Volunteer Teaching

Pre china test

dinashtull — Fri, 13 Jun 2014 10:46:00 GMT

Test pre china

Reflections

dinashtull — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 05:35:00 GMT

I was told that in my last blog I came across "frustrated" with what I observed in Uganda, and that perhaps my perspective would be different if my starting point was not me but them. All that is correct, although I think "shock" with the conditions I observed would also be an accurate description. But, as I leave my placements in Peru and Uganda, I try to focus less on the gaps between my culture and theirs, and more on what they have achieved. Clearly there are huge gaps--in economical advantages, in systems of justice and education, in politics, religious freedom, social norms, and infrastructure (e.g., roads, electricity, water). Yet there is progress. Frederickson, a young Ugandan, told me that he changed his name to Rickson because he saw a city billboard promoting family planning that said, "Don't be like Fred." Fred is surrounded by 12 little children whom he can't sufficiently feed. And Uganda recently built a new dam on the Nile River to increase hydroelectric power. True, the villagers, who lost their land to the government, were not paid commensurate with their loss, and the locals complain about the negative effects of the dam both on the beauty of the Nile and its fish. But at least there are efforts being made to improve this poor country where running water and electricity are luxuries.

Even with my attempts to appreciate the country's progressive steps, I was uncomfortable living in a poor country. But it wasn't only about my physical discomfort - living without heat (Peru), toilets, electricity, and running water; eating a diet primarily of starches; and avoiding swimming in the contaminated waters as I watched the children splash around with utter enjoyment -- all of which I eventually adjusted to.

The discomfort came from confusion and lack of understanding. I cannot easily understand why there are the gaps between the America I know and these countries. The answers are likely complex and beyond my non-academic background. Is there a lack of knowledge that things can be easier? Lack of sufficient income? Lack of will and interest--a desire to do things the way they have always been done? What I label as "poverty" is perhaps their culture, their way of life. Lack of infrastructure? A team of experts sent from the government of UK to help Uganda develop its fishing industry shared with me its challenges: Even if they are able to improve methods of catching fish, there is no efficient way to keep the fish cold during transport. Electricity is rare and expensive, and ice, another rare commodity, would have to be made from treated water. Are the problems too abundant such that progress is restricted to only a few priorities? I think of the young girl who beats stalks with a stick to remove the beans for dinner after she lugged up cans of water from the pond with her baby strapped to her back. I think of the woman who first kills and then plucks each feather from the chicken she took from the yard. (Yes, the females seem to do a disproportionate amount of work, and there is also polygamy and domestic violence in the villages.) "You don't have to do this where you come from," the feather-plucking woman said to me with some recognition. I think of the street worker in Peru who heaves a hand tool to break up concrete.
Why do we have sidewalks, yellow and white street marks to keep cars aligned, and yellow caution tape around deep gaps in cement? Are these luxury items? Why do our children wear shoes when playing outside, particularly when playing on dirty rough roads?

I was frequently asked to make things better: If you would only give me money, I could buy dentures, use AFRIpads (washable sanitary napkins), or go to university. If only we had more money, we would build another school room, buy a water tank or a solar panel, provide transportation or dormitory space for students who walk 10 kilometers to school, or offer more medical tests, etc, etc, etc. My white skin invites these requests at every corner.
I wonder. Who succeeds? The members of the Ugandan Jewish Abayudayan communities who fundraise from the Jews in America? (Frankly, however, the living conditions in their villages are similar to other villages, although they do have funds to support university education for their young men and women.) The bolder villagers who are able to ask the white volunteers to support their education? (I was solicited by two local teachers.) In the village where I was placed, 20% manage to finance university education, move out of the village, and get better jobs--and they don't generally return to the village to help out.

I find partial answers from experiences in the Engari village where I was placed, a village which sought out a Peace Corps representative and the assistance of volunteers.

The answer is not about hand-outs, it is about self-help. Helping them help themselves, is the assistance with sustainable results. Granted, the self-help efforts I observed were spear-headed by a resourceful village leader, and not all villages have such visionary individuals. Solomon Kigane led a community assessment to explain the high number of orphans. Solomon merely spoke with community leaders and the orphans themselves, and then gathered a group of villagers to develop an approach to change. To address poverty, they developed a pooled loan program whereby groups of 30 villagers met weekly to announce the amount they could loan to someone with an income-producing idea. Money would be returned at the end of the year, together with a small interest. Inspired by this approach, I responded to a local teacher that while I couldn't pay for his whole education, I could help him buy a cow from which he will have an ongoing source of increased income (selling of milk). The guidance from our sages was wise: Rather than giving someone a fish, teach him how to fish.
It is not up to you to complete the work; neither are you free to desist from that work (Hillel). Frustrating and shocking, yes. But not hopeless. Our own challenge is to continue to find and follow through on ways to help the aspiring individuals and their developing communities and countries create their own manageable plans for long-term sustainability.

