Game Plan for 2066

Folks have been asking. So here it is. The game plan:

First stop: Boulder to reconnect with home, tulips and kind-hearted friends.
Next stop: Maine to scream Swahili football cheers at Mar while she breathes through contractions. I will be staying throughout the month to teach baby Grady about fashion, cook tagines with my mom and convince Billy to practice morning yoga with me.

June - ?: I’m thinking about a road trip to share late-night kitchen conversations and sun-filled games of Frisbee golf with many of you. Holler if you’re game.

Along the way, I’ll be working on web projects for the organizations that I visited during the trip. Hoping to write a few freelance pieces about the adventures. And lastly, I’m working on securing funding for the Push Play project.

Push Play is an idea to expose the lives of 8 extraordinary female athletes around the world through a video podcast series. I’d set off on another trip to capture the stories. Additionally, I will give each woman a simple digital camera and teach her how to blog. Lastly, I will set up a Web site that would share the professionally produced videos, the blogs and give users the opportunity to donate directly to the athlete’s organization. Here’s the full Push Play game plan. Any and all leads or suggestions are welcomed with open arms.

This was my first attempt at blogging and it became a really important rhythm in my days, as a practice and a way to make my experiences feel shared, even when they were experienced independently. Thanks for following the blog over these months. There will be more stories to tell in this blog on future adventures, but for now....

The End. 

2065: What A Year It Has Been

I left Nepal one day before their biggest celebration - the Nepali New Year. The streets of Kathmandu were buzzing with preparations to usher in 2066. My next destination: USA. Personally poetic that I’m leaving on the last day of the year and coming back home at Easter – when many folks are also celebrating a rebirth. I’ve decided to postpone South America for now. My sister, Mar, is on the verge of having her first baby and I wouldn’t miss it for the World (literally).

I went on this journey in search of something colorful and bold – in the world around me, and in myself. Did I find it? Hard to tell. I'm not sure I can sum this experience up in any sort of neat conclusion. Every day was surely a ride – emotionally, socially, and practically. In this blog, you saw a lot of the happy drama -- so much beauty out there. But there were tough times.

One day, I was in Jeffrey’s Bay, South Africa. My credit card had been cloned. Waiting on money to be wired, I only had a few bucks. I had not hit my stride -- feeling more lost and lonely than ever before. I went to yoga in this woman’s living room. She said something that I clung to, writing it in my journal in huge, page-filling letters:

“What if, we didn’t need to add anything to this moment…if we viewed it as complete and not in need of change?”

For the rest of the trip, I kept it close, like a mantra or motto. If there is one change I’ve noticed in myself, it’s that appreciation of the moment. The constant motion of the trip combined with the uncertainty of a major life shift, has challenged me to find happiness in staying present. Smelling the apple before biting. Listening to the songs kids sing thru school windows. Not living for what was or what will be - just what is.

I guess I’ve changed in that way. That, and, I’m far more likely to dip my bread in food and 100 times more humble.

Thanks to all those who took me in, fed me, hugged me and shared the days. Thanks to all the strangers who made me feel less strange. And all the gratitude in my heart to my family and family of friends for the never-ending support and encouragement.

Love.
Sarah

Kdu Wins Me Over

Kathmandu made me want to bury my head in my hands for the first 24 hours upon arrival. The dirt caked in the gaps of my teeth. The cacophony of car horns. The badgering salesman. But then, like stray cat with fleas, the city sidled up to me with an intrigue and I couldn't help but pick it up. Sitting in one of the main "chowks" (intersections), slowly eating pomegranate seeds next to a statue of Ganesh, I watched the city slide by and found her kitschy charm.

Today, Kathmandu looked like this....

Joyrides

My feet have been my mode of transport in Nepal prior to yesterday. There was the 1960s-era, toy plane I flew into Pokhara on before the trek. A ten-seater. Security? None. Walked up to the plane on the tarmac when I was ready. A boy was on a step stool, washing the windows of the plane with a squeegie. No flight attendant. Just us and the pilot who chatted the whole way. He balanced us according to weight. We flew real low, weaving in and out of the mountain folds . Felt sporting. I loved it.

The bus ride to Kathmandu yesterday was quiet another story.

Look. Y'all know I am not a faint-hearted traveller. I will roll with many-a-sketchy situation. But that ride was just not right. Ten hours of hairpin turns, up and down Himalayan mountain passes with death drops on each side of the crumbling road. Side of the bus covered in puke. And I would have been fine with all that. It was our driver's lust for passing constantly around blind corners, as though he was on a suicide mission, that drove my hands over my eyes so frequently. The true reminder of our mortality was the dozen or so burned up, accordian-resembling, crashed buses, just like ours, that dotted the side of the road. It's no wonder all the buses have Hindu deities painted on them. Shiva, have mercy.

I wish I could say I was relieved when we pulled into Kathmandu. But that would be a lie. I was alive, but the city hit me like a slap in my dirt-caked face. Incessant car horns, bloody, dead goat heads for sale and a touch of food poisoning from a veggie burger passed to me thru the bus window.

