Death in a Flood

The place in the Comarca of Panama that has been so special to me, where I volunteered and where the bags come from, has been ravaged by a flood. A big river runs through these communities, fed by mountain rain runoffs. It used to be a great source of pride. These last weeks, it brought only death and destruction.

I know and love the community generally, but in my time there I also formed a few individual friendships. One of my friends was Plinio. I read in an email a few days ago that Plinio is dead, washed away by the flood.

I am sad. I am shocked. I disbelieve. I wake up happy in the morning thinking it was a bad dream. There are a few things to say about the death of Plinio, now a part of my life.

No one knows Plinio in my community. There are a lot of people in Austin, where I am now, with whom I am as close as I was with Plinio. If I was to lose anyone of them, I would feel others around me grieving. We could talk about it, hug each other, go to the funeral. Almost no one who knows me knows that my friend has died. I want to tell them, but they would just feel sad and scared - they don't know Plinio.

My friends who also know Plinio, the Ngobe people who live in the comarca, are devasted beyond anything any of you can imagine. Medo, the organization founded by Plinio's brother, my shining leader friend Adan, of which Plinio was also a member, has worked diligently creating miracles, bringing in talent, support and money from more developed places and slowly, with great vision hope and promise, developing the poor communities of the Comarca.

We in rich cement cities can't understand what the destruction of infrustructure means to poor isolated places. All that work, all that hopeful development - so much of it washed away. Who knows how many years, or decades, it will take to get it back. Entire communities are isolated from schools and medical help by impassable rivers that used to have bridges.


The one everyone is relying on - the Ngobe, though they might not know it, and the westerners who want to help -that person is Adan Bejerano Rios, the brother of Plinio. I am always cc-d on Adan's Medo related correspondence, sometimes I translate for him, and I have to say, this is my biggest heartbreak. Someone so good, who has worked so hard with such integrity and generosity, had his BROTHER, who he loved so much, washed away in a flood, his home washed away and his life's work set back. He's still working. He's coordinating the distribution of relief money and supplies. He's getting people temporary shelter. He is asking his outsider contacts for help. He didn't deserve this. Everyone who's ever worked with Adan wants to help him -he's that kind of an inspiration. We want to lighten his load. I feel so helpless. He's been hurt so irreparably.

I don't have many people who've died. Mostly they have been elderly relatives. I can't say I was prepared but I did know they would die in my lifetime. Plinio wasn't that much older than me.

He died by being washed away in a flood? He must have been so scared... I didn't want my friend to die in a flood.

Plinio was a special character, a kind of serial entrepreneur. He started the Ngobe botanical garden and got a bunch of German and Austrian scientists supporting him. He even got to visit Austria's botanical gardens. He visited Gardens in Costa Rica and was about to study in the USA. This set him apart in his community. He and Adan are the only members of their community who've ever been to other countries. Few have even visited bigger cities in Panama.

When I last saw him, he was telling him about his men's coffee growing cooperative, brought me to a meeting, discussed marketing, and sold me two bags of his finest. He was ambitious, involved in lots of things, eager for his big break, struggling to find ways for his work and interests to earn him money. He was not married but he had a girlfriend. He just always seemed to be so eager for his great future, when he would be wealthy, well traveled, owner of a respectable botanical garden, owner of a house with a family.

He was also humble and respectful. He had a great mind, taking joy in discoveries. He had a bigger vision of plants and culture and ecosystems. Anyone who's ever been to a really poor rural place in a developing country should appreciate the kind of person who is from there and poor also, but wants to preserve and educate people about native plants, because it's right and important.

So this takes me to my next thought: I live my life on the assumption that I will live to be 80, that I am exploring now, trying to raise money, soon I will buy a house, then I will have a family, then I will be a leader in a field or in a community and change the world. But that is not something that is, in fact, necessarily the case. I can't know when the flood will wash me away. I feel like I am working towards something. Like this moment is not life - like it is preparation for what's coming. But that is not the truth. This moment is life. It is folly to lend my current happiness on credit to the "greater worthiness" of the future.

In my culture, we see people who live life for the present and we judge "irresponsible". If I rent a $1200 apartment that I think is beautiful, without saving for the future, or trying to buy a house, etc, I am judged badly. I should scrimp and save and suffer for a few years to "build my future". If I want to have a family-husband, kids- I should wait, put it off, keep wanting it but not having it, until I have enough money to be sure I can support them. These are the values of my culture.

