Habari!

Things are well here in Nairobi. The drivers are most aggressive but seem as cool as ice. Minor hiccups so far, but that should be expected in travel. All three of us are well and enjoyed the flight over together. Delta was amazing to Amsterdam! We arrived calm and refreshed without even napping! KLM to Nairobi was a different story, but all’s well that ends well, and the beer was that much sweeter upon arrival. Water is falling from the sky, but I was able to see the Great Rift Valley at dusk from the plane, so the trip is a success even if everything else crumbles around us. I will be in Nairobi for a day more, but after that, you may not hear from me again until my return. Take care, and I will see you all soon.

Christopher

Hello all!

Sorry for not writing sooner - the last two weeks have gone by in a flash. I have been constantly on the move, from class to the theatre, from the theatre to sightseeing trips. So much has happened, I can hardly decide what to write about!

Last night I saw a performance of The Phantom of the Opera, at Her Majesty’s Theatre just off of Trafalgar Square. No royalty in sight, but the performance was amazing nonetheless. A professor recently told me that London is so overflowinng with talent that even the cheapest, smallest productions are amazing. And although this wasn’t a small production, I could definitely see talent shining through in every part of the performance. The music, the lighting, the sets - everything was brilliant (little cultural snippet: ‘brilliant’ is like the British version of ‘awesome.’ I hear it at least 10 times a day:) As a class, we saw Kafka’s Monkey and Entertaining Mr. Sloane. Both rather dark, but funny and intriguing plays. And tonight I am going with a group of students to see ‘Dark Tales’ - a dark congomeration of some of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales. It’s considered to be a ‘fringe play’ - which basically that it is a small, cheap production and is performed in a pub, small theatre, or wherever they can find room. I am looking forward to it! Will post more details later. 

But back to London in general….London is so diverse! On the first day of the orientation we took a little walk (’little’ meaning 3 or 4 miles) around London. Funny thing was that English was the language that I heard least. Instead, I was surrounded by Arabic, Indian, German, French, Chinese; you name it and I bet you that I heard it. London is so huge and so diverse that it seems pretty rare to find a native ‘Londoner.’ My homestay parents were both born outside of the UK. Naomi, my homestay mother, was born in France from American and German parents. And Reinaldo, my homestay father, is Cuban. Their daughter, Yolanda, is the only true english native among them.

I live in a lovely area called Tufnell Park. Nearby is a shopping district mostly made up of  markets and small businesses. And I am only about a 20-minute tube ride from Central London, where our classes are held. Although it is super convenient to live so close to everything, I think that the best part of living here is to see the family dynamics within the local businesses. A lot of the markets are own by Middle Eastern families, where the business is actually run totally by the family. Kids are working alongside parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles.  

Will write more soon!

Cheers -

When it was time to leave Freetown, we were very eager to see the rest of the country. The country and its people we had seen so far consisted of those who were very urbanized (or so I initially thought), and full of the smells of a dirty city. We left early in the morning to start our long trip from the coast of Sierra Leone to the country northeast–closer to the Guinea border.

On top of our baggage that was piled up in the bad of the bus–blocking the view out the back–we were also carrying you cook (Yai Mata) and all of the food that her and her helpers would be cooking for us over the next three and a half weeks. We had bags and bags of rice (made in America but purchased in Freetown…the workings of globalization very apparent here), bonga fish heads with little white friends playing on them, groundnuts, sweet potatoes, dried noodles, shrimp-flavored MSG, hot peppers, potatoes, cassava leaves, and various other ingredients that we had. We also carried mounds of toilet paper our Western ways of living demanded (giggled at by our Salone friends.) and also are fearless leader, Tobangi. Tobangi (Dr. Clark Speed) had finally arrived the night before, and was now part of our team thus uniting the dynamic duo Pa Tobangi and Yai Gbako (Brook Kelly). We were now able to get our Leones for local purchases, and we were just waiting to use them! As we pulled out of Freetown, the land got much greener, but the soil continued to stay its deep red hue. The hills that crescent the capitol city were easy to climb in the bus, and as we did so, we would stop periodically to buy things from street sellers. It was wonderful to finally be able to do this after having turned away so many peddlers for two days! We bought biscuits and cookies in boxes, fresh baked loaves of French bread, and interesting soda flavors (after it was confirmed that the caps were not seal-broken). The French bread filled our bellies splendidly, and the cookies were fun and it was nice to share.