Last mode of transportation for the day: rickshaw. It was a truly a joyride. Have a quick look. Meet Bhopal. Turn the volume up for the conversation.

Saru's Song

This is my friend Saru. She is one of the top guides at Three Sisters. Saru is a warrior of a woman in all senses of the word. She also has a beautiful voice and likes to sing traditional Nepali songs. Click above to hear her. 

p.s. I looked at her cell phone today. Had me listed. "Sarah Didi." Means big sister. No greater honor. 

Home Away from Home

Today the whole country of Nepal is on strike. I was supposed to travel by Jeep and foot to a real remote and area called Sicles. Guess they have a women's movement happening in this super traditional Gurung village - microloans, daycare, women-run unions, the whole bit. But, when strikes happen, no vehicles are allowed on the road. Word on the streets has it that the strike is because its the birthday of a government official that the folks don't like - so they want to spoil it. Logical? No. But Nepal does as Nepal damn well pleases. Decided to take the time to update this baby...

Spent the past week hanging in Pokhara - a beautifully laid-back town tucked away in the foothills of the Himalayas. Lovely place to rest my battered feet, but the real sauce has been spending every day with my Nepali guide friends and their families. I have had an invitation to lunch and/or dinner every day. Becoming quick, caring friends is the Nepali way. The gals can't understand why I am so blown away by their immediate closeness. My buddy Saru even pantsed (flagged) me this morning in front of a bunch of European vacationers. Yeah, it's like that. 

Come see Pokhara...

The Maoists Are Coming

Prior to coming to Nepal, I learned about the volatile political situation here. The U.S. State Department warns against even visiting. Quick briefing before the real story: In 1996, Maoists (Communists) waged a "People's War" against the Hindu monarchy. Many young people in Nepal are Maoists and would tell you that the insurgency is truly about giving rights to members of lower castes, holding the government accountable for the overall well being of the populace, fighting corruption, etc. I tend to believe this. Even though Maoists have gained sizable political influence in the government, they are still basically using backwoods terrorist tactics to assert their power. The Kathmandu Post reported a house being damaged by home-made explosive and a rape of a 20-year old woman just yesterday.

Maoist rebels are most active in the hills. However, the Annapurna Sanctuary trek was reported to be basically safe, with the possible exception of one Gurung village - Ghandruk. I read this news, while...in Ghandruk.

After dinner one night, I was needing a little space from the group (two weeks is a long time to spend every waking moment with a group after solo traveling for 3 months). Put on my headlamp and stroll the cobblestone mule paths around Ghandruk. Moon is peeking from behind clouds. Smell of home-cooked food fills the air. Families tucked tightly in their warm cottages. Suddenly the serenity is disturbed by a megaphone barking something seemingly scripted in Nepali, that I cannot understand. Odd. Figure it is coming from the small village across the very deep gorge/valley.

I sit down on a stone wall and dangle my feet into the valley below. Ten minutes later, the echoing megaphone fills the valley again - this time the source is much closer. I look in a nearby window to see if I can gauge the reaction of the farmers. They seem unfazed. I follow their lead and continue enjoying my peaceful evening thoughts.

Uh oh. Footsteps. Heavy, booted, man footsteps in a land of mostly flip flops. Then massive moonshadows of a band of people. They came over the ridge so quickly that I didn't have time to move. A group of men, one with the megaphone, filled the path around me and start announcing their presence loudly to the valley. Frozen with fear. Do I make a run for it and risk being chased? Do I stay still and hope that the Maoist rebels truly don't want to mess with trekkers?

Not one to sit idly and take a beating, I decide to get up. Move briskly and confidently, without running, towards the teahouse. Leave headlamp off. Heart is pounding. I don't dare look back.

I make it into the teahouse breathless, but safe. Shaken to my instinctual core.

The next morning, I ask Aman, one of the porters, if he heard the megaphone and what the men were saying. His reply?

"Everyone could hear it. That was an announcement for free dental cleanings for villagers in the valley."

Of course, it was.

Words Aren't Enough

There will never be a combination of words to use that would do justice to this trek. Far better to show you what it felt like. Each link leads to a different photo gallery...

Happiness is in the Journey

Guides: Toughest Women on Earth

Annapurna Base Camp

Nepali Life

Awe

Annapurna. A sanctuary in every sense. Twelve of the richest days of my life spent walking in the mighty Himalayas with Nepali women whose spirits were bigger than the peaks. Getting reacquainted with electricity and motorized vehicles today. Stories and a few photo albums to come soon.

Sending the love. 

Annapurna with the Sisters

I am setting out for a two week trek in Nepal tomorrow with Three Sisters Trekking -- the only women owned, guided and portered outfitter in the Everest region. This mountain gal couldn't BE more excited to get a feel for the Himalayas -- to spend days walking in her folds and getting a feel for the biggest hills in the world. I'll be doing the Annapurna Sanctuary trek...through rhododendron forests, hot springs and up to the base camp of the big beauty. 

Heads up that I'll be away from blogging, email, Facebook and all the online connectivity jazz through March 29th. Will be sure to share the adventure when I return. 

Yeeeee haw and yippppeeee!