I don't know when the flood is coming for me. I remember parts of my past, I can conjure them clearly, but there is no sense of chronology. It is just snapshots of different incarnations of me in worlds of their own unique hues and smells. And as far as my honest experience of life, there is no future. I have no EXPERIENCE of the future. So it seems to me there is no time. There are just many different tiny experiences of "now".

I don't know if this mentality will be mine to carry forever, or if it is a natural part of the sudden shocking loss of a peer, and will eventually dissolve. But these days, "Now" is the only thing that matters to me.

I wish there was some way for me to grieve for Plinio. I can see his face in my memory, but I haven't found any photos, even. I think this is one of the reasons humans live in groups - to help each other grieve. It's so disorienting, because the fact is, my daily life is not changed by the absence of Plinio. I would not even have to face the truth of it until I go back to Soloy.

Going back to Soloy... I was going to go in October. I don't know now if I am welcome. I don't know if it would be a good time, in that I could bring aid and help, or a bad time in that there would be no place to stay, no one to host me, no clean water and perhaps embarassment to show the destruction to an outsider.

Here is the project I worked on with Plinio, the website for his botanical garden. I see it now and I notice so many little flaws. But he was grateful and proud of it. soloy. pueblerino.info

Here is the blog post about my first meeting with the Ngobe, Adan and Plinio: http://sarahsight.blogspot.com/2007/10/week-in-another-world.html

EDIT: I just searched the Panamanian newspapers. I learned that Plinio was pulled away while trying to rescue an 8 year old girl. He was missing. Then they found his body. The girl died too. I could not imagine Plinio watching one of his village girls drowning and not try to help. But I just wish...

RE-EDIT: I got an email from a friend telling the story of a peace corp friend who is part of this community and is there helping to rebuild. The Panamanian newspaper got it wrong. He said that Plinio was saving children who were trapped inside a wooden house during the flood. He saved several of the older children, making trips back and fourth. He went back for the 8 month old baby, and the house collapsed on top of them. He was carried away in the flood inside the house, being trapped beneath it, and could not struggle out.

You can't win when you're the only one playing

In my young life, I've watched politicians battle with words from behind podiums in their ambitions for power, like the aim of the words is not to express what's inside of them, but rather to be the strategically most advantageous thing to say. Seeing a "debate" is like watching a game of ping pong -"oooh, nice shot! I think he's winning."

So now look what's happened. Someone's standing behind the podium, seemingly speaking from the heart. Those ping pong balls whizz by his concerned, inspired face unheaded. Which leaves the rest of the world to turn and ask of the other, "WHY did you throw that ball at him?"

So please, give it your best shot. Every attack you make will just backfire, like in this:

McCain's attack on Obama using Paris Hilton: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2c0vctCfhH8
And once again, young pop-culture America comes to bat for Obama:
Paris Hilton's response: http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/64ad536a6d

Any politician who wants to win against Obama will need to meet him on his own higher, more authentic, playing field.

The Coolest Online Test

Have I mentioned this yet?

There is a new online test that will tell you which gemstone is perfect for you. People are generally acquainted with their birthstones, and the tendency to want to own jewelry with one's birthstone is a testament to the fact that humans are interested in gemstones that are in some way "destined" to them.

But, well, birthstone is a little simple... how much can you really have in common with the millions of other people who were born in your month.

So for finding out which gemstone is "for you", it is best to take into account all relevant factors about yourself and the gemstones.

You could do a few months of dedicated research. Or you could take this free online test. It tells you which gemstone is best for you based on birthstone, astrological sign, health conditions, personality traits, values and what you wish to attract to your life. Once you know your gemstone, show it off!

What's yours?

http://www.shopgemstones.com/gemstonetest.html

The hard choice

"The life of a fetus cannot be separated from the life of the pregnant woman. This is unique in medicine and law. No one can create a set of medical principles or legal principles giving a right to life to the fetus, because by doing so, inevitably the woman's rights become limited." -http://www.fwhc.org/abortion/medical-ab.htm

The life of a young woman always contains this issue, whether she herself goes through it, the girls she knows go through it, or it's a topic of her debate class.

