I left South Africa with a mixture of incredible relief and incredible loss. As I said before, the country as a whole is ridiculously beautiful, but more than that, it's unbelievably complex and interesting. It's pulsating, it's dynamic, it's growing, and yes, it's dangerous. The job as it turns out, wasn't for me, and on May 23rd I hopped on a plane to paradise on the coast of Mozambique and left Johannesburg's cauldron of crime, its opulent suburbs, its vibrant sprawl of tin shack townships, its intoxicating sense of a city where anything can happen, behind. Before officially waving goodbye to South Africa though I had a one night return to the country to catch my flight to Zambia. I took advantage of the extra time and rented a car and headed west across the city in search of the Apartheid Museum.

After hours lost on the massive highways intersecting across the city, passing endless miles of townships without a single off ramp (one of the many legacies of the apartheid gov't is their carefully, maliciously calculated infrastructure designed to restrict movement by the black majority. The result is that many townships still lack access to the major arteries that would allow them to travel to other parts of the city), I finally arrived at my destination. Upon arrival I was surprised to see that the museum's parking lot was completely empty, but I was immediately happy I had come. The building is a beautiful modern design with interesting use of lines and water, once inside inside the design and presentation never failed to impress.

When I entered the museum I felt prepared for what was to come. I had read Mandela's book, I had had countless conversations with South Africans of different races and political opinions, I had mulled the facts over with fellow travelers, I felt that I was in a good position to process and handle the history that the museum would present. I wasn't. To say it was appalling would be a grave understatement. To watch the interviews with apartheid government officials as they lamented the hardships of having to "care" for black africans, claiming that without the white minority there, the people would run themselves into the ground. They waxed on and on about about how useless it is to give them education which they'll never use, "Why teach them math if God didn't intend that they should ever use it? Once they understand that their lot in life is one of servitude, once we teach them to value hard work and understand their place, they'll be much happier" they claimed.

Of course, what was worse than the mindset of the white minority was the way that it was acted upon. The savage abuse, the absence of rule of law, the complete lack of humanity that existed in that regime, it makes one question the entire idea of a common understanding of right and wrong. I saw video footage of police men with whips beating men, women and children during protests, beating them with so much hatred, so much unbridled animosity, it was terrifying. When I walked into the cells that were used to put political prisoners in solitary confinement - windowless cells just big enough for someone my height (5'5") to lie down on the floor, but not to spread my arms out - I got chills. That humans put other humans who had committed no crime other than believe that they are equal to those of other skin tones in such conditions is unfathomable. That this happened so recently and the world let it, that my own government refused to impose even economic sanctions until the 11th hour, is just too awful.

I left the museum feeling like I had been punched in the stomach. Of course there are modern and historic atrocities on far larger and more destructive scale, but the length of time this went on, the systematic approach, the maliciousness of the planning, and I guess the familiarity of South Africa's social culture to my own, somehow made this part of our living history harder to swallow.

On my way back from the museum I drove for hours, lost in Johannesburg trying to find a place to stay. At one point, I took a wrong turn off and found myself scared out of my mind at a stop light, at night, in one of the worst parts of the city. I kept thinking of a description I had heard that compared driving into downtown Joberg to "crawling into the belly of the beast." There's no better way to describe it. As I compulsively checked and rechecked my doors were locked, gripped my pepper spray, and prayed frantically under my breath for the light to change, I was looking around me thinking about the people that have to live there in that environment, mostly immigrants from nearby countries, people who are fleeing their own country's terrors, thinking about how unfair it is. Thinking about the fact that I could guarantee that in a 5 mile radius I was sure to be the only white person stuck in such a dangerous situation, thinking about all the other white people, sitting cosily behind their electric wire fences and guarded security gates, sitting in large homes with beautiful shade trees on quiet streets, thinking about how completely unjust it all is. I was angry I was there, angry I was scared, angry that the people who in many ways deserve to feel fear, rarely have to face it.

I guess what keeps nagging at me about the South African situation is that somehow I had always believed that everyone has something inside them that tells them the difference between just and unjust, that what is "fair" is in a way intrinsic to us as humans. Even monkeys know when equal treatment is not being given and will routinely refuse food if it is not as good as the treats his neighbor is given. How is it possible that in our modern world, an entire population of people, a whole race if that's what Afrikaners can be called, came to be without an internal moral compass (granted there were surely those who did have objections, and of course if you ask now, there's not a single white person in South Africa who admits to voting for the apartheid government for its 48 years of power, but still). I just keep wondering how is it possible that anyone could drive from their mansion with lush surroundings and beautiful views past the disease filled poverty stricken masses in cardboard and tin shacks and think "this is right," how could anyone dare claim that there is a God that could approve of this? An Afrikaner woman I met told me with a smile on her face that during the apartheid era her grandfather used to always say that "Only the angels in heaven live better than the Boers of South Africa." She looked happy, remembering a lost era of grandeur. All I could think was "how could you?"

Since then I've been thinking more about this question. I recalled a British woman I met in S.Af who was married to an Afrikaner man. Starved for conversation with another foreigner she quickly released her frustrations about living in what she felt was an incredibly misogynistic and racist environment. She then asked a question that surprised me "Is America really as racist as it is here, is it as racist as we see on t.v.?" I was taken aback. I had been horrified by the continued segregation in South Africa, by the poor living conditions of the black majority, by the racist attitudes that the white minority - who in my opinion owe their lives in large part to the black majority who gave them undeserved peace and forgiveness following the transition. I had never imagined that my own country could ever be compared on the same level. My immediate reaction was "No! No, not at all. We're not like this. We're not racists. We're the land of equality, of justice. Even though there are racist people in America, society doesn't accept it as they do here..." The more I explained though, the less convinced I became. Am I treading along a well worn path of white liberal delusion?Am I kidding myself about the realities of my own country because none of my friends would ever judge someone on something as arbitrary as the color of their skin? I thought about who my friends are, how representative that is. I work with refugees, my best friends also work with refugees, or in inner city schools, or with people with disabilities. My family's not racist but then again we grew up in Vermont - there are no black people. It's not even a topic of conversation. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how out of touch my world in America is from the reality.

Sure, people of color are not living in shantytowns on the outskirts of the city. And yes, our obsession with political correctness ensures that people do not express opinions of racist nature, at least not in public. And yes we've taken strides, we're making headway in our country in terms of race relations and representative government. But on the ground can we really claim to have a nation built on equality when the people building the nation, the people laying the cement, cleaning the floors, picking up the trash, providing domestic labor, washing the dishes, working in the factories, are all people of color? I live in a country where between 65% and 85% of the prison population consists of people of color, where in supposedly "liberal" states like California, a young black male is statistically more likely to go to prison than to a state college, where 24.7% of black families live in poverty (as compared to a mere 8.7% of non-hispanic whites). Knowing this, I am forced to stop asking myself "how could they?" and start asking "how could we?"

Now, I'm not entirely naive. It's not as though I've never thought about this before or that it's just now occurring to me that race relations in America are far from equal. I work with newly arrived refugees, I see this inequity day in and day out in my country, I've had countless conversations with friends and colleagues and fellow travelers about the ills of America, but seeing it through the foil of the South African context somehow showed it in a different light. I think for the first time it made me truly angry - not angry about a single injustice, a single racist joke, or single ill treatment of someone I care about, but angry about the entire thing. Angry I'm not doing something more to change it. Angry that the vast majority of white America doesn't feel a responsibility in anyway to do something to change it. I hope that if nothing else, South Africa has instilled in me a strong enough aversion to complacency that I use this anger productively when I return home to the states. And I hope that I, and other travelers traipsing about the globe learning about other people's problems and pitying their situations, remember from time to time what they say about people in glass houses, and look at how it relates to our own countries.

Travel Blog cum Soap Box remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Anyway, on to the matter at hand. Sarah and I glimpsed hope for world peace back in February.

And we forgot to tell you.