Uganda

dinashtull — Sun, 28 Oct 2012 01:25:00 GMT

It took us a full day to get to our remote village in western Uganda--a morning to travel from the Entebbe airport in to the capital of Kampala; four hours to drive to the next main city of Mbarrara, another two hours to drive to the Ibanda district (which I still found on a map), and then another half hour to reach the village of Engali. Ibanda is where we would go for an Internet cafe and other needs. The night we arrived, we needed bottled water, as there is no running water in the village, let alone drinking water. I was concerned, but not for long. The manager of our accommodations went to the local "pub" to get bottled water. No running water or drinking water, but always a pub for drinking alcohol. Priorities. Our accommodations are a series of cement structures built by the private LICHI - Life Child Initiatives- which sponsors a school and a clinic in the village. This was the first time that the village was hosting volunteers (aside from one person from the Peace Corps), so we spent the first day setting up bed frames, buying bedding, curtains, etc. The room next to our cement room is the "maternity delivery room," and its neighboring cement room is the "recovery ward." The latrine is a wood stall with a hole in the ground, decorated with flees who add to the ambience. All latrines in the village look like this, but the one at the high school where I am placed, is narrower, making it difficult to stay dry when squatting. Frankly, it's more pleasant to pee in a bush, a luxury we usually take advantage of. The LICHI housing has a faucet which draws water from a tank of collected rain water, but the locals use pond water for cooking, drinking, and washing. The ponds are used by both the people and their animals. In geography class, where the teacher read from his notes and the students wrote down verbatim what he read (the standard pedagogy

, I was soon to find out), the teacher recited four points under the heading Problems with Water in West Africa one of which was diseases contracted from drinking water shared with animals. When one student asked about solutions, the teacher answered, "Take drugs." Cows roam the grounds of the school, and drink and bathe in the pond from which the school cook takes water. Was the teacher oblivious to the problem in his backyard, or was he aware but too focused on covering the topics for the Ugandan standardized tests? One would hope that education would help improve the living standards, but when there is no application or discussion in the classroom, the likelihood is reduced. There are also no materials in the classrooms -- books, maps, objects for demonstrating - nothing. A local Korean couple sponsored by a Korean NGO recounted a conversation it had with the father of the school principal. "Why don't you sell one of your 40 cows and buy a water tank for drinking water (available in Mabarrara)"? "Why would I do that when God provides good rain in the ponds," he answered.
The curricular content is quite impressive. Students have classes in physics, chemistry, biology, commerce, agricultural, math ( even some calculus), English and Swahili and Christian thought. My attempts to engage the principal, teachers, and the director of the LICHI project on whether students are understanding the material they copy, memorize and regurgitate back, have fallen on deaf ears. The community is so thrilled that they even have this secondary school, the first in the village, that their focus is not on quality of education or even living standards, rather on building another room so that the current seniors ( our 11th graders) will have another year of schooling.
The director of the LICHI project, a worshipped individual in this town, is receptive to hearing our perspectives. How pained we were, we told him, that 22 students were sent home from exams because their parents or guardians didn't bring the required money or equivalent in maize and beans? We understood that this was a better alternative to taking away their meals, but these kids are not rejoicing and going off to the mall. They hang around the school, sullen and left out of the chance to improve their lives. How pained we were to see a teacher smack a little child (twice) when he didn't walk perfectly aligned when going from Church to the dormitory on Sunday, and when a high school teacher used a stick on the shoulder of a student to bring her into class, as if he was herding cattle. The condition of the two adjoining cement rooms called a "dormitory," while a blessing for the 11 adolescent girls who have no where else to go, is large enough for mattress with no space for moving around. Forget privacy. (Yet their caretaker insists that they iron their school uniforms. All school children wear uniforms, and the girls keep their hair cropped to the head, much easier when washing is done from a bucket.) What a poor use of resources when three volunteers and two teachers hand-corrected 250 copies of different exams before distributing them to the students because the secretary (using a typewriter with carbon paper), made so many mistakes. Instead of sitting idle, can the staff in the clinic work on outreach projects in the community when there are only 2 patients a day, if that? (Clinic fees reduce the traffic. ) "There are so many issues," he said to us, as he kindly greeted and sent away at least eight women from the town who, one after another, came to speak to him during our meeting with him (outside). "They each have their problems," he shared, as does the community as well. "We need more medical equipment to reduce the fatality rate caused by having to travel 2 hours to the hospital." But you don't have the electricity to support those machines, we responded. "Yes. We also need more solar panels," he sighed.
There is more to say--I went to Sunday Church, attended a local funeral, a prayer service led by children in the orphanage, and took in local scenes during a drive to Bwindi national park for a trek through the hilly brush to find gorillas (yes!) But more for later.

Travel in South America

dinashtull — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 02:46:00 GMT

After a month of volunteer teaching in Peru, I took two weeks to travel in South America. It wasn't easy to decide where to spend this precious time, but I decided on the Galapagos Islands, Ecuador and Buenos Aires, Argentina. I was just as excited about seeing animals on remote and protected islands, as I was exploring a large bustling city. Both were wonderful experiences; one with controlled access to humans and dominated by animals, and one dominated by humans with controlled access to animals. (Unlike Peru, most dogs in Buenos Aires are on leashes and roaming wild animals in the streets.) Over the course of five days, our 16-person yacht traveled to four different Galapagos islands. Couples and solos ranging in age from mid 20s to mid 60s, we represented USA, Denmark, Australia, England, Israel, and Russia. English is the language of the guides in these situations; I now have an increased appreciation of my American nationality.