I am counting... I personally know 8 girls, growing up around me who've had to make the choice between raising a child against impossible odds or causing themselves the most pain they've ever felt by deliberately discarding something they love.

And I know at least 6 women who are grey haired and wrinkled from fully lived lives, and after 30 years, multiple children, houses and careers, none has ever lost consciousness of the one they gave up. There are no regrets, just a subtle pain - one of their battle scars.

Blessings to all women who have had to make that choice.

Eesti Maa

"I don't think most Americans even know where Estonia is," say the two loud Americans next to me in this little cafe- very proud of themselves of being special world travelers.

I have been in this country for 2 weeks and now I find myself in what I think is my favorite place: the old town of Tallinn.

Most of my time here has been spent in Tartu in the home in which Peep grew up. His house is full of lots of love, and pets and food. His mom is very sweet. She makes us coffee and breakfast when we get up. And she has a way of not judging anything. In America, it is normal to at least make some kind of comment if someone sleeps until noon, or has really messy hair, or is wearing two different socks. When I was first dating Peep, I was suspicious of him because he never made comments about such things and I thought he was thinking it to himself and not saying anything. As time went on, I was happily mystified that he doesn't care about and doesn't even notice stuff like that. After living with his mom, I know where he got it.

And amazingly, in this context, I become the anal, uptight one. In my own cultural context, I am the laid back messy one who doesn't notice undotted i's. But I discovered it bothers me if someone has food on their lip, or if there is dog hair on the bed and I have to say something or take action. And then I notice the role that I am playing in the group and I smile to myself at the irony. It is so amusing for me to see myself reflected in this way.


And the second biggest element from my experience is the cultural immersion. I thought that, having lived around the world, that I was an experienced veteran in cultural immersion and that it has been easier to adjust to new cultures because of my experience -NOT! I am having as hard core an experience as I had in Germany at 16. The factors the two experiences have in common are:

Living in a local home with a family: there is no chance to "escape back into my bubble". There is no socializing with other travelers or expats as there was everywhere else except for Germany.
Blending in! In Dubai, Thailand and Panama, I am so obviously a foreigner that even if I speak the language and live there for a year (or 30), I will still be treated as a tourist. In Germany and in Estonia, I am assumed to be local and am treated the same as everyone else. (I prefer it that way).
Learning the language: Both in Germany and now in Estonia, I am working pretty hard to learn the language and defying the odds with my progress.

In Panama, some of our best friends were Fito (Panamanian) and Bozena (Polish). When Bozena was talking to new people, they would at first treat her as a foreigner. After they found out she was married to a Panamanian, it was like she entered a new warm arena of the person's heart: She has made a commitment to Panama, she's one of us. The other white girl standing next to her, I would watch these interactions a bit wistfully - I wished I could be a part of another country too.

So that's what it's like to be in Estonia on the arm of Peep. I get VIP access - experiences and relationships that would be outside of my possibilities if I were just visiting or living here as an expat.

Partnerships are always powerful: two minds are better than one, you get to add up all your lessons and both become twice as smart, you broaden your family (besides all the love and support and friendship). But this experience goes beyond: I get to belong to two countries!

The First Time

I just gave a politician money for the first time in my life.

I don't believe in politics. Like most people from my generation, I am trying to make a difference doing other things... politics doesn't notice me, doesn't listen.

I am so excited about THIS president, though. Finally, a president is running for president. Not only am I excited about him, I am just soo excited that I'm excited. I feel hope in places inside me I didn't even know could hope.

So I gave him $20. which as a percentage of my net wealth, is quite high.

I don't really know why they need money or what they will do with it. But something I HAVE always believed in is capitalism. I have always felt that I can put my money where my mouth is and then the money makes a difference even if the mouth doesn't. So one more person gave Barack Obama money.

Here's a link if you want to do the same:
https://pol.moveon.org/give/obama2.html?id=12777-6950240-fhLmlq&t=3

Where is the Realness?

I worry about us living in these fast, global, virtual, anything-you-want-tomorrow days- I feel it especially when I'm in a large group, like stuck in traffic.

I heard this song on the public radio while sitting in traffic, and I felt it was further evidence that we re losing touch and that we like it.