Life at Kruger

Twelve hour layover in Delhi was the perfect opportunity to compile some footage from this South African wonderland. This was shot at Kruger National Park in northeast South Africa back in January. Feels like ages ago...

The music is by Agape Children's Choir, from the movie "We Are Together" - brilliant story.

Peace in Cyprus

Spent the past week relaxing with an old friend, Megan Chawansky....eating juicy pomegranates and oranges and enjoying the splendor of Cyprus. 

Cyprus is a small island in the Mediterranean Sea between Israel and Turkey. The north is controlled and culturally influenced by Turkey and the South by Greece. Fascinating clash of cultures, history and study in peace and unification (or lack thereof). Megan is here working as a Program Manager for Peace Players International -- a group that uses basketball to teach youth lessons of peace in the major conflict hotspots of the World. In addition to her work, she is playing semi-professional basketball for a "Achilleas" - a Cypriot club. Got to watch the old bird in action and even practice with her team (I wore someone else's sweatpant shorts - H.O.T.!)

Tanks for sharing your days and love, MC. 

All interested parties...Have a peek at the highlights.

Heading thru Israel, Austria and India on my way to Nepal next. Five flights and two nights in a row sleeping in the airport should have me feeling fresh as a daisy upon arrival...

Tourist or Terrorist

I admit - I was a hot mess getting to the Ben Gurion Airport. I got lost returning the rental car, and had trouble finding a gas station. Apparently, "they" say you should leave yourself no less than 3 hours in Tel Aviv. Well, I didn't have a chance to talk to "they." I was working with less than an hour and a half.

Picture it:
Sweating, frantic SJM goes racing into potentially the most highly secured airport in the World. Baggage trolley on two wheels, screeching around corners. Instantly surrounded by security guards. Somehow, my quick utterance of "I am a tourist" must have been misunderstood as "I am a terrorist." My passport and laptop are confiscated.

I am interrogated at length by a posse of six guards about why I am in Israel, why I have so many stamps on my passport, why I have only been in the country for a day, what I do for a job, why i am going to Cyprus. Most of the questioning revolved around my visit to Morocco.

A burly woman shuffles me over to the baggage inspection station, where she proceeds to take EVERYTHING out of my carefully and tightly packed backpack and wipe it with a piece of special toilet paper. She does not seem alarmed by the smell of my shoes or the Leatherman. She is quite concerned about why I have a stuff sack full of electronic equipment....an audio recorder and a tin waterbottle wrapped in duct tape. My underwear falls to the ground. I pick them up and wonder if there is another flight to Cyprus later in the day.

Burly gal briskly motions me to follow her for the "metal check." We leave the general terminal and go down a long hallway...into a private room filled with sensor devices and machines that look like they could give you an MRI. Looking over my shoulder to the left and right as she locks the door behind me. Suffice it to say, that this phase of the security screening ended with my pants around my ankles and my chin buried in my neck after a hearty pat down.

Fear not, Americans...this story has a happy ending. I get the passport and laptop back. Backpack and pants are zipped up tightly. Burly woman calls her friend, Tough Gal Airport Golf Cart Driver. I get an LJ VIP ride to my gate. Psyched on life that I am going to make the flight. The three of us pass by all the other LJs in the airport -- waving at the short-haired lady selling cell phones....laughing at the surprising speed of the cart. All that was missing was a radio with some Beyonce blaring out the speakers....

Lesson learned: Ununciate the "ou" in tourist and always travel with clean undies.

Shalom, Tel Aviv

It would discredit all other things I ever say in this blog to preface any of this by saying Israel is underrated. After all, it is the most sought after parcel of land on the planet. But as a non-Jewish American, my view of Israel was shaped primarily by media accounts of car bombings and a constantly rising death toll on account of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict.

No one told me that Tel Aviv is a vibrant, creative, cosmopolitan city, perched on a gorgeous stretch of the Mediterraenan Sea. It's full of liberal-minded, kibbutz-loving folk who eat killer hummus. There are dogs running freely on surfable beaches and bike paths that go for miles. I was in Israel for all of a day and a half and adored it, fully. Here are some pictures.

Meeting Nicole Matsuka

The main reason I went to Casablanca was to meet Nicole. She has been living in various cities in Morocco for two and a half years -- first studying abroad, then on a Fulbright and now working for a national sport development organization. She has focused primarily on the grassroots growth of girls'/women's football (read: soccer).

I spent the day sponging knowledge from her about all aspects of trying to help cultivate women's sports in a society that traditionally resists females displaying strength, leadership and muscle. We spent hours talking about funding, networking, moving past the challenges, incorporating new media in this effort.

Nicole's work has not been easy. She has had to roll up her sleeves to get grants, organize events, solicit community support to give girls' an opportunity to play. Progress IS being made. Morocco now has a national team and regional leagues. Nicole was able to get funding to take four girls to the United States last summer to attend Julie Foudy's Leadership Camp. Each of the girls received a small sum of money to come back to Morocco to start a girls' sports project herself.