As the pit stops became fewer and the countryside grew more prevalent, the next phase of Africa presented itself to us. We saw a shift in vegetation as we traveled, and I tried to notice patterns in the landscape.  Farmland was everywhere, but how and why was it laid out the way it was? These questions started to fill up a small notebook I carried while staring out the window. I guessed what crops were grown on the mounds, what the deep green patches could be, and their relation to the mounds. What elevations were predominant in the stages of farms placed, and why were some areas already smoldering from the obligatory burn?  I used sketches to calculate distances and aksed questions to get my nearest classmates guessing as well.  The land was beautiful! It was so green! And all that I had read about the large animals being hunted hundreds of years before in more high canopy environs flooded into my brain as I looked out the damp window. I could see small villages in the distance  and farms dotting most of the land. Here was Africa. Here was Sierra Leone. Here was the land that was the hub of the Atlantic slave trade and the departing point from the middle passage. Gone was the shore that set sail the Amistad and behold the home of the more prisoners who made the journey for so many years. This land held so many violent secrets in its sublime beauty that I was overwhelmed and breathless. I wanted to get out of the bus and walk the eighty miles to the village of Kagbere to experience it all on the way. Meet the people and laugh with them. Step over the many obstacles that lay in my way, and arrive to my destination a wiser and more aware student. But at that stage, I could not contemplate the complexity of the land which lay before my eyes, and the destination was to hold its own mysteries and challenges that even a hundred year walk into the interior could not have prepared me for.

We arrived in the next large city called Makeni. Here was a quagmire of shops and stalls endlessly teaming with those who had things to sell themselves and those who were looking for things to purchase. Everywhere was the smell of petrol, and it was for that purpose we stopped. It was one of the only places while I was in Salone that I saw armed solders, and they appeared to be guarding the petrol pumps. The pumps were very interesting looking and deserve comment. Imagine a five gallon mason jar filled with a golden petrol sitting on top of a refrigerator. The refrigerator then had a hose that came out with a capped end. The end was put into the vehicle and the gas was measured by how much was removed from the mason jar. This may not be the way it was done, but as a foreigner looking out a bus window, that is what it appeared to work. People would line up their motorcycles to get the gas, and the lines looked like they were used as social areas.  Directly on the side of the bus, a young man about 20 years or so created a show. It appeared that he did not want to pay for his petrol, and after a commotion of him trying to take off, the guards were able to straddle the bike enough to where he could not go anywhere. Others were holding his shirt and, shorts, and arms from the back end, and there were many angry shouts. After they pulled him off, the bike was pulled aside and people took his place in line. I watched what happened with great interest as we sat getting our bus’ tank filled. I expected the boy to be thrown to the ground or cuffed. I expected the soldiers to pull their guns on him and keep him in line, for I was sure the boy was going to bolt! Instead, I saw a sort of camaraderie between the guards and the boy. I saw the great concern everyone had over where his bike was going to be placed, and the relaxation everyone developed once the boy was taken aside.  The boy obviously had friends, and they were standing a short distance away, but nobody was yelling at authority claiming wrongful assault (like we often see in the state regardless of who was wrong) and the boy was just talked while people mulled around. It was incredibly relaxed. I think I was the only one tense in this scene, and I was an invisible participant (probably one of my only times this was so).  The next thing I know, the situation dissolved itself, and there was no longer guards around a boy, a boy, or those who cared. My guess is that they siphoned the gas back out of his tank and let him go.  No harm…he just got caught, but all was normal again. Amazing.

