Mindy's Adventures with a Spatula, on a Bike, through the Himalayas, and in the Arabic desert

Bassman Tri and a Farewell to 2011 Tri Season!

2011-10-03T08:39:00.000-07:00

After Nation's disappointing demise into a duathlon and cluster-fest, along with Bart's itching to get one more tri in for the 2011 season, Bassman tri got written into the schedule. A smaller race, but within reasonable driving distance, and I just wanted one last dip in a clear lake before retiring to indoor pools for the fall and winter!

The day before the race, we drove through rain up to New Jersey; the forecast predicted cold and rainy weather, so I packed my bike gloves just in case! Turns out that race morning was beautiful - still a bit chilly, but launch time was 8:30, and the sun had warmed everything up by then.

The race director announced that the water was a tepid 70* - this was definitely worth the 3 1/2 hour drive up for the swim alone! There were only 3 waves for the International Distance Tri, and I was in wave 1 with Females and Aquabikers. We took off at 8:30, and I prompty ran over a swimmer who went out way too fast and then veered to swim perpendicular to the course. I rolled over her in a single stroke, recalibrated to make sure that I wasn't the one who was off-course, and gunned it for two swimmers up ahead.
Swim felt awesome - it always does. There were no currents, the water was warm and clear, and my strokes felt long and strong. I took the lead about 500 meters in, but sighting after the last turn became a problem. The sun was rising directly behind the exit water area. I couldn't see a thing - no silhouettes, no reference point, just a huge blazing ball of yellow every time I sighted ahead. Argh...since I was in the lead, there were no bubbles or feet to follow, and I was on my own.
Well, I must have a pretty good sense of direction, because I hit that exit area pretty much straight on. I waited until the last possible stroke until I stood up and ran out of the water clumsily, awkwardly high-knee-ing it to the beach with my elbows flailing. Running out of water has never been graceful.
First outta the water - thanks to my dimpled Xterra Vendetta! The race director had his megaphone in my face as I ran past him - he was saying something about others coming out of the water just behind me, so I booked it into transition. A bit of a struggle with my wetsuit around my ankles, but luckily my timing chip stayed on. I strapped on my patriotic aero helmet, hoisted Penelope off the rack, and ran out of T1.

Wow, this was cool. Since I had been in the first wave and had the fastest female swim split, I had a police car leading me for the first five miles. I knew that I'd eventually be caught by the men from the wave behind me and women who were faster on the bike, so I tried to hold them off as long as possible (Obviously, this is not the actual lead car!).
The flashing blue and red lights sped down the road ahead of me to clear nonexistent state park traffic, and I chased them as fast as I could. The glory of being in first and having a police escort only lasted an ephemeral five miles; soon enough, I was passed by the woman who eventually won the race and a pair of guys, and the police escort was no longer mine. It was fun while it lasted, Officer Friendly!

For the next 24 miles, I was by my lonesome, which gave me plenty of time to ease into a steady rhythym, only to realize that I had eased off a bit too much when another racer would pass me. I started to think about not wanting to be on the bike anymore, which is not good when you're less than halfway through the bike course. This would be much more entertaining if there were some hills or some deer in this forest, but the bike course was boring throughout - no hills, no scenery, no aid stations, no spectators; only the whoosh-whoosh of wheels as cyclists passed me.
I was looking forward to the run - if anything, at least my toes would dethaw and I'd be able to get out of this constant aero position! I hadn't even thought to pack my toe warmers and in T1 had decided to forgo my bike gloves, but now I was regretting my hands being so cold. My sniffles became snot rockets, which I had perfected while trekking in Nepal. I must admit that one of my snot rockets was an epic failure - it landed on my hand, got smeared across my tri shorts, and ossified into a white streak. Yet another reason not to bike when it's cold!

Coming into T2, my hands and feet were frozen - I had to concentrate just to get my helmet off. In the seconds that it took to realize that my hands were not quite as nimble as they should be, I decided not to wrestle with socks for the run. The mantra "Nothing new on race day" taunted me, but it was only a 4.2-mile run, and although I'd never run without socks before, I figured that my feet were too frozen to notice the difference of a thin layer of cotton.

Out of T2, I caught up with the last woman who had passed me on the bike. She courteously encouraged me with a "You go, girl."
"How many more women ahead of us?"
"Just one."
Just one! I picked up my turnover, but I always have trouble gauging my run pace - I don't wear a watch, and my legs just feel like Gumby's straight off the bike. I churned and thought of narrowing the distance between me and the first place female - where was she? Not far past Mile 1, I realized that she was much too far ahead to be caught. I couldn't even see her when I rounded the start of a loop that had a mini switch-back; she was more than a half-mile ahead. I shifted my focus to ticking off a skinny dude who had passed me on the bike.

Crossed the finish line with some juice left in my legs for a bit of a kick, and walked through a line of high school cheerleaders/race volunteers. They each stared at me as I made my way to the exit, studying my fashionable spandex. "Don't forget to give us your timing chip," one of them muttered with her hands buried in her sweatshirt pockets. I stuck my left foot out, but quicky realized that she and her teen comrades had no intention of doing any more work than was necessary. The blank look on her face told me, "Take it off yourself and put it in the bucket. That timing chip could have pee on it." (it didn't)

Bassman Triathlon: 2nd Female Overall; 2:08:30
0.5-Mile Swim: 13:44
29-Mile Bike: 1:26:12
4.2-Mile Run: 26:46

Bart got 3rd:

and I got 2nd!

Check out the awesome trophies that Bart and I got for our podium finishes:

Takes us back to high school days and cross-country trophies! Haha!

Funniest part of the day was when the 3rd place female went up to accept her trophy and it broke - the gold running woman fell right off the trophy! The race director tried to cover it up by laughing and casually saying, "We'll just tape it back together". To which the race photographer standing next to me mumbled, "It already broke before and was taped together." Ha!
She's trying to figure out what to do with the running woman in one hand and the trophy base in the other...Oh well, doesn't take away from the pride of a podium finish!

Huge thanks to Katie Palavecino for letting me use her race wheels - I Snapple'd them up with some sweet stickers!

A Patriotic Cluster: Nation's Duathlon 2011

2011-09-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

Nation's Tri holds a special place not because it's in my backyard or because this year, it fell on the 10th anniversary of 9/11; Nation's was my first triathlon, and we all know that the first anything is memorable. In 2008, I came home to the USA with a big red backpack, no plans, and bedbug scars running up and down my legs. I was out of shape, had cholesterol levels that caused my doctor to question my diet while living in the Middle East, and was eager to start working out again and to meet people whose first language was English. I registered for the Nation's Tri with Team in Training, which became the catalyst for my passion for training. I've met some of my best friends through triathlon, and there's no better way to start the day than riding through North Arlington hills with Katie Palavecino or to end the day swimming at Haines Point until the lifeguard kicks me out. I never thought I'd embrace spandex so lovingly or spend as much time looking forward to my lunchtime runs as much as lunch itself. Triathlons have whipped me back into shape post-living-abroad, and they've created a happy haven.

Six days before Nation's, it rained steadily and heavily for four consecutive days. My two training rides before the race left me with mud lining my spandex and Penelope caked in splattered gunk from the roads.
The Thursday before race day, I got the devastating news: the swim in the Potomac had been canceled. I was irate; how could you cancel the swim that early in advance? The weather could clear; the Potomac could be rid of debris in four days time; the triathlon could go on!
I have to concede that the race directors made the right call on this one. The morning of Nation's, I was warming up by jogging along the Potomac River and saw 4-foot long tree logs floating downstream in the muddy, sewage-filled waters of the Potomac. I love swimming, but there was no way that I would have jumped into the bacteria-infested waters that had logs waiting to wipe me out!
At 6:50 am, the race director announced that transition would close in five minutes, but throngs of people were still sprinting to the transition entrance to drop off their gear. Suckers, you shouldn't sleep in! I always set 3 alarms on race morning.

All 5,000 participants clustered around our wave flags and huddled together as we tried not to lose our fellow wave members. What a mess! I was standing next to 50-54 year-old men who were in wave 29, but had somehow managed to fight their way into the corral for the elite wave!
Since the swim was canceled, the racers went off in packs of 20 about 15 seconds apart straight into T1. I started off with the Elite wave, blasted through mud that stank of sewage and 3-day-old-backwaters from the Potomac, and grabbed Penelope. Off we went!

Oh yeah, and that aero helmet is growing on me. I still look like a dork, but it makes me laugh whenever I put it on. Heehee, it makes me laugh just looking at that picture.

Bike course carried us straight through DC, out onto the Clara Barton Parkway, up to Bethesda, and back to DC. I won't harp on the blatant drafting by waves of Cadets or the riders who were constantly weaving throughout the course, but this picture, taken 300 meters from T2, aptly describes the Nation's bike course:

That's what happens when you create a triathlon and drive it to sell out at 5,000 registrants!

Off the bike, my legs felt loose and ready to hit the pavement. Goodbye, aero helmet. Hello, rockin' pink Zoots! Woohoo - I was ready to blast through this 10K!
Run felt fast the whole way through, and my pace felt good. There was a younger Elite female ahead of me who I tried to keep pace with so that I could poooosibly dig deep and put the hurt on her in the last 1/2 mile, but her 22-year-old legs were just too quick for my short legs. I conceded to the hare and let her go, but was able to tick off two female elites who had passed me on the bike. Yeah! Take that!

Finishing stretch was long - hearing the race director announcing names crossing the finishing line always creates a false belief that you're closer than you really are. Thankfully, Bart was waiting 200 meters from the finish line with Snapple! NOW I was ready to kick it in!

Crossed at 1:50:27, grabbed some water and Gatorade, and hung out with the Snapple crew to cheer on friends streaming through.

Finishing Duathlon time: 1:50:27
9th Elite Female, 17th overall
40 Km Bike: 1:06:21
10 Km Run: 41:40

Special shout-out to training buddies Sarah Brown, above left, who finished 10th Elite Female, and Jen Yip, above right, who finished top 10 in her Age Group!

Nation's was a great way to commemorate the 10th anniversary of 9/11 by racing through the National Mall, but I left with a bittersweet feeling. The bike course was replete with rampant drafting, the course is too flat, and the swim in the Potomac is always a gamble. My original plan was for Nation's to be my last tri of the 2011 season; but it's too painful to end a season on a tri-turned-duathlon. What a bummer! So Bassman tri, here I come in October!

Congrats to the Snapple crew who all raced well on Sunday!

And for those of you who want a blast from the past, here's my 2009 Nation's Tri race report!