Read Nicole's entry on "Players on a Masculine Stage" at the Global Game blog
Take a look at her brilliant images of women's football in Morocco
*photo above is part of her collection of photos

Grateful and inspired.

Complex Casa

One day is not nearly enough time to wrap your mind around the complexity of this culture. Here is some of what I saw today....

...and above, click on the play button to listen to the call to prayer that echos over the city five times a day. One of my favorite parts of visiting Muslim countries....so peaceful and assuring....

Brother, please...

I have heard cautionary tales from a handful of women who have traveled in Morocco. Men are aggressive. Women can't go out at night alone. Prepare for the badgering, even if you're head is covered -- but especially if it is not. Lonely Planet suggests "looking busy -- like you know where you are going."

I would keep and open mind and judge gender relations in Morocco for myself. I have an aversion to the popularized American-style fear....

Got off the plane after more than 30 hours in transit. So tired. Pouring rain. Hop in a taxi. The guy speaks French....which will work...certainly much better than Arabic. We seem to be doing OK. He knows the hotel I am looking for...."Il pleut" (it's raining)...weather....small talk....tourism highlights of the city.

As is often the case on this trip, he asks me if I have a husband. I wonder which way to answer this time. Go with no. He persists. I give in and untruthfully say I have a boyfriend -- hoping to end the conversation. It all starts getting a little dicey as I try to explain why my "petit ami" (boyfriend) isn't with me on this trip to Morocco (he was working, of course). My broken French, which has not been used for a solid decade, is doing little to deter the disintegration of the conversation. Before I know it, 54 year old man is suggesting I sleep with him at his house, instead of the hotel. Said his wife would not be mad. He roars with laughter and just keeps tapping me on the knee.

"Mon Dieu," I say (My God)
"Vous Etes TROP vieux" (you are TOO old)
[odd logic here, but it was all I had in my vocab at the moment]
"Et, j'ai un petit ami" (and i have a boyfriend)
"Non! Allez-y a l'hotel, si vous plait" (No. Let's go to the hotel, please)

Conversation over. Turn up radio. Windshield wipers stagger awkwardly. Old Mercedes taxi steams up uncomfortably. Nervous tap of foot. Hope this is the exit to the hotel and not his place.

Turns out he took me right to the front door of the Hotel Central and sent me off with a "Bon Soir," as if it was just another normal ride for him.

Still going to try to keep an open mind....but might be a little harder with a start like that....

Explaining the Hiatus

Took a little T.O. this past week from the adventure train. Couldn't tell y'all about it ahead of time-- as I was surprising my sister, Mar, at her baby shower in Maine. She is due to birth some new life onto this Earth on May 29th - our Mom's birthday. It is no myth -- pregnant women beam with something otherworldly. She is so bright and full of motherness. Glorious to see her in that state.

Had an amazing time being back in the States. I was ripe for a little break from the anonymity of traveling alone. Got off the plane in New York and actually felt like I was home. Mind you, I traveled to that big, burly city every other month for ten years and NEVER felt anything remotely similar. And being in front of the woodstove in Maine...with Mom's lasagna in the oven...and Nanny Alice sharing old stories from the classroom. Golden.

Not easy to hop back on a plane at JFK today for so many reasons. Doesn't take a trip around the world to make me appreciate all the beauty I am blessed with in my life at this moment in time -- but sure lends some important perspective.

Next stop: Morocco to hang with Nicole Matsuka -- former Fulbright Scholar who is doing roll-your-sleeves-up grassroots work with girls and women in sports.

Ode to The Bus Driver

There are but a handful of consistencies that can be counted on across the World.
In no particular order: Fanta Orange. Flip Flops. Bikes made in China.
And The Bus Driver.

I'm not one to lump anyone to another, but this cross cultural likeness is too beautiful to ignore.

You know this man. We all do.

Mighty forearms.
Elbow draped out the window, tattooed from years spent resting in the rubber well of the open window.
Toothpick. Present. Always.

Quick with a smile. Quicker with the horn.

He is not a truck driver - opting for a solitary life on the road.
No, no. The Bus Driver indulges in the company of others.
Each rider, a chance to flex his well-worn charm and wit.
If his bus is equipped with a microphone - he rocks it.

A cigarette at every rest stop.
A loafer or boot kicked up on the tire of the bus.
Happy to small talk while we wait, but when it's time to load 'em up and fly, he's all biz.

Back in the bus, a personal touch flaps from the rearview mirror.
A Manchester United flag or a symbol of the God that keeps him company on the road when we all get off.
Ask him about it. He'll share the sermon.
And for the love of that God, please keep your feet off the seats.

His native tongue may vary from country to country, let's get one thing straight:
He knows what's best.
And if you ask, or if you don't, you're likely to get a little free advice.

And truth be told, you NEED it.
THIS is a man to count on.
He'll take you where you need to go.
He'll point you in the right direction.
He'll chat you up when you're lonely.

Laugh at his rusty jokes.
Smile when you get off.
Give him a good, hard pat on the shoulder, even if touching makes him uncomfortable.

Appreciate this dude.

Thanks, Bus Driver.

