: yes miss! How many days a week would you like to have them? Everyday miss! But you wouldn't want to have it all day, just for about an hour or so? All day miss! We compromised with reading class Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday mornings and swimming lessons at the river on Fridays when most children help their parents on the farm. Swimming lessons were large and sometimes more fun than swimming. Reading classes were small but successful. Between November and July one student improved by 3 grade levels, two students improved 2 grade levels, and 8 students improved 1 grade level. Most of them are still below grade level, but hopefully that will change this year!

Mondays, Saturdays, and some Sundays were dedicated to water work days with a core group of men in the community laying water pipe to the school. Thanks to Appropriate Projects my fellow Peace Corps Volunteer Daniel McDonald's parents Judy and Doug McDonald, the National Water Commission, and community members the pipe has nearly reached the school (only 20 lengths to go!). Work days were frustrating at times due to lack of support, but we have successfully carried, dug trenches for, joined, laid, and buried over 150 20' lengths of pipe.

I also had several visitors this summer. My friends and fellow Peace Corps Volunteers Sammi Travis and Patrick Marti came on a river day. Two new Peace Corps Volunteers Sarah Marshall and Crystal Aeppli came and helped Fitzroy and I weed out the garden and carry two inch pipe on their shoulders - what great sports. Thank you guys!

Mom and Dad enjoying Jamaica's natural beauty.

Finally, my PARENTS came to visit me in Jamaica. Which was BIG NEWS in Westphalia. My parents kept asking "When can we come visit?" My community kept asking "When are mommy and daddy going to come look for you?" and I was the major stone in the road keeping these two groups from meeting each other. They come very different worlds and I, living somewhere between the two, was afraid I would be mortified by their interactions. However these two forces were bigger than me, and they arrived mid-July. My fears were misplaced. My parents were wonderfully flexible. They stayed in Westphalia for a few days and took bucket baths like pros! My community members were very welcoming opening up their hearts and homes and sending them on their way with freshly ground coffee. I had wild dreams about us riding bikes through the mountains for two days but when one of the valves on the tubes sprung a leak we had to content ourselves with a rusty old truck ride. At one point during the ride, Dad looked down through the holes in the rusted out bottom of the truck to see a fire below his seat. Luckily, our driver was a mechanic and after whacking the battery with a wrench a few times it was as good as new. I am used to drivers moonlighting as a mechanics but my parents were remarkably cool about it as well. We had several more adventures far from the traditional all-inclusive Jamaican vacation including touring a bammy factory and swimming in one of Jamaica's many "blue holes" which are gorgeous clear blue water usually with a waterfall as a backdrop. We topped it off with the highlight of my summer - turtles. We helped 148 baby turtles hatch and watched a mother lay another 100 something eggs. I got to swim out to sea with the babies until they tucked their flippers into their sides and drifted out with the current.

There were literally HANDFULLS of turtles. They are so determined and independent from birth - they know exactly where the ocean is and head straight for it. As we say in Jamaica "Dem no business wit nobody."

Fitzroy, my community counterpart and right hand man for our water project and school garden, and I also got to do some traveling including visiting his daughter in Trinityville, St. Thomas and going to the yearly Jamaican Agriculture show in Denbigh, Clarendon. All in all, it was an enjoyable summer and I'm excited for school to be back in session again!Den den, Fitzroy and I pretending riding Jamaica's newly reinstated train at Denbigh.

Pipes donated by Appropriate Projects were buried to provide clean water to the school.

Parents paint the school yard walls in Westphalia All Age School's colors: green and gold.

May 23rd was Jamaica's Labor Day. Labor Day in Jamaica is not a random day off like in America, it is a day of labor for the community. Parents and children from all over the district flocked to the school on Monday to paint, clean, and lay pipe. The school looks so much brighter now, thanks to everyone's hard work!

Students, present and past, working together to help their school.

Courtney and Joshua help stretch two gallons of paint to cover all the walls

Carnival Paraders take a break after several hours of walking in the hot Kingston sun.

Just before attending mid-service conference I got to witness Jamaica’s carnival. Carnival is a Caribbean tradition which originally started in Trinidad and Tobago and involves scantily clad men and women dancing in drunken orgies to ward off duppies or evil spirits. Needless to say it was quite and experience. It was different from most Jamaican parties in a few key ways 1) it was during the day 2) it was moving (a parade) and 3) people were dancing the whole time. It was like a giant conga line all throughout Kingston! I went with a busload of people from my community, most of them men in their early twenties (or to steal a term from Taylor, a fellow volunteer, the idle bwois). Up until the trip I’d had a hard time interacting with them. I’m mostly friends with the kids (15 and below) and the grandparents (40 and up). The kids are still innocent, fun, and up for anything and the grandparents are mature enough to carry on a decent conversation. When I'm talking to women my age the conversation usually peters out after I ask how their children are. If the men don't try to hit on me, the conversation usually stops right after hello.Going out with the idle bwois was a real bonding experience. We caught the parade in New Kingston, near to the Peace Corps Jamaica head office, an area I am very familiar with. For the first time, I was showing Jamaicans around Jamaica, a wonderful feeling! I kept them from getting lost and they saved me from a creepy clown who talked in a high pitched squeaky voice. Of course the majority of our interactions since that day have been us saying the same greetings as always but in the creepy clown voice. The conversation isn't exactly gushing forth, but hey, a bridge was crossed and I don’t feel so uncomfortable walking through the square anymore.

The past few months (January – March) were very difficult for me. I just got back from our mid-service (yes its been a year!) conference where we talked about the volunteer life cycle and the one year slump. Most volunteers have a difficult time right around the one year mark. It was definitely a slump but I’m pleased to announce I’m on the way up and out! The biggest contributing factor was my recent trip to the U.S. for Easter. Thank you, thank you, thank you to my family for listening to me complain and giving me so many pep talks. I am energized and ready to dig into the second year of service! It should be noted that most of my community says foreign was good to me, that I’m glowing now, and also that I look so fat and pretty (a major compliment in Jamaica). I was really trying not to go home for the full two years in order to totally immerse myself if something different, but I didn’t make it. I managed to explain to my community that no, I don’t have money my family is paying for the ticket (sorry Mom and Dad you might get begged big-time when you get here) but I still heard a lot of ridiculous requests. Foreign is a magical land where geese lay golden eggs and ipods grow on trees. So I was SUPPOSED to carry back several computers, three pairs of shoes, a blackberry, pizza, a variety of gourmet cheeses, pounds of broccoli seed and a few mp3 players. I ended up bringing 100 lbs of used books that students from Loomis Elementary School generously donated and some soaps and candles that we had gotten at one time or another and never used. It was tricky, but I think I managed to walk the fine line between every parent in the district asking me to pay their child’s school fees and insulting someone close to me because I didn’t “carry something back for them (do please do).” The Jamaican pleading “do” and “come now” are so hard to say no to! Grades 6-9 pose for a class picture with their new books on Literacy Day 2011 Bringing the books to the school was a major feat which involved a car, one airplane, three taxis, two buses, and 17 hours of travel time. It also included me getting stranded in downtown Kingston (yeah the dangerous part of the island) after dark and two very kind strangers, angels really, each carrying a 50 lb box of books about 7 blocks for me. To celebrate, we organized a last minute Literacy Day 2011 celebration yesterday which was held, you guessed it, today! As a procrastinator, Jamaican planning is just my style! It was a huge success. All the students are SUPER excited about the new books and better still SUPER excited about reading. The principal and I had to forcibly herd the children out of the library appeasing them with promises that they could check a book out on Thursday once they have been organized. Reading, books, and more reading! Everything is looking up. We’re going to build shelves for the books, move the library into a bigger room, and put in a computer with reading games. Our garden is looking fantastic (who knew everything could grow so much in three weeks?!) and students are EATING VEGETABLES EVERY DAY and even taking some home for the rest of their family. Also, even though the National Water Commission is full of false promises and bureaucracy it looks like not all hope is gone for the community water project after all. Hopefully, more on that is to come. Until then, our eyes are wide and dreamy and we look fat and pretty!

This past weekend was a big one for my host family. Lion's Canadian boss came to visit Jamaica and took all his Jamaican farmhands out on the western side of the island. I went to Falmouth with my host mom to celebrate my one year anniversary on the island with some other Peace Corps volunteers. When they both returned home, I overheard the comparison of their trips and resultant exposure to "how white people stay." The things that I heard filled my head with questions. I jotted down a few outstanding quotes. "Black people selfish. White people giving." "White people nice and loving, black people a sh*t." "These [white] people don't have money either but they still go out and see the place. White people interesting more than black people. They enjoy life more." "White people treat we better than black people."

Color stereotyping is rampant in Jamaica, especially in the country. Light skin means intelligence, beauty, and success. Darker skin is associated with laziness, ignorance, and crime. Good hair is straight and long. Bad hair is short and curly. Parents tell their children that they are black and ugly. Some men and women use laundry "cake soap" which contains bleach to lighten their skin. Many women weave extensions into their hair or cream their hair to make it straight. African Americans deal with these same issues especially in urban areas, and many sociologists say that these attitudes stem from colonialism and slavery. However, this was different. Adults were justifying their intangible racist ideas with me as a real life example. When I tried to argue that color had nothing to do with it my host mom scoffed and reproachfully told me that black people are worthless. How can someone live forty-four years and think that about themselves?

Children's voices carry the most fundamental ideas of a culture. The children often tell me that I'm not like other adults or teachers. I play with them, give them attention, and don't beat them. To them, those qualities are inextricably linked to the fact that I'm white and have "pretty tall hair." My neighbors and community leaders tell me they need more white people in their country to make it a better place. I find myself wishing I could perm my hair, dye my skin brown, and prove that personal qualities and color are not related. Maybe shaving my head would show the young girls that you don't have to have long hair to be pretty or nice or respectful.

Interestingly, I have encountered the opposite attitude amongst wealthier and better educated Jamaicans. This is a hopeful sign that changes are beginning, but these changes are still nascent in Jamaica.

We've started harvesting! The school has turnips (radish) and green beans at lunch now. Some of the poorer students are allowed to take vegetables home with them. We've raised J$400 by selling turnips at the market to buy some more seeds. This past week we planted watermellon, tomato, and lettuce seeds along with our sweet pepper suckers. The students are excited to see things growing, the farmers are enjoying teaching the students, and I'm happy to see more nutritious lunches being served.

