Photography of the mind

Especially now that my long time dream of getting a "real" (i.e. digital SLR) camera has been fulfilled, I have been thinking a lot about photography ... and, more to the point, of all the images I wish I could have captured in Morocco.

As it was, we figured our visit was going to be making enough people nervous without adding cameras to the mix, which meant that in the end I brought nothing but a discreet pocket camera along that I hardly felt comfortable pulling out on more than a couple of discreet occasions.

Don't get me wrong, as a first time visitor to the beautiful country of Morocco, I was impressed--by the warmth and hospitality of her people; by the efficiency and comfort of the trains; by the organised chaos, surprising smells and bright colours of the markets; by the tantalising flavours of the tagines and mint teas. I would go back in a heartbeat.

But we weren't there to experience Morocco's beauty and wonder. We were there to give witness to the struggles, pains and hardships--the successes and small triumphs-- of the non-Moroccans living there. And as I think back now, I realise that--camera or no camera--I was taking pictures the entire time, aka the photography of the mind.

Morocco is not a country with huge numbers of migrants or refugees, and I am somewhat ashamed to admit that we went "foreigner hunting". At one point, the local office rep took us--in a discreet car, but nonetheless with obvious diplomatic license plates--to some of the poorest sectors of town.

It was here that some of my strongest images remain etched in my mind. With cars being nearly as common as a UFO in some of the poorest neighborhoods, we drove down what we later discovered to be a one way street. On one side was wasteland, on the other, a hillside covered in buildings thousands of people call home: no electricity, no running water. Together with the poorest of Moroccans, it was here that we saw migrants.

Put bluntly, I have seen far worse in terms of visible poverty. What shocked me--and what composes the photograph burned into my mind--is what we saw in that street. Wires, plastic bags, shoes ... trash, everywhere. Dozens of children doing what kids do best: playing makeshift games of soccer with balls made of taped up plastic bags, blocking off the road with small boulders for barricades that were moved as we made our way through.

And fire.

Children as young as four years old and dressed in nothing but grimy t-shirts, setting fire to anything and everything they could find along the roadside as if it were as natural as playing trucks.

It was surreal.

And as cold stares (was it contempt that we saw?) followed us as we turned for home, the fear that we three white westerners in a diplomatic car could very easily be surrounded and robbed of every penny we (didn't) have, was suddenly very real.

If there were but one more "mind image" to share, it would be of the refugees themselves.

Like many other organisations, many of the UN Refuge Agencie's assistance activities work on the basis of "vulnerability", meaning that efforts are made to try to give first priority to those who are in the most precarious of situations. This is frustrating when you consider that in all reality, the vast majority of refugees are in extremely difficult situations, and that the criteria used for determining "vulnerability" cannot be made public (you'd be amazed how many divorces suddenly take place as priority is given to single mothers; how many children have suddenly lost their parents when priority is given to unaccompanied minors, etc.).

And so it is, that I was left with two more memories frozen in time; the first, of an older (65?), and very distinguished gentleman from the DRC asking ever so poignantly:

"...Since when has begging, since when has prostitution come to be considered legitimate livelihood activities? These are not 'career options'; one who is not vulnerable would not do such things. It has come to this: we are all vulnerable here."

And the second, of a worn and weary women who looks far older than her 45 years, looking me straight on and saying:

"I have lost everything. My husband, my children, all my family were killed. I am so old that the men won't even buy my body when I try to sell myself for a meal. My skin, my lips are cracking from malnourishment. Yet they say I am not vulnerable. Maybe as I lay on my deathbed, then they will say that I am. But by then it will be too late. Then I shall not even care."

It's then that I think, who needs a camera after all?


** Photo caption: Chart used to teach illiterate citizens about the political parties in preparation for voting in the elections. Rabat, Morocco.

Moroccan desperation, Moroccan inspiration

It's been awhile. Like going on three months long while. Though certainly not for lack of potentially inspiring goings ons, I have been thoroughly uninspired. Not uninspired in the "don't know what to write" sense, I'm talking uninspired in the "if I have to look at a computer screen for even two more minutes, I am really going to lose it" sense.

But in the name of historical memory, and proof of life to family far away, maybe I'll just have to get over it and get back on the horse.

The last week and a few, have found this little lady deep amidst the mysterious wonders of Morocco. And while I wish I were referring to breathtaking mosques, heartstopping desert sands and toe clinching medina markets, my frame of reference is rather the cryptic messages of the Moroccan government in the face of hundreds of courageous, hardworking and utterly distraught refugees and migrants.

Work being confidential as it is (or as confidential as it can possibly be when you see that our every email and text message is being handily diverted and read by some "unknown" body), I will spare the details ... except for one that had me laughing all the way home. Just imagine:

You are standing at the front of the grocery store in Morocco. To your left and down the stairs, you have the "alcohol corner", where alcohol is sold only to men, and only at exorbhitent prices. In front and to your right, dozens upon dozens of shoppers porting veils, loose Muslim "street gowns" (forgive my utter lack of proper vocabulary) and Moroccan leather slippers. Blaring on the store speaker system? None other than Alan Jackson's Gone Country.

Viva Rabat.

Frequently Asked Questions

In preparation for any and all impending conversations that may include the following Frequently Asked Questions, I hereby provide you with a few Frequently Provided Answers (in no particular order), for your convenience ... and mine. Time always goes too fast so we'd might as well skip the small talk (i.e. the FAQs) and get to the bigger and better stuff ... you, know, like what color kayak we should take out, or whether the coals are ready for the s'mores....

FAQ 1: "You have an accent!"
So I'm told. I don't hear it. I'm not "faking it". Just call it a-n-u-n-c-i-a-t-i-o-n.