Alaska Baskin': The Last Frontier

2011-08-24T21:22:00.000-07:00

I knew I'd love Alaska when we landed close to midnight with the sun just starting to set. Perfect. Blast me with that Vitamin D!
On our first day in Anchorage, Bart and I met up with Megan, my best friend from the Peace Corps and fellow mountain junkie. As she headed off to her village in the Bush to teach 2nd graders for a second year, we set off north to Matanuska Glacier, a 27-mile long glacier flowing from the Chugach mountains.

Crampons strapped to our boots and ice axes in each hand, we picked our way up glacier walls. This was fun!! I like slamming things (like axes) into non-living things (like ice). On my fourth climb, though, my grip strength faltered and my legs struggled to kick enough punch with each step to claw my way up the glacier walls - this was tough going!
Left is a picture of me trying to make my way up the wall, and below is a shot of Bart climbing the glacier wall:

Next stop: another glacier. I couldn't get enough! We hiked up the Harding Ice Field to Exit Glacier, where the top of the trail is a horizon of ice and snow that seems to extend to...well, Russia. It's quite awesome to feel like I can rock-jump off the edge of the trail into a glacier's crevasse, or to imagine myself sledding across the blanket of ice that lay in front of us. It's one of those rare moments when I think that life can't get any better. I've just walked up an "arduous trail" (according to the National Park Service) with little effort; I'm standing here with my best friend while eating trail mix; I can't see anything but snow and ice, yet I'm in shorts and a t-shirt - this is what I term a "Jack Brauer moment." When you feel like nature has just rewarded you for taking the effort to climb her peaks.

Our climbing hunger satiated, we headed south along Highway 1 to Seward, a fishing community bordering the Kenai Peninsula. I was looking forward to some delicious seafood and camping near the waters, but our campsite was more of a by-the-road community of squatters who were anti-hotel.
One of the more popular things to do while in Seward is to take a boat trip out to the glaciers to see the marine wildlife. Yes, it's touristy, but it really is quite stunning to spot humpbacked whales slamming their tails into the ocean against a glacial mountain backdrop. During our trip out to Northwestern Glacier, we spotted orcas (killer whales), humpback whales, sea otters, sea lions, and all kinds of birds (which didn't fascinate me as much as the marine mammals).

The best part of our foray out into the bay? As we ooh-ed and aah-ed at the size and texture of Northwestern Glacier, a tip of the upper glacier broke off and created an avalanche of tumbling ice boulders that slammed their way down the glacier, gaining speed and breaking off unstable chunks. The effect of a thunder of ice into the waters below was awesome; it's one of those moments where you don't blink or breathe because you don't want to miss any part of the awesomeness that's happening. Here's the avalanche!

The next day, we planned to go afternoon-fishing for salmon and halibut in the Bay with a hired boat. We figured that we would start off our morning with a climb up Mt. Marathon, a mountain that stands just over 3000 feet above the town of Seward. Every 4th of July, there is a race up and down this mountain - a 5K course that has runners crossing the finish line with bloody knees.
Bart and I thought we could easily fit this hike/run into our morning before our fishing trip...boy, did we underestimate this mountain. It's so steep that sometimes you take a step and slide back half a step on the scree. You climb 3000 feet in a mile and a half, and then go straight back down - add to this that we did it on a morning when the entire upper half of the mountain was shrouded in clouds. Not fun. I was in a grouchy mood, and I was hungry.
Well, we made it up and down the mountain, with a few minor detours, in about 3.5 hours - the winners of the Mt Marathon race are running this in 45 minutes! How they manage to do that is beyond me - I've heard that the average speed uphill is 2 mph, and the average speed downhill is 12 mph. Yikes!
We ran straight to the fishing dock to try to make our scheduled fishing boat departure, but we were 25 minutes late. My spirits were crushed, and there was no arguing with this lady; the boat was not turning back to fetch us. We could reschedule for tomorrow, or we could eat up the cost and just mope on back. I pouted, but Bart turned my spirits around when he said, "It's raining anyways and those people on the boat are probably miserable and wet and cold and seasick."
On our way out of town, while I was still a bit down about having missed our fishing trip, we stumbled on a blueberry festival! I quickly forgot what fish we were supposed to be catching that afternoon, and rejoiced in blueberry pies, blueberry pound cakes, blueberry salsa, and blueberry-chocolate-covered smoked salmon!

Next it was up north to Talkeetna, a small town just south of Denali that affords great views of North America's highest peak. We decided to splurge and retire our tent, and we booked a bed-and-breakfast neighboring an Iditarod-dog-training home.
The first day in Talkeetna, we picked up two heavy mountain bikes from our B&B and headed into town. Biking without any real intention or sense of direction, we found the local fishing hole. I don't like fishing, but having Denali as a backdrop while you catch fresh salmon ain't too bad a way to spend a weekday afternoon. After making conversation with the local dudes, one of whom was from Arlington, the best thing happened.
"Would you eat salmon tonight if I cut you a couple fillets?"
"Really?"
"Yeah, we have enough. Would you eat it?"
When something is offered, I believe in opening your arms and embracing it. In this case, "it" was a plastic bag with a slimy salmon fillet inside...we popped it in my backpack, pedaled to the local store to pick up some fresh veggies, and raced home to our B&B on our clunker bikes.
DELICIOUSNESS!! This was the best meal of the trip - the salmon was cooked perfectly, the skin peeled right off, and the meat disintegrated on my tongue. Nom-nom-nom; I was in Alaska heaven!

The next day, we scheduled an air taxi flight to view Denali - one of the best ways to catch a glimpse of Denali. According to locals, Denali is shrouded by clouds and not visible from the national park or sea level 95% of the year. When we woke up to relatively open and clear skies, our B&B momma ushered us out the door, encouraging us to take advantage of the great weather and fly up to stare at Denali. Our hour-and-a-half flight took us through the valley, straight up to Denali's south face, and landed on a glacier. I blame my obsession with mountains and altitude on my roots as a Utah girl who grew up skiing every Sunday. Flying with Talkeetna Air and weaving through the Denali and Alaska ranges is awesome - check out the vistas!

After a rainy next 2 days in Talkeetna, filled with hikes where waterproof boots proved to be water-retaining, we headed back to Anchorage for one last hoo-rah before heading home.
On our last morning in Alaska, Bart and I went for a 10-mile run along the coast...and ran smack into 6 moose on the trail! All of them were close enough that we had doubts about continuing on the running path, but we tentatively tiptoed our way across, casting our eyes down to indicate that we weren't the aggressive types - we just wanted to get our 10 miles in! What a great way to end our trip to Alaska!

Top 10 Highlights of Alaska:
1. Grilling fresh salmon
2. Denali!
3. Riding rickety mountain bikes on dirt trails
4. Running with moose
5. Climbing glaciers
6. Laughing at sea otters
7. Eating pizza in Anchorage after 3 days of eating cold sandwiches
8. Stumbling upon a blueberry festival when we missed our fishing trip
9. Protecting Bart from the moose
10. Mountains 360* around

Click here for pictures of our trip!

No Black Flies, but there was Maple Syrup!

2011-07-16T19:32:00.001-07:00

Black Fly Tri in Waterville Valley, NH is my favorite tri, despite its too-short swim. It's a three-day racing weekend in the beautiful White Mountains where the whole valley is filled with CT and NJ license plates on cars with bike racks, clam chowder served at the post-race tent, never-ending music in the village square, and events such as a kid's pie-eating contest and a Firefly 5K.

The Lord/Lady of the Flies has triathletes racing a bike TT on Friday evening, a shortened International-distance tri on Saturday, and a sprint tri on Sunday morning. There's just enough time between each event to rest your legs and enjoy some light kayaking or hiking in the Valley. A whole Snapple crew going up to race together made this year sweeter than last year - although not all turned out to have such a great weekend (Zack's unfortunate turn of events below).

Our Snapple gang had a personal photographer in Chris Kyriacou; thanks for the pics, Chris!

The day before I left, Bart presented a very long Rudy Project box to me: "I have something for you, Mindy."
I knew what it was. A small aero helmet. That looked like a sperm.
I laughed. "I can't wear that, Bart."
"Why not?"
"Cause I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Cause then I'll be a hypocrite. I laugh at everyone who wears an aero helmet who isn't pro so I don't want to be one of those people!"
"But it'll make you faster."
"Minimally."
"About 30 seconds faster."
Pause
"Really?" I'm always so gullible. He could have said it makes me 5 minutes faster in a 4.4 mile TT, and I would have believed him.
"Yes. Just wear it."
And so Black Fly is the first race where Mindy Ko wore a patriotic sperm helmet. And I do believe that it made me faster!

Friday night 4.4 mile Time Trial: First event of the weekend! Each racer went off about 15 seconds apart on an out-and-back course that took you down a hill and straight back up it. Two burly men on either side of me held my bike until the buzzer went off - then Right Man shouted "Go Snapple!" Pedal, pedal, pedal; grab some cadence; shift down; there's Chris's voice cheering from the side; I was off. It was hammer time - this was fun and fast! But alas, soon I turned 180* and I was out of my saddle, struggling up the exact hill that I had just cruise-controlled down.
Bike TT felt awesome - I have yet to master power or hammering on the bike; usually I just pedal as hard as I can and watch woefully as people with 45 on their calves pass me without even warning "On your left" because I'm such a non-threat. Tonight, though, felt awesome - early morning rides with Katie Davison on hills through Arlington have been awesome for my quads, and Penelope and a sperm helmet turned out to be a great duo!
4.4 mile TT: 12:34; 1st in Age Group 25-29, 11th overall.

Saturday "International Distance" Tri - 400 meter swim, 21 mile bike, 5 mile run.
At 7 am, the weahter was perfect: clear skies from the thunderstorm at 9 pm the previous night, low humidity, and almost no wind. I couldn't wait to jump in the water; swimming is the best way to start any day, especially race day!

Water a bit chilly at 70* - just how I love it. Those years in gymnastics and ballet classes have not paid off - sorry, Mom; water entrance was not graceful at all, evident by the belly flop and high butt in photo above. Arms felt strong - leveraging lots of water on my pulls. A wee bit o' difficulty around the buoys, where throngs of 5 were all competing to take the tightest turns. I have little patience for buoy-hogs who won't let me through! Final stretch - ate some seaweed.
Thanks to my Xterra Vendetta for the buoyancy and top female swim split!

On to the bike:
Penelope + Aero Helmet + Passing People + shorter bike course = Fun Times + Mindy smiles.

Run felt awesome - how could it not when I wear my pink Zoots?!? These things are awesome - light, laces less complicated than my Velcro shoes from elementary days, and pink!
My pace was consistent and I felt like I was ticking off the miles without getting more tired. Focused on the ponytails in front of me, then on anyone in front of me; I am not sexist!!

Shortened Intl Distance Tri:
400-meter swim: 6:02
21-mile bike: 1:03:33
5-mile run: 34:59
Total Time: 1:47:05 (1st AG, 8th overall)

Got me some maple syrup!