This Christmas was my first Christmas away from home. ::tear:: I won't lie. At first, it was terrible and lonely. I got back from a hiking trip on Christmas Eve to find that everyone in the house had gone to town to do last minute Christmas shopping. I made myself pancakes for dinner and went to sleep at 8. When you go Christmas shopping in Jamaica you don't focus on buying presents for other people. You shop for new sheets, curtains, and paint. Why? Because the Christmas tradition in Jamaica is similar to the spring cleaning tradition in America. I awoke at around 5 AM to the sound of a couch being used as a battering ram against my door. (Not a problem because I had gone to bed so early the night before). Time to empty out the room, mop the floor, and wash the walls. Six hours later we went on a tour of each others rooms OOoing and Ahhing over the new made-in-china sheets and curtain sets. Also, every room got a new set of lacy doilys which matched the curtains and sheet sets for the top of the bureaus. If you see a home decoration that has "old woman's home" written all over it you can be assured that its the apogee of Jamaican interior decorating style. For our community's womens' group gift exchange I made sure to get a faceted pitcher set that my great grandmother would love. Yes, I was upset that instead of spending Christmas morning opening presents I spent it scrubbing the floor. However, the morning of hard work was soon rewarded with Christmas fruit cake, (Much better than American fruit cake: its moist.) sorrel, (a purple drink made from this and ginger) and Christmas wine (always administered with the precaution "Mind yuh drunk yuh know."). The afternoon was spent visiting neighbors, relatives and friends and begging the three aforementioned Christmas delicacies. By evening, you could tell that some of our visitors had visited most of the 116 households in the district.

After Christmas dinner (gungo peas and rice, fried chicken, and salad) I joined some of my community members in the shop out front for a Christmas drink of Dragon Stout, Supligen, and white overproof rum all mixed together. It tastes better than it sounds. We put on "holdies" or old time reggae and started dancing, which, as people who know me know is one of my favorite pastimes. One of my best friends in my community, Fitzroy (farmer, red cross volunteer, genuinely nice person) convinced me to go to a party, which I normally avoid due to incessant sexual harassment, saying he would be my protector. He stayed true to his word and we danced until morning. We visited with friends, watched a machete fight caused by two drunken youths stoning a woman's house, and had a genuinely good time.

The next day was the Christmas tree lighting hosted by the chruch. A Jamaican Christmas tree lighting is basically like a talent show to raise funds for the church. The hostess calls random audience members names. If she calls yours you must sing a song. If you can't sing, you dance. If you can't dance, you pay money. As I entered the church one of my friends warned me, "You know they're going to call your name tonight. You better think about what you are going to sing." He was right. As I walked up to the front of the church, I reached my hand into my pocket to pull out the cash I had stored there after hearning the warning. However, once I got up there I had a sudden burst of courage. I found myself saying, "I'll dance." So, to a standing ovation and a lively reggae beat I started dancing. I think I brought more funds than anyone else that night because they called me up for an encore. The rest of the service was wonderful with candlelight singers, skits, raffling of presents off the tree, and the gift exchange. I got a Spencer's gift style revolving lamp with fish on it. Joy to the World!

My days seem to consist of several moments of complete confusion strung together by alternating bouts of comprehension and helplessness. I have come to the conclusion that this confusion and helplessness are largely due to my education and living on my own. I have been training my whole life to block out distractions, concentrate on the task at hand, working on computers and in books. I'm very good at blocking out distractions. So good, that I don't see so-and-so's truck parked by the school or notice the new rain-catchment tank in the neighbor's yard. The Jamaicans in my community have superhuman observation skills. A red dot on a hillside is Ms. Daisy. They can hear the bus on the road from over a mile away (although once my host sister did confuse it with a tractor). One woman in the district who is particularly observant (and particularly gossipy) can glance into a passing bus and can tell you exactly who is leaving Westphalia, where they are going, and about what most everyone is doing there. News in general spreads extremely fast here, which I guess might be characteristic of most small towns. (Westphalia had about 500 people.) It's great for advertising community meetings but often leaves me feeling out of the loop. For example, the other day I was wrapping up a conversation with a friend so that I could visit with a neighbor down the street. When I mentioned where I was going, the friend said "Oh that neighbor isn't at home. I think he's at the nine-night in Resource." When I asked him how he knew he said that he heard his voice a while back while were were talking, and the obvious place for him to be going at this hour was the nine-night. He probably got there about 15 minutes ago. Didn't you see a lot of people going up the road through that hole in the bamboo fence? No, I was paying attention to our conversation. I didn't see anyone going up the road, and I didn't hear anyone's voice either. Are you sure it was him? Sure enough, as the neighbor picked up my phone call I could hear the duppy band in the background. He was at the nine-night.

I have had a great many humbling experiences in Peace Corps so far. Not only have I been training to block out distractions my whole life, I've also gotten used to living on my own for the past five years. Now I'm going from cooking for one to cooking for 11. The pot is a lot harder to stir! Turning on a sink is a lot easier than pouring water from a large basin. I'm really fast at working on computers and with spreadsheets, but I'm pretty slow at hand washing. I can open a can easily with a can opener, but the school doesn't have one. It turns out I'm pretty clumsy with a knife. Probably the number one skill that Peace Corps Volunteers should have is skill with a knife. Other skills that would come in handy are construction, farming/machete weilding, and carrying things on your head. In any case, I'm lousy at all these pratical skills. I never realized that I lived such a stoosh life. All of these changes coupled with the stereotype that white people are weak result in me hearing "No, you can't manage that." several times a week. Most of the time its people taking care of me and protecting me, but it gets frustrating sometimes to hear that. Right now there are some things that I can't manage. Hopefully though, at the end of two years, I'll come back swining a machete with a bucket of water on my head, and my community will be literate and have piped water.

Everyone in Jamaica has been listening to the weather with rapt attention for the past week as Tropical Storm Tomas was approaching the island. Peace Corps consolidated the three "most remote" volunteers on the island which, unfortunately, I was one of. Being a volunteer through Peace Corps has many advantages. Complete medical coverage, language training, security and housing support, etc. However, you are also at the beck and call of the Peace Corps. I didn't really have a say on whether I would move from Negril, or on whether I would consolidate.

Luckily, the storm passed over Westphalia with some rain and a slight breeze without damaging anything or anyone. However, we made sure to take all the necessary precautions. I got the call from Peace Corps and packed my bag with all my important papers and possessions. I put all my remaining belongings on my bed, covered them with a tarp, and tied it tightly to the four bed posts. That way, if the roof came off nothing would get wet or fly around the room in the wind. We also made sure to secure the roofs of our houses. Wednesday was spent shoveling rocks into bags, lugging them up the ladder, and placing them around the border of the roof. The sound of hammers echoed all over the community as we happily nailed sheets of zinc over all the windows. Pictures will follow the next time I have access to internet, but I'm heading back up to my community now!

GG uses his machete to dig a hole for a schotch bonnet pepper sucker.

The school has talked about starting a garden for a long time. This past week it finally began! Community members brought tools, knowledge, and expertise. The school brought the seed and fertilizer, and the students brought the labor and their questions. So far we've cleared some land, started a compost heap, and planted hot pepper, coco, sweet pepper, plantain, and flowers. We'll use the produce in the school kitchen and if there is left over food we'll send it home with the children that might need it. We've been having a lot of fun even in the rain. I just hope they start listening to my pleading "Please don't run with the machete!!"

Fitzroy shows the students how to protect the sweet pepper nursery from the rain with banana leaves.

The view from the school yard yesterday afternoon. This is only half of the rainbow!

I'm still having a wonderful time in Westphalia. I've started learning more about the people who live there: how they act, what they like, and all the familial relations. In some cases, too much. A past principle threatened me with a gun after I wouldn't help him embezzle funds. These are my children but that one was an accident with a prostitute. His mother went to jail for throwing her baby into a pit latrine. I caught those third graders having sex the other day. She stole from him and blamed it on the other guy. My stepfather is trying to sleep with me. Look at his stomach (lifts up his shirt) he just had surgery! That boy steals my crops all the time! I don't know why after seeing me for a month people approach me with all this information. Is it because I'm white? A peace corps volunteer? Would tell these things to any stranger who visits the community? This happened a bit when I was in Negril, but its much more frequent here.I never really know what to say or how to react. Sometimes I just change the subject. A teacher at the school told me she never acts the information that she hears because she doesn't know it is true. If a child is legitimately confiding in me shouldn't I at least investigate? How would that affect my reputation and my role as a Peace Corps Volunteer? How would I even go about doing anything if there aren't any local authorities in the community? For now I'm listening, forgetting some information, and being as supportive as I can without involving other people. Smiling faces after eating birthday cake and ice cream.

I recently went to my first Jamaican funeral with Mr. Campbell, or as his friends call him "Youn." He is the president of the farmer's group in Westphalia. His son-in-law's father who lived in the neighboring community of Resource had died at 80 in late September.

Most people in Westphalia will dress up for church but wear their "slippers" (flip flops). They carry ther shoes in a scandal bag (plastic bag) to change into once they get to the event so that they don't get mud on their shoes from the dirt roads. So, off I went dressed in my Sunday best, shoes in my right hand, umbrella in my left. We both made sure to carry our umbrellas, as the frost was thick when we left the house. (Frost = fog in Westphalia.) Even though we both "wouldn't mind if the rain never fall" it did.

It is a long journey from Westphalia to Resource which can be made a little shorter by taking a shortcut. After asking several farmers we found the shortcut and started down the little trail. Everything was fine until the rain started. The steep dirt track turned into a slip and slide. Before I knew it I was doing a backbend with both my hands on the ground behind me. In trying to save my dress from getting dirty, (I wouldn't want to perpetuate the stereotype that white people are dirty.) I had sacrificed my thumb. I wrapped Mr. Campbell's sweat rag around my thumb and grasped my umbrella tightly to stop the bleeding. We stumbled the rest of the way to Resource managing to arrive relatively clean. We arrived at the grave site and a little old man promptly grabbed my hand and started rubbing it on his belly slurring something uninteligible. I later found out that he was the brother of Sadpha, the deceased. Despite the rain, the church was full. (Jamaicans don't usually go out in the rain.) Sadpha had seventeen children and it was very obvious throughout the service that he was well loved and a great defender of his children. I was surprised to see more smiles than tear, people dancing and clapping along with the songs, and a genuine feeling of celebration in the air. As we climbed the hill back to the gravesite, Mr. Campbell explained to me, "Me don't like look pon no dead. Me don't believe so much inna dead. Nobody nuh nutten when dem dead. Dead don't matta. Yuh only a somebody afore yuh dead."

We arrived back at the gravesite where Sadpha's closest friends could be made out through a haze of ganja smoke, struggling to walk straight, and liberally pouring more rum. A crowd gathered around the sepulchre as the paulbearers slid the casket in and started to lay the final concrete blocks around it. A strong alto strain cut through the fog, "If you miss me...Don't come searching." Harmonies from the rest of the crowd filled out the song. "And if you don't see me. remember I'm gone." I started to think, why are American funerals so sad anyway? Mr. Campbell said it well. A person is only a person when she is alive. Death doesn't matter as much as life.