FAQ 2: "So when are you moving back to the States?"
If ever I could convince all you family and amigos to migrate out this way, I might well stay here. But since you're stubborn as door nails, I suppose I'll be back that way sometime. Only the stars above can get anymore specific than that, until then, thank you for sparing me the lobbying efforts.

FAQ 3: "What do you miss most?"
Family, amigos, fresh crab, sandwich bread, sourdough bread, rocky road ice cream, Fairhaven burgers. Kettlecorn.

FAQ 4: "What do you mean you can't think of the word in English?"
It means I can't think of the work in English. Period. And no, I'm not "faking it" or trying to be a snot. I'll give it to you in Spanish or French if you want it ... and don't even ask me to spell anything in English anymore.

FAQ 5: "When are you getting married?!"
When life says it's time. That time is not now. We'll let you know when it is.

FAQ 5: "Are you a freakin' alcoholic?"
It's called wine. It's commonly drinken with lunch and dinner on a regular basis. It's good for the heart. Drink it up and enjoy.

FAQ 6: "You've put on some weight!"
Cheese. Chocolate. Gelatto. Need we say more?


Hmmm. Surely the list could go on, but with T-minus 24 hours ... I'd best be on the run. With any luck, my plane might just beat recent records and remember that it was built to FLY, not swim.

Buffalos, thunder and suicide bombs

You may need to brace yourself for this one, I know .... I have no photos from Sri Lanka. Zero, zilch, not a single one. Instead, they are all permanently ingrained in the singular confines of my memory, which is fine, except that while I usually let the pictures do the talking, you now have to put up with me doing it myself. So here goes:

One week in Sri Lanka according to my phone (received minute-by-minute via SMS thanks to the US govs travel registry, generally used for dangerous travel zones ...):

• "Ship taking food supplies to Mullaitivu, civilians come under LTTE artillery attack in Puthumatalan, no damages to ship"
• "Bomb blast in Akuressa near Matara"
• "More than four persons killed and several injured in bomb blast at a public function in Ajuressa"
• "Seven persons killed and several injured, including Minister M.W., says Minister F., adding that Minister A.A. was not injured in blast"
• "Army captures Puthukuddirippu hospital, restricting LTTE to 35 square kilometre area. Air craft tyres, engine, spare parts found buried"
• "Girl reported abuducted last week found dead in overtaken LTTE bunker"
• "Minister M.S. says strongly rejects comment by UN High Commissioner for Human Rights that 2,800 civilians killed since January 20"

One week in Sri Lanka according to my peepers, my schnoz and my belly:

• Arrive expecting something similiar to India. Not that I've ever been to India either, but I've heard enough from people who have to be stuck with the stereotype of crowded, chaotic, dirty, smelly ... The little that I saw of Sri Lanka hardly resembles anything of the sort ... and the locals will be just as quick as you to stereotype India using the abovementioned adjectives.

• Humidity. Stifling humidity. At one point I walked out of my (A/C equipped) room and honestly thought that someone had just finished taking a hot shower in the adjacent bathroom. Took me about 3 minutes to figure out that was just the air.

• Thunder, lightening, tropical rain. The kind that is warm and fun to run down the street in. Except that you see the lightening at the exact same time as the thunder practically blows the windows out and you realise that might not be such a good idea. They call this rain season. Every single day.

• Yasumiri. My latest adoptive grandmother, tasked by the big boss with cooking meals for me. All day, every day. Picture Christmas/Thanksgiving feast every meal of every day for a week. Now recall that at Sri Lankan breakfast time, it is approximately 3AM according to my body clock, meaning that I have absolutely NO appetite whatsoever. No matter. My Sinhalese vocabulary includes about 2 words, and her English vocabulary included all of "EAT, Alanna Miss, EAT!!", immediately followed by ginormous second and third servings plopped before your fooded-out eyes.

• The sweat of spice. Yasumiri was not just my cook, she was my secret culinary bodyguard. Little did I know she was protecting me from all spices harmful until we had a "real" Sri Lankan meal. Take a minute and conjure up an image of a pro-basketball player post-game - that was just about precisely the state of my face.

• Buffalo. They're big, they're slow and when they want to cross the road, you just wait for them and their curly horns to get a move on ... or, if you're feeling particularly brave, you drive through them.

• Oh, yeah, we're in a war zone. Despite the trip's objective being work related, I'm sent (conscientiously) on a tourist visa. Day before leaving, get panicked call from Sri Lankan colleague saying the another very prominent NGO person was kicked out for having been working there on a tourist visa only - fan-freaking-tastic. So what do they decide to do? Tell me to "dress like a tourist", i.e. ditch the suitcase for a backpack, wear flip-flops and carry a guidebook. Not matter that my bag is bursting at the seams with a laptop and every kind of paper you can imagine with European Commission and UN letterhead and research on Sri Lanka ...and no matter that every mandatory stop-and-search at military check-point conveniently placed every 10 kilometres had me quickly trained as pro in the fine art of frantically stashing everything under the seat and then casually batting those long lashes. Even if their sandbag and lop-sided corrogated aluminum roof bunkers did look like something off of Gulligan's island, I didn't particularly care to test them ...

• Feet of iron. Or so I tried to tell myself. I understand that shoes may not be allowed in Buddhist temples, but no shoes anywhere in the vicinity?? Imagine parking half a mile away from the temple in a GRAVEL parking lot in 90 degree sun and being told that you have to leave your shoes in the car. Smile and nod, my dear! You're really feeling like the weakling white Westerner as you notice no one else seems the least bit bothered by this act of self-inflicting torture and thus suck it up best you can, concluding that walking on burning coals can't be that bad after all.