Despite the controlled access to the Galapagos Islands (e.g., number of tourists per beach, restricted pathways), ironically, the most amazing aspect of visiting the islands is the access to the animals in their privacy of their own homes. The animals have not developed a fear of humans; they carry on their life cycle events seemingly oblivious to the gawking human eye. We observed an albatross bird in an intimate love dance with his mate (picture a fencing match played with beaks); albatross birds choose one life partner. Right off the path was a recently-born, still-fluffy, white-furry blue-footed baby booby bird. Sea lions nursed their young on the wide open beach; and, alas, crabs fed off of baby sea lions who did not survive the few-hours stretch of freedom typically given to them by their mothers. We snorkeled and saw giguntis sea turtles almost as big as me feeding on algae under water. Unfortunately, we did see evidence of animals that park rangers are trying to eradicate because they alter the natural environment--foot prints of cats, traps to catch wasps, and flees. The islands have been successful at eradicating goats, dogs, and rats introduced by pirates or other humans.

In the quiet and tranquility of the Galapagos, I was one mere humble human. In contrast, I was a celebrity my first day in noisy and busy Buenos Aires. People stopped to look, ask questions, and request a photo. With a guide from urban-biking.com, a company I read about in my Lonely Planet guide book, I toured the city on a bike made from bamboo--a light, natural, agile, and newer alternative to other bike materials. While biking was my main vehicle for exploring the city during my five-day stay, I also took trains, subways (when raining), and a kayak in the northern water town of Tigre. Map in hand, I also walked and walked and walked. I experienced the downtown micro-center; the older neighborhood of San Telmo; the more upscale neighborhoods of Recoleta, Palmero, Madero; and the charming and colorful immigrant neighborhood of Boca - also an artist colony. I saw markets, malls, and museums, an unusual cemetery, and a 3000-person concert hall (Colon Theater). I drank mate and ate alfajores. A Buenos Aires experience is not complete without tango; there are numerous tango shows catered to tourists. But given that I love to dance, I opted instead for a tango lesson followed by a milonga (open dance floor). A good dance leader (generally the male) doesn't need another language besides body language, and I did well on the floor with a Russian, a Spanish, and a French dancer. When I stumbled over my feet, I silently blamed the weak male leader; but admittedly, a few more tango lessons are in order!

During the week I connected with old friends, Argentinians who had visited University of Michigan's Project STaR in 1997 where I was working at the time. Diego Freedman is now director of Community Development for JDC, Latin America. We had a lovely lunch in the hip neighbor of Palermo, and I saw JDC's rather modest offices. Alejandra (Ale) Avruj is now Rabbi of the Masorti synagogue in the neighborhood of Belgrano. His Simchat Torah service was one of those transformational "wow" experiences. I've seen many a shul in my life; the spirit, spiritually, warmth, excitement, and fervor that evening was unique. Children, teenagers, parents, grandparents ALL danced and celebrated to a seven-piece band with enthusiasm that superseded the liveliest wedding that I have seen. If there is anything in this world comparable to the feeling of standing at the foot of Mount Sinai, it was probably the feeling that evening. When Ale walked backwards toward the exit door, slowly rolling the Torah from the end to the beginning, the sea parted for the congregants as they lined up on both sides of the Torah and held up the scroll with their fingers. "Come and touch," said one woman to me as she pulled me into the line. I looked around; there were no stragglers. Everyone was touching.

While I was traveling, I received an email outlining the details of my next volunteer assignment. Teaching for a month in a 250-student high school in a remote village in Uganda, Africa promises to be quite different from my tourist experiences. There is no running water in the village, i was told, and only occasional electricity from a solar panel. This would be the first time that this sole, rather young regional high school accepted volunteers, and we were encouraged to take initiative. I wonder how initiatives from outsiders would be accepted. Ah! Another adventure!

I have been deeply touched by my varied travel experiences -- how fortunate I have been to take in both the natural wonders of the world, as well as the wonderful moments that our world allows us to create.