I got back to Westphalia last Monday. Peace Corps drove me as far as they could, about half way. We were surprised to see that the road had completely collapsed: classic case of the Jamaican understatement - American literalness clash. "I don't really sure about the fish" means "We don't have any fish today." "Do you like cats?" means "Ten cats live at your new home. Are you ok with that?" "Mi soon come" means "I might not get there for an hour." AND "The road block" means "The road has completely collapsed." (Ok, so maybe "soon come" should be in another category along with "When I come back" and "Just a minute." These phrases are great because they are vague. You can use them anytime! They can mean exactly what they sound like, the opposite of what they sound like, or anything in between.)

After walking around the collapsed road, calling every community member I knew, and waiting for a few hours, I managed to charter a taxi up the hill. The ride was bumpy, but the driver was very good. There were two turns that made me hold my breath. The rains had washed out much of the dirt below the road. I understood why the driver had refused to take more than one. A few pounds more and we would end up in the river! The car took me as far as it could go: still about an hour's walk from home. I lugged my bags with the help of my new community members, feeling silly that I collected so many books at the Peace Corps Conference.

Today, I ventured out of the community to work on a water project with Adam, a fellow PCV in Clarendon. The road had been filled in by community members with tires, stones, and dirt. It's great that the road is passable now, but everyone says that a better solution is needed. This is the second time that the road has collapsed there. The first time they repaired the road in the same way so the next heavy rain will wash out the road again. Power was restored on the 5th

The past two weeks in Westphalia have been WONDERFUL. I've been visiting the school, hauling water from the river, learning to pick coffee, caring for the 9 puppies in my yard, and introducing my family to Pad Thai. We had our first community meeting last night which over 60 people attended. The community members have big dreams for piped water, smooth roads, a community center, and more employment opportunities. I have my personal dreams of riding my hypothetical donkey named Clementine, raising chickens in the back yard (we're building the coop Saturday with a neighbor!), and wielding a machete like a pro throughout every footpath in the Blue and John Crow Mountains.

The Peace Corps Jamaica country director called me in early August to informed me that my safety and security had been compromised. While Negril is a wonderful spot with a relaxed atmosphere, sunny climate, and low crime rate there is an active sex tourism industry. Part of my work with NEPT involved implementing the Blue Flag Programme at the various resorts to try to encourage eco-tourism as an alternative to sex tourism. The typical sex tourist in Negril is a white woman who finds a dread-locked companion in a union commonly termed "rent-a-rasta." Sexual harassment is present all over the island and is something that you deal with whether you are American, Jamaican, male, or female. However, Negril's sex tourism industry naturally fosters harassment of white females in Negril. While I thought I was handling most situations fairly well, Peace Corps told me that I was no longer safe in Negril and that I had to move.

Due to the situation, I was faced with an opportunity that most Peace Corps Volunteers never get to experience: choosing my own site. My ideal Peace Corps service would be in a small rural area with a strong sense of community. The people would be motivated and hard-working but might lack the formal education or resources required for self-advocacy. I took out my Jamaica road map, looking for towns that were located at the end of a road. I knew that a town at a road's end was sure to be rural. Generally, communities at the end of a road in Jamaica have very little crime because the way into the town is also the way out. I started reading newspaper articles, ministry reports, and lonely planet entries about all the towns I could find. In my search I came across Westphalia. Located in northeastern St. Andrew near Blue Mountain Peak, it has the highest elevation and lowest literacy rate in all of Jamaica. I paid a preliminary visit where I fell in love with the beautiful views and cool weather. I wanted to go there; but did they want me?

The highest settled local community in Jamaica, Westphalia is nestled under Cinchona Botanical Gardens and looks up at Blue Mountain Peak.

Peace Corps called a community meeting to discuss what a Peace Corps Volunteer is, what she does, and to ask if the community would be interested. Though the meeting was held on a afternoon in the middle of the week when most of the community would be working at the farms, 45 people attended and unanimously agreed that they wanted me to live there. As an older Rastafarian farmer said "People better than money."

I moved there last Friday and stayed there over the weekend before having to leave for a Peace Corps conference on the north coast in Ocho Rios on Monday. The first two days at site were wonderful. I didn't get hit on once. The harmonies at church were IN TUNE. My host family is SUPER nice, and I already got an "I love you" hug. An I love you hug is the name I've given to when an older Jamaican woman wraps her arms around you and says "I love you." When kids at the soup kitchen want an I love you hug, they usually say, "hug me up." I'm living with a host family: Miss Bev, her two daughters who are my age, her 17 year old son, her last daughter who is 7 and her 4 grandchildren 3, 5, 5, and 7. My living conditions have gone from air conditioning, hot water, and a grocery store to a pit latrine, bucket baths, and no internet. I'm happy about living simply and falling asleep to donkeys braying instead of loud reggae music. I'm a little homesick for my friends in Negril and the sense of community I had there, but I'm sure it won't take long to get that in Westphalia....once I get back up there...

Jamaica has been in a tropical depression since Tuesday with heavy rains falling on much of the island. There have been flash floods, power outages, and landslides. The power in Westphalia has been gone since Wednesday. The hillsides are very steep and prone to landslides. The road to Westphalia has been blocked in several places, and the bridge over the Yallahs river, just past Mavis Bank is flooded. Luckily everyone in Westphalia community is safe and healthy. They are staying in their houses until the rains stop. There is another system reported to hit Jamaica next week. If it hasn't reached by Monday I think I will try to take the bus to Mavis Bank and walk from there. Most of the people in the area are subsistence farmers. No one will know what state the crops are in until the rain stops. I imagine there will be plenty of work to do by the time I get back!

Blue Mountain coffee in the foreground and the Blue Mountains in the background.

The Negril Rotary Club donated tents for shade

and tables and chairs for seating.

A LOT has happened in the past three months and the St. Anthony soup kitchen looks very different today than it did in June. The most noticeable difference is the lack of children: almost all the children are attending school now! During the past months of my service I met with as many organizations and people in Negril as I could: especially the service organizations. At the meetings I would explain who I am, what organizations I've been working with, and ask them to do the same. Invariably, the soup kitchen got a lot of attention. "What do you mean the children are NOT GOING to school?" All it took was mentioning the kitchen to the community and they were on board. What do you need? How can we help? How can we work together to get these children back into schol? NEET dropped off math and science text books, workbooks, and reading books the next day. The Negril Rotary Club donated tents, tables, and chairs so that the children would not have to fight over the limited chairs and space in the shade. A community artist gave a lesson in drawing. Even a tourist couple from Tennesse read about the soup kitchen online and brought down more school supplies that we ever dreamed we would have. Jeanne Fisher and Joan Cooney (rotarians and community members) started coming weekly to teach the children. Jeanne had taught for many years in Montego Bay and delivered excellent lessons in literacy, numeracy, and of course manners. The soup kitchen had transformed into the NYAM center (Negril Youth Activities and Mentoring center). The final step is reaching the teenage boys who give tourists horse

rides on the beach instead of attending high school. Throughout the summer we harped on the importance of going to school. Why don't you go? I don't have the shoes miss. No uniform miss. No birth papers miss. Community members have donated shoes, clothing, and old school uniforms. Joan Cooney even paid the fee for birth papers for one of the children: an eleven year old girl who doesn't know how to begin to form the letters to write her name because she has never been to school. She went to school for the first time on Monday complete with shoes and a uniform. Sandy and I work with the students while Brother Tom looks on.

I'm on my way to the soup kitchen, still about 20 yards away when I hear it "Teacher!" I look up to see about 20 smiling faces bobbing towards me. Shrieks of joy and I'm surrounded in a giant bear hug. Arms at all heights are grabbing my things. Let me tek yuh books, yuh bags, yuh bokkle. My heart melts as I smile back. Today is going to be tough.

A what dis word b-e-a-k? Sound it out. What sound does B make? Whoa, watch the shirt as a sticky three year old pulls his way up into my arms. Miss, miss! Look miss! Cyar, cat, rat, hat. I can get a sticker now miss? Whoops dodge the soccer ball flying at my head. Miss, I cyan ave a likke ice water? Styrofoam cup pieces fly from Kashwayne's mouth onto little Ricardo, the same three year old who was trying to scale my leg earlier. Here it comes: smack, smack. Blows fly back and forth. Theresa of course steps in to defend her brother and now three arms are flying. Some beaks are small. Some beaks are for p-p- Do you remember what we said about hitting? Use your words!

They love showing off for the camera.

This is the parking lot of the the local soup kitchen. The children...well my neighbor Ms. Beulah calls them "street children." Sandy (a fellow PCV) and I call them the soup kitchen children. They aren't in school because they can't afford it. (School is free in Jamaica but you have to have shoes, a uniform, lunch money, taxi money...) Many of them come from troubled homes. There are more of them every day. They range from ages 2 to 16 and are at all different levels. They are the most challenging and most rewarding part of my day.

What am I doing there? Well, it started with Sandy and I trying to fill in for some of what they are missing by not going to school. We play math games, read stories, talk about science, make maps, and study calendars. We've also started treating some cuts and scrapes and Sandy even started treating their animals too! The children have been very responsive, asking for "school" on the days that the soup kitchen isn't open.

First it was just the young children, then the teenagers started coming.

Now, the puppies come too!

From surveying the community we realize that the ultimate goal of this project is to get the children back into school and we are simply filling a temporary gap and serving as mentors. In fact, that's what Sandy has named it: the Negril Youth Activities and Mentoring Center, or the NYAM center. Nyam is patois for eat, similar to the english expression "chow down."

A cross country team's service trip had a positive impact through playing soccer.

I think about the students all the time, and have great dreams for the NYAM center. The vision is to introduce the students to community members (some of whom have already expressed interest) and facilities (we have trips to the fire department and health center lined up) so that they have positive role models in their life and that they can learn to take care of themselves using their community resources. A cross country team from the states came for a service trip. They had a really positive impact playing soccer with them, so a sports league might be a key element of the center as well. People are noticing the work that we do at the soup kitchen. I'm starting to get called "teach" on the streets even though most of my days are spent doing environmental work. When I was first assigned to Negril, Jamaica with the Peace Corps I was afraid there wouldn't be need. I'm realizing how unfounded my fears were. I'm happy to have found the soup kitchen children. Some mornings I'm tempted to yell "Students!" and run to them before they can get to me.

Lunch time!

Sandy helps the children arrange themselves for lunch

while Ms. Velma, one of the "soup kitchen ladies" looks on.

The police captured Dudus on Wednesday. He waived his rights to trial in Jamaican court and is now in the US. He probably did this in order to get out of Jamaica as soon as possible. His father died in a Jamaican prison, killed by co-conspirators who didn't want their identity unveiled. The arrest came as a surprise to everyone. It was non-violent and everything in Kingston has remained relatively calm since then.