And that, my dears, was the little I saw of Sri Lanka amidst piles and piles of work ...

Dangers, annoyances and monkeys

Sri Lanka dangers and annoyances, says the guide book:

"It's often unwise to sleep with your windows open - particularly if you are on the ground floor. Thieves sometimes use long poles with hooks to snaffle items of value. Monkeys are genetically gifted pilferers and can slip through small gaps and steal food from your room."

If only monkeys were the greatest of my worries!

And the winner is ...

SRI LANKA!

Apologies for the delay in revelation (whose tardiness is directly related to the phenomenon described in A day in the life of bureaucracy) but really, let's have a little chat about this ... are there no independent voters out there?? There seemed to be a serious case of follow-the-leader syndrome out there - next time, we're hiding the results until everyone has voted!

Anyhow, Sri Lanka it is, to do a bit of "site surveying" with a local NGO in order to submit a funding proposal for a project that I am uber excited about ... one focused especially on Sri Lankan migrant women and their families. While all the media coverage on Sri Lanka is looking northwards to the war region, elsewhere in the country hundreds of thousands of women - mothers, wives, sisters, daughters - are looking to all-to-often unscrupulous recruitment agencies who find them jobs as domestic workers for wealthy families in the Middle East.

Long story short, tremendous problems are borne of this ... the women find themselves at the mercy of the recruitment agencies who withhold their passports and pay, charge exorbitant fees, many women are raped by the men of the houses they clean ... only to have the wives discover their husbands' infidelity and take their rage out on the migrants, regularly burning them with irons.

Meanwhile, back home, any money that manages to make it back is more often than not not saved or spent on childrens' education as intended, but rather spent on alcohol, gambling, petty consumer goods, etc. Unemployed dads / husbands struggle with the so-called role reversal and domestic abuse and rape of young girls by their fathers and brothers is not uncommon.

Women become pregnant from having been raped abroad and are subsequently sent back to Sri Lanka, that, of course, doesn't go over well with the spouses, let alone many others in the community, and the mixed raced babies born as a result are rejected by society. Many women are shocked to find all the money they'd sent home over the last XXX years disappeared into thin air by the time they get home ... returned migrant women have the highest suicide rate of any demographic in Sri Lanka.

So what to do? We're hoping to develop public awareness programs on the potential risks involved in migrating under irregular circumstances, put together pre-departure training and orientation programs for those who choose to work abroad and their families, so that they may be prepared, offer reintegration support programs and financial management skills training for returning migrants, special programs for youth, counselling and psycho-social support, and a 24-hour information centre and hotline so that families might stay better in touch while their loved ones are working abroad.

Now we just have to hope that the funding agencies are as convinced about the idea as we are!

Destination world, departure tomorrow

[polldaddy poll=1410804] How is it that for personal travel I count my every hay penny, take out loans, bat my eyelashes to the parentals, buy my ticket months in advance to get the best price possible, and yet, when it comes to work, one week's notice before a travel mission begins to sound like HUGE advance notice? Not that I'm complaining, but really, no wonder I feel like I can't plan for anything anymore.

Voting closes at 18h Monday, Geneva time!

Give a little ...

...change a life.

As many of you know (ok, all 14 of you, just humour me here ...), I traveled to Rwanda several weeks ago, where my uncle and I were essentially carrying out "assessment mission", aka "checking out the scene to see if it's all good to go".

In short, we are working with a small, rural community in southern Rwanda, where they are hoping to be able to complete the secondary school - currently the only one in the area - which, today, goes only to the 9th grade. Unable to travel the long distances to reach the next closest secondary school and / or pay the tuition, most students today (many of whom are "genocide orphans") simply drop out of school.

So, we scoured the potential building site, spoke with local community leaders, local government leaders, Church leaders, teachers, students, parents, builders ... and we think we've got it all figured out - $530,000 USD, and we can have ten classrooms, a dining hall, a residence hall, restrooms, a computer lab, a library AND an assembly hall built ... given hundreds of kids - the future leaders of a truly inspiring country - a shot at a university education.

Now all we've got to figure out is just how to collect that much needed money.

We're thinking the "Obama strategy" might work. "If everyone gave just $1, it would only take ... " ok, perhaps I should be a bit more humble. Even adding in all my FB "friends" that I haven't talked to in nearly a decade, I still don't quite come close to reaching 530,000 friends. Hmm. Time for a new strategy ...

HUMBLY ASK FOR YOUR HELP. Perhaps if I spread the word to all of MY friends, who spread the word to all of THEIR friends, who then pass the word to all of THEIR friends ... we might just make it. Know of a foundation, a church, a community service club that might be interested in chipping in in some way or another? Please let me know!

We've put together a very simple website that tells a bit more about the project; please check it out and let me know what you think. Thanks a million.

www.futureleadersofrwanda.org

Master of the eyebrow raise

If I may be forgiven for saying so, the vast majority of Rwandans we met along the way were not your most outwardly cheery, openly friendly bunch. Curious, yes. Initially very serious, yes. Smiley, no.

It should be said that this heinously overgeneralized statement of observation does not, for the most part, include kids, who showed no fear, chasing us down the street screaming "MUSUNGU!! MUSUNGU!!" (White people, white people!), or "Bon joour!" or "Teacher!!" I have to give them credit for entirely cornering me between the brick walls of the church as well, until I finally figured out that I might be able to make my escape if I were sure to shake every single child's hand, greeting them individually (such are the importance of greetings in Rwanda ...)

But the adults, now that's another story. When I commented as much to our host, he responded only that many of them had "seen far too much suffering in their lives; it's all they can do now to put one foot in front of the other, let alone be especially friendly to every person they pass".