Runaway Train
lyrics and music Eliza Gilkyson

Everyone knew she was gonna be fast
Everyone said they could build her to last
10,000 tons of hurtlin steel
Screamin round the curves nobody at the wheel
Everyone said don’t pay it any mind
There’s a pot of gold waitin at the end of the line
Just move with the eye of the hurricane
You’ll never get off this runaway train
Nobody cared when they piled on board
and the doors snapped shut and the engines roared
They pushed to the front
Some fell to the back
Buyin and sellin every inch of the track
Deep in the engines fire in the hole
Dark skinned workers shovelin coal
all singin their sad refrain
We’ll never get off this runaway train
Up in the diner everybody decked out in their finery
Can’t see the wreck comin up ahead
with their bellies full of wine
It’s the last thing going through their minds
So proud of the engine proud of the speed
Call for the porter give them everything they need
Stare through the glass feel no pain
Don’t even know they’re on a runaway train
Long after midnight a pitiful few sound the alarm
Don’t know what else to do
Bangin on the doors of the cabin and crew
Hey we gotta slow down or we won’t make it through
Sleepy riders don’t want to wake
or suffer the shock when they put on the brake
Don’t want to question , don’t want to complain
rather keep ridin on this runaway train

I thought, why is this song so obscure, when Lil' Wayne's Lollipop is #1 on the charts.


Ow…
Uh Huh No Homo…
Young Mula Baby
I say he so sweet
Make her wanna lick the rapper
So I let her lick the rapper


She she lick me
Like a lollipop
She she lick me
Like a lollipop
She she lick
Like a lollipop
She lick
Me Like a lollipop


Shawty wanna thug
Bottles in the club
Shawty wanna hump
You know I'd like to touch
Ya lovely lady lumps

.... and it repeats.

The first song offers enlightenment. The second song offers escape. We'd rather escape. And truthfully, after listening to Eliza sing about how we'd all rather escape, I felt like escaping too.
When my country started an evil war for no reason, I studied marketing when I should have had my body in front of their planes. The world is dependent on oil and the climate is changing, and I reuse my plastic bags but I still drive my car and take airplanes. When will I stop? Even me, the save-the-world, buy organic, live with what you need person. What will it take for me to stop driving my car? I have so many ideas of how the world should be and I influence things within my small sphere. But I let politicians do what they want without even watching or researching because I don't think I can do anything. I'd rather escape. And so would you. That is why Eliza will sing the truth to an empty auditorium while the world is out bumpin' to lil' Wayne.

The Guys Behind me in the Library

“How do you spell ‘squalor’?”

“‘squalor’ ? I don’t even know what that means.”

“Neither do I. But I think it’s the word I’m looking for.”

“Well, dictionary.com. “

“I’m on it. (pause)” “Sordid, dirtiness. I think that’s what I’m lookin’ for.”

The End of the Panama Experience

On a stormy humid day, Peep and I balanced frantic packing with luxurious, last chance sight seeing until the sun finally set and we said goodbye from the window of a plane. As always, the feeling of packing up belongings that have stayed in one place for 8 months and leaving the cozy home an empty shell, gives me a sense of chaos like I am pulling up my own roots.

These were good roots: made from prevalent tropical rains, plentiful exotic fruits, a new kind of coffee each week, people from all over the world who lived in that small place and cared about us, and spectacular natural beauty.

It's difficult to reflect on such a grand scope experience after only a few days of distance. I will need to let it slowly unravel for about 6 months probably. What I can see now is that it was a time and place for the growth of me. It wasn't that interacting with Panama "taught me things about myself" or anything expected, things I've already experienced. This time wasn't about learning, it was about trying. It was about doing. Perhaps this is a milestone in the growth of all humans: at some point, the focus of your energy shifts from learning to doing. I may have made that shift in Panama - not because it was Panama, but because it was a place where no one was watching me. I wasn't judged because I was "outside the system." No matter what I did, I was a weird foreigner.

This gave me freedom to take unexplainable risks. I have started 3 projects and taught myself new skills in my time in Panama. My projects are still in their stages of infancy and therefore it still takes courage to explain "what I do" in my own cultural social context. But in Panama, I was extremely well educated and experienced. I realized there for the first time that people 3 decades older than me often don't know what I know, and would be lucky to get to pay for my brain.