Not everyone had such a fun day, though:
Zack Desmond broke his toe three steps into the race on Saturday morning. He was running so fast into the water that he stepped on a sharp rock; thinking that he had just stubbed his toe or maybe cut it, he completed the swim...and emerged from the water with his second toe broken and somehow flailing bone-lessly under his 3rd and 4th toes. His foot is now in a cast after his toe surgery; good luck with the recovery, Zack!
The Black Fly Tri volunteer in the photo escorted Zack to his parents and then checked in when Zack was at the ER...such a great and dedicated race crew!

Sunday's sprint-distance tri:
Swim felt awesome - as good as the day before. Thanks, Xterra!

Bike: Legs a bit tired from the previous 2 days, and the sun was blazing. Tried to keep a steady and strong cadence so that I had some leftover for the run, then it was down to the final 3 miles of the weekend! Best part of the run was seeing Avery in her kid's Snapple shirt!

Sprint Tri:
400-meter swim: 6:01
15-mile bike: 49:42
3-mile run: 22:02
Total Time: 1:20:14 (1st AG, 7th overall)

Lady of the Flies competition: for triathletes participating in all three events over the weekend, the times from each race are added to determine your final finishing time overall. I ended up winning another maple syrup for 1st in my AG for Lady of the Flies, and this cool crown that was probably made in China!

Thanks for a great weekend, Black Fly! I'll be back next year! Best part of the race is the entire Valley atmosphere - the volunteers are awesome, and the wetsuit strippers saved me at least a minute off my transition times!

Huge congrats to fellow Snapple teammates Jen Yip, 5th in her AG for Lady of the Flies and to Jessica McGuire, who placed 7th in her AG on Saturday's race!

Now it's time to whip up some waffles to pair with my maple syrup!

Chessie Currents beatin' me down

2011-06-12T17:13:00.000-07:00

I tried to rally up my enthusiasm for swimming across the Chesapeake Bay on a humid summer day, but it just wasn't there. I love swimming; it's my daily detox from work and bike-commuting through DC traffic. However, swimming 4.4 miles into currents that cut into you sideways and head-on was not how I wanted to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon. This was just going to have to be one of those races that you push through despite its monotony and length.

The race director announced that the Chesapeake Bay waters had reached 78*, and half the swimmers chose to go sans wetsuit. I, however, love the advantage that my dimpled Xterra Vendetta wetsuit gives me, and wasn't about to sacrifice my wetsuit for a bit of overheating. Would I rather be hot and suffering for 2 hours plus change or suffering for 2 hours and 30 minutes? I chose the former.

I chatted with Snapple teammate Katie Davison while we waited for our Wave 2 to go off - we were following her fiancee Matias Palavecino's status in Eagleman 70.3, and he had just entered T2 with a bike split of 2:14. As we made our way across Sandy Point Beach, the race director's voice boomed over the megaphone: "You! With the red caps! You need to be in the corral in 7 seconds! The entire Coast Guard is waiting on you!"
Katie and I ran across the scalding beach sand as well as any bare-foot petite girls with goggles in hand and wetsuits only half-on can. I felt like I was in the military with my drill-sergeant yelling at me to not hold up the entire assault on the Chessie Bay waters. "Go! Go! Go!" Katie and I giggled as we ran toward the beach start.

The race director had announced earlier that today's race was the first time in 21 years that the current was coming north in the morning - which meant that the swimmers needed to counter the outgoing-current by staying to the left of the span between the Bay Bridges. At about Mile 2, the tide would shift and we were advised to shift our positions towards the right bridge to counter the inward current.

Swim Start:
Horrible. I didn't like the position I was in: surrounded on all sides by flailing elbows and violent kicking. I fought back with fists of fury and white-water kicks, but this only increased the attacks from all angles. After about 200 meters, the waters calmed as the swimmers spread out and found our grooves. I saw Katie's red cap and pink goggles a bit ahead and scrambled to catch her bubbles, but weaving through the 3 bodies that were blocking me off from her feet prevented a Snapple-Snapple train.

Mile 1:
I caught some bubbles from a dude with dry and scaly feet - every time my hands touched his feet, I felt like I was touching sandpaper. The water was a perfect temperature, the currents weren't too strong (yet), and my strokes felt solid and effortless.
Hi Kayaking volunteers! I'm still in a good mood and thank you for being out here!

Mile 1.5:
I lost feet to catch and the swimming mass became chaotic - I couldn't swim a straight line because the damn currents were unpredictable and stronger than I could handle.
Why am I doing this? Why did I break my promise to myself from last year to never do Chessie Bay again?
I already couldn't wait for dry land. The great thing about swimming is that it's calming, soothing, almost therapeutic. The bad thing about swimming 4.4 miles across the Chesapeake Bay is that it's boring - and the only thing worse than staring at the tiled line at the bottom of a pool is staring at green-brown water and steel poles as your sighting mechanisms.

Mile 2:
Shoulders feeling fine, it was time to get a little more kick in my swim. Focus on keeping my extension and pulling through.
Saw the aid station boat with yellow caps from Wave 1 clustered around like baby birds being fed bananas and gels. I just wanted to get this swim over with - we were only 1/2 way there!!?!?

Mile 3:
Want to know what's been going through my head for the last 90 minutes?
F*^# these currents!
I'm never doing this again, I'm never doing this again, I'm never do-...oh, hello seagull!
Has Matias finished Eagleman yet? I wonder if he crushed it...
Pizza. I want pizza.
That red buoy for mile 4 is no closer than it was 15 minutes ago!!!!

Mile 4:
Only 0.4 miles left! I can say with certainty and a touch of bitterness that this was the longest 0.4 miles ever. The currents were no longer coming from all angles, but just hitting me straight-on, causing my tired shoulders to scream for mercy.
I just want to get to those flags! I just want this next 600 meters to be done! Why am I not moving?
I tried to focus on something other than the never-ending home stretch: my stroke had gotten lazy since Mile 3, so I focused on extending and staying on top of the water. Don't let my hips sink, keep the cadence up, strong pulls, Mindy!
Finally! I'm getting closer!

Land, Sweet Land!
Oh, how I missed you, Sweet Soil!!!! I stripped out of my wetsuit that was suctioned to me, grabbed some Propel water and turkey subs, and was asked about 5 times by various attractive ladies whether I wanted Muscle Milk.

Bay swim 2011 conquered! (PS: no, this is not a picture from Chessie, but I put it in here for people who like pictures (Lucas!)!)
Final time: 2:09:36
7th in my AG, 36th overall - makes me realize how talented a field Chessie Bay brings. The first female swam a 1:47:10!!! That's probably faster than a kayak!!

Big congrats to Katie Davison, who crushed the swim in 2:02:34 and placed 2nd in her AG!

Post-race conversation with Katie:
K: "I'm never doing this again."
M: "Oh, and this time I mean it: I'm never doing this again."
K: "Oh my God, that was endless."
M: "The last 400 meters? No joke, it took me 10 minutes."
K: "I threw a temper tantrum. I kept standing up and being like 'Why the hell is it not any closer!??!!'"
M: "Buoy 3 was the worst."
K: "I thought it was Buoy 4."
M: "But it was Buoy 3."
K: "Ugh."
M: "Never again."
K: "I KNOW!!! Never again. I'm not swimming for a week. I'm only doing hot yogs and biking."
M: "I'm not swimming for a week either."
pause
M: "Well, I'll probably be back in the pool by Wednesday."
K: "Yeah, but we won't be back here next year."
M: "No."

Thanks, Chessie Bay swim, for a wonderful 2 years of swimming from shore to splendid shore. I might grumble and complain, but really, both years had their own highlights.
2010 was an accomplishment because it proved to myself that my mental toughness could overcome 2 hours of strokes, sighting, and seagulls. And of course, the first time conquering anything always holds a special spot.
2011 was more fun because I actually had someone to banter with before and after the race. It's never fun to go to a race alone, and it's somewhat depressing to cross a finish line without familiar faces to congratulate you. Although Katie and I fed and encouraged each other's "eh" attitudes towards the swim, it wasn't all negative - it made us hungry to go biking and running!!!

Rollercoaster Hills at Quassy

2011-06-06T20:33:00.000-07:00

At 5:15 am, Chip's head poked into our bedroom.
"Guys? It's 5:15..."
"WHAT!?!? What time is it?"
"It's 5:15..."
"No. It's time. Uh. Get up."

This race day was not off to a good start. Bart and I scrambled out of a way-too-comfortable bed and into our Snapple spandex. I'd set 3 alarms for 4:45 am, but must have slept through all three of them. We had planned to leave for Quassy Half-Rev transition area at 5:15 - obviously, deep sleep had delayed us. Thanks to Bart's mad driving skills and fearlessness of speed, we made it to the transition area only several minutes behind Chip.

I met my two racking neighbors who both had bikes with 650 wheels as well. Oh joy, the world is a better place with more tiny bikes!

Quassy's atmosphere was electric. The pro's transition area was surrounded by giddy fans with cameras, while age-groupers peered over from our congregate transition area to the coveted corner of pro tri bikes. It's not every triathlon in which you're racing alongside (or 2 hours behind!) Mirinda Carfrae and Matty Reed. Volunteers were spraying racers' ankles with some type of wetsuit glide thing-a-ma-hairspray. Quassy's focus on creating a family-friendly weekend was evident in the dozens of kids trailing their dads, holding parents' goggles and water bottles as we all filtered toward the beach start.

Quassy's pro men went off at 6:50 am. It's pretty awesome to see 35 pros dolphin-jump their way from beach to water, then funnel their way to a streamlined pyramid. The females took off 3 minutes later, a bit less graceful in their water entrance but no less impressive. I took a little dip in the water before my wave went off, taking care of some necessary business and getting a couple of strokes in. Chip, Bart, and Sean were already 15-20 minutes well into their 1.2 mile swims, so I hung out by myself and kept track of the gray swim caps in my wave.

At 7:27, my wave lined up. I grabbed a spot toeing the water's edge on the outer right side, and as the race official yelled, "GO!", tried to high-knee-run into the water. Unfortunately, having disproportionately short legs on an already short frame meant that two steps took me thigh-deep, and I dove in. Stroke, stroke, recalibrate, and I was in a comfortable position.

Swim:

Happy times in the water. Clear, warm, and relatively calm. I beelined for the first buoy and quickly found another age-grouper's feet to catch onto. She was holding a steady pace and I just followed her bubbles.
Round the first turn buoy and heading into the sun - sighting became a bit difficult now. I picked up the pace a bit and left my comrade's bubbles.
Final leg of the triangle swim: age-groupers from the waves before me were really struggling. I ran into a crotch, side-swiped a breast-stroker, and tried to avoid the stalled traffic.