Not having been instructed in the propers of Rwandan greetings, however, I struggled painfully to observe those around us. Far more intricate than a simple, firm American right-handed handshake, Spanish two cheek kisses or even Swiss three cheek kisses, I thought I finally figured out that you have several options in Rwanda.

First, you have what I will somewhat insensitively call the "head banger". This involves: first knocking heads (not cheeks!) together on the right side, then left, then right again, followed by a good solid right hand slap-shake (imagine high-five captured mid-swing into handshake).

Or you could go with the "triple pat": Extend arms towards person to be greeted, pat three times just above elbows, then proceed into right hand slap-shake, as described above.

Or you could go quite simply with the right hand slap-shake, omitting all of the above described.

Problem was, there seemed to be some unwritten protocol to knowing when to use each method - and I never quite deciphered the code. But then, I had a moment of enlightenment.

Observing those around me, I discovered the eyebrow raise. No, it wasn't just a fleeting vision, I suddenly realized that the secret to getting the somber faces I met along the road to smile in greeting was all in the eyebrows. There is a technique to be had, for sure, requiring a quick eyebrow raise (including whole forehead, if possible), together with a slight head tip-back. I stood in the bathroom practising this technique for a bit, then took it to the streets.

As if by magic, people's eyebrows were greeting me back! A twinkle would appear in their eyes and, nine times out of ten, a friendly smile and hand wave (think the "how" sign/hand raise). If ever there were a break through in cultural barriers, this was it.

I, am Master of the Eyebrow Raise.

Only problem now is to get myself out of the habit of doing it around Geneva. Got an eyebrow raise back in return along the road to work this morning, but somehow it just wasn't quite the "right" kind of eyebrow raise I was looking for ...

At a loss for words

Actually, that's a complete and utter lie. I'm not at a loss for words at all regarding our trip to Rwanda; I'm buried under a mountain of them and don't know quite where to start.

I could start with the news articles that were coming out just days before our departure, with titles ranging from "Rwanda stirs deadly brew of trouble in Congo", to "At least 1,500 Rwandan troops enter Eastern Congo" or "Militias in Congo tied to Rwanda and government". Or with our encounter with a "brother" of a friend not but 12 hours after our arrival who happened to be a General in the Rwandan army who, when asked about the joint Congolese-Rwandan mission to oust the rebel militia in Congo, replied with great enthusiasm "Oh, yes! I just got back from supervising the troops all last night! It's only half hour from here by helicopter; the mission is going well". The next day, as we bounced along Rwandan back roads, we heard over a crackling radio that one of the Congolese rebel leaders "who once seemed untouchable" was arrested by the joint Congolese-Rwandan mission.

But such stories - for as true as they may be - seem to represent only what the outside world wants to see of Rwanda. As one Rwandan newspaper journalist wrote when one famous celebrity decided to give birth in Namibia: "Like me, you must be wondering why Namibia and not Rwanda, for instance? Let us consider the facts. Namibia is a hopeless banana republic famous mainly for its empty spaces and large Kalahari Desert and backward bushmen, right? On the other hand, Rwanda is a beautiful, lush, evergreen country with flowing hills and valleys, which is known for, mmm ... er, so sorry to break this to you, but Rwanda is famous for just one thing, genocide".

That the country and its people have been deeply scarred by the horrific events of the past is undisputable (over dinner just hours after our arrival, our generous host - a priest - confides: "I know this sounds a little pagan, but sometimes I pray that God would just kill everyone over the age of 15 so we could start all over again without embedded ideologies"), but Rwanda - and the Rwandans - deserve a reputation much greater than that of a violent past - they deserve media attention that more accurately depicts both the country and the people as a phoenix bird, rising from the ashes of the past in a most awe-inspiring way.

I could start with my sheer amazement of seeing a country so alive - nothing of sitting around, lacking of things to do. Nothing of street side beggars asking for a coin or two (you'll see more of those in uber-riche Geneva than Rwanda). The country is alive with people working, building, walking, transporting, studying ... Rwanda's not waiting around for anyone to pick her up and carry her forward; she's doing that for herself.

I could start with the national highways, which are perfectly paved, perfectly painted and with perfect, wide shoulders - as good or better than any you'll see in the States.

I could start with the stunningly lush green hills that look too surreal to be real; the fields of banana and corn plantations; the hills that are so alive with people walking, biking, running from one destination to the next that it looks like a nest of busy human ants.

I could start with the "szzwweeerrrpping" sound of the generator shutting off for the day: only 2 percent of the country has any electricity at all.

I could start with the sweeping changes taking place: policies banning plastic bags, encouraging families to limit themselves to three children, setting the minimum age to marry at 21, making English the official language by 2010.

I could start with the "surreal-ity" of stepping off the plane with only one hour time difference and being in a whole 'nother world. When going to/from Asia or the Americas, somehow it feels a tad more "acceptable" for their to be such striking differences - after all, you're half a world away. But Africa to Europe? It's like walking through the threshold of a doorway ... but not quite understanding how a single step could have possibly brought you to such a different place.

But this does not describe the people, the drive, the resolution for the future, which, unspoken as it may be, is as powerful, and as unique as that found anywhere in the world.

And so, at a loss for words, I leave you for the moment with PHOTOS and a request to disregard - if but for a moment - the international news stories "representing" Rwanda, trusting that, before long, the words finally will come.