Pireneos with the Funny McFunnertons

Journs, J and I rented a button of a car and took a spontaneous snowboard safari through the Pyrenees in Spain, France and Andorra. Rode hard and happily. Sang along to Bob Seger. Ate an extreme amount of yum cheese. Soaked in hot springs. Stretched out the car window to take pictures of the glory. And gave a ridiculous number of high fives about it all.

Fancy free.

More pictures to come...but here is a peek.

Loveable Espana

One month of anonymity landed me in Spain ripe for laughs with friends.  Destination: San Sebastian where Journey and Jason live a very large life.  Days of outside playing...clothes drying on the line in the tiny courtyard...nights in cozy tavernas drinking righteous Rioja and eating pinxtos. Lucky to share a bite of it with them. Off we go to Formigal in the Pyrenees to ride the snow today!  

Few images of Madrid and San Sebastian

The Genius of Francis Bacon

Despite my deep appreciation for art and culture, I'm actually not much of a museum goer. I don't know exactly why I hesitate -- might be the creepy whispering or the slow pace of the walking that goes on in museums. Ridiculous? Yes.

But I go sometimes. I've been to three museums on this trip so far. Each one had me wrapped up with thoughts and questions. These are the ones I have been to and what I gathered as the point of greatest intrigue:

Tanzanian National Museum: Artifacts from the slave trade put me in tears. Tanzania, specifically Zanzibar, was a hub for slaves being sold from Africa to the East. There were collars and chains and the most horrible images. A painful, but important, reminder of our heinous past.

Ethiopian National Museum: Ethiopia is the roots. Seriously. The roots. It's the cradle of us. Right there, in the Rift Valley, humans evolved from apes. There is really no debate about Creationism when you see "Lucy." Her bones were extracted from the Earth 30 years ago and she literally is half human, half ape. (Simbs, I'll sign an autograph for you when I return.)

Museo Del Prado: The feature exhibit was the work of Francis Bacon. I'm in love. New favorite artist. He painted abstract portraits with a bold, raw, emotionally naked style (like the one above). His stuff is beautiful and at times, almost nightmarish. If you Google his name and then click on Images, you can see it for yourself. I wanna write with a similar blend of reality and expression. And his name is Bacon. 

The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the...Brows

My Pop used to tell us we were "Black Irish." Said my dark features that didn't look so Irish were all about the Spanish Armada crashing off the shores of Ireland, mixing with the freckled folk and making babies with thick, dark hair and names like Murray. This was universally believed as an untruth in the family -- and mostly just fodder for laughs and ridicule.

Until today.

Got off the plane in Madrid. Not even off the tram from the terminal and the likeness was undeniable. Big, righteous brows everywhere you look! Men and women alike with unruly ones like mine, my Pops and Arantxa Sanchez Vicario's.

I've come home.
Bienvenido, SJM...

This is What Addis Ababa Looks LIke

Milled around the city with my camera this morning. This place has me captivated -- so beautiful, so gnarly, supremely human. Looks like this...

Meeting the Have-Nots

Merkato is the largest market in Africa. Addis is a very safe city, except for Merkato - which is known to be a place where tourists and Ethiopians alike get robbed. It's also a total treasure chest filled with smells, textures and wares found nowhere else on Earth.

Obviously, I was going. Left my cell phone, camera, passport and all that jazz in the hotel. Just took $400 Birr (which is like $35 US dollars). Split it up into a cargo pocket, my sportsbra and my shoe. Figured if I got robbed, I'd at least have enough money in one of the three stashes to take a taxi back to the hotel.

Sure as sunshine....

I even READ about this method of picking pockets. One teenage kid bumped into my left shoulder, and goes "excuse me, Madam." The other kid slid his hand into my right cargo pocket.

Before he could get his hands on the little bit of cash in that pocket, I grabbed his wrist like a big, mean, angry mom grabs a kids arm in the grocery store. Gave him a loud bark and a scornful scowl. I don't think he expected my resistance or my strength. Looked at me with huge eyes of terror and took off running.

I laughed it off and made my way back to the taxi pretty quickly- a litlte freaked out.

Here is the thing. If there was justice in this World, that kid would have made off with my cash. The poverty in this city is staggering. I've traveled around developing countries some, and NEVER have I seen streets filled with so many helpless kids, men and women with polio - using flip flops on their hands, dragging their legs behind them, amaiciated mothers breast feeding infants. It's capturing and it feels endless.

This is not about drug addiction, laziness or lack of initiative. This is poverty.

Lonely Planet warns to "not give street kids your money. Donate instead to one of the charities that serves them, so they are discouraged from begging." In theory, that is a very glossy idea. In reality, it's total bullshit. When a homeless 5-year old girl tells you she's hungry, what kind of monster DOESN'T give her money and a hug? Every day, I've been putting a certain amount of money in my back pocket to donate to folks.

Of course, I didn't like someone trying to steal my money. But maybe if we, countries with money, took a little better care of those without, teenage boys wouldn't need to dip into our pockets and try to help themselves.

Team Tesfa

Spent Thursday with a running team called Team Tesfa, Here are some pictures.