I was going to let it go...but I watched CNN today. After 20 minutes of being bombarded with suicide bombings, bus surfing deaths, honor killings, refugee camps and the end of the world as we know it, I thought I'd put a little hope out there.

That's right my friends. I come to spread the good word. There can be peace on earth. Good will towards men. Teaching the world to sing, in perfect harmony. Taking it in my arms. Keeping it company. (Is that reference about 10 years before my time? Not sure.)

In Punjab, you can actually travel from Amristar up to the Pakistani border. If you time it right, you end up there at dusk, when the flags come down on both sides. Many people were nervous when they heard we would be visiting the infamous border. These two countries despise each other. On the verge of war from time to time. Who knows when we will wake up and find ourselves in the midst of a massive nuclear war brought on by these two countries...if America doesn't beat them to it, of course.

Thus, this optimism was entirely unexpected.

I now give you my own pathetic attempt to do this justice:

We arrived around 5pm, were offered chi, flags, video recordings of the event and other such treats before being herded along some barb wire. Suddenly were turned a corner and there it was...

That's right. Bleachers. Huge, full-stadium bleachers.

I turned to my traveling companions. This was the India/Pakistan border, yes? Not a football or cricket match? I was assured that we were, in fact, at the right place. We took a seat and the pre-gaming began. A man with a megaphone, a powerful set of lungs and a dream began chants, songs and other throughly enjoyable activities. On the other side, Pakistan broke out their loud speaker and attempted to chant over my Indian compatriots. Within 10 minutes, refreshments were served in order to salvage the vocal cords that were being strained around me.

Then the flags were broken out. Not the official flag, mind you. Just a few that they handed out to strong, determined looking young men who were falling over each other desperate to be picked for flag waving/running honors. Careful selection took place. The fittest took their place. A roar went up.

They ran to the gate. The roar became louder.

They came back. It was deafening.

Repeat. 15 times. Then hand off flags to alternate eager fellows in the stand. Inspiring. Really.

Finally, the real show begins. Out come the soldiers with their strange uniforms and ridiculous hats. Baffling knee-altering walks commence. You might call it a march, but I think that's being generous. Soldiers from both sides waddled up to the fancy iron gate, both of which bear their country's flag. With precise coordination, almost complicity, a choreographed lowering of the flags begins. Literally. Millisecond by millisecond. Millimeter by millimeter. The most exact, equal movements of lowering. Indian soldiers jerk at their flag. 5 seconds later, the Pakistanis have countered, the same motion, same distance. It's like a border ceremony for the anal retentive.

(Found a few videos of it for your enjoyment. Thoroughly entertaining stuff if you have a free moment...)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2FhFNKtjWEc
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-5407119265552473297&q=indian+pakistan+border+ceremony&hl=en
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8pisv0i9bE

An awkward acknowledgment. The flag is handed off. At the exact same time, equal numbers of soldiers from both sides waddle back to the stands.

Crowds cheer. They stand. Smile. Wave. And file out to their cars and rickshaws to go home. Peacefully. Happily. Quietly, at least for India standards.

(Please zoom in on the small sign in the background. That's right. It says "Welcome to India, the largest democracy in the world." Hmmm...)

For being one of the more absurdly executed ceremonies I've ever seen, it was orchestrated with the full intent of being equal, coordinated and absolutely without incident.

Now really. If these two nations can end each day with a ceremony that has less animosity than your average Yankee/Red Sox series, I ask you...

Is there not hope for peace on earth? Goodwill towards men?

Sweet dreams everyone. No fear. These young fellas are on the job.

Peace on Earth, Goodwill Towards Men remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So, quelling my inner protester, I put on my best takepityonmei'mjustapoortiredgirltravellingthishardhardworldonherown face and managed to convince my personal security guard to beg the slowest airline ticket counter lady in the world to reopen her stall so that I could purchase something other than a 7000 rand one way ticket to Amsterdam and get myself the hell out of the airport. Several hours and a fallen dream of being a South African freedom fighter later, I snuggled into a nice warm bed with my own bathroom with actual running water nearby and an English speaking family and dogs and a cat and television and the huge vacancy of being in a place without constant noise, sights, and sounds impaling me from every angle (oh, India, I miss you). And so, the moral of this story is as you can plainly see is: don't come to south africa without a ticket out of here. Even a seasoned briber like myself couldn't finagle so much as a secret handshake of understanding from these grouchy customs guys.

In any event, since that first night however things have been remarkably easy here in South Africa. In the wake of India, Africa has felt remarkably empty and peaceful, abeit equally as bemusing and complex. In my first three days in this country (a country whose white african population constitutes a mere 10-15% of the total), the only dark skinned people I saw were the ones taking out the trash and cleaning our toilets. I have to admit my inital thought here was "this is the 'new south africa' "? But while my first impression was definitely a cynical one, as the days and weeks have gone on I've begun to see more and more of the many layers of this country. There have been moments when I've paused to look around me and have been completely in awe of the beauty and complexity of the culture where in a room of 20 people there could easily be 20 different skin tones and 20 different languages. Race relations are a definite focal point and I'm nowhere near getting a grasp on all of the currents and friction involved but I am uplifted by the country's apparent willingness to face their issues head on. It seems everyone, in all race groups and social classes, are thinking about and talking about ways to make their country a better place. There are public service campaigns toting South Africa as the land of possibility and honestly, I sort of feel it.

So, after several weeks here, travelling around, learning, reading, talking to people, my hope for the 'new' South Africa is significantly lifted - so much so that I'm taking up residency; I've accepted a job in educational development that will keep me in S.A. indefinitely so new ideas and experiences are sure to unfold. Certainly the added bonus that South Africa might be the single most beautiful place on the planet doesn't hurt ...

Welcome to South Africa remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Apparently...I was wrong. (I say that sentence rarely, so enjoy it while you can.)

Go here: http://www.new7wonders.com/index.php?id=351&L=0

The history seems a bit complicated. The wonders of the ancient world was a list of what was deemed the seven great structures of classical antiquity. Apparently based on guidebooks from Greek tourists of the age, only one still stands, the Pyramids at Giza. Though you can see the site of the Colossus of Rhodes or the Temple of Artemis (and your bribers have, at that) that's apparently the only real show in town.

A few thousand years later, someone with a sense of humor decided to create a list for the wonders of the Middle Ages. Many amazing sites are included on that list, though the list isn't so much seven wonders as eleven...either there was significant disagreement, or counting was not a prized skill in medieval times.

Somewhere in the 20th century, we lost control of the list. There became a list for the seven natural wonders, for the seven modern wonders (the CNN tower? seriously?) and the seven tourist wonders. Clearly, the wheels had come off the wagon, and it was time to narrow. To focus. To examine the great sites of the world and show some taste in the matter. Can't just hand these things out like candy, or UNESCO World Heritage Site ratings.

This task apparently fell to a Swiss organization called the New Open World Cooperation. In 2001 they started combing the world and in 2006, they released a list of 21 finalist.

Your bribers have been to a number of them including:
-The Acropolis
Seven years ago. Spent most of the time laughing at people taking digital shots and home movies of the urn collection in the neighboring museum.
-The Alhambra
Twice now. Never fails to take your breath away.
-Ankor Watt
Ali could tell you about that. But she's apparently on strike. Does it count as a strike if you never blogged in the first place?
-The Colosseum
7 years ago again. The entire time I was whining to Alison that I had to go back to the hotel to wait for a phone call from my boyfriend. We called it the summer of Juliet. Yes. I too, was once lame.
-The Eiffel Tower

-The Great Wall

Did I mention it was, in fact, great?
-Haiga Sophia
Eh. Nice. Big. Sturdy. Old.
-Kiyomizu Temple
Hard to distinguish among the 8,396 temples we saw in Kyoto.
-Manchu Pichu
Sarah's department.
-Petra

-Pyramids of Giza


-The Statue of Liberty
Seriously?
-Stonehenge
Some stones. Nicely arranged, grant you.
-Taj Mahal

Looking at the list...at the incredible disparity between these things, after all, how can you compare the Pyramids with the Eiffel Tower? How bogus is it that something like The Statue of Liberty even made it to the final round? What on earth is the criteria?