In the Jungle ---Week Three

dinashtull — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 04:58:00 GMT

Week Three - In the Jungle

It took a 9-hour bus ride on a winding dirt and rocky road to reach our jungle reservation in the small town of Chontachaka, outside of the Manu National Park in the Peruvian Amazon. Tack on another half hour for fixing the flat tire, a common occurrence on these roads. We were warned not to miss the stop, as the next stop was four hours away. Villages out here are pretty spread out. And truth be told, one could blink and miss the town of 10 shacks which the locals call their homes. The families stock up on cookies and cola and even alcohol to create the "store" that we volunteers (gringos) support. One shack has been labeled the local restaurant because, for a few soles, a woman will prepare you a meal on Sundays when the cook for our reservation (who lives in one of the local shacks) is on her day off. One can generally predict the Sunday meal; turkeys and chicken roam the yards. A wedding took place the week we were there; two pigs had been roaming the yards that week. Austin, a fellow volunteer, reported back that he was offered some pig on Sunday for lunch - leftover from the wedding. Still full from lunch, Austin stayed back with me at the reserve for dinner that Sunday while the others went to the "restaurant." We cooked a pot of rice by candle light and added in the onion and cucumbers we found in the cooler. There is no refrigerator on the reserve, as there is no electricity. A new shipment of veggies was expected on Monday when the 9-hour bus from Cusco would arrive again, often also bringing new volunteers. Food at the reserve was vegetarian; our menu consisted of rice, potatoes, and pasta. And when it wasn't that, it was pasta, potatoes, and rice. Actually, the cook was quite creative with her veggie soups which often had quinoa.

We had about 10 volunteers the week I was there, although in peak season there up to 40, all of whom sleep in the same bungalow made of wood and bamboo with a corrugated steel-type open roof to protect from the rain. There are two beds to a cubicle, each bed covered with mosquito netting. The bamboo "walls" are chest-height.

The reserve is like a commune. We're not there for privacy; it's all about experiencing the "bush" together.

So what do we do all day? They said that the jungle experience was pretty laid back, and it was. We worked hard a few mornings, and took some amazing hard hikes (often uphill) on the others. We "chilled" in the afternoon - usually bathed or washed clothes in the lagoons or waterfalls. This part was particularly significant for me because I was in the jungle during the week of Rosh HaShana. We didn't renew ourselves by standing at the edge of the water. We immersed completely; the experience made a separation between physical labor and physical cleansing and therein was our spiritual cleansing as well. We often commented how refreshed and renewed we felt after coming out of the water. As an aside, once my bio-degradable soap that I set down on a rock in the lagoon slipped off and went floating down the little waterfall. I resigned myself to the lost soap, but my 65-year old friend Anna went scampering over the rocks in her bra and underwear and rescued the soap on a ledge before it fell over the next waterfall!

In the evenings, we sat around candlelight - chatted, chewed on coca leaves (a favorite local habit), read books, or sat on the rocks in the river and looked at the stars or listened to the water tumble over the boulders. It was not unusual to go to sleep between 8 and 9.

There is a saying that one doesn't go anywhere in the jungle without a machete. One morning, machete in hand, we cut through overgrown bamboo trees which invade the forest and prevent other trees from growing. Another morning we weeded the pineapple plants with a machete so as not to pull out weeds and remove good topsoil. I had always wanted to spend some time on a kibbutz working the land, and that is what this felt like. The experience took away my fantasy of how pleasurable this would be. I emerged with blisters on my hands, ripped pants from the thorns on the bamboo, aching leg muscles from trying to balance myself on the hill where the pineapples were growing, and speckled dots of blood on my arms from the prickly pineapple leaves. I narrowly escaped a nest of two to three-inch ants that I inadvertently dug up when pulling out some weeds. On the other hand, I emerged from the hikes often on a high. Because we were not in an area of the jungle groomed for tourists, the hikes were through "authentic" rainforest. Our reserve was along a river, and one uphill hike to reach the "big waterfall" had us climbing over rocks and fallen trees, criss-crossing a stream, and at one point using a rope to help pull us up a steep incline of a rocky terrain. We had to climb down as well, which required concentration and careful stepping on the slippery rocks. Another hike took us to a hut from which we could bird-watch in silence and observe the striking red-colored male Cock-of-the-Rock flirt with the female.

Some of the most memorable experiences were the unplanned ones in the villages. On the weekend, rather than waiting for a cab to come our remote way, we hitchhiked and got a ride in the back of a dirty truck carrying an odd collection of goods to deliver which became our "seats"--a can of gasoline, a mattress, wholesale packages of toilet paper, car parts, and other closed boxes. We weren't the only ones; apparently this is the cheapest and most efficient to get to the next to town. We were joined by four local women and their little children (mothers take their children with them where ever they go), and two men. Remember that dirt rocky road? We used our backpacks to cushion the bounces and protect our heads from hitting the sides of truck. It was thirty minutes to the first town, then a thirty minute wait in the truck while goods were delivered, and then another 40 minutes to the town of Atalaya. There we met with a local boat-builder who was going to help three of our younger volunteers build a raft for the river trip the we're planning. We also observed an athletic competition between area village schools. The prize was on display--a live bull, which the winning school would prepare for a festival in which all would share in the delicacy.