By Makeni, we were in the interior of Sierra Leone. It was jungle from Makeni onward, and while we had seen jungle all around us coming into Makeni, our vision was no further than 100 yards off the side of the roads. It was the beginning of the rainy season, so the ground was moist and the bus slid all consistently, but it was nothing to worry us too much. Before we had left, Pa Kempson told the driver that the driver would be coming upon a couple of bridges near Kagbere. When we reached the bridges, he instructed the driver to “na go pan dEm…TEk da rod pan de gron, ehnti?” We were to go around the bridges because they were unsafe…Pa Kempson would know, for he makes the journey to Kagbere from Freetown at least twice a month—about a 100-mile drive. We neared the bridges and the driver got out to examine the bridge for himself. It was a measly bridge made of concrete, but from inside the bus, none of us were in any position to judge its safety. The driver jumped on it and analyzed it from all sides. He also looked at the alternative route through the mud off to its side; I never did find out why there even was a bridge there. As he came back inside the bus, he informed Pa Tobangi (Clarke), Yai Gbako (Brook), and Yai Mata that we were to go over the bridge. This was an interesting culture moment: The driver (about 35 years of age), was telling three elder (and paying customers) that the head honcho, Pa Kempson—a holy man, was not to be minded in this situation. The three elders immediately made their voices heard, and Yai Mata—wife of Pa Kempson—was especially flustered. Cries the likes of “Pa Kempson dohn say wi na go de tranga road” (Pa Kempson said not to do it) and “Pa Kempson hee sabi dis road ya!” (Pa Kempson knows what he’s talking about) filled the front of the bus. They were cut off by a youthful, booming voice of the bus driver telling them that Pa Kempson was not here to judge for himself. He demanded to know if ANYBODY there had driven a bus like this before, and that everyone should trust the judgment of a professional driver.
The bus went dead silent.
Yai Mata was flabbergasted, but she just shook her head. Yai Gbako looked to Pa Tobangi for his verdict, and Tobangi stared at the driver, nodded in resignation, and waved the driver to do what he does best. Looking back, I think Clarke was very pleased with the way the driver handled the situation. I think it reflected the manner in which professional young men in Sierra Leone, who all fight for those jobs that offer job security, will defend their decisions on matters of professionalism, and this will break deep cultural traditions due to pride, necessity, and determination…I loved every minute of it! After that incident, we came to adore our driver’s decisions. Some ways he judged too dangerous, but some he disregarded Pa Kempson’s wisdom. There were a few times we were ordered to pile out of the bus and hike up hills, and that was lovely. It was the first time we were really able to smell the jungle. We reached a village called Pbendembu and stalled in a spot of the road that was just recently paved with dirt (now mud because of the rains). We all piled out of the bus, pushed the bus deeper in the mud and ditch, then backed away to pray. We started singing a song that we had learned during the drive. This is how it goes:

Krio:
Teh God tenki tEEhla
Teh Papa God tenki
Ah go tehl em tenki!
Teh God tenki tEEhla
Teh Papa God tenki

Wetin du!
Wetin du fo mi
Ah go tehl em tenki
Wetin du fo mi
Ah go tehl em tenki
Teh God tenki tEEhla
Teh Papa God tenki

Translation:
Tell God thank you tell Him
Tell Papa God thank you
I’m gonna tell Him thank you!
Tell God thank you tell Him
Tell Papa God thank you

What He does!
What He does for me
I’m gonna tell Him thank you
What He does for me
I’m gonna tell Him thank you
Tell God thank you tell Him
Tell Papa God thank you

We would clap our hands and sing at the top of our lungs. The villagers of Pbendembu would join in with us, clap, and sing. The Pikin dEm (children) would swarm and play and laugh and cry, but we all loved Papa God and knew He would help save our bus!

Last night I spent a short while with some US Congressmen in the Starbucks at our campus; it was televised.  It was a meet and greet, one of their stops on a ‘fact-finding’ mission (for example, the food in Dubai does ‘in fact’ taste good).  Tonight, a few ‘Clinton Scholars’ were invited to the Consul General’s house for a reception honoring the opening of Michigan State University’s first Dubai campus.  They catered us tasty snacks, served drinks; a lot of shoulder-rubbing happened.  There were Congressmen there, and the president of Michigan State University.  We had a pleasant evening, and were honored by the Consul General of Dubai.

The food in Dubai is nice.  I’ve kept track of the different restaurants I’ve visited, and am nearing 70.  The best are French.

It’s so late, but there’s so much to catch up on.  What do I even choose to write about?  Someone ask me a question!  The myriad experiences even in one day in Dubai are difficult to choose from.

First of all, I want to say that I will never regret  that I had a wonderful opportunity to study abroad this summer. For five weeks, I was enrolled in the intensive Spanish language program at Kukulcan (Cuernavaca, Mexico). What I learned was beyond my expectations! I had an opportunity to attend many social events while staying with my host family. Observing Mexican culture and people, I found many similarities in some elements of their culture and my native Ukrainian culture.