Comic by Clovis from the Jamaica Observer

However, the real story was revealed by the the cartoon and comments which accompanied the article in the observer. Dudas was wearing a wig to disguise himself as a woman! I was really surprised to see the wig because most Jamaicans are very homophobic. Male friends don't usually touch one another. It is a big insult to say a man moves like a "fish" or is "chi chi" or a "batty man." Apparently he is not the first Jamaican cross-dressing gangster either. As one of the commenters on the Observer article said "I guess when trouble tek yuh, pickney shut do affi fit yuh." (Literally: When trouble takes you a child's shirt will have to fit you.)

An extreme example of anti-homosexual sentiment. I took this picture in a local taxi. A lot of Jamaicans will write things on their cars in white letters (usually on the outside). Bunn is Patois for burn and sadamite is gay person (from sodomy)

The biggest land crab awaits his fate in my bathtub

I have many fond memories crab memories from the jersy shore (as we Philadelphians would say "Down the shore"): cleaning crabs with my grandmother, being yelled at by my Italian great-grandfather Pop-pop "Don't touch-a my crab-a traps!", and sitting with my family picking through crab after crab as the sunset over the bay and the atlantic city skyline lit up the night sky.

On Friday night while leaving a reggae concert on beach road, I saw "wan 'ole 'eap a crab" scurrying up and down the shoulder. These aren't Maryland Blue crabs; they're LAND CRABS. With reggae beats still in my head I started planning an epic hunt. I started asking around about these dinosaurs, finding out everything I needed to know and gaining the advantage on my opponent. You don't catch these crabs with traps because they don't live in the sea. They live in holes on land. They're big. They're ugly. They're dirty, and they're smart. They come out of their holes at night to feed, but usually don't venture very far. As soon as they know you're coming they duck back down into their holes. Land crabs have keen hearing and eyesight so they are a challenege to sneak up on. The best time to catch them is after a heavy rain; their holes flood so all the land crabs come out to breathe.

Bigga hunting crabs with his light and stick

It poured on Saturday night. Soooo...Sunday night was crab night! I called a fellow PCV, Bart to see if he wanted to come crab hunting. Apparently I had done my research well because his landlord Bigga and some other neighbors already had plans to look for crabs in the hills. I was welcome to tag along. We were dropped off by Patrick, a local taxi driver on a random residential street where Bigga had seen crabs before. We turned on our torches (or flashlights) and started sweeping the bushes for beady little land crab eyes. The suspense was quickly lost as we didn't see a singal crab on that street. "It's close to the end of the season" Bigga lamented. We had more luck on the golf course although the two crabs I managed to catch were "wash bawn" meaning they were female and pregnant. The crabs carry their eggs on the outside. Pregnant crabs act strangely. They either don't move at all or they go far from their holes very fast. They are often the ones that get run over by cars as they try to cross the street. They are also the easiest to catch. I was plesantly surprised that my crabbing companions didn't keep the wash bun crabs. Most people I've talked seem to focus more on the immediate rewards (one more fish in my pot) instead of preservation for the future (leave the fish to grow and reproduce).

A "wash bawn" (pregnant) landcrab

Bigga and his friend Bobby seemed to have super human senses. They knew exactly where the crabs were and what they were thinking. They did most of the catching and in the end they had a bag full of about a dozen crabs. Beach road, I thought, tomorrow I'm trying my luck on beach road. I had watched the experts: step on the front of the crab so he can't get you, grab it by the back, then drop it in the bag.

It rained again on Monday afternoon and cleared up just before I left the office. Another perfect land crab night. Bart came over and we armed ourselves with his head lamp and a purple bucket with lid to carry the crabs. I changed into sneakers and we left the house just after dark.

As usual, we got a lot of attention as white people walking down the street. Especially white people walking with a purple bucket and headlamp. "What are you looking for, a taxi?" "No sir!" "Oh, you're looking for crabs" Our new machete-weilding friend in a white t-shirt full of holes made his way towards us. "Lend me your light" he said as he grabbed the head lamp from my hand. I feebly held onto the elastic "No man, we naa need yuh help. We want fi catch crabs ourselves." But my protests were to no avail. He had the light and was on a mission, stabbing crab holes (and sometimes crabs) with his machete. He wouldn't give back the light, so my only option was to follow and grab the crabs after he trapped them with his machete. The rain had brought the crabs out, and after only a few minutes, we had a full bucket. As we said goodbye, the man asked for J$200 as a "tip" for his help. "We never even wanted your help - you took our light!" We didn't have any money, so he insisted we give him the crabs because we "never would have caught them without him." He continued down the road swinging his bucket of crabs cursing loudly to himself "raas, bomba clot, $200"

Back to square one! With a slightly bitter feeling, and realizing we had just scared most of the crabs back into their holes, we set out looking again. Every few feet we were approached by people giving us recipes, wanting to help catch them, and asking lots of questions. Who are we? Where do we come from? Why are we doing something so "local?" We managed to catch two crabs, despite all the attention, and turned back towards home. "I want to catch one more crab on the way back." I said.

Bart looking for crabs

We made friends with Minot who runs a Ital tea stand on the side of the road when he witnessed a crab grab my toe! Luckily Bart could pry it off but I was very glad I wore sneakers! Minot gave me some aloe to soothe my mosquito bites I had inevitably collected by walking through the brush in shorts. He had us try an herbal remedy he made to cure stomach aches and gave me a couple types of grasses to make tea with at home. His generosity and good natured spirit more than made up for our other encounter.

We reached the beginning of beach road, but the only crabs we saw were wash bawn. Through the trees I saw the sweep of flashlights. "How many yuh catch?" I shouted. The proud crabbers opened their bags to reveal about 8 BIG crabs. "Do you want one?" They fished out the biggest one and dropped him into our bucket. "Good luck!" I was satisfied: I had found my third crab on the way home after all.

A whole bag of crab!

That night I hardly slept at all. I kept waking up thinking that the crabs had knocked the bucket over and were running loose in my apartment. Around 2 in the morning they starting scratching around at the bucket. After an hour or so I got so frustrated I put them outside. Who cares if Lucky finds them: I need to sleep. I woke again at 5AM to Lucky barking. Oh no! The crabs! I run outside to see Sandy's face pressed against her screen. The bucket is still standing but Lucky has discovered it. He sniffs at the bucket, but when the crabs start to move he runs away barking. When he almost knocks the bucket over I decide they need to come back inside.

I told the women at the soup kitchen my crabbing adventure and asked them how to cook the crab. Most people either boil them with salt and scotch bonnet or they pick out all the meat and curry them. I didn't have any curry powder and I don't like cleaning crabs while I eat them. So, I decided to cook them like my grandmother cooks Maryland blue crabs: clean them, then sautee them with onions, white wine, and lots of old bay. Two problems: 1) There is no old bay in Jamaica and 2) There was no visible way to pry off the backs like there is with Maryland crabs. The first problem was easily fixed by substituting jerk seasoning (while a little sweeter they smell remarkably similar). I fixed the second problem by boiling the crabs first with the salt and pepper like the soup kitchen ladies prescribed. They were fighters: I had to use my machete to get them into the pot.

Land crabs in my pot

As they boiled a greenish brown scum accumulated on the surface of the water. That can't be healthy. I made sure to scrub all the crabs really well after boiling them to get off the dirt that had accumulated over their lives: again something I hadn't encountered with ocean crabs.

Post-boiling the crabbies hang out in my sink

When they were nice and clean, I cooked them so my family would be proud. They tasted good, but the meat wasn't quite as sweet as the crabs back home. Afterwards, I felt vaguely sick to my stomach. I couldn't tell if I was actually sick or if that was just the feeling that comes from catching strange creatures in a strange land and cooking them yourself. Sandy's sons caught crabs when she lived in the Virgin Islands. She said they kept them for about two weeks feeding them cornmeal to clean their system and coconut to sweeten the meat. Next time, I might try that although I don't know if I would want to keep the beasts for two weeks. All in all it was another great adventure.

Nice and clean and ready to eat

My house (left) Sandy's house (right).

If you zoom in you can see some blackey mangoes hanging between our units.

Mi Yard is actually the name of a local bar. There is a large sign out front where red tube lights illuminate MI YARD through a drifting haze of ganja smoke. Music is usually blaring and a group of Jamaican men can be found around the bar. This is not my yard.

Mi yard is small and quiet but filled with life. There are four housing units. Three of them house Peace Corps volunteers (me, Curt a second year volunteer who leaves in July, and Sandy a third year volunteer and my mentor at NEPT who will be leaving in September). Miss Beulah and her daughter Maureen live in the fourth unit. Miss Beulah runs a shop in the front of the yard next to the street where all the children stop on their way to and from school to buy suck-sucks (bags of frozen juice), sweeties, and other snacks. I found out that suck-sucks are called serve-me-longs if they are frozen because "dem serve yuh long time." Maureen runs a school supply shop right next door. She sells pens, pencils, erasers, and all sorts of paper and notebooks but I've only ever seen students buy marbles and stickers.

My house is all the way at the back. It has three rooms (kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom) and hot water and air conditioning, neither of which I use. I've been living here for two weeks and neither the electricity nor the water have not shut off yet. All in all it is a very nice set up for a Peace Corps volunteer.

Lucky, our yard dog. He's a little crazy, but he helps keep the yard safe.

Our yard has a dog, Lucky, who Sandy found on her way to the Royal Palm Reserve (run by NEPT). Sandy thought he was black at first because he was so covered in fleas. She took him in and has taken great care of him. He is very Lucky that she found him. The yard also has two cats, three mango trees, wild basil, and a breadfruit tree. I'm hoping to add to the garden as soon as my compost matures. I bought a machete the other day, which is the tool of choice in Jamaica (pronounced Ma-shet: no e on the end). Need to cut a small tree? Don't use a saw: here's the machete. Need to dig a small hole? Don't use a trowel, the machete is right here. The jellyman uses a machete to chop open coconut. The cane man uses one to peel sugar cane. I'm a little embarassed to use my machete because its so clean. The wood on most Jamaicans' machetes is dark and smooth from use and the blade has been filed many times.

Mangoes from my yard: East Indian (left) and blackey (right)

There are many different types of mangoes on the island and they all have several names. Our yard has small blackey mangoes (so called because of the black spots, also called green gage or gatey), east indian mangoes (my favorite), and a large mango that Maureen and Miss Bula call "the big ones." Its mango season now, so I've been enjoying all of them!

The front gate and East Indian mango tree.

It's also land crab season. I visited Kool Runnings water park last weekend (Yes, I rode the Jamaican bobsled. Several times in fact) and there were about fifty of them swarming around the restrooms. One of the employees was dropping as many as she could into a bucket to take home and cook! I've been keeping my eyes out for them in the yard, but so far I've only seen them as road kill. There are several crab holes at the catholic church, so I might bring a bucket with me on Sunday.