My journey into Panama and back out again was not a hero's journey: it was not the intense experience that I went through in order to return home transformed. I did that already in high school. It is as if I've traveled too much: too many "incredible experiences" in a row, that I can never return to normal life, and I will permanently have a wider definition of home. So Panama was not an interruption that gave new life to the regular flow, rather it was part of the regular flow of an irregular path.

It is a path that will wander the world without it being "a big deal", without fear to overcome, a path that makes itself a few hours before I walk it.

I will miss looking out of car windows to see orchids and bromeliads clutching tall sprawling tree limbs. There will be weekends in Austin when I will wish I could pile some friends in a car, drive for 2 hours and get to a paradise Caribbean beach. I will miss my small privileged piece of one of the prettiest colonial mansions in Panama. I will miss casual meetings and barbecues on my terrace with a view to the Panama Canal and the causeway. When I procure my next "nest" here in Austin, I will shop for tropical plants and be aghast at their prices.

Here in Austin, I catch a glimpse of a sign in Spanish and it makes me feel so different than it did before. I just realized it today, but I used to see such signs and think "those are for 'other' people to read". Without knowing it today, I felt like they were talking to me.

I also notice here how grocery stores have free samples of food and they stay there for hours - wouldn't happen in Panama. I feel comforted by the lack of poverty. In a poor place, even if you yourself have enough, seeing the poverty of others affects you. It made me feel like we were all poor. And here I feel that we all have enough.

I bought morningstar veggie corn dogs as a first american treat. Then my brother in law explained how he'd read "Omnivore's Dilemma" and they are so bad for the environment because they are so processed and therefore energy consuming. I thought about my days in Soloy where lunch was the nearest chicken walking around, served a few hours after it's head was chopped off alongside yucca that was just pulled out of the ground. Books like that are written for spoiled Americans.

My cup is so full here from all the family. I have so much family: there are so many people, so much love, so much good food. It is so opposite to my previous quiet two person haven-from-the-world.

In fact some of those people just ordered pizza and tipped the driver and are waiting for me. I'll go to them.

Project Update

A few months ago, I wrote about my experience volunteering in the jungle community of Soloy and how I wanted to start a project selling the bags they make and paying them livable prices. The project has been slowly developing and I decided it needs its own blog. See how the project develops here: www.bagsmakeadifference.com

Ouch

Last night, I finally headed the nagging of a friend and watched a movie called Zeitgeist. I cried like I haven't cried in a while. I stayed up until 3 am talking with Peep about the world and what can be done.

You should watch it.

It might hurt your feelings, it will definitely disturb you, but I recommend it anyway. I began watching with skepticism, but when I heard some of the information, it was an eerie experience of just hearing someone say what I already knew way in the back of my mind. It felt good to see someone validating and connecting things.

At the very least, watch it so we can talk about it together:

www.zeitgeistmovie.com

It's free.

Cuba: The Other World

Yesterday, I returned to Panama from Cuba. I've been around the world and I've seen a lot of places that shocked and moved me... but I could never have been prepared for Cuba.

When we arrived in the Havana airport, I was seriously interviewed twice. They pulled Peep and I aside, mumbling, "Quien es de los Estados?" So that's what it must be like when foreigners get hassled by US immigration. It's scary.

Into the taxi, down the road surrounded by palm trees and flowers and blue sky... ready to see historic habana, try some cigars and mojitos... and then... the Welcome to Cuba billboards:




I had never seen anything like that before. I am used to hearing how the world hates Bush, but this kind of shook me. I felt unsafe. But the taxi driver continued driving and eventually talked cheerfully about the sites we were driving by, as if unperturbed that he was harboring his worst imperialistic enemy. The hotel let me in, gave me a place to sleep. We walked around and a restaurant let me in and cheerfully gave me a meal. The first days, I felt like Hansel and Gretel in the witches house: the signs were everywhere that this place was out to get me, but they were so nice and kept taking care of me.

I was helped a lot because I was traveling with Peep. He grew up in the Soviet Union and had real experience to share with me about regime propaganda. He assured me that even though the signs are everywhere, it doesn't necessarily mean that the people feel that way. He said everyone knows they are being told lies. And even the ones that are thoroughly "brainwashed" would not hate you: they would feel sorry for you that you had to live under those oppressive terrorists (the American government).