Definitions of the moment

RWANDA [proper noun, roo-wan-dah]: Land of a Thousand Hills; often associated with savage genocide; one of Africa's most densely populated countries; hides some of the best inland beaches in Africa; one of the "smallest, tidiest, most promising countries on the continent"; "darling of the aid world, praised for strong, uncorrupted leadership and the strides it has made in fighting AIDS and poverty"; unimaginable beauty; home to some of the best roads in Eastern Africa; as of yesterday, *officially* "loaning" at least 1,500 troops to Congo "in an effort to oust Hutu rebels who participated in the genocide".

ALANNA [proper noun, uh-lay-nah]: Excited; nervous; anxious; thrilled; nauseous (possibly related to ...); under the influence of malaria pills; uncertain; trusting; prepared as I'll ever be; full of questions; lacking answers; curious ... needing to go pack.

Leaving on a jet plane

After 365 consecutive days of being half a world away from my wonderful family, I am so looking forward to the best Christmas present of all ... being able to bask in their company live and in person!

That said, there are still some 16 hours of travel between now and a big hug to the parentals ... for me and the half million other people who will also be praying for uneventful flights, pleasant - though not overly exuberant - seat neighbors, video screens that work, decent airplane food, safely arriving luggage, kind security attendants, quick customs lines and a minimum of jet lag on the other end.

Thus, in tribute to them, and in memorium of my last flight to the US, I leave you to enjoy one of my all-time favorite NYTimes editorials, though admittedly, it may only be as funny as I find it to a select demographic population ....

A User's Manual to Seat 21C

By Wayne Curtis

CONGRATULATIONS ON SELECTING SEAT 21C! This manual is intended to familiarize you with the many options available to you.

Before BUCKLING in, please note that the man standing in the aisle next to you is about to make a request. He wonders if it would be okay for you to switch seats with his wife, who is in the middle seat three rows ahead. She is the one seated between the former linebacker and the canola oil salesman, and is peering over the seatbacks at you with wide and imploring eyes.

The man will ask this in a voice sufficiently loud that all passengers seated within several rows will look up from their sudoku puzzles and await your answer. If you say no, the passengers will all wonder: Why do you hate married people? You must be a bitter and lonely person. Note also that there is no overhead luggage space three rows ahead, so you will have to wait for the entire plane to empty to come back and retrieve your bags. Have a good flight up at 18E!

Once permanently seated, grasp both ends of SEAT BELT and press firmly together. If you hear only a dull metallic clanking sound rather than a smart “click,” extend half of the seat belt to your seatmate and awkwardly suggest that he must be sitting on your half.

If you would like a small and insubstantial PILLOW and cannot locate one, ring the flight attendant call button located directly overhead. If the flight attendant does not appear within five seconds, press the button repeatedly and with increasing urgency. If the flight attendant tells you no more are available, wait five minutes and repeat process.

On either side of you is an ARMREST. If you look down and see that it is currently occupied by the ham-sized elbow of your seatmate, it is often possible to claim your space by simply pressing your clammy forearm against his with a casualness that suggests that you hadn’t noticed that you were even touching. (Note: this is effective chiefly in man-to-man seating configurations.)

Ahead of you is the marsupial-like SEAT BACK POUCH. In it you will find a magazine featuring ads for foreign language software favored by farm boys hoping to impress hot Italian models; an emergency evacuation card depicting families who seem disturbingly calm for people about to abandon a sinking airliner for a shark-filled ocean; stray bits of Life Saver foil; and a boarding pass stub from someone named Richard from Ohio.

Also, you will find the SKYMALL CATALOG, from which you may order a product called “Poop Freeze,” described as a spray refrigerant that “chills animal waste to -62°F, creating an outer ‘crust’ that enables you to quickly place in a bag and dispose.” Feel free to spend the remainder of the flight trying to process this information.

Once the plane is airborne, you may RECLINE YOUR SEATBACK by pressing the button inside the armrest. If you chose not to recline, be aware that the person ahead of you will soon do so fully and abruptly, causing sharp discomfort on and around the patella but rewarding you with a panoramic view of several acres of scalp. You may mitigate this situation, at least psychologically, with a loud and audibly moist “sneeze,” or by directing your personal air jet to the top of the encroaching head.

Directly ahead of you is the TRAY TABLE, which may be lowered for “snack service.” The circular depression in the upper right corner is for your plastic cup, an item you may find oddly wide-mouthed for something conveying sticky beverages in an environment subject to sudden and dramatic up-and-down and to-and-fro motions. Also, note the cup is designed such that empty mylar pretzel pellet bags stuffed in them to facilitate trash collection will not remain there, but will repeatedly and mesmerizingly creep back out and onto the tray table.

Once the plane arrives at its destination, be aware that your SEATBELT BUCKLE is specially designed to disengage most efficiently if you place your hand on it for several minutes prior to arrival at the gate. The instant the seat belt sign is turned off and the soft gong sounds, snap it open vigorously, then swiftly stand up and lunge for the overhead bins. Those seated on the aisle should immediately advance one or two rows before others crowd in and hinder forward motion. Those in window seats should also stand immediately, adapting the attractively hunched Cro-Magnon stance under the luggage bins for the 12 minutes before your row is released for deplaning.

We hope that you find your seat comfortable and your flight pleasant. We know you have a choice of many other seats, and we thank you for choosing SEAT 21C.

How to avoid deportation, outsmart security, ride a horse, climb a volcano and nearly miss your flight ... all in 15 hours.

A model program for avoiding boredom in a mere 24 hours amidst a week of international meetings in the Philippines:

1. Take part in the covert organisation of official delegates in smuggling them out of the meetings, into matching t-shirts, past numerous caravans of military and police, into awaiting jeepneys and breaking through the police lines (5 officers deep) at a public rally where "foreigners would be deported".