People in Mexico are very friendly and like to communicate. Overall, it seemed to me that they had more time to enjoy life than we do here, in America. It was very common to see many people walking on the streets, and neighbors talking to one another frequently. As me and my roommate were walking down the street to explore our neighborhood, we saw many boys playing football, kids running and riding bicycles, and many other activities going on. It felt so good to me, all of a sudden, to just walk, walk, and walk…. to enjoy the fresh weather, and to notice the beauty of the nature around.

That felt very different from what we usually have back here. Everyone is always in a hurry, and has no time to simply relax. At the moment when I walked around my neighborhood in Mexico, I remembered that this is how it used to be about six years ago, when I was still back in Ukraine. My friends and I, used to have long walks when we came to visit my grandma in the village. Everything started coming back to me. Boys also played football, kids were also running and riding bicycles. Everyone has totally free!

I dreamed for a long time to come visit my native country. But, an opportunity to be in Mexico this summer allowed me to remember and to be in the environment that reminded me of Ukraine. It felt like my dream almost came true!

Like Ciara, I also went on the Exploration Seminar to Ireland and the Hague.  For three weeks I was immersed for a few hours almost every day in an intellectual world that I wish I could be a part of every day.  The students we talked to at the Centre and the many people we met with in the Hague all seemed to be living on a higher plain than so many Americans: they knew what they were talking about and were deeply concerned about the issues facing this world.  This is not to say that I think Americans are stupid - far from it.  I’m saying that they were not so wrapped up in a way of looking at the world that comes from living in a country where, sadly, you could know nothing about the outside world or care about it at all and still live a normal life.  I felt that being from a country that is portrayed as “the most powerful country on earth” must somehow give us a pass on being informed and passionate about problems that we don’t even dream of facing; the people we met on the trip had no such worldview and it was extremely refreshing.  As for the details of the trip, I think Ciara did a great job of saying what we did.  However, I will add one thing that she left out.  After a few days, I realized that two things were missing that I normally encounter countless times a day: billboards and chain stores.  Yes, that’s right - no advertisements that are higher than every building around it, no banners wrapped around stores advertising brand names, no Starbucks, no Wal-Mart, no Safeway.  While each country does have their own smaller chain stores, the big names that we see so often don’t exist there.  The only Starbucks that I even came close to was in Dublin and in the entire city they only had one - it bears repeating: ONE!  This pleasantly surprised me and was the “best” difference for me between European culture and the US.  It was nice to see so many smaller stores and restaurants have a foothold in the economy rather than acres of space taken up by two or three stores and a gigantic parking lot.

In all honesty, I feel like my trip took place in another lifetime even though it was only three weeks ago.  I came back home and was immediately thrown back into my life and my last year of college.  It feels so incredible to be here.  When I graduated from high school, I never could have imagined that this is where I would be just four years later.  I didn’t even know how I would be able to go to college financially let alone be part of two honors programs (Highline and UWT), go to Europe, expand my understanding of our country and the world more than I knew was possible, and most importantly, gain confidence in my future and myself.  I’m now planning for that once distant dream of law school; if I make it to that step, we’ll see where life takes me. 

Perhaps what I have experienced is simply the cliche that you “find yourself” in college, but I don’t think so; this is more than that - for all of us.  My mantra in life has become that no one gets anywhere by themselves.  Each life is the product of the amount of effort that was put into that life.  Where I am now is the product of dozens of people, some I have never even met, who thought that I was worthy enough to believe in.  From my parents who fostered my independence and determination all the way up to the community college teacher who pushed me to apply for my first scholarship and forced me to write down my story and to be proud of it, and even all the way back to the union leaders who fought to receive adequate healthcare benefits and living-wage jobs so that the life I have lived could even be possible through my parents’ jobs.  I don’t believe that anyone can simply pull themselves up by their bootstraps and suddenly become wildly successful: someone, somewhere, at some time, inspired that person, supported that person or created some aspect of their life that made it possible for them to become successful - even if it was simply the banker who gave them a massive loan with high interest.  I take credit for what I have accomplished in as much as I have done every stitch of homework and reading myself; far more significantly, I stand on the shoulders of other people who took actions that have helped me do that work.