Out of the water in 30:17, 2nd in my age group, 10th overall female. - Thanks to my Xterra Vendetta wetsuit for getting me out of the water in good time!

T1:
Per the norm, my wetsuit took a bit of wriggling and pulls to get off, but I was in my bike shoes and Penelope was ready to hit the hills!

Bike:
It sucks to have cycling as your weakest leg because a. it's the longest and b. it doesn't seem that difficult. Swimming is a lot about technique; running about efficiency. Biking? To me, you just turn the pedals. More revolutions per minute mean you go faster, right?

Well, today I was fighting. I'd never ridden more than 40 miles before, so Quassy's 56-mile-bike-leg might be a bit trying on my legs. Those Quassy hills are endless! It seemed like I was getting passed by everyone. OK, that is being generous. I was getting passed by everyone! The only people that I passed were several folks from the older generation who had started in swim waves well ahead of me, and an 18-year-old boy who made a U-turn on the course right in front of me to retrieve a dropped water bottle. I passed him as I swerved to avoid a collision.

Bike split: 3:18:52, dropped to 6th in my AG and 47th overall.
Instead of bemoaning my awful place dropping throughout the bike leg, I'll highlight my favorite bike moment: Accel Key Lime Gels!!! Those things are delicious. I had 2 and I felt like I was having dessert in a plastic baggie while suffering those hills at mile 20 and 40.
Lessons learned: Nothing but the obvious: I gotta work on my biking skills! Time to log 50 mile bike rides on Penelope in the brutal DC heat!

T2: I was so happy to be out of the saddle and in my Zoots! I'll admit, I was a bit worried because I'd just completed the longest bike ride in my life, and I hadn't run more than 10 miles for the past 6 months. Were my legs ready?

Run:
Oh Sweet Hallelujah! A blue Port-a-Potty awaited me at Mile 1 aid station - I couldn't have asked for a better positioning. I had been unable to pee in my wetsuit on the swim (it's impossible, try it someday), and obviously I was not going to defile Penelope by going on the bike, as I've heard some people do. So I was quite excited to see a Port-a-Potty at the first aid station. In and out of that boiling closet; that 30 seconds was well worth it!

Miles 1-6 felt awesome. I was ticking off people like crazy, and it felt like the perfect revenge for my having been passed by the masses on the bike.
Around mile 6, there is a turnaround. I saw 2 girls in my AG who had passed me on the bike about 3/4 mile in front of me. I thought they might be within catching distance, so I set my goal for the next 7 miles as "Gain on and Pass Ms. Pink tri kit and Blue sports bra."

Mile 7 - more than halfway through! Mentally, I was using Mile 9 as a highlight - I knew that the Snapple volunteers would be there with water, Coke, Gu, and pretzels.
Mile 8 - massive, endless hill. Head down, feet churning, then at the crest I turned a corner and we flew downhill.
Mile 9 - thanks to Bill's sister for the water and Greg for the 2nd water!
Mile 11 - another turnaround, and I saw Pink tri kit about a 1/2 mile in front, and Blue Sports bra about 400 meters ahead of me. Time to go!
Last two miles - I couldn't wait to be done. I just wanted water and my stomach was feeling a bit...jammed...like all the Gus that I had taken on the bike were just congealed.
Mile 12 - Passed Blue sports bra! Several hundred meters later, passed Pink tri kit! I was feeling fine now and started to think about Kensington Pizza...
Finish line! The great thing about Quassy is that you hear your name booming across the megaphone as you're coming in for the final 200 meters. Talk about feeling like the whole stadium is cheering for you (when in reality, it's only the race director's enthusiastic voice)! I tried to sprint as best as my limited stride-length legs could...and crossed the line to be met by the Muscle Milk ladies with a
Run Split of 1:39:57.

Finishing Time: 5:32:43, 3rd in AG, 24th overall.

Quassy is as hilly as it gets, but it makes it all the more rewarding. Congrats to fellow Snapple teammates Bart, Sean, and Chip for a great Half-Rev race and to Jim, Audrey, Kristi, and Loren for smashing the Olympic race the day before!

Thanks, Quassy staff and volunteers, for a great race weekend and sore quads!

*And a HUGE THANKS to Chip for waking Bart and me up that morning!

KO-lumbia!!! First Tri of 2011

2011-05-24T19:27:00.000-07:00

Two days before Columbia, after a morning swim workout, Zack proudly announced that the Columbia Triathlon could turn into a duathlon. Beaming, he proclaimed that "as of this morning, the bacteria levels in the lake were too high for the water to be safe enough to swim in. It's all that rain from the past week." I glared at his smile, angry that the race I'd been looking forward to for five months might cancel my favorite leg. Bacteria? Psh, babies survive when they stick pennies and snot in their mouths! Columbia shouldn't - they couldn't - cancel the swim.
Sure enough, Facebook soon announced that Howard County had deemed the lake waters had passed the standards. Hallelujah! I danced a silent victory in my work cubicle, relieved that the Rain Gods hadn't caused too much damage.

Morning of the race:
At 4:23 am, Bart woke me up. "Aren't you supposed to be getting ready?"
I panicked. I couldn't have slept in; I'd set 3 alarms on my cell phone! "Whata buta it's not time..." I mumbled as I tried to rally up my senses to start the day. I brushed my teeth and put on my Snapple tri kit, made some extra-strong coffee, and went over my packing list for the fourth time. Turns out that I was the only one ready to do some conquering today; Bart's stomach had been bothering him all night, so I got a good-luck kiss before leaving him standing in his boxers and rubbing his stomach like a mute five-year-old.
Arriving into transition, I quickly found Penelope. It's easy to spot my bike - it's the only one whose front wheel (yes, those would be 650s) can't even touch the ground. She'd been racked the night before and at 5:45 am had dewdrops on her seat and body. I wiped her down, stuck my water bottle in its cage, and pumped up the tires. I'd bought Penelope only 3 weeks before Columbia, after a war with myself over the reasons why I should - and shouldn't - invest in a tri bike. Penelope and I are still very much in the honeymoon phase. Every morning when I see her hanging vertically in the laundry closet, I want to hop on her Adamo saddle and ride, ride, ride.

I set up my bike and run gear on a tiny towel, chatted with some old Team in Training friends, and took one last trip to the Port-A-Potty. Waves of age-groupers were heading out every 8 minutes at the swim start already.
My twin sister Phebe was roaming around near the swim entrance, and I was happy that I found her before I jumped in the water. I was giddy. I couldn't wait to swim a couple of strokes to get my shoulders used to my Xterra Vendetta wetsuit, which I hadn't worn in over 8 months. I pulled on my sexy latex swim cap as the wave before me took off, gave Phebe a quick rundown of where she should go after the swim gun went off, and then it was off to the waters!

(This isn't really the Columbia swim start, but a very large lake not anywhere near Maryland with green, instead of pink swim caps...I didn't have anyone taking pictures for me)

Swim:
Pink caps surrounded me. I was annoyed. My wave combined the Female 25-29 and 30-34 age groups, and I couldn't tell which pink caps lining up at the front row were going to be feet I wanted to catch, and which were going to be run over and clawed through as soon as that gun went off.
At 7:42, we were off. I targeted the first buoy, which happened to be directly in the line of the rising sun, and pushed. I love swimming. I love how natural it feels and how, when my head's underwater, all I'm doing is counting to three and watching the bubbles from my hands. Thanks to Bart's teammate Phil, who had given me a pointer several months back (focus on the follow through of the stroke and accelerate as your hand breaks the water), I settled into a good position. The waters were so muddy that I couldn't see anything, so I just focused on my breathing (1-2-3, 1-2-3) and sighted every 20 strokes. There were no feet to catch, which made me think that I wasn't swimming for the buoys, but soon I came across a struggling grey swim cap that had left in the wave before me. He seemed to be frog-kicking and working harder on splashing than on moving forward horizontally.
Fast forward to the finishing stretch. I saw swimmers merging into one zone, but I have such horrible depth perception that I couldn't tell if the swim finish was 400 meters or 50 meters away. Extend, extend, extend on each stroke, feet on the ground, initial feeling of disorientation as I go vertical...I was stripping out of that wetsuit.
I always struggle to get my wetsuit off because it gets stuck around my ankles. I don't think I have fat ankles, that just seems to be the problem zone for me. This time, I got the wetsuit off my left leg without a problem. Right foot. I tugged and tugged. Why wasn't my wetsuit sliding off? Turns out I was pulling on my chip anklet and my wetsuit, trying to slip both of them off in a rush to hop on Penelope. Oops! I finally got that wetsuit off, buckled my helmet, and hoisted Penelope off the metal rack and out onto the bike course.

Joy ride on Penelope:
Bike felt awesome. I don't believe I have ever said that before! For the first 5 miles, I was dripping from my tri shorts. That thin chamois pad can still retain a lotta water! I don't really think about anything technical, strategical, or worthwhile when I'm biking, so I won't pretend that I focused on my cadence or my aero-ness. Here's what really goes on in Mindy's world when I'm on the bike:
"I hate pointy helmets. That guy looks like a dork and he's getting passed by a 5-foot chick now."
"That guy has four water bottles for a 40K bike? A bit too much agua there, buddy."
"I wonder whether the pros are finishing now."
"Ooooh, nice bike."
"I wonder if Bart's feeling better."
"It's the Eye of the Tiger, it's the cream of the fight..."
"Is that a 15 on his calf!?!?! A 15-year-old boy is passing me?!?!"
"These roundabouts suck."
Alright, so the great thing about Columbia, besides the awesome hills, is the fact that it's a one-loop lollipop course. None of this double-loop crap.
Volunteers started screaming at me to "Slow down! Sloooooooooo dowwwwwn!!!" about 400 meters from T2. Alright, buddy, I'm not going to run into any spectators.
The bike dismount line was a disaster. There were four men trying to clip out at a dead stop on top of the dismount line. No joke. I ran between a bald guy and a hairy guy and into T2.

Run, Forrest, Run!
Pink Zoots on (love those babies), race belt on, visor in hand! I started on the 10K run course, grabbed a water from the first aid station, and slammed the water into my face. It was getting hot without any wind blowing in my face. I started to pass some of the guys who had passed me earlier on the bike. A lot of people seemed to struggle with the hills, choosing to walk. My pace felt good. I'd done some short brick workouts earlier in the year, but my legs didn't really feel like I'd just done 40K on the bike. It helped that there were plenty of aid stations - I grabbed a water at each one and splashed myself in the face with it.