10 Things I Heart About Ethiopia

1. Men holding hands. Saw two military guys holding hands with rifles slung over the other shoulder.

2. Coffee is off the chain.

3. Taxis are funky sedans from the 60s painted blue with white roofs, usually with loudly decorated dashboards, always driven by characters.

4. To show sincerity when shaking someone's hand, you touch your left hand to your right elbow. I do it incessantly.

5. Order mango juice and you get real, ripe, delish mangoes smashed smoothie style.

6. Sophisticated young professionals parading down Bole Road past old grannies in traditional dress with bundles of firewood on their backs.

7. The dramatic, gaspy rhythms of Amharic.

8. Eating injera with your hands.

9. Soft, even mocha skin tones.

10. When folks greet older people, they kiss them on each cheek. More kisses = more respect. I saw a four today!

Moving

I have always had an infatuation with contrast. The juxtapositions of tender and tough, sweet and salty, rocks and water move me. On Tuesday, I spent the day with Team Naftech, an elite girls' running team here in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. The contrast of these young queens against the backdrop of their environment is something that will stay with me.

I'm in Ethiopia to shoot video and photographs of girls' running teams in an effort to help Girls Gotta Run Foundation with their online promotion. Naftech is one of two teams that I'll visit with while I'm here. Before the story goes any further, it's important to get why GGRF is here. Yes, this is the breeding ground for the world's top distance runners. AND, almost all Ethiopian girls are born into an incredibly tough predicament. According to one statistic that I read, roughly 30 percent of teenage girls between the ages of 13 and 16 live outside their home --they've either run away from child marriages, been sold into sex work or are homeless

So it's Tuesday and Yacob, the brother of 16-year old Helena, the top runner on the team, picks me up. We drive across the city and when he parks the car, I can hardly believe THIS is where we're getting out. There is no training facility. No track. No weight room. Just a huge open expanse with cattle and sheep grazing, trash clogging the river that bisects it and a bunch of homeless folks hanging around. The "track" is an uneven, singletrack dirt path that vaguely resembles a circle. There are several teams training in different corners of the land. Yacob tells me that this is where all the top Ethiopian teams train.

Wow.

The Naftech girls were doing intervals and hill sprints when we arrived. Physique slight and strong. Incredible grace in their gait. Speed that blew my mind. An interesting mix of athletic prowess and teenage awkwardness.

For every one of them, this is a full-time commitment. It was 9 am on a weekday. They did not go to school at this point in their lives. They are runners. Becoming a champion in the singluar focus of their energy, identity and dreams.

After practice was over, I filmed each one individually and did longer interviews with the coach, a 12-year veteran of the national team, and Helena. There was something so special about that girl. She was shy, but she held herself with such dignity. Her eyes were locked to mine the whole time we talked. When I asked her what she thought made her a great runner, she said it was only because she was passionate about working hard.

Spending time with these brilliant young women had me humbled, inspired, ignited. I wish every young American athlete to see this -- see what it means to have passion, dedication, work ethic. Their success has absolutely nothing to do with a scholarship or the brand of their shoes.

As I left, I realized that this isn't simply another story of girls passionate about sports. Theirs is a story of survival.

Have a look.

Yanga, Drums and Heartbeats

Imagine the most high energy sporting event of all times - maybe a Yankees vs. Red Sox game seven at Fenway. That begins to tap into the feeling of what it was like on Saturday at the National Stadium in Dar Es Salaam watching Yanga (the hometown favorites) take on E'toile D'or in a the Tanzanian Premier League match. Begins. Hardly compares, though...

The place is just seeping with raw, visceral energy, exploding with bright yellow and green team colors and dire pride.

It was sports amplified in all of the pure, true ways.

Picture it: a professional game with no corporate sponsors all up in your face. Get rid of lights, jumbotrons and pre-recorded music and replace them with hundreds of bongo drums and booming echos of Kiswahili songs. You could literally feel your heartbeat in the music.

Midday sun heating up every beat and body. Infuse the stadium with the smell of thousands of real humans who aren't afraid to touch each other and sweat.

Epic. Just epic. And although Yanga blew E'toile out of the water, the pace and athleticism of the players was spectacular. Tanzanian football is known to be rugged and unrefined. Talented athletes, who, unlike North African teams like Nigeria and Senegal, don't have very sophisticated high-level training. The result is a wild, but incredibly entertaining form of the game.

Bringing my camera wouldn't have been the smartest idea. But I did manage to sneak out my cell phone and snap this shot. The beautiful roundness you see in the foreground is the tiny boy who watched the match from my lap. No idea where his parents were. Didn't matter. He, like I, was there to watch the match. He was so young that his fingers and ears were still almost see-through fragile...yet he know what offsides was and followed the game with sick focus. He actually threw his hands up at the ref at one point.

I was in charge of providing padding, he was in charge of waving our Yanga flag.

Sweet day for this fan of the World's game.

p.s. The National Stadium was probably built in the 50s. Has an asphalt track around it, no lights, and peeling pink paint. It was the same stadium that Nyerere, the first president of an independent Tanzania was sworn in at.