And so, while this may sound horribly sappy, it’s now our turn as we prepare to go on to the next phase of our life, to do the same for some one else that has been done for us.  It’s now our duty to let someone else stand on our shoulders and to encourage them to do so.  Unfortunately, we live in a world where not every person is born with equal stature or ability to live a better life than the generations that came before them.  Those are the people that we are responsible for.  Whether they live down the street or in another country, they need someone to decide to do something to make the world a better place no matter how small or insignificant the action may seem.  Until the structures of society can be changed, this is the mission I want to live my own life by and it has become the basis for which I am planning my future.

I know whose shoulders I’m standing on.  Do you?

Last spring I was an exchange student at Moscow State University’s journalism department. While there, I along with two other UofW, Tacoma students and several MSU students collaborated on a 22 page magazine, The Zhurnalist (Journalist). The completion of our magazine took herculean effort and an incredible level of dedication from all. It has now been over six months since my trip to Moscow and much has changed: the U.S. economy is rocking the planet, presidential elections are less than a month away and, on a personal level, I am a new mother.
Soon, MSU students will be fulfilling their half of the exchange, travelling five thousand miles to be here, in the Northwest. Before their arrival I find myself reflecting back to the spring. I was seven months pregnant with lungs the size of a robins. The weather was chilly but sunny and I became accomplished at removing layer after layer of coats and sweaters while trying to keep pace with my sleek hosts on the crowded Moscow streets. I recall my unwieldy gait brought averted glances from passers by, private people speaking in soft conversations if at all. Would it seem the same to me if I were there now?
Medvedev had just been elected when I arrived, did he end up a Putin puppet as everyone feared or has he struck out independently from his benefactor? Have the students at Moscow State University remained as outraged over the electoral posturing as they were during my stay or has everyone moved on to the business of final papers, new romance, and preparing to graduate? And what about the psychedelic rubber boots everyone was wearing last spring? They were Muscovite favorites back then yet just last week a Nordstrom saleslady knowingly confided to me that, “…they just came in – very popular this year”. While privileged to have witnessed the debut of paisley and bright floral wellingtons I do feel cheated having missed out on the Russian presidential election. Luckily, my counterparts at Moscow State University will not have that regret. The MSU trip will coincide with next month’s elections, perhaps the most exciting time in our lives to visit the United States.
While in Moscow producing the magazine and touring the city I made several good friends. Luckily for me some of them will be participating in the exchange and I am really looking forward to renewing those friendships. While talking with those friends I recall there were many instances where a question I would ask would be answered with a half-quizzical look followed by a short reply. Areas of culture or policy, though plainly clear and accepted from my friend’s point of view, were unfamiliar or uncomfortable to my own. That is what I especially look forward to in their visit, a chance to see our country through their eyes with their history and hopefully adjusting my own view in the process.
This student exchange will culminate in a website, The Journalist, built from both Russian and American perceptions. Stories, podcasts and editorials intended to nudge us from our cultural lethargy and provide new perspectives. As our potential new presidents keep saying, “change is coming”. Often as not, change is just a new way of looking at the same old thing.    

The time I spent in Mexico was, without a doubt, one of the best experiences of my life! I learned so much about myself and who I am as a person, and came back with a different outlook on life.  This can definitely be attributed to the people who I came to know or just simply encountered in Mexico.  Every individual to whom I was introduced greeted me with a kiss on one cheek and a hug.  Although such actions are simple and occur within a matter of seconds, their effects are amazing! It truly makes a person feel welcome.  This is something so different from what I experience in the U.S., where some friends rarely hug one another or people are simply cold and keep to themselves.  The Burciagas, the family that I lived with in Mexico, are absolutely amazing people. They were always quick to start up conversations about anything and everything and taught me so much about Mexico and the Spanish language. By the way, I am so completely thankful for this study abroad because my Spanish improved tremendously! When you have to use another language for everything, the words really start to stick.

While in Mexico I also traveled around quite a bit to nearby cities or ancient ruins on the weekends.  I was completely struck in awe by the pyramids at Teotihuacan.  At this location there are two VERY large pyramids, the pyramid of the sun and the pyramid of the moon, along with many smaller pyramids in between.  It was amazing to physically stand on something that people built thousands of years ago.