This morning I was planning on taking my first water samples at the Blue Flag properties on Beach Road in Negril. However, the plans were detained because the Ministry of Health (where the samples are usually tested) is closed due to the recent turmoil in Kingston. It has made international news. (There was a good segment on NPR this morning.)

Disclaimer: What follows are not my personal views or the views of Peace Corps, only what I have heard and read from local sources.

It started last week when Prime Minister Golding announced that Justice Minister Dorothy Lightbourne would sign the authorization for the extradition of Christopher Dudas Coke to the United States. The U.S. government requested the extradition of Dudas last August for drug and gun running charges. Dudas is based out of Tivoli Gardens in west Kingston. Last Friday, newspaper pictures showed that the neighborhood had been barricaded and was being patroled, presumably by local gang members. On Saturday what most Jamaicans have been referring to as "the war" began. Three police stations were attacked, one set on fire, and two fired at. The Prime Minister declared a state of emergency for the Kingston and St. Andrew parishes on Sunday which can be used as a rationale for suspending civil liberties and will last for a month unless police deem it safe to cease or parliment deems it necessary to continue. Unfortunately, many civilians did not leave before the violence started and are caught in the crossfire.

Both the police and the military are working hard to restore order to the region and to capture Coke. I was only able to talk very briefly with my host mom from Hellshire who works with the police in Kingston to assure that she was alright. Most of the violence has been concentrated in Kingston, but some has occured in the parish of St. Catherine as well. In fact, on Monday the flat bridge in Bog Walk, very close and en route to Ewarton (my old home) was barricaded. Fortunately, my host mom in Ewarton returned from her conference late enough in the afternoon that the blockade had been dismantled.

Most people I have spoken with say that people are defending Coke because of the unofficial social welfare system he has developed. Coke pays for school fees, medical costs, and also provides judicial services for some of Jamaica's poorest. They are fighting for the system Dudas and his predecessors have developed as an alternative to traditional methods that some view as classist. Everyone I have spoken with are very troubled that this is happening in the capital. Some see it as a potential "blessing in disguise." People are hopeful that this is a turning point for Jamaica to rid itself of the mafia system for good and provide for people's needs by other means.

Everyone has their own theories about where Dudas is, and wild rumors are flying. Even if he is found, people are not confident the violence will stop as law enforcement may face outbreaks from new competing dons. In any case, myself and other Peace Corps Volunteers are safe and being well looked after.

I'm finally a real Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV)! I'm serving with NEPT (Negril Area Environmental Protection Trust) in Negril which is all the way on the westernmost tip of the island. When I applied to Peace Corps I never expectedI would be nominated to Jamaica. When I was invited to Jamaica I never I would be assigned to a site in a beautiful resort area like Negril. Now that I'm assigned to work in Negril I've decided that I should give up my expectations! I spent three days in Negril two weeks ago, and then returned to Kingston last week for the remainder of training which mostly consisted of playing in the pool and saying goodbye to other Peace Corps Trainees (PCT).

Yesterday Peace Corps Group 81 graduated from training and became real volunteers! The ceremony took place at the U.S. embassy and was overseen by the chargé d'affaires because an ambassador is not currently assigned to Jamaica. We were featured in an article in today's Observer (the main newspaper in Jamaica). After two months of training and looking forward to finally being a PCV instead of a PCT, the actual swear in ceremony was a little anticlimactic. I returned to my site last night and I'm ready to get started!

Warning: Don't read this entry if you're squeamish.

This past Wednesday several Peace Corps trainees went to Patrick's host family's (the English's) farm to learn about raising chickens: specifically how to slaughter them. I was really excited to have this opportunity because I think that if you're going to eat meat you should be comfortable with killing the animals yourself. Three little girls (Patrick's host sisters) ran out to meet us followed cooly by Patrick who led us behind the house.

We stopped on the way to see the English family's dog and her litter of five puppies. They still had their eyes closed and their little limbs were only barely able to help them balance as they wriggled around on their tummies.

We continued back to where Ricky had brought out the first three chickens, handing one of them to me to hold. The English family gets around 30 new chicks every 4 weeks. After eight weeks they're ready to eat. The first chicken was totally unsuspecting as Ricky adeptly folded its wings behind it into the bag, bent its neck over the edge and sliced the head off. I jumped a little as the bird's body started flapping around, turning the bag crimson. That's all there is to it. Patrick was next, followed by Sammi. 3, 4, 5 chicken heads lay on the ground blinking at their spastic bodies. The chicken I was holding seemed to cluck more frantically with each new head. I'll wait for the next round to try.

After the chickens were killed we dipped the bodies in boiling water t make it easier to remove the feathers. Once the feathers are plucked and the skin on the feet removed, the chicken is washed and ready to be cleaned. Grandma showed me how to cut the bottom of the chicken, which organs to save (the liver, the heart, and the gizzard), and which parts of the feet are good for chicken foot soup. Now all I had to do is kill one and then I would know the process from start to finish.

Sammi and I followed Ricky to the side of the house where we each grabbed a chicken by the wings. Sammi brought her chicken to the bag after Ricky. I turned my chicken the other way, telling her she didn't have to watch. I could feel the chicken's pulse speeding up and my pulse speeding up to match it. The largest thing I had killed before this was a butterfly, and that was an accident. I don't know if the chicken had stolen a glance at its sisters or if it was picking up on my nervousness but this chicken was squawking worse than the last one. Ricky helped me tuck her into the bag and her eyes closed as if in resignation. I felt pressure on the knife, and then a wave of emotion washed over me. I started to cry. I couldn't really say what the emotion was. I think it deserves its own name, but it was probably closest to gratitude and a deep appreciation for life. It suddenly made sense to me why some Native Americans thanked the animal's spirit after killing it. The juxtaposition of the newborn puppies in the front of the house and the chickens in the back probably contributed as well. As I walked home I thought about how much better it was that these chickens could be killed and prepared with care rather than the metallic clutches of a machine. It is so valuable to realize that the food which sustains your life was at one point alive itself.

Warning: Don't read this entry if you're squeamish.

This past Wednesday several Peace Corps trainees went to Patrick's host family's (the English's) farm to learn about raising chickens: specifically how to slaughter them. I was really excited to have this opportunity because I think that if you're going to eat meat you should be comfortable with killing the animals yourself. Three little girls (Patrick's host sisters) ran out to meet us followed cooly by Patrick who led us behind the house.

We stopped on the way to see the English family's dog and her litter of five puppies. They still had their eyes closed and their little limbs were only barely able to help them balance as they wriggled around on their tummies.

We continued back to where Ricky had brought out the first three chickens, handing one of them to me to hold. The English family gets around 30 new chicks every 4 weeks. After eight weeks they're ready to eat. The first chicken was totally unsuspecting as Ricky adeptly folded its wings behind it into the bag, bent its neck over the edge and sliced the head off. I jumped a little as the bird's body started flapping around, turning the bag crimson. That's all there is to it. Patrick was next, followed by Sammi. 3, 4, 5 chicken heads lay on the ground blinking at their spastic bodies. The chicken I was holding seemed to cluck more frantically with each new head. I'll wait for the next round to try.

After the chickens were killed we dipped the bodies in boiling water t make it easier to remove the feathers. Once the feathers are plucked and the skin on the feet removed, the chicken is washed and ready to be cleaned. Grandma showed me how to cut the bottom of the chicken, which organs to save (the liver, the heart, and the gizzard), and which parts of the feet are good for chicken foot soup. Now all I had to do is kill one and then I would know the process from start to finish.

Sammi and I followed Ricky to the side of the house where we each grabbed a chicken by the wings. Sammi brought her chicken to the bag after Ricky. I turned my chicken the other way, telling her she didn't have to watch. I could feel the chicken's pulse speeding up and my pulse speeding up to match it. The largest thing I had killed before this was a butterfly, and that was an accident. I don't know if the chicken had stolen a glance at its sisters or if it was picking up on my nervousness but this chicken was squawking worse than the last one. Ricky helped me tuck her into the bag and her eyes closed as if in resignation. I felt pressure on the knife, and then a wave of emotion washed over me. I started to cry. I couldn't really say what the emotion was. I think it deserves its own name, but it was probably closest to gratitude and a deep appreciation for life. It suddenly made sense to me why some Native Americans thanked the animal's spirit after killing it. The juxtaposition of the newborn puppies in the front of the house and the chickens in the back probably contributed as well. As I walked home I thought about how much better it was that these chickens could be killed and prepared with care rather than the metallic clutches of a machine. It is so valuable to realize that the food which sustains your life was at one point alive itself.

Today, as I walked home from Polyground Primary School, I met two little boys who gave me a tour of all the trees in the neighborhood. One of the many wonderful things about Jamaica is that most trees here bear edible fruits. The biggest of them all is the Jackfruit which is about the size of a watermellon but grows from thick stems right out of the trunk of the tree. The inside of a jackfruit is rows of flower-like fruit whichs tastes like a sweeter version of cantelope and smells like a combination of gym sock and flowers.Pawpaw (or papaya) also grows straight out of the tree trunk. It has a distinctive taste that you either love or hate. I can only eat it dried. Behind this Pawpaw tree shade cloth is spread overhead of some plants. Greenhouses in Jamaica are designed to keep the sun and heavy rains off the plants and usually employ shade cloth.This is a cashew tree. As the boys tried to point out what a cashew pod looked like the neighbor's dog jumped at the fence and sent them running back down the hill.

Breadfruit is a common breakfast food in Jamaica. The most common way of cooking it is to cut an x in the bottom and roasting it over an open flame. A Jamaican might be called a roast breadfruit which is black on the outside but white on the inside.

The boy on the left climbed this apple tree and picked me the sweetest, juiciest Otaheite apple I've had yet.

This is what Ackee looks like growing on the tree (from the Jamaican national dish ackee and saltfish). Ackee is by far the most common tree in Ewarton. The second most common trees are orange trees. Lorna usually squeezes a gallon of orange juice a week from the trees in our backyard.

My favorite Jamaican fruit is mango. Zoom in on the picture to see if you can find them!

Another very common tree is the coconut or jelly tree. One of the little boys informed me that when they're whole you call them jelly and that the insides are called coconut. One of the best ways to rehydrate on a hot day is to buy a frozen jelly from the jelly man and to drink the coconut water.

They showed me a grapefruit tree, a tamarind tree, an almond tree, and a cherry tree. The cherry tree was laden with red cherries but I couldn't see them until I got within five feet of them. They also pointed out the green banana tree. While they look like smaller versions of the yellow bananas we see in the grocery store, these bananas will never ripen. Instead, they are peeled (make sure to coat your hands in oil or they will stain you) and served boiled.I had a fun walk home and learned much more than I would have without my new friends!