2. Devise a way to outsmart the security measures (scanned barcode ID cards) at the Government meeting not once, but five times. Make the most of this little weakness by taking advantage of free massages for government officials, schmooze opportunities and excellent free food at dinner and lunch banquets - complete with beach-side/pool-side fireworks show and free tour offers.

3. Wander aimlessly around town and through endless neighborhoods and markets drawing sufficient attention as a single, white, woman so as to not dare take out the camera in most places. Laugh later when Mr. Mark Mazo (see below) says "But ma'am, you went there by yourself? You are very lucky, ma'am! Quiapo is full of snatchers!!"

4. Meet a very nice, clearly honest, "good vibe" local - Mr. Mark Mazo - and make a deal to hire him as local tour guide + driver to see the "real" Philippines. Laugh again when Mark tells you that 8AM is very late to meet; "we must meet at 5AM!" (Philippino street life seems to suggest they are early risers...)

5. Head to Lake Taal to see the volcanoes inside the freshwater lake. Lock the doors and fly by all of the many "swindlers" trying to offer us a boat ride out to the volcano ... Mark "I will protect you from the swindlers!"

6. Hire a boat to take us out to the volcano; hire horses to take us up the volcano, then peek down the hole of the crater curiously realising there is another lake with another island inside the volcano, where people swim in the sulfuric hot spring.

7. Drink buko (young coconut), eat buko, buy buko pie ... and drive some 300 kilometers through small Philippino towns of all kinds, being amazed by the sheer number of children everywhere and the fact that even the poorest looking hut houses had TVs flashing from inside.

8. Get stuck in Friday + All Soul's Day traffic ... amid jeepneys, tricycles, scooters, cars, bicycles, honking horns and sickening pollution. Realise there is no way in hell that you will be getting to the airport in time for your flight.

9. Mark Mazo: "Don't worry, ma'am, I will get you there!". Take on oncoming traffic, put on the flashers, honk incessantly, pour on the speed when you can and be terribly stuck in traffic yet again. Definitely missing your flight.

10. Mark Mazo pulls a new trick: Push all of the motorcycles out of the way, head straight into on-coming traffic, honk even more incessantly, put your whole body out the window and start screaming urgently "Emergency! Emergency!" Only later to add for the traffic controller "She's a United Nations Delegate (N.B. far from it, in fact); it's an emergency; I must get her to the airport!!" And, like the parting of the seas, traffic moves aside, our tires peel out and we arrive at the airport ... 40 minutes before flight departure.

11. Mark Mazo: "I hope you will never forget our eventful day, ma'am". No time soon, for sure ...

Of mediocre meetings and passionate protests

"Foreigners seen protesting in protest actions can be deported for violating the country's immigration laws ... Foreigners have no business joining these mass actions because it is tantamount to meddling in our country's internal affairs" - Philippine Bureau of Immigration

"The protesters brought with them placards that simply said "No to GF*D", "End labor export", "End poverty" and "Create jobs at home", all written in different languages. Is there anything subversive to the international and national interest about these?" - N.O.G.

Ever aware that choosing not to make this blog private somewhat jeopardizes my willingness to talk candidly about all things interesting, I will avoid spelling out the name of the actual global meeting that brought myself and more than 1,000 top expert foreign diplomats, trade union reps, non-profit professionals, academics, social workers and migrants to Manila, but I trust that it will be obvious for those who choose to take a peek at the PICTURES HERE and/or a few of the bazillion news articles, including, perhaps, a couple of these:

• Migrant workers not tools to save globalization
  

• Preventing protest against labor migration
  

• Passion for reason: OFWs: Expatriates with less rights
  

• Global Forum succeeded in wasting public money, protesters declare
  

• Bureau of Immigration: Foreigners joining protests to be deported

Not withstanding the one-of-a-kind hospitality and friendliness of the Philippino people that would, undoubtely, grant them the title of "World's most friendly people", the meeting was branded by thousands of military soldiers and police officers, blocked off roads, x-ray security, digital security badges, traffic escorts should you ever need to set foot outside of your (arranged) hotel or the conference centre and even security professionals to ensure that you do not inadvertently get into any trouble while making visits with Mother Nature. Thus making "escape" from the picture perfect conference world all that much more appealing.

Change scenes now to life in the streets outside the cordoned police barricades six officers deep and you have a very different picture ... one of rallies involving some 5,000 people frustrated by an opaque system that has not allowed them to participate in the conference and fearful that decisions being made behind closed doors about migration policies come at the cost of using human beings who are unable to find decent work at home as nothing more than economic bargaining chips for greedy governments.

Despite the fact that a number of media have entirely misled unknowing readers into believing that these rallies were led by "militant activists", they were light years away from being even remotely violent. Case in point, protesters went down the lines of police barricades affixing giant "Migrant rights are human rights" stickers to their riot shields and placing roses in their uniform lapels ... receiving only smiles in return. How many of those officers must also have wives, mothers, daughters, brothers working abroad?

Braving the indescribable pollution and daunting humidity, I later spent a day meandering the streets and neighborhoods of Manila. If back in the conference delegates were totally oblivious to the daily protests, they certainly had NO idea of the evident social backlash by other groups on a very local ... made clear by an array of anti-forum graffiti, posters, etc.

In a nontransparent, government-only process, removed from the United Nations and with limited intention to evaluate the process and/or produce concrete results beyond the "talk shop", the added "social oblivion factor" makes you wonder all that much more ... what the heck are we, and our leaders, doing?

An imperfect process in an imperfect world...but always, with a smile

Yet another unexpected in a life of unexpecteds, I find myself now writing tonight from those wonderful islands to the West of Vietnam and to the North of Malaysia ...