One thing that I miss TREMENDOUSLY is the food Every day I enjoyed the most incredible meals! Everything is always very fresh and absolutely delicioso! I am definitely having mango withdrawals! (thanks Claudia for the mango at the GH party haha)

Another aspect of Mexico that I really enjoyed and miss is the fact that there is always something to do! The Zocalo (the center of the town) was always packed with people and different forms of entertainment.  There were the frequent break dancers who always seemed to draw a crowd, the salsa dancers, the mariachi bands, and so much more who always created such a lively environment.

Overall, my time in Mexico is something that I will never forget and I really hope to return soon! It was amazing to experience life as someone else knows it!

As we boarded the bus on the Freetown side and rolled off the ferry to enter the nation’s capitol, I became enamored with what was in front of me, and it became (and remains) the most amazing ride of my life. Freetown is plagued with an electricity problem. After the elections of last autumn, the ruling party (APC) pledged to give Freetown constant electricity. While this has been accomplished in large areas and for great lengths of time, power will go off at any time and remain off until an unknown time. It is very spotty. As we drove through Freetown from the north, it was during a power outage. There is also a significant amount of area which does not have power to begin with. Much of the traffic was similar to the Lungi airport side, but it was now choked with people. The ground was deep red, and the people rode on motorcycles, bicycles, lorries, and cars. All the cars were decorated in some way to create individuality. There would be plastic objects glued to the cars with decals on the windows that said things such as “Big Boy”, “Praise Allah”, “Trust in Da Lord”, “Mean Machine”, etc. Music would pour out of the vehicles. Sounds of reggae, soca/calypso, Nigerian pop, and Salone pop filled the air. It was three or four in the morning, but people of all ages were walking the streets. Car horns were constant, but they were not in anger–as they are in the States–but they are used to let people know that a car is coming and to be careful. Many of the buildings were shacks or metal shipping containers. Trash was everywhere, and the smells of refuse, food, sweat, and the red earth is something I never  want to forget.

Once we came to our  hotel “The Cockle Bay,” we were exhausted. The electricity was on at this part of town, so we were lucky to have a fan. Although it was a fancy hotel in Freetown, it would not pass ANYWHERE in the United States. The toilet did not work, the shower kind of worked, the sockets were so worn out that we had to rig a rubber band-like thing to keep the fan plugged in, the walls were all stained, there were cockroaches on the floor, and you couldn’t trust the water–it was wonderful. The ride to the hotel from the ferry showed us how lucky we were to stay in a fancy place like this, and we all were very happy to be there regardless of our Western-tainted standards. The bright side left us content: we had mosquito nets already hung for us, we could expect breakfast in the morning, there was cold beer and soda for a bit of money, other rooms with members of our sweaty and ragged band had better toilets, all of the staff were nice, and we were all together (except our fearless leader Tobangi, of course).

We slept two to a bed, four to a room. All in all, I slept well. I woke up with very few bites and was already on my malaria pill regimen. Breakfast was fried plaintains, spam, eggs, french rolls, coffee, and tea. The day was spent at the ocean, going to the internet cafe to check our mail and reassure family members, and walking to Kempson Fornah’s house. Pa Kempson is the program’s local contact and helped teach us the Landogo language as well as clarifying concepts. He and his family are deeply religious in an African-Wesleyan manner, and his home was most welcome to us. We were introduced to a variation of what we would collectively be eating for the next month: Palm oil soup (no water) filled with bits of bonga fish, misc. chicken parts, lentils, many hot peppers, and young cassava leaves over well-cooked rice. This would be supplemented by fresh mango slices, cucumber, and pineapple. Evening meals consisted of a macaroni noodle mixed with palm oil, hot peppers, bonga fish, and misc. chicken parts supplemented with the fruits and vegetables listed above. I was still in a state of uncertainty; I did not know who I was allowed to talk to (women, girls, boys, men…) so I talked mainly to just the men and boys. As the party got under way, friends of the Fornahs arrived, and my inhibitions broke down to where I was talking with older women and looking them in the eyes. I think they thought it curious and humorus at my boldness, but I believe I crossed a cultural boundary by asking one of them to dance in the living room with everyone else. She declined my offer, and I realized my possible mistake. I decided to continue to “shake wayse” and revel in my cultural ignorance.

The beach was incredible. Now, I am not one for swimming and hanging out at beaches, really, for I have only been to the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean in Washington and Oregon and the REALLY cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean on the west coast of Ireland, but this was something to behold. …It was warm… there were snake holes underneath the hammocks, and their were Sierra Leoneans selling things on the beaches. It was funny because none of us had our money yet because we had not exchanged our funds, so when we told all of the people we had no money, they did not believe us because we were rich white people, but it was true!