Apparently, Venezuela is also part of the Communist Boy's Club.

So shaken, but determined, I continued to explore Havana. This is what I learned and saw:
Havana is breathtakingly, awesomely gorgeous. It compares to the grandest cities in Europe: there is nothing else like it (that I have seen) in Latin America, nor in the United States. All of this grandeur, of course, was built by the Spanish, not the communists. But as if a metaphor for the communist ideology, the carved marble mansions are now cracking slums inhabited by poor Cubans: no rich people here - everyone is equally poor as it should be.

So I continued to oscillate between two Cuban experiences: one of the old, romantic Cuba of Ernest Hemingway, wide-brimmed hats, the finest cigars and music; and the new, concrete block military communist place that said I was evil.


Tourists exist in a Parallel Universe.
There is a separate currency for tourists (CUC). Restaurants, hotels, nice stores only accept this currency. Foreigners can come eat steak and lobster (inexpertly cooked), watch CNN and use the internet (in the most expensive hotels), and pay very high prices for everything. Cubans are not allowed to use the internet, have only4 channels on their TV (as one Cuban described to us: "Fidel 1, Fidel 2, Fidel 3 and Fidel 4". Even if they save their money to stay at the $200 a night hotel just to access the world for a day, they will be asked for their passports first and then turned away.


They are not allowed to eat beef. Cuban farmers grow Cuban cows on Cuban soil and only the foreigners are allowed to eat it. Even if the Cuban can afford to buy it, if a policeman catches him, it's 5 years in prison. When I heard this, I thought, "Where is the communist sentiment? This sounds like Feudalism."

There are special airlines, bus lines and rent a car companies that are only for tourists. They are expensive and all require passports. Cubans are not allowed to leave their district without special documents. Essentially, they have to apply for a visa to go to the beach that's an hour away.

Us below the tree where the document was signed that gave Cuba to the communists. It is an old and beautiful tree.

It was weird, walking around in the happening old downtown with great music, drinks, restaurants, everything - but its not the real Cuba. The Cubans are standing around: some employed wearing black ties, some trying to sell illegal cigars, some at the doorway of the restaurants they're not allowed to enter, swaying their hips to the music. It's like if the non-resident line in the US immigration emptied out into Disneyland and said "Welcome to the United States"

Peep at the Museum of the Revolution. A museum about the glory of the revolutionaries and the martyrs who triumph in spite of the atrocities of imperialism.

Cigars are Expensive and treacherous
Of course, when in Cuba, we had to try and buy them. We took a cool tour of the Paragas Cigar factory and watched the leaves be processed and dried and then hand rolled. The most expensive cigar available is the Cohiba Esplendida. One costs around $20, which is about equal to one month's salary of the worker who makes 1200 of them a day. It seems one of the major industries in Havana in the black market cigar trade. Workers are allowed to keep 2 cigars a day (and whatever else they manage to slip into their pockets), and then they have their "brothers" and "relatives" who work as hotel security guards or waiters sell them to tourists. Most of the underground market though, are not the "back door" cigars, but rather whatever they can wrap up and package to look like cigars.

We knew to expect to be hassled to buy these, but we were surprised at their skill. "Hi, where are you from? Estonia! Nooohhh! I am going there next month to play music! Will you come see me play tonight? I have been married 11 years and today is my anniversary: I love my family!... I would like to give you free tickets. It's at the Buena Vista Social Club. Come in (to this shady non-descript bar) and I'll write you a VIP pass. 20 minutes of charming conversation, a few salsa dances, and three 5$ mojitos later, we were being offered the "best price" of $200 on a box of 25 Esplendidos because he liked us so much. When I looked over and saw another guy bringing in 2 white people and writing them a "VIP pass", I figured it was time to get out of there and hope the drink wasn't poisoned.

Apparently if you buy from someone with accountability (e.g. you know the name, where they work, where they live), you will probably buy the real thing. This is because selling fake cigars to tourists will get you 15 years in prison. So my boyfriend, the overnight cigar connoisseur, after spending some dough on the real thing, took a chance with a box of Esplendidas from a security guard at the Plaza hotel for $50. We smoked one. It was pretty good.