I looked into this. Apparently, age has nothing to do with it, as it covers the entire span of human history. Instead they are judging based on structure quality, geographic dimension, artistic/cultural value, recognition and diversity...whatever the last two mean.

But really...it should be so much more than that. Alison made a great point - it shouldn't just be an impressive architectural structure. It should have some aspect of mystery or, dare I say, wonder. It should take your breath away. You should feel all at once amazed at what man can do and mystified by how on earth it was achieved. And no amount of explaining can fix that.

And so, without further ado, we present you with another list. It's not a perfect list. Some of these things are not even structures, but experiences. Nonetheless, offer it we do. Your favorite bribers now humbly submit for your approval...

Better than a large statue in a moderately dirty harbor...Marvels of the world that will knock you on your ass:

1. A balloon ride over Cappadocia, Turkey
Magical. Can't describe. Just look...

2. Abu Simbel, Egypt
It's not just that the statues of Ramses II that guard this temple are austere and massive and many stories high, because they are. It's realizing that 40 years ago, an international team took 4 years to disassemble the entire structure and put it back together in a different and higher location, to save it from submersion from the rising water of the Nile due to the construction of a dam. Plus no one is allowed to take pictures inside, so you can actually see the carvings and paintings without being blinded by the constant flash of cameras. (The digital camera was a horrible invention, giving people with no talent or interest the ability to take hundreds of low quality pictures of a subject, without actually looking at the subject except through a camera lens, and then allowing them to bore friends, relatives, neighbors etc with said photos of something they visited but didn't actually experience).

3. A bus ride through India
Hard to do it justice. But ride through any random town or city in India. And the visual stimulation is so overwhelming- the colors and images that flash by you, not to mention the smells and sounds. Sensory overload is an understatement. And you're just filled with amazement at the delicate order that rules the seeming chaos. And moderately impressed that this society has not collapsed at this point...

4. Walking the Brooklyn Bridge, NY, USA
Eternal optimism of the human spirit. Don't even get me started.

5. Walking the Charles Bridge, Prague, Czech Republic
At midnight. When the statues are dark but the castle is still lit up. It feels haunted...and you feel a creeping paranoia that a KGB spy in a trench coat will pop out and begin torturing you...

6. The marketplace in Marakesh, Morocco
At dusk it starts to come alive. Food is being cooked and touts try to hustle you into a table. There are snake charmers sprinkled throughout and little groups of musicians playing or puppet shows, theater troops and magicians. Smoke starts to billow everywhere and it could be 300 years ago, but for the other tourist milling around with their digital camera. That's pretty much when the charm starts to wear off.

7. The Golden Temple in Amritsar, India
Maybe its the sacred pool that surrounds it. Or the cool of marble under your freshly washed feet. (There is something about being in a temple or mosque, where they require your shoes to be removed. Padding around, somehow...it makes you more aware of everything.) Maybe its the removal of the holy book on its long golden bed, supported by 15 Sheiks, all staggering under the weight. Hard to say. But maybe my favorite sight in India. And that's saying a lot.

So, go to the website. You only have 60 days left before they close the books. Look at the 21 choices. Choose wisely. Although you are entitled to your own opinion, if you vote for the Statue of Liberty over something like Ankor Wat or the statues at Easter Island, hang your head in shame. This accolade will bring much needed tourism to each country that gets this listing. So Cambodia and Mali are more greatly in need of those tourist dollars than New York...stepping down from soap box now. Apologies.

But also, make your own damn list. What have you done? What have you seen that gave you chills, made you breath deeply at a sight or experience? What has filled you with wonder? Despite feeling a bit like Hard Harry in asking this, your bribers welcome your contributions to this list of wonder filled experiences.

We're waiting. And we're not known for our patience.

Seven Wonders of the World... remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Before you all label me irrational and judgmental (which let's be honest, you already have) allow me to relate some circumstances. Just a sad tale of two sisters with a dream. A dream of seeing the world. Of heading out with nothing but the clothes on our backs, 30 pounds of crap and this dream. Of being bathed in the warm embrace of the world and her children. Of being wrapped in the bosom of mother earth. I quote Henry Mancini- "Two drifters off to see the world/ there's such a lot of world to see..."

Are you getting all this?

Your two hopeful dreams crossed the border into Bulgaria one chilly spring night. And got eaten for dinner.

Alison, face aglow with displeasure:

Alright, not eaten for dinner. Having been to India, my standards for getting my ass handed to me by a particular nation are a bit left of center. But I will tell you, after a week of giving it the old college, try, we crossed into Serbia this morning, raised our fists to Bulgaria, cursed the land, their people and stomped on our Bulgaria Lonely Planet pages.

And what happened in this short week that poisoned us to this seemingly harmless place?

Well for starters...

Cyrillic is not the easiest language out there. We can't read a damn word of it and there's no English to be had. So we landed ourselves back in the world of intensive pantomime, stick figure drawings and Alison's bootleg Czech. None of which was appreciated. An entire nation without a sense of humor...

Now, if it were this alone, I would forgive. Been in many a place where I can't speak/read/write the language and I certainly don't expect everyone to learn English for my convenience. Or laugh with me as I try to learn their mother tongue. But...

We were also forced to bribe some jackass tram inspectors. Now being a briber, you'd think there'd be no objection. We like bribes. We understand bribes. We expected to pay them. But not to a ticket inspector with a mullet who looked at our perfectly legal and stamped tickets and decided to worm some money out of foreigners anyway. He insisted that we stamped them on the "wrong side" hauled us off the train, surrounded us with two of his buddies all of whom were yelling "money! pay! police! jail! passport!" at us. There were also several strange handcuff motions that could be interpreted as either "your American ass will be smarting in jail if you don't pay our $15 fine" or "I'm crazy about S and M, how about you?"

That's pretty much where the wheels came off the wagon. My sister, having spent a year in India and therefore determined to be nobody's fool, started screaming back at them about corruption and in clear, concise, if vehement English, declared them all to be bad people. Dreaming of an overnight in a Bulgarian jail did not sit well with me, however, and I hissed at her to pay the money, much to her chagrin.

In the end, we paid, made a series of rude gestures and left. We choose to think of this as a bribe instead of plain extortion and targeting of foreigners. It's how we sleep at night. Again, not the Maoist rebels, but what can you do.

Finally...and perhaps finally, as this part is rather catty and I'm secretly hoping you get bored and move onto youtube before you realize just how shallow and obnoxious we really are...there's Bulgarian fashion.

Imagine Julia Roberts in "Pretty Woman. Pre-classy makeover. Now join it with what was in style just before the Berlin Wall fell.

That's pretty much what we're looking at.

Hair is crimped. (Do they still sell crimpers?)
Boots of red pleather or sparkling gold.
Men wearing vests...with nothing underneath.

It's pretty shocking. Two pictures to illustrate:

Display window in fancy Bulgarian department store:

Two young, attractive women walking down the street:

That's right. One is a lime green jumpsuit. The other is wearing capris, navy blue tights and black strappy shoes.

Couple this with some terrible maps, a ridiculous dearth of internet, consistently mediocre meals and the rain...can you blame us?

Okay. After 8 months in Asia, Africa and the Middle East, I'm not the easiest to impress anymore. And given this fact, I will admit it's quite pretty here. Nice mountains. Very green. I quote the great Wesley- "Not saying I'd like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely."

Another interesting and positive fact about Bulgaria: allies with Germany during WWII in hope of annexing Macedonia. However, when the Nazi's informed the Bulgarian King and Orthodox Church leadership about the Final Solution and asked for full cooperation, Bulgaria said "Ne," saving up to 50,000 lives. Impressive, no? Well done, Bulgaria.

See? Spirit of generosity. Being a big person. Staying positive, looking for the good.