This blog would not be complete without talking about the monkey that bit me. The reserve has two pet Howler monkeys. They are cute for all of one minute. The first night in my bed, I awoke to some odd breathing. I wasn't sharing my bed with any other human, so I figured it had to be some jungle animal. I grabbed my flashlight and saw the monkey curled up right above my pillow! Sleeping with dogs and cats, while common to many, was not within my experience, so having a monkey in my bed was not within my comfort zone. I tried to relax and take this in as a new experience. But I was also mindful of warnings from other volunteers to set the limits or the monkeys would eat your food, climb on you whenever they wanted, eat your toothpaste, and toss around any of your belongings they found intriguing. So I gave the monkey a shove, and then another shove and another until it woke up and left my bed to find a friendlier volunteer. That time I was lucky. The day I was on duty in the kitchen, the female monkey (the more mischievous of the two) got in, even though she is quite aware that the kitchen is off limits to her. She was on the counter eating the veggies! I quickly went over and shoved her off. She snapped back at me and bit me on the palm of my hand. I was told told that she tolerates aggression from male volunteers, and is more likely to bite a female volunteer who is tough with her. We cleaned the bleeding inch-long wound, and I was reassured that the monkey had all necessary shots and I needn't worry. I stayed away from then on, and the monkey also learned to stay away from me!

I dreaded the ride back--another 9 hour bus ride on a rocky road with only one stop. The local woman bring back medicinal plants from the forest, and the combination of smells and body odors is less than pleasant. The bus is old and the windows are often broken. As you head into Cusco, the weather gets colder. The locals know to come equipped with blankets. There are also people and children who sit and sleep in the aisle, seats that are sold at a cheaper price. As it turned out, we left in the evening, and I slept most of the way, awaking every so often to close the window which wouldn't stay closed. There was also one other interruption -- a police raid of all the bags for coca leaves. The woman gather them in the forest and then sell them or use them for cooking or eating. (Some make cocaine from the leaves.) A fellow volunteer with whom I was traveling told me that the woman next to her wrapped leaves in bags around her waist and legs, secured them with tape and then covered it up with her clothing. They were not found.

I left the jungle thinking that this was a place I would want to visit again.

Machu Picchu and Week Two

dinashtull — Fri, 14 Sep 2012 11:57:00 GMT

Week two in Cusco

I had a hot shower this morning! It felt great after being stomach-sick for 48 hours. Maybe it was the coated nuts and the salted and fried slices of bean that were given out as a snack on PeruRail on the way back from Machu Picchu. Or maybe I caught it from the 20-something guy from Oregon sitting next to me on the train. He had been sick all day--his most difficult travel day so far. We managed to talk a bit before he disappeared--I'm guessing to the bathroom; he aspired to attend U of M Medical school and his interests were similar to Tani's.

After my morning hot shower, I hand-washed the clothes I had been sleeping in for the past two nights. Had no energy to change into PJs, especially in the cold. Thank goodness for wifi and Skype; I stayed connected with Steve who made sure I wasn't dying and who took away the loneliness of being sick away from home. I did miss the children at school during those two days. I kept thinking of the time last week when I ran into them on the street at the bus stop after school, and I was walking to Spanish class. I recognized the faces, and smiled and said hello. They responded enthusiastically, "Hi teechair!" Another group of kids was at the next bus stop, and again I heard, "Hi teechair!" Hollie, my housemate with whom I was walking, commented on how good it feels when kids seem genuinely happy that they know us volunteers.

The long trek to Machu Picchu was worth it. Five volunteers together took a 1.5 hour van ride on zig zag roads through little villages. This took us to Ollantaytambo from where we took a 1.5 hour train ride to Calientes. From Calientes, one takes another half hour ride to Machu Picchu. We could have taken four days to hike to Machu Pichu. Glad we didn't. We stayed over in Calientes at an inn with hot shower water. Callientes in Spanish means "hot." But really it's referring to the hot springs which we immediately took advantage of upon arrival. The water in the spring was not as clear and fresh as I had envisioned (more like cloudy water in pools), but the warm water was refreshing nevertheless. The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the local market - geared toward tourists who want to buy gifts and souvenirs.

My fellow travelers decide to wake up at 4 am to see the sunrise on the mountain. I opted instead for the 8 am guided tour which was early enough for me, and I was glad. They were exhausted by the time the guided 3-hour tour began, and despite the repeated warnings about how hot it was going to be, it was cloudy, cool, with rain in the air. No visible sunrise. In the early 1900s, Hiram Bingham, a north American professor from Yale was told by a local farmer that there were some "ruins" at the top of the old mountain. When Bingham reached the mountain, he found two farmers on the land. A son of the one of the farmers led Bingham to the archeological finds of the sacred city of the Incas (built in early 1400s - now considered one of the seven wonders of the world). The Spaniards chased the Incas away just over 100 years later, and as our guide said, "The Incas escaped to the highlands." Bingham calls his book about the site, "The Lost City of the Inkas." How unfortunate that it lasted for such a short period of time! I asked the guide if he could trace his ancestry back to the Incas. He said he was half Spanish and half Incan, which I gathered was the best Cusconians could do in trying to trace their heritage back to the Incas. The Incas connected spiritually to the magnificent mountains around them. Astutely aware of the changes in the seasons, they built structures with windows that allowed them to recognize when the equinoxes were occurring, and track the seasonal changes from the shadows on the stones.