Indeed, with two weeks notice I found myself packing a bag with 25 kilos (about 50 pounds??) of books, jumping on a plane to find a flight crew wearing traditional Thai silk formal dresses serving nose-drip-inducing spicy curry airplane food (who knew airplane food could be anything other than bland!) observing the viscerally sickening mix of male passengers that left more than a lingering doubt as to whether they were headed to Southeast Asia for the beaches or the women (or, worse, the children), putsing around Bangkok just long enough to befriend a group of extraordinarily outgoing Bangladeshi's and entertain their questions as to A) who is going to win the US elections and B) whether I am Phillipina (?!), fly threw Philippino customs with only just enough time to gaze curiously as the Overseas Filipino Worker Express Lanes (I suppose one would have to hope that more than a few of the 120 Philippinos per hour who depart for jobs abroad would return at some time or another), smile bemusedly as the somewhat entertaining and quintessentially Philippino creatures that are jeepneys, and lug my obscenely heavy suitcase up the stairs of the "deluxe, five star luxury" - are we really NGOs? - hotel in Manila ... the heat and terrible humidity being the indiscriminate cause of the gallons of sweat pouring down my back. Welcome to the Philippines.

This, of course, is not the final description, but rather the beginning. But then, to be a truly accurate description of "the beginning" you would most certainly have to add the anecdote of my somewhat desperate search for a cash machine nearby the hotel, seeing as they whisked us away from the airport with such haste that that even Speedy Gonzalez would not have had time to withdraw. Thus, upon explaining to the concierge for the twentieth time that no, the ATM machines at the mall were not an option unless he cared to sponsor my transportation to GET there in the first place, he finally conceded that there was an ATM just around the corner. Happily heading for the door with my directions in hand, he adds - with what I have learned to be the Philippine epitome of politeness - "But ma'am, I would suggest you remove all of your jewelry and leave your purse in your room before you go". Mmmhhmm. Wearing no jewelry anyhow and having only my trusty Timbuktoo-nearly-impossible-to-rob bag, I thanked him for the warning and headed out.

I don't think I had walked even 10 meters when I suddenly was surrounded by six pairs of small, groping, clasp-like hands, had two small children clinging on to each of my legs in the same way we used to do to my Dad when we wanted to walk on his feet, and saw a seventh (or was is eighth?) little boy come tearing around the corner carrying an infant in his arms and running so quickly I thought the baby's head was going to be broken off. Naively, I thought something terrible had happened to the baby and he was in search of mom ... though it quickly became apparent that he was hoping his tactic would be more fruitful in producing coins from the "white lady" than that of the monkey kids. Soo, we awkwardly hobbled to the chants of "No, no money - money? money? - No, no money - money? money?" for about two blocks as I tried to figure out just how I was going to get cash from the machine in such a state, when suddenly a waiting jeepney driver simply went "tschhhh" and they all disappeared before I could even see which direction they had gone. Poverty in the Philippines ... you have to wonder, where was mom? Considering the stats here, chances are good she's off working in the Middle East or the US.

In fact, I had imagined blogging about much more than these first moments tonight, about the conference, about the protests, about the police, about the absolutely unrivaled friendliness of the Philippine people, but seeing as this has already seemed to convert itself into a mini novel I suppose we best leave it here, certainly with several a sequel to come ...

In the meantime, I leave you with this image of the day (above), anyone want to take a stab at what my later commentary to go with it will say?

Tacos, pyramids and buenas amigas

Luck was most certainly on my side last week ... it's not all that often that you just happen to have a conference (aka work) in Mexico ... and definitely not all that often that it just happens to take place only Tuesday and Wednesday, meaning that, with intercontinental travel times, you wouldn't be able to make it in to work at all during the week anyway. Shucks. Guess that just means I'd have to stay for a week then, huh? Indeed.

If all you want to see are pictures, you'll find them HERE, otherwise a few highlights from the ever-so-enjoyable (work?) trip went about something like this:

Welcome to Mexican road rules ... Arrive two hours later than expected, blowing all carefully planned intents to arrive before nightfall and upping the adrenaline self-protection level of the solo gringa with who-knows-what treasures in the evident suitcase (seen from the eyes of potential take-advantagers). Hop into (supposedly "authorized") taxi, hold breath throughout entire first Mexican driving experience. (Um, that was a RED light? Oh, sorry, I guess the lines are painted on the roads merely for visual effect because, really, I guess you can't expect people to actually stay between the lines AND ditch all of the giagantic potholes. Did someone say that it's not a good idea to drink and drive? Yes, please, just run right across the road there; afterall, pedestrian crosswalks are most inconvenient. And you thought we'd be there in less than one hour? Come on, there's a reason Mexicans are infamous for always being "late".) Quickly learned that knowing the "colonia" (neighborhood) is just as much as important a part of the address as the street and house number itself ... after driving around endlessly and being within mere seconds of pissing the taxi driver off so much he was going to leave me on the side of the road ...

Oops, I forgot, the purpose of the trip is business ... Walk into the conference just a tad late to find myself attempting to hurdle the dozens of journalists, blindly navigate the flashes and play an akward game of limbo under the video cameras. Who knew this conference was going to end up plastered all over the evening news, let alone awkwardly get me an exclusive invite to dine with the Mexican First Lady and the Ambassador's club? Three words: Cool yet awkward. And then of course, there was my major schedule screw up that had the embassy calling to inform me that I was MIA for my speech ... "Miss Ryan? Are you planning on presenting yourself for your intervention? Yes, well, if you could join us now, the meeting has started (20 minutes ago ...)"