Best part of the run course? Between mile 3 and 4, there were a couple of neighborhood kids with water guns. I locked eyes with one of the little punks and they both sprayed me, bending backwards like they were shooting full-ammo guns. Thanks, boys. That water was perfect.
Sometime during Mile 4, I got redemption. The skinny 15-year-old pre-pubescent boy who had passed me on the bike got chicked on the run. Never mind that I am nearly twice his age and have reached my full physical maturity; I wasn't about to be beaten by a middle-schooler wearing spandex that sagged around his skinny quads.
Mile 5 I got passed by an older guy wearing a red kit. No way, man. I hadn't been passed by anyone on the run yet, so I wasn't about to let it happen at mile 5. I stuck right behind him, thinking that he would break before the finish line. I could tell he knew I was right behind him, and we worked to push each other.
Mile 6, home stretch. Red kit guy and I started ticking off the people who were holding on for the last several hundred meters. He pulled away and I tried to match him, but let's be honest: my short, squat legs were never meant for sprinting. During the last 20 meters, I heard Phebe yelling my name: "Go!! Mindy!! GOOOOOO!!!"

Finish line: I love Columbia's volunteers. A girl handed me a water, another donned me with my finisher's medal, and a third unstrapped my timing chip for me. What a great crew. I congratulated my friend Scott, found Phebe (who had been worrying since T1 that I was still on the bike course with a flat, as she hadn't seen me enter or exit T2), and spent the rest of the afternoon with Beth and Kristen as we cheered Karmen into the finish.

Love this race. The weather was beautiful, the swim was soothing, and the hills were epic. I'll definitely be back next year!! It was awesome to see Snapple do so well at this race among the elite heats. Can't wait for summer as the tri season really gets going and Haines Point pool opens up for lunchtime swims!
Time: 2:30:06
2nd in AG, 26th female overall
Swim: 21:57
T1: 2:03
Bike: 1:19:44
T2: 1:07
Run: 45:17

Next stop: Quassy Half-Rev, June 5!

Frolicking in the Philippines

2010-09-01T11:46:00.000-07:00

If I were to judge the Philippines by my first or last impression, I'd spit back in its face. Don't accuse me of being harsh on a country that woos tourists with rice terraces, treks through highlands, and colorful coral reefs. All that stuff is dandy and great, but it doesn't compensate for prostitution and greed.

Maybe I'm lingering too bitterly over Clark, a city an hour north of Manila and home of the former US Air Force base. Bart and I landed in Clark from Borneo after climbing Kinabalu. What a contrast. The city's chaos was immediately stifling; Dau Highway is clogged with trikes weaving through traffic, jeepneys honking at vehicles cutting them off or at people waiting roadside for a ride, and motorcycles that have three people and a chicken crate. There are no traffic lights and everyone simply makes up their own driving rules: pass on the left, pass on the right, honk at nothing, and speed up to beat the pedestrians crossing the highway.

After only five minutes walking about town, it became obvious what type of tourists Clark attracts. The only non-Filipinos in all of Clark are older white dudes with beer guts, Tevas, yellow fever, and very likely an ex-wife (or 2) and an STD (or 2). Walking around the city made me cringe. Titty bars and clubs outnumbered travel agencies, motor shops, karaoke bars, and markets combined. 20- and 30-something-year-old Filipino women in high heels, too-tight tanks that displayed full Wonderbra cleavage, and too-mini miniskirts loitered on the sidewalks. Hotels crudely advertised "Room for rent by hour." The worst part? The slimeballs that kept this industry thriving: 50- and 60-year-old retired Americans, Aussies, and Brits who go on nightly prowls for sexual satisfaction.

Even writing about it makes my nose scrunch as if prostitution has a distinct stench. I'll just move on to what non-sex-tourists like Bart and myself had come to the Philippines for.

Although the Philippines is relatively hard to navigate given the unreliable bus schedule and diverse terrain, if you choose your ports well, you won't be disappointed. A too-short 6 days meant no rice terraces and no Camarines Sur, but I got what I wanted: volcanoes, beaches, and seafood.

A bumpy 3-hour ride and a short trek from Clark landed us at a gorgeous volcanic crater lake in Mt. Pinatubo (with very sore butts). Although options of what to do at the lake were limited to swimming and jumping off a craggly volcanic rock, that turquoise lake was something I'd only seen in National Geographic two-page foldouts.

Two days in the Hundred Islands National park left me with sunburned shoulders, but the sleepy town of Lucap was paradise compared to Clark's decaying entropy and Red Light District. The best meal in my three weeks of traveling through SE Asia was at our seaside hotel in Lucap. A starter of perfectly-battered calamari, chicken curry that left a dripping trail of curry sauce on the white tablecloth, and the crab. The crab!!! (pause to wipe saliva from the keyboard). Bart and I picked our crab from a basket - well, it was more of an apathetic nod at our waiter's extremely strong and persuasive suggestion that the crab with red undertones on its belly would be the most flavorful. What do I know about picking out crabs? They all look the same to me: beady-eyed, sloth-like, and intimidating.
The crab was served with some amazingly addictive vermicelli glass noodles swimming in a thick and gingery curry. It was the type of meal that leaves you smiling with every bite, and ends with you thankful for elastic-banded shorts.

From the Hundred Islands, we moved on to Busuanga and Coron Islands in northern Palawan. Although strictly regulated and sometimes a pain for tourists not on a let's-all-carry-umbrellas-and-wear-yellow-hats Chinese tour group, Coron Town has the best coral reefs I've seen. The islands are bordered by pure limestone cliffs that taunt with their invincibility. The freshwater lakes on the island are so clear that I could see down to 50 meters. Miniature stretches of white sand afforded isolation only interrupted by a "caretaker" who requested that we sign the logbook. He waited patiently on the island each day with his dog, monkey, and cat to welcome any visitors. Our names were the first in that logbook, so I'm guessing that his 3 pets were pretty good company. Before we kayaked off to our next destination, we gave the caretaker a couple pieces of fruit, as much a thank-you for not charging us to enjoy his island as a way to get rid of the extra fruit that we'd brought. As we paddled away, his monkey happily munched on the banana while his dog barked madly at us for not bringing Kibble 'n Bits.

Off of the eastern coast of Coron Island, we kayaked to an islet that had a dead dog floating in its waters just 50 meters from shore. Our visit to this tiny, 10-house village was met with yellow-toothed smiles, dirty barefoot kids, a machete-wielding baby, a hut of village women playing BINGO, and a man with gay mannerisms and spotty English.

Our request to see a lake (we'd convinced ourselves that we would stumble on a gorgeous lake in the middle of limestone cliffs and be the first Westerners to cliff-dive into its waters) led us on a trail through swamp, prickly aloe vera plants, and coconut trees. We followed the only English-speaking villager while kids trailed all around us, our own entourage. The "lake" turned out to be a smelly, stagnant swamp - you could barely see the water because a blanket of moss and algae had laid a film over the surface. Guess we wouldn't be swimming in an untouched lake.

The trek to the volcanic lake and visits to the Hundred Islands National Park and Coron and Busuanga Islands were the Philippines' redemption for the vile atmosphere of Clark. Despite Clark's rampant prostitution and our peso-ravenous taxi drivers, the Philippines was worth the venture east. The freshwater lakes on Coron Island, kayaking to an isolated village with coconut-tree-scrambling kids wielding machetes, island-hopping on a banca, and the crab, curry, and calamari meal in Lucap were highlights to a Filipino adventure.

Curries, Leeches, Palm Oil, and Mountains in Malaysia

2010-09-01T11:37:00.000-07:00

1. Leech Count: One, inner right ankle. No blood when that slimy, writhing bugger was flicked off.
2. $1 curries in Kuala Lumpur in a Chinatown market. Rice spooned in a banana leaf, choice of 3 curries, eaten with the right hand while squatting on a sidewalk.
3. Coke from a roadside stand: "Take Away" translates to pouring the soda into a plastic bag, sticking a straw in there, and wrapping it with a rubber band. Glass bottles are a valuable commodity.
4. Unsuccessful attempts to rekindle my addiction to durian, but that fruit just looks like a dead blowfish and reeks.

5. Mulu National Park: an arduous climb up to the Pinnacles, limestone cliffs jutting out of Gunung Api (Fire Mountain).
6. Clearwater Cave: exploring Asia's longest cave - 177 km of stalactites, stalagmites, and gushing water carving its way through the cave.
7. Climbing SE Asia's highest peak twice in less than 24 hours. Mount Kinabalu, at 4095 meters: Despite sleeping only two hours at base camp, freezing while waiting for the sunrise, taking a bad spill and screwing up my shoulder, and sharing a dorm room with two Cantonese boys who had a bedtime of 6:30 pm, climbing Mt. Kinabalu was my favorite part of this SE Asia trip.

8. Discovering Kuala Lumpur's Little India district: veg thalis and dosas, listening to conversations in that distinct Indian-accented English, and snacking on burfi and soan papdi.
9. Caving in and succumbing to McDonald's: hard not to, when McFlurries are 33 cents!

Lord and Lady of the Flies

2010-07-12T09:52:00.001-07:00

Waterville Valley in NH is the perfect quaint town - population hovering just over 300 - to host a smaller triathlon. I had high expectations for the Black Fly Tri: I'd driven over 10 hours, forfeited my Musselman Tri entry, and dropped serious dough on a hotel room booked way too late. Bart and I arrived early Friday afternoon, and as we walked to packet pick-up, I excitedly brushed my toes in the water. Perfect 72-degree water. Possibility of going without a wetsuit. The lake was small, and it would be nearly impossible to map a swim course any longer than 500 meters. The buoys for Saturday's and Sunday's swims were floating in the lake, charting a swim that looked much too short (later, I realized that the course is a 1/4-mile swim around the inner perimeter of the lake). The whole town square is nestled in the valley between mountains lush with greenery, and some of the slopes are lined with groomed skiing trails. Around the town square, a series of arrows point to cross-country-skiing and hiking trails that network throughout the valley and lake area.

Waterville Valley thrives off of its natural beauty. Certainly, you can't compare it to the jagged, 14,000-foot peaks of the Rockies, but New Hampshire has the best air I've tasted along the East Coast yet, and the White Mountains are worth the 10-hour road trip from Washington, DC. I'm addicted to terrain that towers and intimidates, to greenery that you can smell from the base of the mountain, to lakes that mirror reflections of the scenery that surrounds them, and to air that's crisp, clean, and unfiltered. Waterville Valley, thank you for making me smile and remembering what it's like to be out of the city.

I could rave about this race for pages...it's obviously become my favorite tri. Our room at the Golden Eagle Lodge was just 300 meters from the transition area, and each morning, I just needed to open my window to hear the race announcer's voice booming over the loudspeaker, guiding triathletes to body marking and bike racking. No need to worry about race-morning traffic or parking; we simply got up each morning, made some strong coffee, and strolled out the door, around the lake, and into transition. A stress-free way to start a race.