Kiss Your Mailman

I have been traveling without a credit card for almost two weeks. It's actually easier in East Africa than it would be in the U.S., cause local biz is all about the cash. Even so, I couldn't really leave this island until my new card arrived, since I had the bank send it here and it's impossible to book flights without a card. The tracking number indicated that it was in Dar Es Salaam on 1/26. The date was 1/29. It HAD to be in Zanzibar by now.

The catch is, they don't have mail.
I'm not kidding. There is no mail delivery as we know it.

Despite my knack for writing, I will never be able to explain the ridiculous adventure of finding this piece of plastic.

There is a small post office in Stone Town. I have been going every day. The woman at the counter was so over me. She sent me off to the main post office across the island.

I hopped on a dalla dalls (mini bus), stated capacity 8 people....I counted 16 at one point. Sweatfest. Got off at what we are calling the "main post office". it was a vacant looking cement structure...with an antique weighted scale and a man in a sweaty tank top. I waited about an hour while he tried to track the package. He finally came out and said that he thought it might be "DHL". Who knew there was DHL in Zanzibar! It was sent via UPS...but I remembered seeing a DHL logo on the UPS site.

Back i went to Stone town (via Hamis' taxi this time). Found the DHL "office"...which was a desk tucked in the back of a dingy tiny hotel. I gave the woman my 12 digit tracking number (and probably a slightly pathetic look.)

"DHL packages only have 10 digits," she says.

"It was sent using UPS. Is there anyone who might know about United Postal Service", I say.

She writes a number on a piece of paper."Call Abdallah," she says.
And buries her face back in her work.

I do. He answers. Baby crying in the background.

It's his cell phone. Tell him the scenario.
He puts me on hold. PLEASE hook up a miracle here, Abdallah!

"Yes, Sarah. We have your package.
"(The choir sings)"
You must send a local to come get it.
"Huh? How am I supposed to commission a local to go get my stuff?

Luckily, a guy that hangs out in front of the place i am staying was willing to help.
We fastwalked into a little shanty village, dodging chickens and hurling over streams of raw sewage.
Arrive at five pieces of corrugated metal propped into the shape of a shed.
Have mercy, there is a little, faded UPS sticker on the door.

Abdallah actually made me sign for the package.
What made me laugh, even though I tried to hold it in.


I was so excited...i ran into the street and got hit by a bike.
But the biker was okay.
And so am I.

I have the card.
Might have pumped my fist in glory.

Jambo from Nungwi

Amazing remote spot at the tip of the island. Spent three days here. Got some food poisoning last night and don't have the energy for captions today. Went on a snorkeling trip all day yesterday...saw the most abundant marine life imaginable. A rainbow of a reef. In this video, taken when my German friend, Ila, snatched my camera and started filming...you can see it...and meet the unrefrigerated fish that is wrecking havoc on my belly. They cooked it right there on the boat with lime, garlic and ginger. That seemed so lovely yesterday....

Here are some pictures, too.

p.s. video is a no-go using this connection. Maybe i'll post it when I get a faster one...

Stone Town Sunrise

Took to the streets of Stone Town early this morning. I love sunrise o'clock. The motions of a city to prepare for the day. The softness of the light. The smooth and gentle quality of faces that just woke up - carrying over some of the peace of sleep into the day.

Stone Town is the main city in Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania. It's otherworldly. Over hundreds of years, people have used this island as a strategic port - most notably for slave and spice trade. The city is an ancient labyrinth of small cobblestone streets and buildings made of stone, built to last. The most dramatic display of cultural fusion humankind has ever produced. Food, architecture, people carrying stories of arabic, african, european and indian making.

The rain started to come down while I was roaming around this morning. I ducked into the front stoop of a school and listened to the brilliant sounds of kids singing hymns. A guy joined me and we chatted a bit. Before I left he said, "Sarah, you have the smile of an angel, and you walk strong like a man. This is lucky."
Shaking head.
Smiling.

Have a look for yourself

Supertubes and super thieves

Past four days in Jeffrey's Bay -- home of Supertubes, one of the most famous surf breaks in the world. Lovely here, but torrent winds have made the waves a bit messy and unsurfable. Virtually no one in the water. Managed to surf the first day. Lots of paddling around on my belly...with a little tap dance session on the board. No offers to go pro just yet....

Woke up at sunrise to shoot some photos of this very chill, very beautiful, windy wonderland.

Have stayed a little longer than planned, as my credit card number was "cloned" when I was up north and has been used by someone to take jusssst about half of my savings out of my account. Burly, loving thanks to Mom for bailing me out. Toes crossed that Wells Fargo recognizes that no good tourist would spend thousands of dollars at Eckharts Drug Store.

Bump in the road. Keeping the spirits high. Off to Jo'berg tomorrow than up out of South Africa and on to Tanzania.

Obamafied

Is there anything else to be talking about today? I mean, really. The whole world is celebrating. I used to travel around to places and be tentative about telling folks I was an American. I even considered sewing a Canadian flag patch on my backpack. Traveling feels very different now. Obama makes it different.