The side streets in Freetown could be classified as gutters to the West. They were filled with non-useable refuse and often had a center channel of murky water running into the wetlands which buffer the ocean to the city. Children were often in the street, and parents were everywhere. The smell of Freetown is hard to explain, but I will try. It smells like a campfire where the wood is wet and people have been throwing garbage into the fire for as long as it has been lit. It smells like the rains have poured on fresh, red mud and the humans and other animals have started to resurface with fresh sweat re-igniting the sweat on their clothes. I never want to forget it. I have yet to walk down a street or area in the US and catch a whif of Freetown as I often do with the smells of Dublin, Ireland, during the autumn.

People ranged from interested, disinterested, or  actively wanting our attention to sell us something, but this was mainly just at the beach. As people would walk by us, there would be the eye contact and the stare, but it usually wasn’t until we smiled at them that their faces would light up. A little something about me: I have grown up being really freaked out by men winking at me. I know that the winks are innocent and many do it out of habit to those younger than them, but it has always freaked me out–ever since I can remember. When in Freetown, my smiles were often met with a man smiling back and winking, then continuing to walk on. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and it gave me the opposite reaction as it always had. I even tried myself once… once.

Ahhh…my first blog entry.  First of all, I am so glad to be back in school!  I was dreading the return of school all summer long…vacation is just so good.  But, as I was sitting in our first class last Wednesday, I remembered why I like school so much: ideas!!!  And people who are passionate about exchanging those ideas, pondering them, and allowing the ideas to change the way they think and live.  I am excited for another year of exploring ideas and seeing where they take us. 

 So…these are my current ideas.  Actually, my many musings over the past couple days on my experiences in Peru have suggested another topic possibility for my thesis.  But, first I’ll give a brief overview of what my trip was all about…

My study abroad was not originally an official study abroad trip, but with the amazing help of Tanya and Claudia, advice from Prof. Augie Machine, and Dr. Loly Alcaide Ramirez as my advisor, I was able to have the trip approved as an independent study abroad.   Boy am I blessed with people who are so helpful and flexible! J 

My research purpose in Peru was to study religion.  I studied the manifestations, motives, and interactions between indigenous religions, Catholicism, and Protestant Christianity.  Combined with my experience in Peru last year, this year’s travels placed me in three crucial areas where I was able to see these beliefs (or their syncretistic combinations) in play, and observe the place that geography and economy have upon religion and missionary methods. 

Last year, I mainly worked in the poor barrios outsideof Trujillo, on the coast north of Lima.  I observed firsthand the huge growth of Protestantism and Mormonism in this economically-disadvantaged barrios.

This year, I spent time in the Trujillo city limits, where Catholicism (and the average income) is stronger.  I also visited Cuzco and the surrounding Sacred Valley.  Syncretism, a dynamic and fascinating mix of Catholic, Incan, and sometimes Protestant beliefs and traditions thrives in Cuzco.  This is in part due to the city’s history as the ancient capital of the Inca Empire and religion.  Finally, the Sacred Valley and the foothills outside of Cuzco are home to “purer” expressions of ancient indigenous religions that stem from Incan times.

But now, on to my ideas.  Along with this research on religion came the inevitable observation of economic disparity and its effect on people.  I guess the experience of confronting unavoidable scenes of deep poverty and hopelessness every day for a month, from the minute you walk out the door in the morning, does something to you.  It incites (and should, I believe), a personal revolution, at the very least.  To me, this was a revolution against poverty and apathy.  But can this personal revolution effect any change?  And  how can that personal revolution be carried on to a social revolution…or is that possible?  What does that social revolution look like?  Is, as Che Guevarra believed, a revolution effective only through means of weapons?  Or is there another way?  This is very vague and broad, but these are questions I’m exploring right now.  How do I advance my personal revolution?

P.S.  Pictures from my trip:

El Valle Sagrado (the Sacred Valley): http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=66217&l=c438e&id=693260378

San Marcos barrio: http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65875&l=4e36f&id=693260378

Cuzco: http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65870&l=4adfa&id=693260378

Machu Picchu: http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65868&l=c1044&id=693260378

Trujillo: http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=65552&l=f6317&id=693260378