The Black Fly Triathlon is a 3-day event: Friday evening hosts a 4-mile bike time trial, Saturday morning clamors with Olympic-distance triathletes, and Sunday morning culminates in a sprint-distance triathlon. For those audacious enough to test their endurance and the longevity of tired muscles, there's the Lord of the Flies: a 3-day stage race in which you compete in all 3 events.

I like challenges. So I saw the Lord of the Flies as a challenge. Bring it on. Three races in less than three days.

The only stage that I wasn't giddy with anticipation about was the time trial. I bike like a commuter: slow, steady, and without any real power. Cyclists talk about wattage output and wear pointy helmets; they know how to draft and ride off the wheel of a rider mere inches in front of them; they handle their bikes like an appendage of their own bodies; they pound the hills and pass meandering Mindy like I'm stationary. Really, I do try on the bike. I pedal, and I pedal faster on the downhills. I know how to shift gears, but I don't know how to translate cadence or effort into sheer power. I just know how to get from Point A to Point B.

So I wasn't particularly keen on racing in the 4-mile time trial and getting passed by 50-year-old women and heavy dudes on expensive wheels. Accept fate, I sighed. It's not that I don't enjoy biking; it's that I don't enjoy getting passed when I'm exerting effort. It makes me feel slow and incompetent. My lack of excited anticipation for the time trial shifted to giddy impatience, though, when I saw how the time trial started: you brought your bike up to a raised platform, a huge bald dude stood right behind you, steadying the bike, and you clipped in with both feet. Bald dude made sure that the bike was balanced upright, and when the buzzer sounded, he'd release his grip and down the ramp you took off. Just like I'd seen in the Tour de France time trials on TV! It looked like fun; the girl lined up behind me laughed as I described it tentatively as a "rollercoaster ride."

I wasn't sure how this whole balancing thing would work, because my coordination with my bike isn't something to boast about. The line of time-trial-ers quickly moved up as each cyclist went off at 15-second intervals. As I moved closer to the platform, I studied how each cyclist was getting on. It was somewhat comforting to see that noone had fallen yet and that some seemed as unsure of themselves as I felt. My turn. I hoisted my bike onto the platform. Bald dude commented about the size of my bike: "Is that a kid's bike?" As I clipped in my right foot, I told Bald Dude, "I really have no idea what I'm doing. This is my first start like this and I don't have the greatest balance, so hold me tightly." He gripped under my seat with a firmness that comforted me, and I clipped in with my left foot. I started to giggle as I was balanced by the Bald Dude's grip, and the gun went off.

The 4-mile time trial was an out-and-back course. The initial half is a blast; you're coursing downhill the whole way, passing those bikers who are still trying to get their bearings or who haven't quite seemed to let go on the downhills. 180-degree turn at the base of the highway, and it's back up - easy gear, steady cadence, this is gonna be just about 6 minutes of pain. The great thing is that I was only passed by one female during the time trial, but the pitiful part is that I was passed by a super-fast, flying 29-year-old male within a minute of being on the bike. Maybe two minutes. This kid was blasting past me like I was going backwards. After the time trial results were posted, I found out that he had won the sprint and his pace was just under 25 mph. I didn't feel so bad about being passed by a champion.

Time trial race was fun, other than the finish line being less than 50 meters after 2 tight turns. The best part was the start: balanced by the grip of Bald Dude and shooting down the ramp with a smile.

4-mile Time Trial:
12:36
Placed 3rd in F25-29.

Day 2 - Saturday: A 6 am rising, breakfast at the lodge, and a 1/4-mile walk to the race start. Certainly better than having to fight early morning traffic, find a parking spot, lug my bike and gear to the transition area a mile away from parking, and still have time to breathe before the swim waves go off. This was a perfect day to race in the international-distance triathlon.
I ran into the lodge to make a quick bathroom stop (coffee's aftermath), and in the 5 minutes I was in the building, the rain started to pound. I stepped outside, greeted by the downpour - Argh, I groaned; the weather had been perfect just 15 minutes ago!

The race must go on, and that's what makes any outdoor sport so entertaining - you need to be prepared for all elements - rain, snow, intense sun, high winds, you name it.
I wasn't. My shoes and gear were drenched by the time I ran back from the bathroom to the transition area. Oh well.
The race started off in a beautiful lake, pockmarked by the rain drops splattering across its calm surface. The short swim course was a mere quarter-mile, with swimmers doing a run-in start at 5-second intervals. The swim felt good; my arms felt strong, my stroke felt smooth, and I was sighting well. Parts of the lake were shallow enough that people actually chose to walk, but that only slows you down. Rounding the last buoy, I made sure to clasp onto the powerhouse's feet in front of me, letting his bubbles guide me in for the last 40 yards. Up onto shore, a bit woozy from the immediacy of horizontal to vertical, but I regained balance and ran through the chutes. I saw the wetsuit strippers, but didn't want to risk something new. "Nothing new on race day" is the mantra every experienced triathlete has ever repeated to me, so I didn't want to be the fool who went against time-tested advice.

When I slipped out of my wetsuit at my transition area, I noticed that everything was soaked. My bike shoes squelched as my feet sloshed over the water already in there, I decided not to don a drenched white tanktop over my sports bra, and I grabbed my bike's wet handlebars and ran through to the Bike Out chute.

Out on the bike course for a 20.5-mile out-and-back course that followed pretty much the same stretch of road as the time trial course. Wheeeeeee, I thought, as I flew downhill. Rain splattered against my face and down my arms. There was a small loop near the halfway point, and it was 10 miles back up the highway. Yes, I was passed on the bike plenty by those swimmers who I'd passed earlier or by cyclists with massive quads that powered them through the roads. A tall, skinny white dude on a yellow Specialized bike cheered me on as I passed him on the downhills, then I cheered him on as he powered past on the crescendos. We traded spots, each time congratulating the other on a valiant effort for pedaling through the rain.

Transition #2 - wet shoes off, pair of soaking socks and wet running Zoots on. Visor to keep the rain from pelting my forehead, racing belt in hand, and I was off. The 10K run felt good. Really good - I felt like my legs were fresh and I was surprised by how comfortable the pace felt. I saw the top male and female finishers kicking in the final mile; superhuman strides that posted 5:30-mile paces. Unbelievable. My own sub-7:00-mile pace paled in comparison to the times that these elite men and women were posting, but I was still passing people who had no gas left on the run.

Finish line euphoria came soon - that adrenaline kick when you dimly hear the announcer's voice and you know that the finish chute is somewhat close. Rounded a couple of turns, the volunteers and supporters on each side ringing cowbells and shouting "Go! Finish! You're awesome!", and I was done. Food and fuel? Yes, please.

Black Fly International Distance Triathlon
1/4-mile swim: 5:30
T1: 2:20
20.5-mile bike: 1:04:25
10K run: 34:29
Placed 1st in F25-29 and won some maple syrup (Yum! This ain't no Aunt Jemima's!) and a Timex watch...perfect, since my Garmin was getting repaired.

I was spoiled by the proximity of our hotel room to the race site. We went back to our room, showered, aired out the soaking gear, and headed back down to the race to study results and load up on calories. The Black Fly did an excellent job with recruiting great food sponsors; there were slices of Cabot cheese, some fortified with Omega-3s, steaming bowls of New England Clam Chowder, yogurt smoothies, cold carbonation, fresh fruits, and veggie and meat burgers. I did what I do best, and walked in with an empty tote bag and out with a stash of apples, bananas, mini Clif bars, Stoneyfield yogurts, and enough cheese to fill 2 napkins.

We puttered around the results postings, finding our names and congratulating strong finishing times. Bart and I each won glistening maple syrup that boasted New England roots, along with Timex watches. Black Fly did a great job getting some awesome sponsors: Cabot Cheese, Timex watches, and Muscle Milk? Kudos to the race organizers!

For the rest of Saturday, the rain provided a good excuse to stay inside and relax. We lazily puttered through the lodge, entertained Bart's nieces, who are constant bundles of energy, watched Men Who Stare at Goats, and snacked on Muscle Milk and pretzels. Life was good.

Day 3 - Sunday: Another 6 am wake-up call, and we were out the door by 6:30. Today, the skies were blue. Such a welcome change from the constant rain on Saturday morning's race! Another giddy day as I set up my transition area and chatted with my new friend Kathy (racked next to me). My muscles felt good; no soreness, and although not as fresh as pre-yesterday's-race, they felt ready. Bring it on, stage #3!

The swim course repeated yesterday's course, but this morning the buoys looked like they had all drifted to make the swim course about 20% longer. Maybe I was delusional, but from my view from the walkway, the buoys looked like they had drifted farther apart in the course of 24 hours. It didn't bother me, because I like swimming, just as long as everyone was swimming the same distance.

Again, triathletes took off in 5-second intervals. Without the rain to shield the sun that glared at 7:30, I was swimming directly into blinding sunlight on the last long stretch. I couldn't see any buoys and only relied on my fellow swimmers, who all seemed to be going in opposite directions. I kept surveying for buoys; none! Those things are supposed to be visible from space!

It turns out that my navigational sense was wrong. I nearly stroked right down on a volunteer kayaker's paddle, and my head shot up out of surprise. "RIGHT! RIGHT! RIGHT!" he screamed at me, militant-like. I veered 90 degrees, found some feet, and followed the bubbles. I winced to think how much time I lost with poor sighting, but made up time with...
The wetsuit strippers!
That's right, my favorite volunteers.

Bart had told me that the wetsuit strippers on Saturday were better than fast - "Just go for the dude who acts like he's in charge," he'd advised. As I wobbled unsteadily out of the lake, I heard screams of "Wetsuit strippers on the right!" and instinctively veered to the right, targeting two husky men who were unquestionably leaders of the stripping gang. I made eye contact with the louder one.
"DOWN!" he commanded.
My wetsuit was already to my waist, and I slid onto my butt, raised my legs, and then raised my butt. Instantaneously, my wetsuit slid off! It was miraculous! Maybe all of 0.4 seconds to get that second skin off!
"HAND UP!" the lieutenant barked, and I reached for his second-in-command's waiting palm to hoist me up. I started to giggle, which surely tagged me as a first-timer, but wetsuit stripping was just that much fun.

No time to waste. The fun part was over. Wetsuit over my shoulder, I ran through the racks til I spotted my mini-bike. Bike shoes - check, helmet and sunglasses - check, off to the mount line.

"There's a Lady of the Flies!" yelled a spectator as I mounted. The 16.5-mile bike course followed yesterday's course, which was basically 8 miles of downhill bliss, sharp hairpin turn, and 8 miles of uphill mashing. I did get to enjoy the scenery more today, and despite having raced the international distance the day before, my legs did feel pretty good.