(But good riddance, I say.)

p.s. Serbia is 4 lovers.
No. Really.

Good Riddance, Bulgaria. remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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And so my day begins. Luckily, after three months of this, my body has learned to go back to sleep when it's over, and sleep I do, until the affects of the morning power cuts set in. With India heating up like a furnace, electricity is patchy and my poor weak western body withers and drips through those restless morning hours when my fan is not running. By 7 I've had enough, I get up and begin the arduous process of making myself look presentable to India.

With layers of baby powder and jewelry in place, hair sufficiently shellacked with coconut oil and neatly plaited, I take a few moments of silence to remember the glory that was once my travel wardrobe. Oh grubby t-shirts and ripped pants of my past, how I mourn for you. Despite their dangerous lure, I do not give in; instead I turn off the fan, shut the shutters, and begin the layering, folding, pleating, turning and pinning of my sari in place. A process which I can now complete in 7 minutes flat -- I realize that this is not impressive to those of you who have never tried it, but I assure you, it is a marvelous feat of dexterity, patience, and determination, and a talent worthy of global envy.

Looking at last like a proper Indian girl, I tread out into the world and around the corner to Manjula's house where she cooks me yummy breakfast and makes me coffee and chats with me until it's time for us to go to work. Most of my days are spent creating the new volunteer program, designing manuals, responding to email inquiries, reading applications, designing project plans etc. On any given day I may attend a women's self-help group training session, take part in an NGO network organic cotton planning session, or be taken to an event where having a white person in the press photos will be advantageous for whomever is involved.

Me speaking in front of a member of parliament and 7,500 women at International Women's Day (yikes!):

Because Indian work days are incredibly long and power cuts are frequent, plenty of time throughout the day is dedicated to innumerable coffee/chai breaks, fruit breaks, paper reading, chatting, napping, errands and general staring into space. In the mid afternoon everyone heads home for lunch and then takes a couple hours of rest to let the soporific effects of the rice set in. It's too hot to focus anyway. I admit, it was hard for my overly efficient western mindset to get into this groove, but now that I'm accustomed to it, I can see the benefits of combining work and leisure. There’s something about the the head bobbliness of it all (a reference those of you who’ve been to India can surely appreciate, for those that haven’t, come to India so you can appreciate it!) that makes work seem a lot less like, well, work.

Office staff at work:

In the late afternoons, I head back to the office. A few days a week I teach a staff spoken English class which is always fun as the staff English levels vary wildly and much enjoyment is gained in making fun of ones friends and co-workers. Occasionally I’ll pick up a tutoring session for the boys class that meets at our office in the evening as well. It is on my way home from these classes that I face what is perhaps my most critical decision of the day. If I have any hope of reaching my destination in a timely manner, I must choose (of the three streets in town) my path very very carefully, for there is a mob in the wait.

Admittedly, it is a mob of overwhelmingly cute children, but it is still a mob. In America we have public campaigns to teach our children to be afraid of strangers. In Tiruchuli they take a different tactic -- teaching them to surround strangers in huge groups, demanding to know their name, their mother's name, their native village, and anything else they can half form a question about in English. On any given day, I shake approximately 8 million children’s hands and wave to innumerable others who call out from windows, doorways, alleys, schools, and cars in earnest -- "Auntie! Auntie! Auntie!". Of course, no matter how long it takes me to get through the crowd or how many dirty little hands I shake, it's impossible to stay annoyed for more than a few seconds because here in Tiruchuli, even the naughtiest of children, still manages to be the cutest kid on the planet.

And so my day comes to a close. I climb the steps to my top floor room, pause at the top to take in the ridiculous beauty of the night’s sky unadulterated by lights, and sneak into my room to change into what has become, hands down, my favorite Indian trend – the “nighty.” This all covering, loose fitting, gift from God is worn my women young and old at all times they're not in the restrictive, heavy and undeniably beautiful sari. If you had asked me a few years ago if at 25 I'd be crouched down on a concrete floor in 110 degree weather, wearing a moo moo, happily washing my clothes by hand in a bucket while listening to the jarring sounds of tamil pop music or the local wandering drum group blaring through my windows, I'd have thought you were crazy. And yet here I am …

Ode to village life remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Ladies-

Nice to see you. Thanks for coming out to Morocco, Jordan, Egypt. Glad you're stretching your legs, getting out of your cubicles.

Enough with the pleasantries. Allow me to ask- what the hell is wrong with you? You get that you chose to come here. To this place. This place with a ginormous Muslim population? You could have stayed at home and worn whatever the hell you like, regardless of whether or not its flattering. You want to refuse to wear long pants? Strut around in t-shirts? Leave your head uncovered?

Fine. Fine. I think it's obnoxious, but I'm moving on.

But walking around in halter tops, mini skirts, athletic shorts, cleavage bearing tank tops? Really? Have you fallen on your heads?

It's not just that it's disrespectful, though clearly, it is. It's the fact that this perception of Western women as a relatively easy specimen doesn't exactly get put to rest when you do this. And who pays? This kid. Walking around with a covered head and long pants and long sleeves even though it's 75 degrees out. This kid still gets leered, grabbed, hissed and propositioned.

Put on some clothes. I beg of you.

Disgruntled in Cairo,
Canadian Bribers

To: Egyptian Men, young and old, far and wide.
From: Bribers, near and far.
Re: Hissing.

Gentleman-

Really? You're hissing at me? Has this yielded results in the past?

Baffled in Giza,
Canadian Bribers

That's pretty much all the news from here.

Except that we saw this yesterday:

Yea. Amazing. Strangely located in the middle of a suburb, that's how much urban sprawl has taken place in Cairo.

We also bribed.

And were Canadian.

Okay...so we bribed to get an non-tourist vehicle into Giza.

And we were Canadian so as to avoid extra security following us everywhere.

Not exactly meeting Maosit rebels in the mountains.

But still.

Bribing Canadians.

Strongly Worded Letter Addendum remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Where is Morocco? Two whole weeks there and not even a hint? A whisper. Sorry friends. Alison was supposed to blog about it. But her schedule is crammed with her sudoku obsession and new found friend, "Parasite Pete." She's swamped.

(She's really not swamped. Everytime someone brings up the blog, she get's all "I don't wannnnnna blog, I don't knooooooow what to say, I'm perfectly haaaaaaappy just traveling and not publishing my thoughts for the whoooooole wooooooorld to see!"

Clearly she's exaggerating. I keep telling her that Paying the Bribe's loyal readers really consist of my mom. And Sarah's mom.

Hi mom.

Hi Kim.)

Suffice it to say, we loved Morocco. We wandered through many a market, enjoyed mint tea, fended off snake charmers and quoted Casablanca as often as possible. Even ate at a recreation of Rick's Cafe...of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...

My poor father actually turned down an offer to marry us off for camels, rugs and a lovely home in the old city of Fez. Undoubtedly, he already regrets it.

At any rate, it was relaxing, enjoyable and surprisingly easy to travel through. Though perhaps we're just warped. Compared to India, everywhere seems easy...

We're now coming to the end of our two weeks in Israel. It's really difficult to be ambivalent about this place once you're seen it.

We were alarmed at first. There's something about seeing 18 year olds with ipods, cell phones, acne and hair scrunchies carrying M60s slung across their back. You find yourself thinking..."someone did teach them how to put the safety on that thing, no?"

But the constant tension I expected to feel, the nervousness and fear and hatred is difficult to perceive...at least at first glance. Granted if we had traveled through the West Bank or Gaza, our experience would be decidedly different.

At Nazareth...

But what we came away with is an impression of this tiny place, one that you could drive the distance of in half a day...with more than half of it seemingly unusable, dessert. All of it crammed with people that want a piece of it. The huge number of Christian pilgrims that tromp around the old city of Jerusalem wearing a caps that say "Praise the Lord." The four different sects of Christianity that share the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, with Orthodox priests scurrying around Catholic monks, an uneasy peace among them. The stations of the cross mixed in among the huge market in the Arab quarter, prompting Jamie and Benjamin's classic line, "Station 6: Jesus stops off for a pack of smokes and a scratch card." The Wailing Wall positioned right next to the Dome of the Rock, the Armenian quarter running smack into the Jewish quarter.