During the tour, I befriended a couple from Idaho who told me that he (the husband) was going to study the Incan culture when he got home, in place of the Roman and Greek cultures that he had been reading about. I asked him if he was retired. No, he laughed. He does software development for the city of Philadelphia. I guess Philadelphia doesn't have any good software developers so they have to contract with someone living in Idaho!! I had a nice chat with the couple over lunch. We had first planned to take the hour trek to the Incan Bridge, but they decided they had enough climbing for the day. It then started to pour - llamas and alpacas, as they say (rather than cats and dogs). I took refuge in the fancy hotel on the grounds of Machu Picchu and ignored the glaring looks from the guard at the entrance who knew I didn't belong. In the lobby there was a framed letter on the wall from Hiram's son, Ben Bingham, in which he made reference to "politics" that got in the way of his father's work. Something to look up at a later time. I then decided to seek out some of my fellow volunteers. Luckily I found them pretty easily, and we decided to return to Calientes. I didn't feel I had to be macho and hike in the rain. I loved what I saw and left Machu Picchu "at the peak" of the experience. The afternoon gave me an opportunity to visit an internet cafe and catch up on email and blogging. After a train and two buses, we arrived home at around 11 pm. The stomach bug hit the next day. I'm now feeling much better. The rest of the week I'll finish up teaching, take a day tour to The Sacred Valley, and prepare for next week's adventure in the Peruvian Amazon jungle. Although I'm told that one of the jungle volunteers brought a small generator, I don't expect to have electricity. I'll have to connect again on my return.

Traveling to Lima on the way to Cusco

dinashtull — Wed, 12 Sep 2012 14:27:00 GMT

Day one: I flew to Miami early morning and spent all day in Miami waiting for my flight to Lima. Decided to leave the airport to see South Beach. Had researched that one South Beach hotel had a shuttle from airport. Waited for an hour (where I was told to wait) only to discover that I was in the wrong place. Finally found the right concourse for the shuttle and waited for the next hour (they arrive on the hour). I was not let on because I did not have a reservation at the hotel. Another traveler was also not let on for the same reason. So we decided to share a cab. We hailed a cab which already had a passenger. The driver was all smiles and eager to make a good deal of money with three passengers. My fellow traveler was young - in her 20s-, from Australia, but working in New York. She was quite a character. She was on her iphone the entire time; I was trying to figure out what she was doing. First she tracked where the driver was going and questioned him at one point. Then she gave him one destination, her hotel, and when we arrived she said, "Actually, do you mind dropping me off at Cafe Coffee" (don't recall exact name). She had been reading Lonely Planet and various travel recommendations on her iphone, and read about this fabulous coffee shop in South Beach. When we arrived at the coffee shop, she said to the driver, "Do you mind waiting while I run in and get a coffee, and then can you take me back to my hotel?" She even offered to pay a little more than our agreed price. "Was this typical behavior for a 20-something traveler," I wondered? The driver had been very accommodating up until this point. (I also wasn't sure where I wanted to go, and had asked him where the art galleries were and great places to walk around. I also first gave him one hotel and then decided to join the other traveler on the beach front where the coffee shop was.) He finally put his foot down, and said,"no" to the Australian about waiting for her to run in and get coffee. Even though I saw that the coffee shop was about 10 blocks from the center, I decided that I couldn't ask him to do anything anymore. We both got out of the cab, tipped him, and left a driver that now looked like he wished he never picked us up. This was my first official travel experience.

It was quite hot, so I stopped into a hotel lobby to get some relief and use their ground-floor facilities. While I was there, I asked the concierge for the best place to walk around. She told me what I needed to know and even gave me a map. Turned out that there wasn't much to see on my walk, other than one of my favorite clothing stores, Desigual. Shops were touristy and uninteresting, and there were no art galleries. I sat in an outdoor cafe and had some lunch, and then hailed a cab back to the airport. This time there were no shenanigans.

In the airport: I'm traveling LAN airlines, a South American airlines with domestic and international flights. The reality of being surrounded by people speaking a language that I do not understand was setting in. Announcements and the jibber jabber around me was all in Spanish. I tried to pick out words that I knew, which is about all I could do. I got pretty excited if I understood a word - even if it was just a number.

I was eager to get to my seat and close my eyes. I needed a good rest after a long hot day. I sat down in my seat (one of two together) and said hello to the woman next to me. Not really sure what prompted the flood, but she began to talk to me about her American husband, how he had no appreciation of her Latin culture, how all he liked to do was go fishing, and how controlling he was of her, and how upset he was that she was leaving him for a visit to Lima to visit her family -- and why did she have to bring so many suitcases with gifts? She would leave him, she claimed, if only she hadn't gotten sick. It's cancer, she shared. She can't have children; they took it all out. "I'm so sorry," I found myself saying as I fought my closing eyes. I listened until I couldn't any longer. I awoke to dinner being placed in front of me.