The 3.4-mile run followed the same roads as yesterday's run, and I settled into a fast but comfortable pace. The day had definitely heated up quickly, and at the first and last aid stations, I grabbed a soaked sponge and squeezed it over my head. It's remarkable how a simple dose of H2O can rejuvenate you and put an extra kick in your lagging stride.

The sunny weather enticed more spectators to the race than Saturday's rain, and the first and last miles were lined with supporters yelling random things like "Hey! There's goes a girl!" or "You look strong!" I rolled my eyes when a string of sideliners shouted, "Great job! You're almost there!" I know when I'm almost there. That's what mile markers are for.

Rounding the final turn, I did run a little taller and faster when the race announcer boomed my name and my hometown over the megaphone. "Mindy Ko from Bethesda, MD! Racing for the 3rd day!" I cruised on past the finish line, and the wonderful volunteers quickly removed my ankle strap and placed a cold water bottle in my hand.

Black Fly Sprint Distance Triathlon
1/4-mile swim: 6:20 (damn my poor sighting!)
T1: 1:21 (Thanks, wetsuit strippers!)
16.5-mile bike: 51:12
T2: 1:00
3.4-mile run: 21:46
Placed first in my age group and won another maple syrup (good thing I love waffles and pancakes!)

I've loved every single triathlon that I've competed in for different reasons: Nation's, because your first always holds a special memory; Columbia, because my girlfriends were waving crutches and a broken arm at me as I crossed the finish line; Philly, because that cheesesteak devoured post-race was dripping with deliciousness.
My favorite? Black Fly wins the trophy (or maple syrup). Waterville Valley was the perfect small town to host the 3-stage race, and the forested White Mountains only made me itch to come back when they're actually white. Thanks, Black Fly Crew, for a great weekend and the best wetsuit strippers! See you next year!

Philadelphia Triathlon-turned-Duathlon

2010-06-29T18:42:00.000-07:00

On the eve of the Philly tri, I was excited to hear confirmation that, as of 5 am that morning, the water temperature of the Schuylkill River was 83 degrees. Redemption!, I thought, thinking back to my last triathlon, when the Mooseman Triathlon had cancelled the lake swim because of early morning thundershowers. For any USAT-sanctioned triathlon, if the water temperature is above 78 degrees, wetsuits can be worn "at the participant's discretion," but disqualifies anyone who does so from receiving any age-group awards.

Wetsuits are known as the Great Equalizer; they help everyone due to their buoyancy factor, but they help poorer swimmers far more than better swimmers. I was wringing my hands in excitement at the thought of a non-wetsuit swim, which would help me tremendously; I should be able to distance myself from poorer swimmers more on the 0.9-mile swim - which would translate into a delayed passing on the bike (by far my weakest leg of the triathlon). I eagerly envisioned treading water, sans wetsuit, surrounded by other age-groupers who were blasting blasphemies at the sun and its effects on Schuylkill River warming.

Later that night, I wandered around downtown Philly and shuddered at the combination of ugly architecture, heavy humidity, a population that clearly exceeded their weekly quota of cheesesteaks, and smoke climbing out of sewage gutters. My friends who were also competing and I joined the DC Tri group at Buca di Beppo for a pasta feast. Thanks to our wonderful waitress who refilled our water pitcher about 5 times throughout the dinner!

The morning of the triathlon, my friend and I woke up at 4:15 am to an alarm ringing somewhere off in the distance. Usually, any night before a big event like a race or a book signing or a Nobel Peace Prize acceptance*, I don’t sleep well; I wake up every 45 minutes to check that I haven’t slept through my alarm, and the slightest sound will make me perk up, thinking that I’ve overslept. It might have been the pasta or the incessant heat in DC from the past two weeks, but I slept like a hibernating polar bear that night. When the alarm rang at 4:15, I had to mentally give myself a pep talk to open my heavy lids and get ready to race in heatstroke-impending weather. I groaned and mentally willed the alarm to turn back time; couldn’t I get just another 5 hours, please?

I accepted the inevitable and rolled out of bed at 4:17. Twenty minutes later, my friend Heather and I were out the door, wheeling our bikes through the hotel hallways and verbalizing out loud how excited we were. It took a bit – well, that’s being generous – to navigate our way through the one-way streets downtown, but eventually we pulled up alongside a sporty chic-mobile that had a tri bike on the back rack. She zealously proclaimed that “Yes! I’m on my way to the race! Just follow me – I’m leading other people there, too!” We hopped on the navigating-impaired train and found our way near the transition area. We’d wanted to get to the transition area as early as possible for two reasons: 1. there had been rumors that bike racking wasn’t assigned, and was done on a first-come, first-serve basis, and 2. we didn’t want to get caught behind a long line of triathletes waiting to board the shuttles to the swim start area 1 mile up the river bank.

I quickly made friends with the girls racked next to me, and we chatted about the topics that only newbie triathletes find titillating: what the race course was like, bike envy from the $5000+ tri bikes that were shining on rack spots 1-100, what nasty viruses we might contract from the river, and our idiosyncrasies: fear of open water, inability to slip out of our wetsuits in less than 20 seconds, and the different methods of peeing while racing.

Twenty minutes after the first shuttle was supposed to have left for the race start 1.5 km up the Schuylkill River, the race director’s voice boomed over the entire transition area: “Olympic-distance triathletes: welcome to the Philly Tri! As most of you know by now, a triathlete went missing yesterday during the swim portion of the sprint-distance triathlon. Philadelphia’s search-and-rescue team and the police are searching the Schuylkill River for his body, and today's swim has been canceled. The race today will be a duathlon, with the 1.5K swim replaced by a 5K run that follows the sprint run course in reverse."

Groans and cheers from the triathletes pointed to who the strong and the weak swimmers were. A swim teammate and I complained about the last-minute change, and I sullenly put away my Luna bar and peach. If I were running in 30 minutes, I didn't want still-digesting breakfast to be sitting heavily in my stomach.

The Mooseman triathlon only three weeks earlier had also canceled the swim due to early morning thundershowers, and I thought it a personal curse to have two consecutive triathlons cancel the swim. My friend Heather helped me put it into perspective when she turned the conversation away from the fact that the swim got canceled to the reason it did: a 46-year-old, first-time triathlete hadn't emerged from the swim portion, and at the end of the sprint-distance race, his bike was still racked and his family still waiting at the transition area. The Schuylkill River seemed calm from the banks, but apparently could have a strong undercurrent.

The pros kicked off the day at 6:50 am, and heats followed at 5-minute intervals. Before my 25-29 and 40-44 female heat took off, the first male pros were already barreling their way back from the 5K run. My friend and I stared at each other in disbelief - these guys were running around a 5:30 mile pace. Ridiculous.

Our heat took off at 7:20, and the 5K run was an out-and-back course. Nothing really ever goes through my mind when I run, and I usually amuse myself with reading the age numbers off of people's calves. The 5K was a relentlessly unshaded stretch that felt good because I was fresh and didn't see any female calves with the digits 25 through 29 ahead of me, but tortuous because I knew I'd soon be running in more intense heat and with far more depleted legs twice this distance for the final leg of the duathlon.

I came in from the 5K at 22:14 and quickly traded out my pink Zoots for my bike shoes. Helmet strapped, sunglasses on. There were a lot of non-racers standing in the transition area who just seemed to be chatting, which confused me because they were in the way of people trying to navigate their bikes through the racks to the "Bike Out" chute. I still don't know why they were there; they didn't seem to be race officials, and they definitely weren't racing.

The 40K bike course was a double-loop course that took us through random streets in Philly, up a short but steep hill that had a Team in Training tent waiting at the top, complete with cowbell-yielding cheerers, and alongside the 10K run portion. The bike is by far my weakest leg, and I was getting passed by heavy guys on $3000+ Cervelos and pointy helmets and lapped by the pros who had started 25 minutes earlier. I winced each time a female passed me with the digits 25-29 engraved on her calf, knowing that she was displacing me in my age group. During my 2nd loop, I biked along pros who were finishing out the 10K run portion of the last leg, and had that fleeting jealousy of wishing that I were where they are now.

Yikes! 1:18:33 for the bike portion - about 6 minutes slower than the other girls in my age group who were posting similar run times. Gotta work on the bike. In the transition area, those floating people - chatters, really - were still standing around, naively blocking the way to bike racks. I ran around a group of 3 just standing there, and racked my bike. A burly, 200+ pound man barreled in next to me, focused on getting out of transition as fast as possible. The chatters sprang into action: "Hey! HEY! This isn't your rack! Your bike number - your rack's down there!" They shooed the confused-looking man away from the bike rack that hosted Female 25-29, and pointed him down to the racks for the older men. Who makes a mistake like that? Who can't read the numbers on their bib and bike and match them with the numbers in bold on each bike rack? At least those people standing around in the transition area had some purpose.

10K run was hot. Every water station, I grabbed a cup and poured it over my head. I could feel the water evaporating from the heat, and I knew that I should have hydrated and fueled better on the bike. It was surprising how many people were walking the course, and there were several people along the course who clearly had succumbed to the heat - I saw 2 rescue vehicles that were escorting dehydrated runners to the medical tent. Whenever I spotted a chick ahead of me, I targeted her flitting ponytail, convincing myself that she was in my age group. A 40-something-year-old man and I stayed within 10 meters of each other, trading spots throughout the last 6K of the run. The home stretch was a relief; I saw the balloon arches and envisioned water, G2, and plopping down in the shade. The 10K leg took me 46:07, but felt like it was 20 minutes slower.

For a triathlete like me, there is no glorious tape to break or wreath of shrubbery placed gently around your head or neck; the fans lining the chute cheer for anyone and everyone coming in as they wait for their own relative to cross the finish line. I'd only come down with my own friends who were racing, and had passed them on the course, so no "GOOOOOO, Mindy!" or bear hugs greeted me when I finished. The 40-year-old runner that I'd paced with gave me a high five and a nod, too tired to speak. I shuttled through the triathletes who were doubled over, recovering from the heat, or just standing there waiting for someone to guide them to the food and med tent. I came face-to-sweaty face with a chubby high-schooler who stared at me. I stared back. "I need your chip," he said, without breaking his stare. I placed my ankle with the chip a step forward, expecting him to bend down and tear off the timing strap that held my timing chip. His eyes didn't move from mine. I slowly bent down and unwrapped my timing strap, exaggerating the amount of effort it took for me to remove it. The boy tossed the timing chip into a bucket full of other wet and sweaty chips, and stepped in front of another about-to-collapse racer. "I need your chip."

I wandered around the finish area for a while, chatting with Eric from my swim team who I'd seen on the bike course, drinking two containers of chocolate milk, staring at the congealed cheese on the pizza before deciding it just looked too disgusting to justify eating it, and searching for my soon-to-finish friends. I caught up with most of them and we collectively complained about the heat. One of my fitter friends collapsed when he crossed the finish line and was carried off to the med tent to get fluids; another friend from Team in Training had injured his IT band during the 10K and was escorted to the med tent as well.