When I tell Americans I'm serving with Peace Corps in Jamaica, I usually get a reaction that's some variation of "Wow, that's lucky! Two year vacation!" While we've been working hard on our training projects, some of the past two weeks has felt a little more like "beach corps" than Peace Corps. I realize now that being a tourist in Jamaica isn't as easy as I had originally thought. Like everything in life, there are positives and negatives.

First the positives:

When I visited Pat Woodcome, a current Peace Corps volunteer in Negril, we went swimming with goggles which was awesome! Even though she insisted there wasn't a reef where we were swimming I got to see different types of coral, sea urchins, rockfish, a skate, and fish of all different colors (my favorite were the ones with blue heads and a yellow collar). It was really neat when a school of minnow-sized fish swam through our legs. They were so graceful; I wouldn't have known they were there if I hadn't happened to look under the water at that moment. The sunset in Negril rivals all the vacation sunsets I've seen (except for maybe Sedona where the sun reflecting from the red rocks made your skin glow). Cliff jumping at Rick's Cafe and a Kumina band got rained out but are definitely going to be used as an excuse to go back.

Dunns River Falls were exquisite. It is a series of waterfalls that eventually dumps right onto the beach. We saw a doctorbird (Jamaica's national bird), a hummingbird, about 20 large purple polkadotted and orange striped spiders, and a few egrets.

Juxtaposing the pristine river was the concrete steps, gazebos, and snack shops on the bank. The natural beauty of the area was tarnished by the sound of toilets flushing and the man with his donkey dressed in flowers asking for donations. Watching the other white people process up the falls in a large group made me feel dirty, like I was taking advantage of Jamaica or Peace Corps or something. We are here to work and serve in a place where most people come to party and relax. I felt an extreme need to shout "I'm not a tourist! I live here!"

Some people have a hard time understanding that we're not here on vacation. While I was picking up trash in Hellshire, and again while building a greenhouse in Walkers Wood this week Jamaicans told me that I should be enjoying my time on their island; I should go to the beach and have fun! While a white person in Jamaica will never have trouble finding a cab, it can be irritating when every taxi that drives by beeps at you while you're trying to walk.

Volunteering is also a tough concept to understand. While we were constructing the slow sand filter for the community center in Ewarton one of the community members who was helping us asked for a tip and was incredulous that we weren't being paid to work. I don't want to be just another white tourist in Jamaica. I want to be a Peace Corps volunteer! I think that the first step in reversing the white tourist stereotype is avoiding places like Negril and Dunns River Falls. However, It's a tough balance that I will have to learn living here. On the one hand I want to experience the true Jamaica: falls without the photo shops and hair braiding stations. On the other, I'm supporting the Jamaican workers by going to Dunns River Falls instead of a remote waterfall where there is no admission fee. Fortunately, I think my dilemna will be resolved for me after training because the Peace Corps budget will be too small to go to places like Dunns River!

Peace Corps trainees visited current Jamaican Peace Corps Volunteers this week. I was lucky enough to be sent to Negril, the unofficial home of the best sunsets in Jamaica. (More on my time there later.) This post is dedicated to getting there which was quite the adventure!

The majority of training so far has been dedicated to our safety and security. This, of course, entailed extensive courses and demonstrations on riding buses and taxis, handling money, and dealing with harrassment. This weekend was the test: could I navigate across the island in one piece? The plan of attack was to head north from Ewarton to Ocho Rios and then follow the coastline west transferring in Montego Bay and Lucea and finally arriving in Negril: three transfers, four vehicles.

In order to avoid the hassle of finding seats for 13 of us on the crowded buses to Ocho Rios, Andy a fellow trainee, had arranged with her host mom's family friend to shuttle us for $300J each. Thirteen smiley American faces dutifully appear at the community center at 7:00, but, in true Jamaican style, there is no a taxi. At 7:30 we call the driver.

"Mi soon come."

"How much longer?"

"5-10 minutes."

Shift weight, chit chat. It starts to rain. At 8:00 we call again.

"Ya man. Soon."

"How far are you?"

"5 minutes"

"But it was 5 minutes last time!"

At 8:15, after another rain shower, two buses pull up. Finally. 13 not-so-smiley American faces dutifully pile into the buses. The driver of the first bus points behind him at the smaller blue bus.

"Why you friend a guh inna dat bus deh?"

"I don't know why they're boarding the other bus. It's not with you?"

"No suh!"

Before the driver can explain the situation the second bus takes off. It becomes clear that the first bus was the one we chartered and the second bus had inconveniently pulled in at an unscheduled stop. Our driver isn't happy about the $1500J pay decrease; we're not happy about the 1 1/2 hour wait. We decide we're not paying any more than $300 a piece to get to Ochi. He decides he isn't going to take us for any less the the promised total. Is he serious? Yes. 8 downtrodden American faces glumly plod down the street to the taxi stop.

"Anyone going to Ochi?"

No, but we can catch a bus at the bakery up the street. As we walk up the hill we hear the short beep beep! of taxis behind us. The cab drivers will take us to Ocho Rios after all. 5 once-again-smiling American faces and their bags pack into each taxi in the Jamaican tradition of "smalling up."

After about 3 miles we inexplicably pull over in front of a shop. Mark, the trainee in the passenger seat, informs us that the driver must be thirsty because he's asked the shop owner for some water. Andy and Mary release signs of relief that the water is not for the car just before the driver lifts up the hood. It is for the car. Water is poured; steam billows upwards. Someone points out the gas gauge is on empty, and Andy starts a rousing chorus of the Blinking Bus - a clever kids song which curses Jamaican transport. After several more words with the shopkeeper the driver shuts the hood, starts the car, and we continue up the mountain.

The next stop is a farm stand where more water is brought out. This time the driver gets an egg and black pepper too. Mark now knows better than to assume the driver is hungry. The driver cracks the egg, an pours it into the radiator followed by the black pepper and water. What!? Amazingly, the leak is fixed!

We start up the road again. The driver pulls into the gas station at the top of the mountain and alleviates our second fear by filling up the tank. We buy a paper: a new U.S. ambassador has been appointed to Jamaica. Hurray! But Oh no! the leak has opened up again. We add another egg at the next farm stand (I'm still not completely comfortable with that), but the hole is too big this time. The driver stows 2 large containers of water in the trunk. Things must be serious now. I naively wonder what fate has in store for both us and the car as the driver accelerates further up the mountain.

We come over the top of the hill and pull into the first driveway on the left. A hand-painted sign on the door says Ratty's repair shop. At this point, 1 1/2 hours have passed and we've only stretched our legs once. We unfold ourselves from our smalled up position and settle down near the shed out of the rain but under a wasps nest. We decide that flagging down a bus to take us the rest of the way might be a good idea. Unfortunately, this happens just after a bus to ocho rios passes us. I carefully position myself out of reach from the spray of puddles by passing cars and keep my eyes open for buses. I don't see any before the driver finishes epoxying the leak.

"We'll get there." He reassures us. Somehow I don't feel reassured. Fortunately the rest of our travels are relatively smooth, with only the normal heart murmurs when our bus veers into oncoming traffic while passing a car or when a pedestrian starts hitting the side of the van, makes kissy faces at the window, and yells at the driver to stop the van. I will forever remember how to fix a radiator with egg and black pepper!

I've been living in the mountain community of Euarton for several days now and slowly but surely losing my Patios instinct. A large portion of the community is very well educated and have been taught from an early age not to speak the once-perceived-as-inferior Patois. I'm staying with Nurse Bowe, her husband who works in agriculture with the orange groves nearby, and thir live-in helper Lorna who looks 34 but is older than my parents. They have 4 dogs that can smell food a mile away and posess a diverse set of vocal talents with which they serenade me into the wee hours of the morning. The Hellshirians warned that I would be bored out of my mind because Euarton was all farms. There is a lot more fresh produce and gardens. Mi nyam ackee an pawpaw yessideh. Di fruit dem come fram di trees backa wi ouse. (I ate ackee and papaya from the trees behind our house yesterday.) However, Euarton has a small town with restaurants, a bakery, supermarket, and several shops which seems like a bustling metropolis compared with Hellshire. In fact, Euarton has the feel of a small industrial/throughway town rather than a farming community. Large cane ladden, diesel guzzling, horn honking trucks barrel down the main road throughout the day. Up until recently a main employer of the town was the Bauxite factory located just tapside of Euarton (tapside=patois for up the mountain and next to).

Bauxite is processed to form aluminum, and constitutes a major part of Jamaica's economy along with tourism and agriculture. Jamaica has the second largest bauxiteindustry in the world behind Australia. Bauxite is strip-mined in St. Ann (see above) and transported by rail to a processing facility simiar to the one in Euarton (see below) where it is heated with a basic solution to dissolve the aluminum.

This process produces a lot of red ferruginous sludge which is deposited via trucks and conveyor belts in nearby pits (below). Due to the global recession and increasing government levies, the plant stopped production last year and laid off many of its remaining employees last week. However, under normal operation the plant is very much a part of people's lives with its overpowering smell and alumina dust in the air. One of the more active agriculturists in Euarton, thinks that there are a disproportionately high number of children with asthma in the area due to the dust.

Yesterday was the first time I've seen rain in Jamaica and the Euarton farmers were very grateful for the end of a long drought. Driving through the countryside today brought the effects of the drought into full view. Rivers that usually flow over a foot deep are dry (below) and brush fires have been common as flames from burning trash catches and spreads through a field. The fruits are less abundant and dwarfed. Many houses have had to use their reserve tanks of water stored on their roofs or go without water during the past weeks. Fortuneately, the gravilicious (patios for greedy) plants were able to quench part of their thirst between yesterday and this afternoon.

Mi nuh wan de maka dem fi juk mi. (I don't want the thorns to prick me.) The hardest part of picking up gyaabage (patois for garbage) was avoiding the thorny shrubs it collected under.

On Monday morning Peace Corps group 81 did our first service project!! It was great to finally be able to say thank you to the people of Hellshire after enjoying their beaches and eating their food for two weeks. We thought for a long time about what we should do and when we should do it. In the end we decided to do a neighborhood cleanup. Some volunteers were concerned that this would be like a house guest taking out the scrub brush and cleaning the toilet at the end of a dinner party. However, I think we avoided that faux pas.

Tina, Adam, and I decided that our garbage bags would fill up quickest at the football (soccer) fields. Several of the football players expressed their thanks for our efforts and two of them even postponed the game to help us pick up some of the trash. Even though there are many areas we couldn't get to, it was a successful operation in my opinion.

Later that evening, Sandy, Bev (a friend who occasionally works for Sandy helping with the cooking and cleaning), and I visited Two Sister's Cave: Hellshire's main attraction after the beach. The caves are filled with bright blue freshwater which some of the trainees swam in. We arrived at the gate house three minutes before closing where we met Auntie Claire (a good friend of Sandy and tour guide at Two Sisters' Cave). We quickly donned our construction hats and processed down the wooden steps towards the water. There was a carving on one of the walls believed to be chisled by the native Tainos: the oldest known human population on the island. On the way back to the car I saw a brown and white Patu (Patois for owl). Owls are very majestic creatures and this one seemed only slightly disturbed when the security guard pointed it out by hitting it with a stone.