Ali at some random station...

Station 7...maybe.

The old city...and a large parking lot, apparently...

But most of all...I've been struck by how functional it is. The images you get when you think of Israel, I expected to see at least 3 explosions, a little rock throwing or at the very least some very pissed off graffiti. And yet somehow...after a few days, those images are gone. And it's hard to imagine you ever had them. And you fall in alongside everyone else who is getting up every day and living their life in this tiny strip of land, despite the dangers and frustrations and injustices.

At the suprisingly peaceful Lebanon border...

Waxing poetic now.

Sarah will flog me for treading on her sacred ground. Apologies.

Stay tuned for the good word from Egypt...

Greetings From the Holy Land remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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My charming, talented and altogether extraordinary sibling has been added as a contributor to your friendly neighborhood travel blog. In short, before your very eyes...a briber has been born. And what a briber she is. Travel savvy like its her job, harboring aspirations of writing professionally...and yet, 3 weeks in Cambodia come and go...

And what whisperings are sent our way from Southeast Asia? Nothing. Nada. Ninette. Nien. Not a single, solitary word.

Personally, it hurts. Is she creatively blocked? Strapped for time? Or are we not even a blip on her radar as she navigates through the difficult passages of Ankor?

Not a beg, but a plea...loyal readers, please help her to break the silence. Full court pressure. All hands on deck. Any other sports metaphor/idiom you´ve got. Bring the pain (read: email).

In other news...after a 5 month absence, I´ve returned to Western Civilization!

Musee D'Orsay and other Paris Delights...

Crystal and I at Sacre Coeur...

I spent my first few hours wandering around London Heathrow, relishing in forgotten pleasures, such as Starbucks and trashy tabloids. And Western toilets. And fixed prices. And understanding the announcements on the overhead. The sheer idea of having a complete mastery of what is happening around you. Of being able to ask someone a question, understand the answer and feel comfortable about the meaning of the body language and the encounter in general.

Ridiculous. Where is the fun in that?

In the spirit of such ridiculousness, I give you Paying the Bribe´s first official Top 5 list:

Go West, Young Woman: Putting the shock in Culture Shock...

5. Personal space! Who gives personal space? What do you mean you want me to form a queue? I get waited on by shoving my way up and throwing my money at someone, not by waiting in some archaic line...
4. Everything is clean. And attractive. The bathrooms are attractive. The seating in the airport is attractive. The display of mixed fruit and nuts in the gift shop is lovely. The garbage cans are frankly getting me a little hot and bothered.
3. I ordered a salad that cost approximately $14.00. I could get a 4 course meal in India for that much. I think I just had a small coronary.
2. I blend in. Really. I blend in. People don´t point at me when I walk by. My pants aren´t a major topic of conversation. People aren´t asking to have their picture taken with me...(Not kidding. Mantles all over India have headings like ¨me with random white girl in Amritsar...¨) Complete anonymity. How odd.

And finally...

1. For lack of a more eloquent way to phrase it...dear god, to we produce a lot of shit in the western world.

Please note...this list was compiled within my first few hours in Heathrow. Three weeks later, after covering France and Spain...I feel a little differently. I´m no longer impressed by the politeness of Western man...I´d rather have someone reach out and grab you than have to fend off French waiters with pedophilic tendencies who only seem interested in you because you are legal while still looking about twelve...

I continue to be overwhelmed by the stuff. By the expense. By the self-righteousness and ethnocentrism.

And yet...

Today I shall drink regular water without guilt and run my tooth brush under the sink.

Ahhh...sweet decadence of life.

At last, I´ve found you.

Stay tuned for the Highland Park Hillbillies in North Africa...

Holy Western Civilization, Batman. remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Seeing skinny 17 year-old boys sigh dramatically and roll their eyes in this way never fails to amuse me.
"Well, not everything. It's like comparing rice and dosa. In their essence they're exactly the same - rice. But in every other way they're different. They look different, they taste different, and you eat them with different foods. America and India are basically the same. It's just people and families trying to survive and love one another. But in every other recognizable way they're different." I look out at my once adoring class and one thing is very very clear. Metaphors are lame, particularly my metaphors.
I try a different tactic.
"Okay, okay. Let's see. America is cold. At this time of year it's freezing and there's snow. And even when it's not the climate, it can be really cold there. It's the people. And it's very ..." I scrawl their new vocabulary word on the board: INDIVIDUALISTIC. "It means that everybody wants to be independent, wants to do everything on their own. Here in India, it's all about community and family, in America it's about individuals and their personal successes." They practice saying individualistic several times unsuccessfully. I can see them throwing this into casual conversation "What is your name? Are you individualistic?" Perhaps this wasn't the best approach. Still, they ask for more.
"Well, in India you share things. Everything. In America, people are incredibly wasteful. Wasteful means they do not use everything they have. It is connected to being individualistic in a way." They are clearly confused. "Okay," I continue, "here's an example: On a train or a bus, an American will throw out the rest of their biscuits or fruit or whatever they're eating rather than share it with the person next to them."
They look at one another as if for clarification on the joke.
"I'm not kidding guys. People throw things out that are perfectly good rather than talk to a stranger. Everyone in America has boundaries that are completely different from Indian boundaries. Even within a family each person will drink from a different cup. They will wash a cup. With soap before using it again."
They laugh.
"You think I'm joking, but it's true." (For reader's perspective, at the Madurai airport there is a large drinking water tank upon which sits 4 tin cups to be shared by all who pass through the airport's restaurant and need a drink. The idea of individual utensils, even in this most public of contexts, does not exist in this part of India).
Seemingly satisfied with this explanation of why America is not like India, why America is in fact a very strange alternate universe, probably inhabited by space creatures who carry hand sanitizer and wear sunglasses and listen to mp3 players on public transportation so they don't have to interact with society, they venture on.
"Are you married?" they ask.
"No." I brace myself, I wait for it ... but it doesn't come. There is no communal gasp. No pitying looks and the appearance of minds racing to their next opportunity to rush to temple/church/mosque to pray to whatever God is best suited to save my soul and bring me a husband. I smile. I knew I liked these boys for a reason.
"How old are you?"
"How old do you think I am?"
They discuss animatedly amongst themselves before agreeing on a number: "18."
I smile. That explains the apparent acceptance of my marital status. I shake my head no. "19? 17?" they guess.
"I just turned 25" I say, to which communal gasp, concerned chatter, and calculations of time available after class before the temple closes to pray for my mortal soul immediately follows.

Here are some pictures of the many folks across the world who continue to pray for me, not including my entire refugee client base in the US who are undoubtedly making deals with cousins and uncles and arranging bride prices as we speak:

"The average age for marriage for a woman in America is 29," I lie. I have no idea what the real number is, probably lower but this seems to suit me. "First child at 31" I continue without any clue what I'm talking about.
"It's 21 here. First child at 21 is very good for Indian woman" They reply.
"I know," I say, "it just takes longer for us I guess. We don't have arranged marriage like you. No one to find our husbands for us. In America, only love marriages." I say this without the superiority I once thought the statement inherently carried. Things seem to work out pretty well here on the arranged marriage front. There are problems of course but for the most part I see a lot of examples of strong, committed, happy families.
"You all have love marriage?" they ask in disbelief.
"Yes, all Americans (unless they're Indian-American perhaps) have love marriages." They smile at this idea. "They're not quite like yours though. Indian love marriages are different. In America, they're all love marriage, but they're not all happy. In fact, in America you can stop anytime you want. End the marriage. End the loving." It is impossible to explain this concept to them. In the area I'm living in here, a love marriage is a sacrifice, a rebellion, the culmination of years of secret conversations and exchanges of knowing smiles. It is hidden photographs and dreams of the future. It is not dating as we know it. And it most certainly is not sex. And it absolutely doesn't end in divorce. Sure, it has its problems (any arranged marriage enthusiast, and there are many, will tell you this) but in comparison to many of the examples we have in the states, it's hard not to be a little awed by marriages here -- both arranged and "love".