Cuba is a treasure beneath dust
The big Sports Center. Fidel puts his face on everything good and says it is all the fruits of revolution. There is another sign on this building that says "Beijing! We can do it!" Maybe this will encourage olympic athletes to work in place of money and individual glory.

It combines the best of the Caribbean with the best of Europe. Like in most socialist countries, the literacy rate is almost 100%. The climate is excellent; the beaches are breathtaking; the architecture is awesome; the Cuban people are proactive (for Latin America), friendly, dignified and diverse.

As soon as they kick off the dust, the foreign investment will pour in and it will be one of the most fantastic nations on the planet.



It will not be easy to be friends...
Being here really opened my eyes about US foreign policy. I've lived in the Middle East and all over Asia and Europe and what I always see is that if the US were less ignorant and disrespectful of other nations and cultures, most of our problems and enemies would subside. We are an arrogant clumsy elephant in a world of varied, ancient and precious porcelain statues. But with Cuba, it's different. It is especially important now because we are about to choose the next president and Cuba also is getting a new president. (By the way, Raul Castro will not be much of a change. He has been alongside Fidel since the very beginning, in charge of the army and receiving Communist Glory. Freedom will have to wait.)

The thing is, if the US extends friendly diplomacy of any kind to this government, they will take the right photographs and twist it around and tell their people that the Imperialism is finally backing down to the power of the Revolutionaries. And how will they know the difference? No internet, TV, satellites... Then it will be harder for change to happen.

There is a challenge for the future among Cubans and Americans of my generation. We will live to see freedom in Cuba, and when that happens, we will have to put pride down and have a dialogue with lots of international exchange (tourism, study abroad, AIESEC). Because Cubans are made to believe that the USA is as backwards and twisted and wrong as we are made to believe that Cuba is. The gap between these two nations is way way bigger than the gap between the USA and any Middle Eastern country.

Us with Our Cuban friends: two University students who showed us around and gave us insights into the Cuba beyond the tourist circuits. They said, "Take our picture that way we can finally travel the world," and then laughed.

A new Adventure...

Early tomorrow morning, Peep and I are heading to the airport to fly to Cuba. We have to leave to renew our visas. We figured, man, the coolest country around here that would really expand our universe would be Cuba. I expect to smoke some good cigars, hear some good music and see how Fidel is doing.

Small World

In the 5th grade, I sat next to a boy named Chris Head. When I was 10 years old at that little desk, never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that 15 years later, I'd be having beers with him in Panama. It was fun.

Sweet Nephew

Me: How does it feel to be 6? Is it feel different from being 5?
Alex: Yes.
Me: How is it different?
Alex: The way I feel.
Me: The way you feel...
Alex: Yes. Every step I take forward feel a little different.

Celebrating Two Years in Paradise

Our first kiss was illegal. On February 14th in a Muslim country at night after a Hindi movie and fresh juice, Peep made the bold and scary move. Two years later we celebrated that brave decision by flying to one of most beautiful and opulent islands in Panama: Isla Contadora.

I took these pictures of the archipelago from the plane. They describe it better than I can.

We stayed at the Perla Real Inn, run by a sweet Italian and frequented by some other couples, all of whom were over 50.

We heard them talking about how they never took vacations or traveled until now: stories about hard work and mortgages and kids to raise. And there we were, the young and in love 20 somethings who'd been all over the world, usually self-employed with no limits on what we can do or achieve.

We have this life because we don't imagine it any other way. We help each other and feed each other's dreams. I just felt so lucky and proud sitting at that table with all of these people decades older than me, that I am not waiting for anything to live the life of my dreams. And from that paradise island, it was so obvious that the stories of 20 years of hard work at jobs they don't believe in was a prison they built for themselves: none of it was actually necessary.

So here's to me and here's to Peep! We celebrate with the paradise that we create and the paradise in which we live.

I'm I old enough to be 25?

This is my second day being 25 years old.

As I wrote 2 years ago, I have a theory about age: that at some point, its just another year tacked onto a number: it stops meaning something - stops being an indicator of increased development.

I want to really feel that I've earned my 25 years and that I've packed in enough growth and wisdom the last year to merit the addition to my age.