On Tuesday night we roasted half a goat and half a pig. The town ate dinner together as a send-off social. Tearful goodbyes were flung out the bus windows as we were shuttled up the mountais to Euarton.

Another busy week in Hellshire! It's hard to believe I'll be relocating on Wednesday. Two weeks has passed so quickly.

At the beginning of the week I watched Life and Debt, a documentary about the effects of globalization in Jamaica. I highly recommend it to anyone who is visiting Jamaica. The film was released in 2003. While some of the problems no longer exist (such as the free zone sweat shop area in Kingston), some of the effects of free trade are still felt today. For example, in a televized debate this week, the minister of finance stressed the continuing desire to revive the Jamaican dairy industry because of the pressures it has faced from cheaper and imported powdered milk supported by United States farm subsidies. In general, Jamaicans rely heavily on imported goods. This is largely due to stipulations placed by the IMF to eliminate tariffs on imported goods and to charge farmers and entrepreneurs high interest rates.

I tried the Jamaican national dish: saltfish and ackee this week. Ackee is a Jamaican fruit which when cooked resembles scrambled eggs in both appearance and texture. It is usually served for breakfast. It was tasty and amazingly similar to eggs and very not eggs at the same time.

On Thursday Sandy had a get-together with some of the neighbors. We roasted fish, danced, and had an all around vibsy time (the opposite of fenky-fenky vibsy means lively, fun, and energetic). Chrissy dances with her friend Shawnaque while (from left to right) Miss June, Miss Pam, Bev, and Sandy watch. I was shockingly returned to my youth when all the young girls performed a self-choreographed dance to the latest hit single. All I could think was Whitney Houston and DiCocco family parties.

Good Friday and Easter Monday are holidays in Jamaica, and it seemed like everyone in the Kingston area took the opportunity to seek refuge from the steaming pavement at the Hellshire Beach. Several trainees and I took a walk up into the hills behind Hellshire park on Good Friday morning. Looking out from the hillside, the ocean was speckled with brown heads and voices from three different churches mixed together as they rose to meet us.

Saturday entailed a group visit with some of the host family members to the National Gallery of Jamaica which was decorated with Jamaican artwork such as Horsehead Masquerade by Osmond Watson.

Next, we wound our way to Fort Charles in Port Royal where we leared about the original Captain Morgan (Henry Morgan, buckaneer) and explored the Giddy House. An earthquake sunk half of the house into the ground resulting in a giddy experience if you attempt to walk around inside it. One of the host family fathers warned me not to enter, because he was convinced that a duppy caused the dizziness. So far I haven't had any negative side affects, unless you count an intense urge to dance to all Jamaican music.

I attended a Pentecostal Church service on Easter Sunday which was just as vibsy as our Thursday fish roast. I arrived late, left early, and still managed to stay for almost 3 hours. The first half of the service bubbled with ebulliant singing and dancing to a four piece band. Everyone was dressed to the nines, with most of the women wearing elaborate hats that would make my Nonnie jealous. in the midst We were joyfully greeted, prayed for, and welcomed. The pastor solemnly ended the last song and launched into a tirade against sin which, after an hour, ended in passionate persuasion for salvation. Quite different from the Catholic masses I grew up with, it seemed to fit the enthusiasm and joie de vivre I've witnessed on this island so far.

Everyting irie. I took this picture this morning when I went to the beach with my host sister, Crissy. I've gone swimming most mornings this week because the beach is so close and the water is so warm. Thanks to the people, the beach, the food, and the dancing I'm quickly falling in love with Jamaica.

Peace Corps group 81 arrived in Jamaica last Thursday and we've been barraged with information ever since. The next months are devoted to learning about Jamaica, its people, and our work. We are staying with Jamaican families in a beach town in the greater Portmore area in order to ease us into Jamaican culture. I'm staying with Cheryll (34) and Chrisana (11) both of whom have been wonderful: hospitable, kind, accepting, and great teachers. A lot of Jamaicans have nicknames that have little or nothing to do with their real name so I call my host mother Sandy. She is an inspector for the Jamaican police (the second highest rank) so despite all the stories the Peace Corps tells us during training, I feel very safe living and traveling with her.

For now, I'm mostly observing and absorbing. I'm struggling to understand patois (it really is a different language), forming friendships, and laughing a lot. The Jamaica that I have experienced so far is diverse. While Jamaica is characterized as a developing country there are parts of it that are very developed. I see kids walking around with their laptops and nintendo dsi. Families have flat screen tvs, blackberrys, and a lot of the girls like the Jonas brothers and Hannah Montana. Houses in this area have flush toilets, and electricity. The family that I'm staying with is very modern: they shop at mega mart (similar to walmart), watch cable tv and use a washing machine. In some aspects they are more "American" than I am, but these are all aspects of Jamaica too.

My family and their neighbors are teaching me all about dancehall music (i.e. Mavado, Vybz Kartel, Ding Dong) and how to dance to it (i.e. jerk, skip to my loo, and how to wine). I got a chance to practice at a police fundraiser dance last night. My faorite song so far is Holiday where everyone does the skip to my loo at the chorus.

The other aspect of Jamaican culture that I'm diving into is the food, which is delicious. The most exotic dishes I've tried this far are oxtail and cow cod soup (actually made with a part that only a bull has). They were both surprisinly tasty. My favorite food so far is the fried plantains. One of the things I'm most excited about is Jamaican produce. In season right now is the Jamaican apple: Otaheite.

I've really enjoyed taking walks and talking with the little (likkle) girls in the neighborhood. They really like touching my hair, so its a win-win situation.

My plan is to post once a week every weekend on a basic summary of the week and occasionally write about special topics.

Yesterday I visited my mom's 5th grade social studies classes to share life on the trail with them. This is her homeroom and me. They were so much fun!!

I have 815.7 miles of the Appalachian Trail left to hike! That means I've hiked 1362.6 miles of trail through some of the most beautiful forests I've ever seen (and fields and backyards and highways too). I have 72.4 miles from Harper's Ferry to Elkwallow Wayside in Shenandoah National Park, 580.7 miles from Waynesboro, VA to Hot Springs, NC, and 162.6 miles from Fontana Dam, NC to Springer Mountain in Georgia.

I got to enjoy autumn from New Hampshire all the way to New York. Even though the trees are bare now, I can see a lot more mountains in the distance. Also, the evergreens look like Christmas trees with their dusting of snow. Vermont was especially vibrant (and muddy). The hotels in Vermont were full of what the locals call "Peepers," short for Leaf Peeper, or someone who comes from out of town just to enjoy the fall colors.

There have been a lot more people involved in my hike since I've left the more remote Maine and New Hampshire. My friend from college, Caitlin Clay came from New York City to hike with me for a couple days near Killington Mountain. It was fun to see her even though I had a stomach flu. She bravely tried to start a fire even though it had poured that afternoon just long enough to drench all the potential firewood in the area. We went to Caitlin's home to meet her parents and recuperate for the night. Thank you Caitlin! After hiking with Caitlin I hiked with Cuppa Joe, the caretaker from Liberty Springs that I met in New Hampshire. We got to stay with Arla and Chris in Bennington, VT. Arla shared her artwork, Chris shared his music, and they both shared their home with us. Another friend from college, Liz Gilbert and her boyfriend Peter also came to visit me on the trail. They are both experienced backpackers and, maybe more importantly, backwoods cooks. We fixed the best meal I've had on the trail so far: pulled pork sandwiches with roasted veggies and the tastiest, crispiest cornbread. We hiked from Cheshire, MA to Dalton, MA. In Dalton, MA I stayed at "The Birdcage" with a trail angel (people who are kind to hikers) Rob Bird and his three dogs. Rob is an amazing person and musician. He opens his home to hikers and anyone in trouble. Everything he has he shares with others: from his food to his stories to his guitar.

Rob sent me along to "The Outhouse" in New York to stay with another trail angel and his good friend, The Mayor. The Mayor's is an experience that I would recommend to any hikers passing through Unionville, NY. He first opened his doors in memory of his wife who had the idea to offer refuge to thru-hikers. It was at the Mayor's house that I reconnected with Trail-Leaf (back on the trail from Florida) and Spaz McGee (hiking the International AT from Quebec). I had the fortune of meeting a great friend and hiker LETITBE. I have been hiking with him since the end of October. We were able to use his truck to cover the highest parts of the trail (Shenandoah National Park and The Great Smoky Mountains) before the first major snowstorm of the year. I saw my first black bear on the trail in Shenandoah National Park. It was young enough to still look small and cute but old enough to be without its mother, probably 2 or 3 years old. I was impressed with how silky the coat looked. I guess expected all wild animals to look shaggy and matted like the coyotes of Providence, RI. Bruno and the bear were very curious about one another. The bear would stare at Bruno for a minute or two, then take a few steps, then stare again. Bruno was doing his confused "I'm excited to see you so I'm wagging my tail but I don't know who you are so I'm barking" dance. I hiked my longest day yet in Shenandoah National Park: 27 miles! which left only 7 miles to the park exit. I'm glad I did because that night and the next morning it snowed about 10 inches which made walking fun but a little difficult. The Great Smoky Mountains were beautiful. The Smokies are what I had imagined the AT to be: moss covered trees, gnarled roots occupying the paths, and purple mountains with wispy clouds rising from the valleys with the sun.

The past few weeks I've been taking a break from the trail to visit family and friends over the holidays. I did get to go home for Thanksgiving and took my parents back to the trail for two days, but I missed them anyway. I especially missed my best friend Aaron who I visited in Roseville, CA for the last time. (He's fortunately moving away from the strip mall capital of California.) We got to do all of our favorite things: eat sushi, play games, visit friends, and observe society through wacky grocery store items. Yes, you can inject fake flavors into your hams using a syringe. This product represents the industrialization of food and the susceptibility of Americans to health care lobbyist's advertisements. We need more real and local foods.

My Aunt and Uncle have been generously taking care of Bruno while I'm away. I've also been making much needed preparations for Jamaica and editing my Master's Thesis. If all goes well I'm planning on picking up Bruno and returning to the trail next week! I'm a little nervous that the weather won't be as cooperative as it was the past few months. While I've been gone, friends have written that winter has really started out there. Headstrong was waiting for snowshoes and Thirst left the trail after wind chills of -16 in the Shenandoah Mountains. Spaz seems to be surviving, but then again he is Canadian. Hopefully I'll return in the beginning of March with all my appendages and write another entry then!