After all this discussion, they look dejected at this new picture of the Promised Land. I don't want to depress these kids. I pick up my tone. "But..." I say, "We have a lot of really good things too. Like cheese, and i-pods, and baseball, the wonders of which I cannot put into words but I can assure you, they are absolutely amazing. And also it is because I am from a place like America that I am here at all. I came to India alone, and when I leave I will keep going, to other countries, for a year, without any men to put me on each train and scoop me up each time I land."
They are a bit impressed by this (as impressed as 17 year old boys will admit to being).
"Do you have credentials and a profession too?"
"Yes!" and I explain what I do, or what I did because, come to think of it, I'm quite unemployed at the moment. "Most women, especially if they are young like me have jobs. And we can have good jobs too. And move about freely inside our country without any help. We are free to do as we please..." I want to say more about this, to believe what I'm saying is true. But as the words come out I'm already doubting their veracity. Yes we can move about, yes we are free to wear jeans and t-shirts and attain higher education. But we're still doing a huge portion of the domestic work; we're still only earning 75% of the salary of men in our positions. We can't even elect a female president for crying out loud! At least India can do that much. I throw in my cards. No more high horse to ride on the gender issue. I return my focus to the students and my unwavering ability to disappoint them over all matters related to cricket and my unbelievable lack of knowledge on the subject...
"No, I don't know him either. Why don't you just pick a favorite for me and I'll go with that... What else, we have time for one more question."
"Have you ever met Arnold?" they ask with anticipation.
"Who?"
They make big (tiny) muscles. "The Govinator!"

I smile. My mood is sufficiently brightened.
"No" I say, mocking a deep seated regret at this unfortunate fact "but I read in the Hindu Times last week that he broke his leg..."
They all break in to join this conversation topic on which they are all experts. Tamilnadu has washed up actors as governors too. So naturally, the entire state adores him. We discuss our favorite Arnold Schwarzenegger films until class is over. Listening to them imitate lines from The Terminator in heavy Tamil accents has made my week.

What culture gap? remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Cooooooommmmme ooonnnn young female professional!
Biiiiiig moooonnnneeeyyy family with young (but not too young) children!
Ollllld ladies who knit and sleep quietly!

Sadly, this often seems to have the inverse effect.

From the very beginning, we seem to have been cursed with bad overnight journey karma. There was the infamous "2 old men with sleep apnea and a long loud night" incident. The "four friends and a case of beer in under an hour" evening. The "three old men slurping raw meat and talking at the top of their lungs when they awoke at 4am" journey.

Sufficed to say, it's been dicey. However none, none have compared with
what India had in store. I now submit for your approval, a tale of two bus journeys...

I. Working Title...No Patty Fingers...(maybe only clear to those that have seen "The Quiet Man...")

In January, I embarked on a journey to Hampi with a few friends. For those of you who haven't been, it's an amazingly beautiful town with ruins of the last great Hindi empire. Anyway, I digress...

Riding buses in India is an adventure because of the complete chaos. There's no real terminal or schedule posted. So far as I can see, the best way to find your bus is to walk around and show your ticket to anyone who will look at it. If you're persistent, someone is bound to point you in the right direction. Our bus from Hampi back to Banalore was delayed that night, but no one could effectively communicate that with me...so we spent hours wandering around, showing our bus ticket, only to be dismissed.

We finally crawled on the bus tired and irritable. We were three gals in need of a good nights sleep. Sadly...it was not to be.

I sat down next to a man in his thirties with a sneer on his face. He would not stand up to let me into the window seat and thus I was forced to crawl over him. He also insisted on placing his elbow on the common elbow rest. Perhaps most distressingly, he covered his whole body, including his face, with his blanket. Ominous, ominous signs.

I woke up about an hour later with his hand on my leg. In the spirit of good fellowship and best intentions, I assumed he mistook my leg for the elbow rest. I picked it up and placed it back on his side. An hour later, I awoke to the same state of affairs. I rather harshly shoved it back and went back to sleep. About an hour after this, I awoke to find my leg being...well...stroked is probably the best verb. I ripped the blanket off his head said, "EXCUUUUUUSE ME!" and threw his hand over. Surely, I had taken care of it. Humiliated him. Called attention to the matter.

But strangely, he didn't even look at me! Just rolled over, covered himself with his blanket and pretended as if I wasn't there! The man across the way chuckled and suggested I, "guard my treasure." Would that I could say "bite me" in Hindi.

Dear readers. Dear, kind, forgiving readers. I tried to stay awake. I tried to guard my treasure. But it was late and the bus was so soothing...I fell asleep. And woke up with his hands in between my legs. I kicked. I yelled. I screamed. I elbowed and hit.

He ignored.

My treasure and I were not pleased, I'll tell you that much.

II. Working Title...Two Americans and a bus full of Tibetan monks head to Dehli.
Sounds like the start to a pretty promising joke, no? I know there's a punchline to be found...just can't get the bat off my shoulders...

Your favorite bribers spent a week up in the Himalayas...Mcleod Ganj to be exact. The home of the Tibetan government in exile and a huge refugee population, it's an amazing place. Beautiful, serene, fascinating.
Just sitting in a cafe and having former political prisoners come around to talk to you and enlist your support...wow.

Prayer flags and the Titanic pose in the Himalayas:

J

ust

Anyway, we took an overnight bus from Mcleod back to Dehli. Upon entering the bus, it would seem our prayers have been answered. After numerous journey with miserable companions who tested both our sanity and good will, the gods smiled upon us....and stacked the bus with Tibetan monks. We grinned at our good fortune and settled in for a pleasant night.

And a pleasant night it might have been...had it not been for a little thing called food poisoning. Having a solid head on my shoulders, I decided the best possible thing I could do before said 12 hour bus journey would be to consume a large cheese pizza.

I'm going to now give you all two important pieces of advice:
1. Before an overnight trip, don't eat dairy. Or meat. Or any food product that will likely poison you. You know what? Don't eat at all.
2. If you choose to ignore these sage words, please. At the very least...check to make sure the bag you plan to vomit in is free from holes at the bottom. I beg of you.

Once the storm began, I failed to notice said gaping holes. As I made my way to the front of the bus to ask for a pit stop, said vomit dripped. On me. On the bus. All over my bribing companion. There was dripage.

Lights were turned on. Damage was assessed. There were groans.

Though I must say. Under the circumstances, your friendly neighborhood Tibetan monks are by far the most forgiving audience a gal can ask for.

And so the night passed. With waves of nausea and sweat and fever. Covered in my own dinner.

Under such circumstances, one should be able to move past the absurdity. To see it as a reminder of the human condition. Of our own frailty and inability to control life's curve balls.

Unable to sleep, I should have spent the evening reflecting. Coming to great realizations about life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness. Past mistakes. Future hopes. The presence and/or absence of a higher power.

Sadly, pathetically... all I could come up with...

My love affair with cheese may be drawing to an abrupt end.

A Tale of Two Bus Rides remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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This isn't it.

This, my friends, is a full out rant.

There. You've been forwarned.

I took a long walk yesterday and counted 28, yes, 28 older Western men with innaopriately aged Thai women...and by women I mean girls. (Innappropriately is currently being defined as a girl under the age of 18 or alternatively less than half the age of her companion. And there is plenty of both...) I thought that the general economic subjugation of women in China/Japan by Western men was something. Really, if the world grades on a curve, those men are saints.

(Adorable Thai girls met on a random hike we took. Please leave them be, sketchy men.)

They're everywhere! Feeling each other up on the streets, making out at restaurants, sitting in their underwear with the door open in my hotel...