Getting out of the Lima airport took two hours--long long lines for immigration and for getting luggage. Mine was one of the last suitcases to show up. Groups of Spanish speakers were accosting the poor baggage clerks, as if they were responsible for the long delay before the last batch of luggage (including mine) arrived. During the wait, I went back and forth between the bank kiosk and the money exchange kiosk to see where I could get a better deal. One was charging a 3% commission, and the other a flat fee of $2.50. Hmmmm. I had to think math now?? Laziness set in and I exchanged some at both.

When my luggage was still not arriving, I thought I better alert my driver.. But I had no phone that worked in Lima. I had planned to purchase one in the local market, as advised by my son and others. I anticipated this problem, and had planned to ask to borrow a phone, if needed. I approached a couple, and the male answered, "Why don't you just rent one like we did?" He pointed to a kiosk with heavily-made up uniformed-clad girls.. Oh! Is that what they are selling! They had greeted all of the passengers speaking rapid Spanish, and I had dismissed them as selling some make-up or some entertainment package which I didn't need. So I got my phone! By then my luggage finally arrived. The make-up girl called my driver for me to let him know that I arrived. It took yet another hour to go through customs.

It was a relief to see my name on that piece of paper amidst the crowds. One local guy took my luggage to my driver. These were arranged through the hostel where I would be staying. By the way, don't think "metro car." Think hand-cranked roll-down windows, dusty seats, and broken seat belts. We drove through neighborhoods where I would not hang out at night, and probably not even during the day, I was surprised when the car stopped before leaving the neighborhood. You get what you pay for; the hostel cost $15 a night. It was simple, but pleasant and clean inside. I had read about hostels without towels, soap, hot water. I was pleased there was a towel and one small piece of hard soap.. Perhaps that is one reason why there is a certificate hanging in the front area apparently from some hostel association saying "best value for your money." The shower was a single strand of water, but at least it was warm.. When I paid for the taxi and the room, I noticed that there were no computers and everything was noted down in pen in a notebook. I began talking to a young guy, whom I discovered in conversation was a member of the family who owned the hostel and himself studying hospitality at school; it hit me then that this was an honest business of local folks trying to make a living. The spiked iron rods on the outside protecting the hostel were evidence of their own local struggles and challenges. The boy apologized for the loud blasting music that filled the neighborhood at 8 am and that came from the home of someone in the neighborhood. "We complains before," he said in his broken English. A driver picked me up to take me to the airport.. Again no seat belts in a small dusty cranky old vehicle. I was pleased to have the ride and pleased that the young boy driving had a job.

First Week in Cusco

dinashtull — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 04:17:00 GMT

I was told by the director of the International Volunteer Program here in Cusco, that the first week is the hardest. I can attest to that, but not to worry, things are on the up. First, excuse the poor punctuation. Im typing from a computer in an internet cafe, and symbols are in different places on the keyboard. So back to the adjustments. First housing. I was placed in the home of a local Spanish teacher. The room was in the attic, a winding staircase upstairs. All was tolerable, except that I felt isolated by myself and didn't feel that, alone, I had the freedom to roam the city in the evening. They warned against walking alone, so I asked to switch homes. I joined another home with a 33 year old newlywed from Las Vegas. Her initial adjustment was terryfing for her. Her call home brought her husband on the first plane out to Peru, so now it's the three of us in the house. The house is apparently in a middle to middle/upper class neighborhood, but to us, the house inside looks like the salvation army warehouse. Also, there is no heat anywhere in Cusco, except for fancy hotels, and its get down into the 40s at around 5 pm. A standard practice in Cusco is to put solied toilet paper in the garbage can. The sewage waste system can't handle the paper. Cleanliness is also a different standard than what I<m used to. The two homes both had maids, young local girls, maybe Quechuana girls, who washed dishes and did light housework. But my assumption is that their standard of cleanliness was different growing up, so what I see is invisible to them. Also, I've taken mostly cold showers in the morning. The water system is also poor, and if I do manage to get some tepid water, it lasts for seconds. Safety was also a big adjustment. My money was stolen my first day here. It was in my fanny pack which was buried at the bottom of my back pack. But this place is a haven for pickpocketers who love visitors like me. So I quickly learned the foreigner clutch. You can identify the foreigners. They all clutch their bags so tightly in front of them, you'd think they had their life savings in their back packs. Then on to the food. The folks here are big on carbs. It's a rather poor town, and fish and meet is expensive. Meals have been primarily rice and pasta with a topping. They also cook in the morning and eat the same food for lunch and dinner. One day, as the pasta was put in front of us for dinner, my housemate and I gave each other a look. We both, without verbalizing it, could not eat pasta again for dinner. We had had it for lunch. We ate a bit and then politely said we were full and took a cab to Plaza Armas for a good meal. Cabs by the way are the best way to get around. Buses are worse than the New York subway during rush hour. They squish in so tightly. I wouldn't dare, especially given that my money was already stolen once. Cabs are cheap. It's three soles for anywhere in the city. That's less than a dollar, although \i was taken advantage of once. The driver asked for five soles. Since I was already in the cab, I decided to stay iin. Then when he asked for six because it took a few detours for me to explain to him where my home was, he asked for six. I know the fee is 3 or 4 regardless situations, so I just got out of the cab and ignored his request. I generally walk both to school in the morning and in the afternoon to my two hour Spanish class. They are about 20 minutes apart, so it's not bad. I got lost once, and found myself next to a young Japanese traveler who was also carrying a map. We didn't share any language, just the language of the map. I should have trust my instincts, but I trusted him. We walked through very poor neighborhoods with stores in holes in the walls and little kids sitting around their Quechuan moms selling food from carts. I eventually found my way and the Japanese guy and I gave each other a Gracias. The silence between us felt very warm and supportive. Teaching is getting into the groove. We are a team of five right now, but down to three next week. We teach the entire school, from first grade through 11th. They have English once a week. The older kids have a 1.5 hour lesson with no break. The younger kids, an hour. There is a part time English teacher who is thrilled that we are there. He doesn't even come into the room when we teach. The classes are smoother when the local teacher stays in, but with the older grades 6th and up, the teacher generally takes it as a break. The first day, the 8th graders were totally out of hand. I stopped spit balls from flying, a boy from carving a pencil with a knife, and two boys having a physical fight over a pencil which one was threatening to break. But the other classes have been better, and I do think we are teaching them. We generally cover numbers, colors, shapes, body parts, and simple grammar such as his/hers and theirs/ours. The classes range from 20 to 27 or so in small rooms. I have photos, but I'll post them another time soon. I try to get out at night to see parts of the city, if my housemate wants to go. FRiday night, I went with a staff member to Chabad for dinner. It was quite wonderful. There were many many travelers and of course I knew people in common with everyone around me. There are a lot of |Israelis who come. I imagine it brings back memories of Friday night at home or in the army. The food and automatic friendship felt great, after a week of struggle in both areas. So now I enter my second week. I'm much more prepared for teaching, for being safe, for the food I need to purchase to make sure my diet is healthy *lots of bananas and oranges and other fruits with peels. I also bought an alpaca wool sweater in the market for 30 soles to help with the cold issue. That's it for now. It's not easy to find the time or the internet access to post, but I will do my best. Dina