Bruno and I are hiking the Appalachian trail! We started by summiting Mt. Katahdin in Baxter State Park in Maine on August 16, 2009. I'm hiking the trail for three reasons (1) to challenge myself (2) to reflect on life and the meaning of everything and above all (3) to HAVE FUN! So far we've come almost 400 miles (398.5) and loved every minute of it.

The highlights of the trip so far have been the 100 mile wilderness and Saddleback Mountain Range in Maine and the Presidential range in New Hampshire. In the 100 mile wilderness we got to do a lot of river fording and swimming and really got to enjoy nature! I got my first hiker's tan enjoying the views above treeline on Saddleback Mountain (think farmer's tan on the upperhalf and then from mid thigh to mid calf between the shorts and socks). After getting blown off Mt. Madison by 50-60 mph winds and rain, I waited for two days for the weather to clear. It was worth it because the day I crossed the Pressies in NH was BEAUTIFUL.

My trailname is G.G. and Bruno's is Bugcatcher. (No one goes by their real names on the trail. They use an alias which usually describes them well or relates to something they've done on the trail.) G.G. stands for "Got Gumption" or "Girl with Gumption." It was given to me the first day on Mt. Katahdin by a fellow hiker Lone-Wolf. Bugcatcher got his because he likes to catch bugs with his mouth. This worked great all through the 100 miles wilderness where there were mosquitoes, but not so great on North Crocker Mountain where he decided to eat a yellowjacket right next to its hive. Yes, it is like the cartoons the bees DO chase you down the trail!

I've done things differently than most people on account of having Bruno with me, and on account of just being me. So far, its definitely been worth it. As I was putting away our tent on a forest road on the border of Maine and New Hampshire Bugcatcher started barking and chasing after what I thought was an early riser out for a morning walk. I ran up to the trail apologizing for the barking. When I looked up, I locked eyes with a 6 ft tall moose who was stumbling over herself in fear trying to run away. Its pretty impressive to see that much mammal afraid of you. I've seen 3 moose in total (2 cows and a bull), heard a bear, seen woodpeckers, loons, snakes, toads, frogs, chipmunks, mice, red-tailed squirrels, and most of the other usual forest creatures.

I climbed Mt. Moosilauke this morning - the last mountain above treeline and the last of the White Mountains. I'm both happy and sad to be leaving the whites. I'm happy that the hardest part of the trail is over. (My knees are especially happy!) But I'm sad to be leaving the beautiful views of Maine and New Hampshire.

I know that fall is here because the leaves are starting to change and my water bottles had ice crystals in them this morning! Next town stop: Hanover, NH in approximately 3 days.

I always knew that there was a dichotomy between developed and developing countries, and have often heard statistics such as "more than 40% of the world's population survives on less than $2 a day". However, I saw these pictures today which really put the numbers in perspective. A photo journalist and a television news producer, Peter Menzel and Faith D'Aluisio took a trip around the world visually documenting what "average" families eat during the week and published the book Hungry Planet in 2007. These two images are from their book. The first is of the Revis family from North Carolina who spent $341.98 on their weekly food. The second is of the Aboubakar family, Sudanese refugees from Darfur living in Chad. They spent $1.23 on their food for the week.

There is such a stark contrast between these images. They demonstrate the inequity and the waste in this world. I would also like to see an image of the weekly wastes of each family. Mentally subtracting the food from the American family's groceries doesn't reduce the pile very much because of the large amount of packaging in processed foods. These photos really make me think that I would be doing the necessary and right thing by going to Africa, and by starting a sustainable farm in the U.S. to encourage people to eat locally and sustainably. These photos have something very wrong with them, and I hope my actions will change both of them.

Well, about a lot of things, but this is something that most people don't think of. I recently read this story. I'm not sure if its true or illustrative, but I don't think it really matters. A little girl was helping her mother in the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose, looked up at her mother and asked "Mommy, why do you always cut off the end of the ham before you cook it?" The mother paused for a second, looked earnestly at her daughter and said "I don't know. That's the way my mother always did it." The next time they took a trip to Grandma's house the little girl tugged at her grandmother's apron and asked "Why do you cut off the end of the ham before you cook it?" The grandmother's response was the same. "Well, that's what my mother always did." The great-grandmother wasn't alive anymore, but there was a great uncle who still came to thanksgiving dinner. That November, the little girl made sure to ask her uncle why his sister would cut off the end of the ham before cooking it. He thought long and hard, and finally began to chuckle, "Well dear, the pan we had was too small for the whole ham, so she would cut off the end to make it fit." One of Isaac Newton's contributions to the scientific field is told as "Why is not the question, but how" This separated philosophers and theologians from scientists. However, I think that today, especially in the fields of biology and chemistry, it is just as important to ask why as it is to ask how. By knowing why a certain step in the synthesis exists, not just the recipe for how to make the compound, you will understand your system more fully which, if nothing else, makes you more efficient. In making my own bread instead of buying it, which I've started doing, this is important as well. Today, I saved two loaves of bread by not adding the salt directly as the recipe requested which would have killed the yeast but combining it with half the flour and adding that after the water-yeast-flour mixture had rested for twenty minutes. Maybe there are two questions, How and Why!

I saw this video on Ted-Talks a few weeks ago. I've watched this video about 20 times since and I still wouldn't know there was an octopus there if I were the diver. An octopus can change its texture, shape, and color in order to camouflage with its surroundings. I wasn't able to find details on the mechanism, but if scientists could mimic that process and incorporate it into clothing the applications would be endless. Even if its not physically possible, someone in Hollywood should make a private investigator Octopus-man hero out of it.

Also, I think this is the first time I've seen an octopus actually squirt ink.

With dwindling oil and natural reserves, rising prices, and increasing atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide, the future of the automobile industry will have to involve a type of fuel besides gasoline.

I've always envisioned electric cars run on batteries. These batteries would be charged from the existing power grid (with increased transmission lines to deal with the additional load). The electricity could be generated by renewable and sustainable energy sources such as wind, and solar power.

However, it was recently pointed out to me that hydrogen might be a more viable option because it has a much larger energy density than batteries. This is certainly true by mass (hydrogen has 39.7 kWh/kg vs. about 0.2 kWh/kg for a battery). Energy density by mass is important in powering cars because lighter cars take less power and can go faster (although if a car is too light it can be dangerous). Hydrogen's energy density by volume is 100x less than that of batteries when uncompressed. However, current hydrogen cars use tanks compressed to 5,000 or 10,000 psi which brings hydrogen's energy density up to 1.1-2.2 kWh/L vs. the 0.3 kWh/L for batteries.

So at first glance, hydrogen seems like a lot better way of storing energy in a car than a battery, but I wondered if this would still be true if you took into account the efficiency of running a car on hydrogen instead of electricity, the weight of the hydrogen tanks, or the energy it takes to make all this hydrogen. Hydrogen storage would be a major problem if hydrogen is to be produced outside the car and held at fueling stations so many are proposing a "regenerative" hydrogen fuel cell mechanism which uses solar or wind power to create hydrogen on the vehicle via electrolysis and later consume it as fuel. I decided to calculate the "true" efficiencies of five systems: 1. Hydrogen at 5000 psi reacted in a PEM fuel cell to form electricity used to power an

electric motor

2. Hydrogen at 5000 psi combusted in an internal combustion engine

3. Electricity stored in a Lithium-ion polymer battery and then used to power an

electric motor

4. Hydrogen at 5000 psi formed via electrolysis in, reacted in a PEM fuel cell to create

electricity used to power an electric motor

5. Hydrogen at 5000 psi formed via electrolysis in and then combusted in an internal

combustion engine

I chose a PEM fuel cell because they currently have the best power to weight and volume ratios. Low temperature fuel cells like the PEM currently need platinum to catalyze the reduction reaction. I've heard that there is not enough platinum on earth to use these fuel cells in cars - although some researchers in Australia claim that they can use gortex as a substitue for platinum. I chose a lithium-ion polymer battery because they are one of the lightest batteries around and have high efficiencies. Both of these technologies are priced competitively in relation to other fuel cells and batteries respectively.

The true efficiencies of the first three systems are plotted below both by volume and by mass.

While only considering the energy efficiency of the car, hydrogen has a higher energy density than batteries both on a mass and a volume basis. Even combusting hydrogen in an internal engine would be better than using batteries.

The true efficiencies of the systems 3-5 are plotted below both by volume and by mass.

If hydrogen would need to be produced and compressed on board, using batteries has a higher energy density than combusting hydrogen. Although creating and reacting hydrogen in a fuel cell still has a higher energy density by volume than using Li-polymer batteries, Li-Polymer batteries have a higher energy density by weight, which is arguably more important in automobiles. For these calculations I didn't consider the volume of the gas compressor, or the weight and volume of the PV cells/wind power

So what does this mean for the future? Well as with most things in life, financial cosiderations are a key player in decision making. However, since I'm not really interested in money, I'm didn't consider that. From my non-monetary analysis, I've reached the following conclusions:

1. Using hydrogen as fuel is only a viable option if we are going to invest in a complete hydrogen economy with fueling stations, hydrogen production plants, wind and solar energy to provide the electricity for hydrolysis, etc. Creating a cars which produce hydrogen onboard is not a viable option unless the weight of fuel cells, compressors, and gas storage tanks decrease sufficiently, or if the hydrogen system is sufficiently cheaper than a battery system. Of course there are also safety issues associated with sitting on a 5000 psi tank of hydrogen.

2. If we are not going to invest in a complete hydrogen economy, it is energetically best to store electricity directly in batteries. This electricity could be created onboard or at a power plant whichever is more cost effective. There are also safety issues associated the production and disposal of massive amounts of batteries full of corrosive, toxic materials.

Personally, I think that it is not realistic to think that hydrogen production on a mass scale with hydrogen stations etc. will exist in the near future. That would require large scale orchestration and high capital costs, which, considering the state of the economy, is not likely. There would need to be large infrastructure changes for electric cars as well. More solar and wind farms to generate electricity, as well as more transmission lines to transport this electricity are both important. President Obama announced that all three of these things are part of the recovery package that was recently passed, so we are well our way.

It is important that our options which offer small scale changes and transition stages. A small scale change leading to hydrogen cars would be to make hydrogen cars which make their own hydrogen on board. However, I have shown that it is currently better to use batteries for this purpose. Since this is the case, electric cars are more likely to initially take off than hydrogen cars, I believe that electric cars are the way of the future.

I've been hesitant to write my first blog post until I found something really worthy, something that would say "This is not a mundane blog. Nay, it is unique and colorful!" So after a week of living and searching the interwebs I've found it.

Although the power of this blender is impressive, perhaps even more incredible is the amount of things this single man has blended. The list includes pretty much everything you can think of: lighters, glow sticks, a golf club, cellphones, ipods, a bottle of beer, and my personal favorite...cochicken.

He also takes requests. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Tom Dickson, you truly are a hero.