Some people go around the world to discover new cultures. Embrace various life choices. Believe in the spirit of world unity and love and the fellowship of all mankind.

We go. And become deeply, deeply bitter.

But surely you predicted this, no?

Thailand remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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A few words of hostility before I explain myself:

Do you have blogs? No. You all look to me for your jollies, hound me when I cannot provide and yet you don't entertain me in return. Did it ever occur to you that I've been out seeing the world, without time to throw you mere mortals a bone? No. It's all mememe, write write write, I don't want to work so I'll play solitaire and read Pay the Bribe. I resented your nagging and I simply raised you one two month boycott.

Alright. Truthfully...I've been creatively blocked. Seriously. We seem to have developed a niche here on Pay the Bribe. Sarah writes honest, thoughtful reflections about the world and I pop on for smart ass comments and amusing anecdotes. And I was simply without and quips. Unthinkable, I know. Lauren without an obnoxious sarcastic remark to share with the world.

I think it might be all the traveling. Meeting people, seeing new places. I've left behind my old ways and have embraced world love and unity. I'd like to teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony. I'd like to hold it in my arms, and keep it company. In fact, I'd like to buy the world a coke.

Anway, I'm back. A few tales about India to follow before I head to Paris and fill you with tales of culture shock and the joys of life's little pleasures. Like toilet paper. And fixed prices.

No real news here. Just my triumphant return.

Oh and to announce that my charming and talented sister will be joining the Pay the Bribe community as a major contributor! That's right. The Bassi girls meet up in March to take North Africa by storm...in the meantime, Alison will undoubtedly be filling our heads with captivating tales of Cambodia.

She is a little concerned, however. Having observed that both Sarah and I seem to have clear niches on said blog, she isn't sure where she will fit in. She's not the loquacious reflector or the obnoxious pundit. What will she write about?

No one knows. Suggestions are being accepted however...Please send them to your favorite bribers as soon as possible.

That's all the news from the heartland for now...

So to recap:

-Get your own damn blog if you're gonna hold me to such ridiculously high standards
-Creatively blocked. Apologies
-World love and unity. Hold hands. Sing Songs.
-Ms. Bassi the elder...someone find this woman a niche!
-Return. Triumphant.
-Goodnight and good luck.

(Your favorite bribers are pictured here. We realize that with two of our bribers now having the same last name and given the inability of many of our readers to decipher between authors, this will be a problem. We have included said photo to help you distinguish. Remember: Sarah is the one that is obviously not related to the other two. One Bassi has jewlery coming out of her nose. I hope this clears up any confusion.)

A Triumphant Return remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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But as your loyal blogger, I feel the need to update you all on that which is near and dear to my heart.

And thus, I am duty-bound to inform you:
Ipod number three has past on.

Cause of death unknown. Likely an electricity surge while charging.

My traveling soundtrack now consists of off-key humming. And all the horns honking. And people screaming. And general assult on the senses that is India.

Woe is me.

Bam. Bam. Bam. remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Every facet of life is different - I can not think of a single thing about my daily life that resembles any other life I've known, or a single scene in this village that recalls images from another I've lived in -- and yet being here feels strangely like home. The complete and utter lack of privacy is, in a way, like living in a crowded house filled with extended family. Every walk I take, every purchase I make, every meal I eat, every person I speak with is noted and discussed by the community that surrounds me. Like family, my new friends are as free and frank with their criticisms as they are lavish with their praise. In a given day my face is pinched by women in approval, my taste in sari material is repeatedly commended, my hand is shaken in excitement by dozens of school children. I am also, however, reminded time and again, of what is missing -- not enough bangles, my earrings are too small, my plait not long enough, where are my flowers, why haven't I a nose ring, and so on. Yesterday in fact, I was invited to a meeting as a guest speaker and told upon arrival that I ought to dye my hair black because I look like an elderly woman with such a strange hue (a comment which was confirmed by a room of 90 village women).

Photo: Posing with my Tamil mama, Manjula, and her mother and father in their home. This woman is my saving grace, an absolute magician in the kitchen, and starting this week, my culinary advisor as I begin as her apprentice/assistant to accommodate new volunteers.

To my great pleasure however, each day since that first difficult entrance has been truly joyful for me here, so much so that I decided early on to extend my stay as long as possible. When I lay in bed, awoken at 5am by the blood curdling sound of an out of tune Tamil call to prayer, accompanied by the ever so melodic backup of the entire village’s dog population, and find I am still happy to be here, I often asked myself how is it that adaptation comes so easily? Yes, I've had to say goodbye to luxuries like running water, toilet paper, timeliness, and the idea that I will ever be truly clean again. And sure, I've had to toughen my skin to face the attention of minor celebrity status. But really it has all been far less of a shock than I had imagined. What does it mean to "surrender" and why does it feel so natural? The other day walking through town I came to my answer - it's that glaringly obvious, yet somehow always shocking realization that we Westerners find ourselves making time and again whenever we visit countries less developed than our own -- that life simply goes on. Toilet paper or not.

With students at a child labor reintegration school sponsored by the org I work for:

Life After Toilet Paper remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Birthday Laughs:

The day after my birthday I rose early to ride out to my school where I was met by a moto on the way to the refugee camp. Though I've been working with refugees for a few years now, I had little idea what to expect. Camps vary drastically from place to place and it's impossible to put the stories I've heard into any kind of visual expectation. I was a little nervous to be honest, and not just because I was entering illegally, but because there are so many people I've come to admire and care for that have spent years in this very camp, and I wasn't quite sure I wanted a visual image to go with their stories. I comforted myself with the knowledge that the Thai camps are some of the best equipped in the world and it would likely be far less a shock than I could have imagined. Which was true.

Camp:

I spent the day walking around and visiting people in their homes to learn about their experiences. They told me about their struggles, and their lives in the camps, and their thoughts on the future. What struck me though was not the trauma of their histories or the destitution of their lives, or the lack of basic sanitation or food that plagues the 50,000 residents with constant sickness and disease -- these things were all expected. I guess in the wake of such a huge resettlement announcement(the US has agreed to accept 45,000 refugees from Mae La camp over four years, anyone who has never been a combatant can apply), I was most surprised by the utter lack of hope. No one I met with had registered for resettlement yet, though most saw it as an unavoidable conclusion. For many people, resettlement is the final dissolution of hope rather than a sparkling opportunity for the promised land. Emotions seem very mixed. Everyone agrees that for the children, this is the decision they will eventually make. But at the same time, the Karen have been fighting their struggle for freedom against the Burmese military regime for more than fifty years and it seems that only more recently has it begun to seem an unwinnable battle. No one I spoke with thought that the liberation movement would succeed, yet no one seemed ready to walk away from the struggle. For most, it is all they have ever known.

After leaving the camp we drove an hour and a half further north into the dusk to visit an IDP area. My driver/interpreter/guide felt that it was something I needed to see before I left Thailand and to be honest, I wasn't sure why. At this point it was getting cold and dark and I was drowsy from exhaustion and homemade rice wine. When we arrived and hopped in a little motor boat to take us over the river that divides Thailand from Burma and crawled up the steep hill to the quasi village where internally displaced people from Karen State live, it wasn't what I was prepared for. It had all of the same problems as the camp but none of the resources. Like in the refugee camp, the aspects of every day life, of routine, all exist. But it redefines what a "home" is (what is a home without protection?) or a "school" or a "hospital". The names are the same, but their form is hardly recognizable. I thought (naively I know) that somehow it might be happier on the other side where they at least weren't confined by barbed wire and constantly harassed by the Thai police. It wasn't. Like the camp, the IDP areas are without freedom, without opportunity, without growth. The atmosphere is stagnant in the most profound sense of the word. We left quickly in order to get back over the border before night set in and it might become more dangerous to cross. We rode three hours home in frozen silence.