Getting Ready to Volunteer Overseas

dinashtull — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 13:26:00 GMT

In just a few days, I will embark on a trip that has been two months in the planning. I don't recall planning so extensively for any previous trip - maybe because this one involved multiple countries overseas, or maybe because I'm just not 20 years old anymore. My 24-year-old well-traveled son told me repeatedly over the last two months not to try to bring my amenities and my culture into a foreign country. Just go, he would say. Not everything needs to be worked out in advance. Easier said than done - for a 54 year old. And so I immersed myself in decision-making. Lots of decision making. It first began with the decision over which program to purchase for learning Spanish (Rosetta Stone). Peru would be my first destination (Uganda and Israel, second and third), and I would be teaching English in rural schools. It was recommended that I come knowing some Spanish. I'll spare you the details on all the other decisions, and just tell you that in my household over the last two months there were extensive discussions and extensive time spent on the following topics: purchasing hiking books - and which ones; purchasing travel clothing from quick dry underwear to jackets for rain and jackets for the cold (Do they breathe? How warm are they? Will they fold up to near-nothing?; virtues of bringing a laptop or an ipad, and iphone - or nothing (my son told me to leave them all at home; which camera to bring; how best to communicate once I'm there (Skype? Viber? Facetime? Email? Local phone/SIM card?; shots and medicines (yes - lots of them from Typhoid to Diphtheria, to Yellow Fever, Polio, Hepatitis A and B, medicines for diarrhea, malaria - and probably other things that I'm now not remembering; managing money and banks - yikes, this was a biggie--how best to avoid foreign transaction and processing fees and which banks to use to get the best deals overseas on use of debit cards and credit cards; books to take with me to read and getting them on the iPad, and then getting other books formatted for kindle onto the iPad (thank you, techie family members!); luggage (after many trips to REI and actually purchasing a travel pack to wear on my back, I decided that it just wasn't going to work for me. Another one of those - "I'm not 20" realities; walking sandals - when Chacos don't work, then one is left searching high and low for sturdiness and comfort. I gave up on stores and ordered 10 pairs on line. Luckily, brand J41 worked; travel plans for weekends and other off times - what to see and where to go; and yes - teaching - I almost forgot!! The reason why I was going. When the basics of living were taken care, I could then focus on preparing to teach. That proved to be more difficult, as the details of the age of the children and their level of English were as of yet unknown to me. Instead I read, gathered and took notes on general activities that I know all children love, activities that can be adapted for learning a language (my camp background came in handy here). Wow. Take a deep breath. Almost ready....My main advice to anyone my age who decides to embark on a long journey out of one's comfort zone - give yourself plenty of planning time. I needed the past two months to get ready physically (I ran almost daily) and mentally - and to feel prepared - to know that I would be safe, and that I had what I needed, and was able to leave behind what I didn't need - and to get to the point of being able to identify which items on my list fell into those two categories. It wasn't always easy - but I made it, and I"m ready. My family was a huge help. And now for the real journey...