Mand and Jeff, thank you for this t-shirt. Its one of only 5 that I brought with me. It has been the source of 2 free drinks and handful of great conversations so far on this trip. Walking down the street in Capetown, a parking attendant is giving me the up and down looks. Ready to briskly walk past with a steel jaw. "Hey Mama," he says. "Here we go," i think. "I love OH BA Ma, too." Thumbs up exchanged.

Douglas, from the vineyard, watched the U.S. election night in the capital city of Zimbabwe. [Sidebar: Zimbabwe is ruled by a tyrannical man who has been in power for 27 years and is basically holding the people of the country captive.] Anyhow, Douglas had been glued to the whole campaign from start to finish. When it was clear that Obama had won, he said he sat in his chair and cried for an hour. He believes Obama can help free the people of Zimbabwe.

Big day, America. Big day. So proud. Obama shirt is a little stinky, but I'm wearing it anyway....

Thank You, Capetown

Thank you for....
Calling me sista.
Hearty claps overhead when our team scored during a rowdy game of pickup soccer.

Thank you for...
Rock-crashing tides, bluebird skies and natural beauty that doesn't seem to match your urban style.
Your inspiration as you try to slip beyond battered days of apartheid and walking these streets as one.
Deep, strong espresso

Thank you for...
Dear accented grannies on seaside walks.
The glue stick.
Gay boys in D&G sunglasses holding hands in Waterkant.

Thank you for black women playing golf. In capris. With their daughters.
For wrapping your open, South African arms around me just when I needed it.
You truly were my weekend.

Hope

9:00: Breakfast at a mosaic-tiled, seaside cafe in Kalk Bay. Sunday-paced people. Freshly baked bread. Dogs welcome. Leaf drawn perfectly in the top of my oh-so-smooth latte.

11:00: Dodge ostriches and try to keep my dreamy eyes on the road en route to the Cape of Good Hope, the edge of the African continent. Moon is out at noon. Sea is boiling like I've never seen before. Wind blows my visor off my head. Three times. Sun exploding in the sky. Feels like Mother Nature has let down her curly hair, kicked up her strong feet and started a wild game of truth or dare with the Greek Gods here.

1:00: Back to Kalk Bay to watch fisherman bring in their catch. The woman in the picture is selling Angel Fish. She believed, that if I double bagged it, I could slip one into my backpack without it stinking up my clothes. She was so charming, I almost agreed.

4:00: Visit Schellenbosh in the winelands. Vineyards close early on Sundays. Made quick friends with Antoinette, who let me come in to the tasting room to hang with she and her friend, Douglas. He knows more about Barack Obama than you or I will ever know. I am not exaggerating. Antoinette gives us a secret, no-lights-on tour of the fermenters. Sneak tastes of the grapes on the vines on my way down the driveway.

6:00: Ipod turned up. Michael Franti singing in my ears. Arm out window of car. Alive and quite well today.

Felt like this.

Wide Eyed and Drop Jawed

Kruger National Park was unbelievable. I camped under the biggest sky. Spent the day driving amidst Mother Nature's absolute best. Here is a photo album. It's on facebook, but anyone can view it (supposedly). I'll put together a little video too. 

Two funny business signs I saw on my drive back from the park:

1. "Faith Hair salon"

2. "New Second Hand Appliances"

Thirty minutes to get the rental car back and hop back on the Greyhound. Yes, it's actually a Greyhound. Next stop: Capetown!

JoBurg

30 hours of travel.
One middle seat.
A head full of thoughts about leaving the loving womb of my life for the sake of this adventure.

Hardly the makings for a Mastercard commercial.

Despite the travel aches, I am safe in Johannesburg and had a suprisingly great evening with a few new friends. Dougie and his brother Wellington are both from Zimbabwe. Dougie does late night pickups for the hostel that I am calling home for 48 hours. We talked Barack Obama, Zimbabwe politics and Chaka Demus' musical talents on the drive from the airport and quickly recognized our mutual appreciation for good conversation. Went to a sweet little bar where dance remixes of Tracy Chapman complimented a meal of Pap and chicken. [Pap is like mashed potatoes, made out of maize. A staple in S.A.] I felt a little silly for not knowing the right way to eat with my hands...but Dougie was far more interested in talking poetry slams than concerning himself with my fumbles.

I know this trip is going to be more about the people than the places. Great start. Thanks, Dougie.

Spent the day touring around Jo'burg. Hard to judge a city by its crime rate, but this place is hardly a replacement for a womb. The folks have been nice. The graffiti is EPIC and the history is rich. However, when the hostel owner gave me tips on how not to get robbed, I had this image of myself as a plump pork chop tiptoeing through a hungry lion cage.

Speaking of which....Tomorrow, it's the Greyhound bus for six hours to Nelspruit...where I'll rent a car and head to Kruger National Park for a safari. I'm camping out of range for the next three days at Lower Sabie - where the big five are commonly seen. Hoping to fall asleep to bright stars and howling sounds of the savannah -- in the distance.

So much love.

On the brink...

The trip starts January 10th. I'll be blogging once this all gets underway. C'mon back to see videos, photos and wordy accounts of the world i see.