IDP Area:

School:

The following two days were significantly more uplifting as I cross the border once again, in the back of a Karen National Liberation Army protected pickup truck to celebrate Karen New Year with my students at the 101st battalion headquarters. Though little more than an hour from Thailand, there is admittedly something different about being in Karen State. Maybe it was the elation of my students at returning, though briefly, to their homeland. Or the excitement in the air from the celebration. Or all the soldiers with large guns around making my pulse race. But it felt good to be on Karen soil. The festival itself was nothing spectacular and the newly set in winter weather made it uncomfortable (that and the frozen wooden boards I slept on and the fish bone filled gruel we ate from buckets on the floor), but being there was, well, just special. The KNLA are national heroes and it was fun to see my students dress up in the soldiers' fatigues and pose for photos with guns and generally be star struck. It was interesting to compare those who have come over to Thailand with villagers from deeper in Burma. My students somehow looked infinitely wealthier and more hip (though, I assure you, they are neither) in comparison. It made me proud to see all the female soldiers marching in unison with their hair in beautiful braids and their mouths fixed in uneasy sternness. It was just good to be there, and see how happy everyone was, protected for the few days by heavy artillery and the air of celebration.

Dancers waiting their turn:

Lady Soldiers:

I rode home wearily when it was over thinking about it all. Thinking about my students and how dedicated they are, how good they are, how much they want to help. Thinking about how likely it really is that things will change for the Karen people, how difficult it must be to be as hopeful as my students are. Thinking about the refugees in the camps struggling to make a decision on resettlement and the villagers in Karen state without the opportunity to make the decision. Thinking about how impossible it is to imagine what it means to give up your home. To give up your culture and your family and the struggle that has defined your existence. I can not begin to fathom the vacancy.

In the end it made me proud of where I've come and excited about where I'm going and what I will continue to learn. I had left my resettlement job in America to take this trip feeling as if I wasn't doing enough. I felt in a way as though my work were not as meaningful as I would want it to be. I guess I expected that what I would learn in my travels is that this was true, I hoped to be inspired and educated and forced in a way by my experiences to do more than I have been. Coming here to the Thai border though made me see not just how difficult life is for people struggling to survive, but how difficult it is to leave that life behind. Anything that makes that transition easier once the decision is made is meaningful work (and all you LFS staff at home in the trenches of it right now, your work and dedication continue to inspire me, even across the vast expanse that separates us).

p.s. Dear readers who miss the days of funny sarcastic blogging, fear not, it will return one day soon. You have to allow a few long dramatic imagined epiphanies once and a while.

Crossing Over remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Begin the Beguin
India, what ho!
The Chicago Hillbilies
have arrived. Let us pray.

Played Like a Cheap Banjo
At Taj Mahal we
Cry "Uncle!" Agra scores one.
Chaos shangra-la.

Civil Disobedience
Annie ain't eatin.
Now, Ghandi-like hunger strike.
Lunch when Britain leaves.

Regime Change
Day of dethronement
Ali becomes clan's Queen Bee.
Laur now funniest!

For Ches: Neither Sarcastic, Nor Sassy
India assults senses.
Sights, smells, sounds, colors.
Overwhelms, amazes.

Ode to Facial Hair Fashion
Land of mustaches!
Mr. Dali would approve.
Vic feels quite welcome.

Highlights of the Week
Cab is hot-wired
Annie conquers heights, camels.
Touts, Ali don't play.

India News. remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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A few clarifications...

1. Look at the bottom of each blog. It's signed by an author. Sarah is Ivory and Lauren is lbassi. So if I get another email about the great volunteer work I'm doing in Thailand...I'm gonna wig out on ya'll.

As Chesley said: "you mean the sassy irreverent posts are Bassi's and the loquacious, thoughtful blogs are Ivory? You're kidding...:"

2. Apologies for those of you complaining about my lack of picture postings. I lost my computer-camera adapter in China. You'll all have to wait until the New Year to see pictures of my mom riding a camel...sorry about that.

3. Pay the Bribe reunion is just around the corner! In a week, your favorite bribers will be in the same place at the same time, ready to ease you of the time/space continuim burden.

Until then...
Keep your ear to the grindstone.

Clarifications and directions. remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Initially hired for my dazzlingly native English skills, I soon learned that, despite what they tell me, my students' English is phenomenal. Their verbs and nouns may not always agree, but their vocabulary includes words like recondite, versatile, and annihilate. So rather than grammar exercises and vocab games, I will be spending the month endeavoring to instill in my students the vernacular of organizational development. My hope is that by the time I'm finished they will have the tools they need to articulate their visions and goals both verbally and in writing to the international community (and in turn snag some of that much coveted and rarely obtained funding that floats around out there).

Last week we spent two full classes working to define "community development" "human potential" and "capacity building." As I watched them struggling with the concepts, scrawling their ideas hurriedly on the board, and finally arriving at their "aha" moments, I found it impossible not to be at least a little carried away with a sense of hope for the future. The students at this school embody and work toward these very things we are defining. Though surely some will not have the opportunities to realize their potential, and others will resettle and become entrenched in their new lives overseas, there are undoubtedly a few in the group who will go on to change their world in important and meaningful ways. They were hand picked for this program because the directors saw in them the potential to be the future leaders of the Karen community. The privilege of working with them and watching them learn and develop their ideas is an opportunity I'm so happy to have fallen upon.

The Day to Day remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Luckily for me, a friend and one time co-worker of mine arrived in Mae Sot a few months ago where she's been working in the child welfare section for UNHCR (United Nation's Refugee program). She has been my most gracious host and her connections within the vast NGO network that exists here helped me to find a perfect volunteer position within days of my arrival. My first night in town, she took me to dinner with her friends at a favorite ex pat restaurant. I have to admit, I was a little star struck as I dined with resettlement officers and the UNHCR field director (a woman who knows and is known by seemingly everyone in Thailand), surrounded at other tables by relief workers, journalists, and various NGO staff. It sounds silly I know, but honestly this is the kind of work environment domestic resettlement workers like me sit at home in the states and dream about -- and now here I am in this dusty little town and it all suddenly feels very tangible.

I've not had a chance to take many pictures yet, but here's a couple to give you the quirky feel of this place. The first is where I've been staying, affectionately referred to as "the Disney Mansion" by the many UN workers who live here. The second is a random dressmakers shop with their Christmas preparations outside.

• The Karen are a large ethnic minority in Burma who have long been persecuted by their tyrannical military government. For more information on their struggle please visit:

http://www.khrg.org/
http://www.burmaissues.org/En/karen.html

Mae Sot remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Gibbons and Reindeer and Leeches, Oh My! remains copyright of the author lbassi, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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"French colonial administrators sent to Laos felt they had been posted to an earthly paradise. The tolerant, easy habits of the native people and the slow casual way they lived their lives had a charm impossible to find anywhere else. The most commonly used phrase in the language, Bo Pen Yong meaning "It doesn't matter," was spoken with conviction as an article of faith...Frenchmen who became immersed in Laotion life became a recognizable type, their quiet, undemonstrative voices, calm manners, and gentle rapt expressions reminded one of the victims of successful lobotomy operations, untroubled and mildly libidinous." (Christopher Robbins, The Ravens: Pilots of the Secret War in Laos).

This was, of course, prior to the many wars that ravaged the country. However, despite the legacy of violence and a rather strict communist regime in power, Laos still casts a very similar spell as it did so many decades before.

A breath of fresh air remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The Slow Boat Blues (It sounds better with Lauren on the imaginary harmonica)

Our boat gone and left us, bout an hour ago
We'd no one to turn to, all of the drivers said no.
"We don't know the way," they said with a grin
No choices to choose from, things looked mighty grim
Our hope had done vanished, we'd knew we'd been jipped
So we followed the masses, to an overfilled ship

Ooh! It was a sloooow boat, slow boat to Laos (pronounced Kennedy style Lay-ous for the purposes of this song)
Yes, it was a sloooow boat, out of the chaos...

Please direct all record deal negotiations to my personal email.

Artistic genius come alive in Laos remains copyright of the author Ivory, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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