I don't know if I've done it. What is certain is that I don't feel 24. 24 is too young, too searching, undefined and uncertain to be what I am now. But 25? Isn't this when I'm supposed to start "settling down" or something? I guess what's most uncomfortable about this increase in age is it seems to represent closed doors - forgone opportunities. I will never be 24 again. Did I do it right? There were so many other things I could have done with this year. There are millions of 24 year olds who've put different experiences in their lives. Someone made a million dollars when they were 24. Someone won an olympic gold medal when they were 24. Someone had their second child, someone made a music album, someone won a surfing competition, someone published their first book. When I was 6 years old, all of those and a billion more possibilities were in front of me. Now they are behind me and they will never happen.

I am of course, proud of my choices. I have carefully, consciously taken the steps that have led me here. I think I'm ready to be 25. But I'm not sure that 25 is an age I've earned, more like one that I will live up to.

I had such a lovely birthday. I received so many birthday wishes through email and facebook. Peep and my mom showered me with love and generosity. I was spoiled. Maybe I'm not sure if I feel 25, but I definitely feel like a princess.

Matador de Hormigas

"They're sending out a panic message, you see? You kill one, and then they all start to run around, crazily and ferociously. You see them? They're panicking. But what they don't realize is that they're running right into my hands. The matador is coming..."

-Peep Laja, 11:30 am in the kitchen on Saturday

The Fight to Learn Spanish

As seems to be my tradition, I started reading one of my sister's Harry Potter books in the US and I left the country dying to know what happens in the last 300 pages. So I went to a bookstore and bought Harry Potter y la Orden del Fenix. My dictionary and I are getting through it much faster than I expected: I've learned lots of useful words such as varita magica, espada, mazmorra. I just have 20 pages left.

In addition to this, Peep has made it possible for us to take Spanish classes (one on one tutoring). We also see the occasional movie dubbed or subtitled in Spanish. Sometimes I think in Spanish. The reality is I have so many Spanish words in my head - I can understand even hours of complicated conversation. And as I slowly decipher the code, and words begin to unravel into meaning, a monster is exposed. It seems I have a prejudice against Spanish.

Anyone who is from Texas, and I would guess Southern California and Florida is exposed to Spanish regularly, mostly because of the large populations of Mexican or Central American immigrants. I learned the word "mande" as a 4 year old kid because I heard the maid say it when my grandmother called her. I saw brown Spanish speaking men come to my house to cut down Cedar trees and watched my Dad struggling to speak to them in Spanish. There are more Spanish signs and Spanish restaurants in the poorer parts of my hometown. I didn't meet a single college educated native Spanish speaker until I was in University.

Even though my knowledge and vocabulary are increasing every day, I can't seem to make much progress speaking. It's like I'm fighting against something large and heavy that's inside my own head. It has happened a few times when I'm really warmed up and the Spanish is flowing, and I hear myself using colloquialisms perfectly like "dale," "pues," "ay" and I stop. There's a feeling like panic in my chest and a thought in my head that, if it were brave enough to admit its own existence, would be something like "I sound like one of those people who speaks Spanish." And then the flow stops, and I'm sure my cheeks get red.

It's like Spanish is so useful where I come from, and its good to know it, but you don't wanna get too good. You always want to sound a little bit like a white person.

I can remember several conversations in my life where someone says something like, "look at that Mexican guy over there." and some well meaning white person nearby says "Shhhh. Don't call him that." As if his nationality is a disgrace.

Even though it burns my cheeks and churns my stomach to write this blog post and expose my horrible lurking prejudice to the world, I know I'm not alone. Now that these dormant ideas are unraveling before my eyes, I recognize that probably every one I know is prejudiced, even though they don't want to be and would hate to discover that they are.

So far, it is the greatest gift that Panama has given me. Here, Mexico is a rich older brother: it is a source of culture, maybe the way Americans think of France. When people here say, "I got it in Mexico." the response is "Oooooohhh, fancy." I'm reading books. The phrases that I thought only day laborers used are also used by Hermione and Professor McGonnal. Spanish is rich and sophisticated. It has poetic possibilities that English does not. It's still a heavy fight, but I'm gonna try with all I have to speak like a Mexican (the accent is more elegant than the Panamanian ;) and to go beyond the level of Spanish needed to give good instructions to maids and laborers.


This photo is of the main characters of my favorite Novella. It's my favorite because its my friend Fito's favorite, and he got me hooked. Mariachi is something slightly exotic and sophisticated here.