Good food, smooth drinks and great times with old friends ... Nothing quite beats the thousands of roadside taco stands, complete with bunches of fresh cilantro and lime, bright lights, amazing smells of fresh cilantro and lime and people of every walk of life gathered 'round. Watching out for my health and personal well-being, though Pao wouldn't let me indulge. After "playing it safe" with some nummy mole enchiladas, I was especially thankful that my own personalized case of oral Montezuma's revenge was only temporary and in no way impeded the later consumption of tequila so smooth you could sip it solo - no chugging shots needed. Maybe that has something to do with how we ended up owning a large stuffed Cookie Monster and roses and having the mariachi band as our personal groupies the whole night ...

Of protests and pyramids ... Having a knack as I seem to for cluelessly ending up in the centre of the excitement, 2 October held true to course and I haphazardly found myself amidst hundreds of thousands of young people commemorating the 40th anniversary of the massacre of Tlatelolco - in which the government opened fire and killed some 400 students, protesting current government policies, demanding the release of political prisoners, demanding the return of kidnapped loved ones, declaring anarchy, etc. I decided to split town about the time that I got quite literally run over by the mob squads ... never know when the next government incited massacre will be ...

And last but not least, no lightening fast tour of Mexico City would ever be complete without a visit to mythical Teotihuacan ... the city that "was once Mesoamerica's greatest" and today the city with the world's most obnoxious street vendors ... ones that will follow you for kilometres, offer you everything under the sun at great deals and play eerie ghost-like owl whistles just to add to the ancient ghostly feel of the place. Need to remind yourself how completely unaccomplished you are? Head here, where the vastness, quality, immensity and creative design of the entire city will quickly put you in your place.

Um, did he really just say what I think he did?

Golden nuggets from the Croatia holiday files ... not to pat ourselves on the back or anything, but we think one of our thirty second home videos is, well, ridiculously funny thanks to the sexy Swiss German accent, and thought we might share the chuckles. Forgiveness in advance if it's just ridiculously stupid :-)

Unfortunately I'm afraid that I can't for the life of me figure out how to embed these dang videos like I was hoping though, so it looks like you'll have to CLICK HERE for Take One (very funny), and HERE for Take Two (not so funny).

Make sure your volume it turned up!

They're here!

By popular demand, the pics from our Croatia + ventures are now up and ready for your viewing pleasure HERE. Considering we started with some 1400 amazing photos from the trip thanks largely to Patrick's (aka Papparrazzi Paddy) enthusiastic photo documentation, having the slide show down to 190 is pretty much a herculean feat, if I may say so myself. Unfortunately, though, weeding through all the pics has given me a bit of temporary photo burn-out, so I haven't gone through and "enhanced" any of them ... I'm afraid you'll just have to put up with them in their God-given darknesses/lightnessess. Ditto on the captions ... I'll get there, but no promises on when, where, or how. They say a photo speaks a thousand words anyhow, don't they?

Unplugged, incomunicado and blissfully ignorant

Though it may sound slightly implausible for someone whose daily work routine involves sitting screen-side 8+ hours a day, the last two weeks could quite possibly be equated to a chain gang member being relieved of his/her cuffs ... not one computer, not one TV, not one cell phone, not one MP3 player. In fact, our road trip car's radio barely managed to let out a few notes. Especially considering that we hit the road just as the Olympics Opening Ceremony was beginning and as the "Breaking News" banners flashed across the bottom of the screen warning of the impending WWIII to be induced by the Georgia-Russia invasion, some people might have gotten a serious case of the shakes being incomunicado. Not us. Only sun, sand (ok, so there wasn't much sand, mostly huge boulders, but you get the drift), mojitos, and oh-so-sweet blissful ignorance.

Funny enough, coming back, it really doesn't feel like we missed much. Coming back just after the Closing Ceremony of the games, it's as if the Olympics never happened after all the hype (admittedly, though, we are dying to know what happened. Can anyone fill us in???). And WWIII? Apparently already over, though my work email is filled with appeals from a healthy variety of organisations appealing for funding and advocacy support for the returning refugees. Most "exciting" reentry news? The tail end of the "Fay hype" and the announcement of Obama's running mate. As the world turns round .... do we really have to be plugged in??

Anyhow, enough of the chatter. Marcel and I headed to Cinque Terre, Italy for the first five days where we stayed in Riomaggiore, the smallest and less touristy (then again, everything is relative) of the 5 interconnected cliffside fishing villages and happily resigned ourselves to lounging on the beaches, hiking between the towns, floating in the amazingly refreshing Mediterranean waters stuffing ourselves with pasta, seafood, pizza, tiramisu, gelatto and sipping away on our wine and mojitos.

In short, all prep for the real venture ... joining up with another friend of Marcel's and "The Beast" (Patrick's trusty pimped out Landrover, later christened "Ludmilla" en route) for a road trip through Croatia, Bosnia Herzegovina, Slovenia, and Austria.

Thanks largely to the enthusiasm that comes with (Patrick) getting a new camera, we're still trying to sort through the 1400 photos that were taken on the trip, but for the moment, you can see some of the ones from Italy HERE, either on slideshow mode (upper right hand corner) or, if you're looking for more commentary on the trip, on "detail" mode (left hand side, under "Cinque Terre") ...

Countdown to the beast-fest

Two words: Landcruiser; Beast. With half of the office and a good number of friends being out on holidays right now, I can't help but count the days until our own summer adventures begin in August ... With the Beast as our humble home and the sun over our heads, Marcel, his childhood friend Paddy and I are heading off to Croatia for the ultimate camping cum road trip adventure, passing through Italy, Slovenia and Bosnia en route. A couple of our Croatian friends have kindly informed us that we have chosen the worst possible time to go, with all the rest of the tourists, but quite frankly, I don't care ... I have a feeling they'll be moving out of our way when they see us coming :-)