News circulated near the finish line that the body of the missing triathlete from Saturday's race had been recovered from the Schuylkill River during our duathlon. Rumors about the cause of his death - exhaustion, not knowing how to swim, strong undercurrents - flitted around the race results tent, but everyone was giving me different versions of the story, so of course I can't give any conclusive report. In a single, simple word, it's sad. Sad to think that a triathlete who had trained for his first triathlon and invited his family to support him through the race hadn't emerged from the water. Sad because a triathlon is supposed to be a celebratory event, no matter what time you cross that finish line or how many people finish in front of you. Triathlons are fun and addicting, and no matter how many people tout cycling as dangerous or open water swimming as a guarantee of contracting unpronounceable diseases, I'll keep on training and racing.

My numbers crunched from the Philly Duathlon:
5K Run: 22:14
40K Bike: 1:18:33
10K Run: 46:07
Total time out there in the brutal heat: 2:29:56
I placed 5th in my age group, which didn't qualify me for any of the shiny medals, but I rewarded myself with a fat, juicy, overflowing Philly cheesesteak and some crunchy, generously-oiled fries from Pat's before hitting the road back to DC.

*yet to happen

Great Chesapeake Bay Swim

2010-06-16T05:03:00.000-07:00

Since moving to Bethesda over a year ago, I'd been told that Annapolis is the place to go if you have a boat.
Well, I don't have a boat.
Last summer, there was concern when I made the mistake of admitting that I don't have a friend with a boat (isn't all of DC run on social connections with people who are members at elite country clubs or have boats or work for Senator D?), and I subjected myself to lectures on the merits of sailing when I proclaimed that I’d rather be in the water than floating on top if it with a margarita in hand. My friends scoffed at my rejection of sailing as a “If I can’t have it, I don’t want it” - a passive dismissal of the high life.

So about 6 months ago, when a swimming teammate told me about the Chesapeake Bay Swim, I was intrigued. Maybe this was my only chance to ride the currents that border Annapolis. I balked at the $250 registration fee, but punched in my credit card digits once I learned that 100% of it goes to preserving the Chesapeake Bay. There’s my philanthropic move for the year.

The day before the swim, I was anxiously eying the sky; the radio had been reporting imminent weekend thundershowers, and the heaviness from humidity that characterizes DC summers was definitely at its prime. Luckily, on the morning of the swim, I woke up at 5:15 to clear skies and fluffy clouds. Perfect swimming conditions!

As I drove across the Bay Bridge to the race parking, my excitement rose. As most of you know, a simple cupcake or playing Rick Davis or Journey will get me excited, but this was different. It was a giddy anticipation to wiggle into my wetsuit, strap on my new goggles, and freestyle through 4.4 miles, nearly twice the length of my longest swim workouts.
Driving over the Chesapeake Bay made me realize that it is awesome. It’s massive; spanning 4,479 square miles, the Bay rightly deserves its title as North America’s largest estuary. Named after its abundance of shellfish, the Chesapeake Bay was formed over 10,000 years ago when melting glacial ice caused sea levels to rise in the Atlantic Ocean, which flooded the Susquehanna River Valley and created a new bay that is now home to thousands of species of plants and animals – and host to the Great Chesapeake Bay Swim!

On the shuttle bus from the parking lot to Sandy Point State Park, the starting area for the Bay Swim, I chatted with a shaved-head, shaved-eyebrows, and evenly-tanned man. He described the course to me as a straight swim between the Bay Bridges that connect Annapolis to Stevensville, MD. Seemed simple enough. “Just stay within the span of the bridges, and you’re good.” The bridges are wide enough that I didn’t worry about being pulled over by a kayaker for veering off course, but then he warned, “Are you nervous? Last year, the currents caused several people to get seasick. And the water’s disgusting.” I’ve never been seasick, but I convinced myself that my stomach and my threshold for waves and currents were strong enough for the Bay. If I could eat my way through the streets of India and survive off of tap water in Jordan for two years, the Chesapeake waters would be like Evian.

The race announcement 30 minutes prior to the first wave informed us about the current action of the race course. They’d timed the wave starts so that the bulk of swimmers would reach the 2-mile mark by the time the waves shifted. For the initial 2 miles, swimmers would be facing currents coming from the south – to counter this, the race announcer advised swimmers to steer to their right to stay within the span of the bridges. At about 9:30 am, the tide would shift and the water from the bay would flow south to meet the Atlantic. Swimmers were advised to shift their positioning to the left to counter the currents that would now push them to the right.
My original strategy had been “Pace yourself.” I soon realized that I would have to actually have a plan of action that accounted for the inevitable currents of the Bay. Revised strategy? “Pace yourself, swim left. At mile 2, shift to the right-hand bridge.” I like simplicity.

I wore my Xterra Vendetta, perfected by its dimpled skin. Pre-race, I floated on my back near the beach start and reveled at how great the water felt at 71* - that perfect temperature that makes non-wetsuit, sleeveless wetsuit, and full-length wetsuit swimmers happy.
About 300 swimmers were in my second wave (the other 300 were in the first wave), and fluorescent pink caps spanned a 100-meter stretch on Sandy Point Beach.

The start was by far the most aggressive open-water swim start I’ve been in. I was exposed to flailing elbows and thrashing feet fighting for a position, and several times I felt like those pop-up gophers in the arcade games when I was bopped on the head by violent fists coming down for a stroke. I wasn’t competing with triathletes who, at least from my experience, seem content to drift back a little to catch hold of someone else’s bubbles. This aggressive start had me run over, running over others, and kicking white water in an attempt to propel myself past 299 others who had the same frame of mind: “Get outta my way!” I tried to match the other swimmers in terms of aggressiveness, but at a mere 5-feet and with biceps that can barely muster curling 10-pound weights, I was no match for those guys whose shoulder girth spanned my entire height.
About 200 meters from the beach start, 2 buoys marked a slight left-hand turn to start the 4-mile stretch between the Bay Bridges. My adrenaline was still flowing fast; I focused on the mantra “Reach. Extend.” with each stroke, not wanting to complicate my simple mind with technical details. The pack thinned out quickly, and soon there were no bubbles around me. “Either they got rid of me, or I got rid of them,” I thought, although I knew it was a combination of the two. I was surrounded by pink caps everywhere, but the currents and our own paces furthered the horizontal and vertical distances between each swimmer.

For the first mile, I felt really strong. I saw the helicopters circling overhead, and I wondered what their view was like: 300 pink and 300 green swim caps dotted throughout the extension between the Bay Bridges. I passed the slowest pack from the first wave at about ¾ mile, almost getting punched in the goggles by a breaststroke kick.

At the head of mile 2, I reached the currents. The water was significantly choppier, and I struggled to keep a high cadence with my stroke. I wasn’t tired; to be honest, I think I might have been a bit bored. The waves prevented me from keeping a steady rhythm, and I slogged through. I wondered whether the kayaking volunteers ever felt like teasing the swimmers with their oars, just for their own entertainment. Where was the first place dude now – already at mile 3? Where did all the seagulls go? I hadn’t seen one in about 5 minutes.

Let’s fast forward to mile 3.

At the halfway point, I passed a ship handing out bananas and water. Green caps (wave 1) clung to the base of the ship, taking a break from the incessant waves that chopped each stroke in half. At this point, I shifted my course so that I was closer to the left-hand bridge, and found myself passing more and more slowing green caps. The pink caps had found their groove, and there didn’t seem to be much position shifting. Again, my mind shut off as I faced the same currents, swallowed the same water, and slogged through a third mile. Seagulls overhead. Hm, I wonder if they’re pooping now. Helicopters still circulated over us, and I wondered if the kayakers were having as much of a party on the surface of the water as those of us in wetsuits tackling the currents with our hands, not paddles.

Mile 4! The end was nowhere in sight, but as I passed the enormous buoy marker that indicated the start of the last 1.4 miles, I felt a little bit of a happy kick and an adrenaline rush that made me shift my focus from nothing to high stroke turnover. I started to read the numbers on the columns of the bridge as I passed them. I passed some pink caps who were flagging, and latched onto several pairs of feet, which were impossible to hold onto for more than 10 meters because of the currents.
Towards the end of the main stretch between the Bay Bridges, there were 2 very obvious, very well-marked buoys that signified the turn to emerge on the other side of the bridges and continue down the home stretch of about 400 meters. I missed those two buoys. I wondered where all my pink-capped brethren had gone, and quickly realized that about 5 meters back, there was a glaring buoy, screaming “Round me!” I turned a sharp right, swam under the bridge, and emerged on the home stretch. I still felt strong, so I focused on 5 pink caps that seemed to be within a realistic catching distance. I caught 4 of them before I felt sand beneath my stroke. I stood up, a bit woozy from being horizontal for more than 2 hours, and ran onto shore to waddle across the finish line. Spectators cheered, G2 was waiting, and a nice fireman sprayed me with his power hose. I downed a couple of slices of navel oranges – the perfect post-swim snack - and wandered around aimlessly before heading over to the results booth.

Official time: 2:07:01.
Pace per mile: 28:52.

I finished 11th in my age group, which I was pretty disappointed about, despite having set no expectations for time or place finish. 11th just doesn’t sound impressive. It has 2 digits. Oh well. I justified it by telling myself that I was probably swimming against people who did two-a-days and had swum in university.

Would I do it again? Probably not, but that’s what I said about the Peace Corps. It doesn’t take away from the Bay Swim being an awesome experience – driving over the Bay Bridge on my way back to Arlington, I thought to myself, “Damn! I swam this!” The currents this year were, from reports of swimmers who have done the Bay Swim in previous years, relatively calmer than most years. Lucky me! I did swallow a fair share of the Chesapeake Bay, but I figure that it’s a great souvenir. My shoulders weren’t sore, but my neck was burned.

Chesapeake Bay 4.4 mile swim? Check!
Next to-conquer on my list? Philly Tri in 2 weeks!

There's a Price Tag on Virginity?

2010-04-21T20:06:00.000-07:00

While living with the Bedouins in Jordan during my Peace Corps stint, my village neighbors would consistently bombard me with questions circulating around those nebulous issues of marriage, dating, sexual practices, religious beliefs, drinking alcohol, and wearing bikinis. Even after two years of living and teaching in Sabha, my closest friends in the village would occasionally pop in a "So when you go back to the U.S.A., you will not care if you are not married?" or "Will you wear the abbaya even in the U.S.A.?"

The answers to any questions regarding issues that would be a judgment of me as an American and Peace Corps representative, or cloud my respect as a teacher in the community, were rehearsed and well-intended: "No, I have never had a boyfriend." "No, I don't wear bikinis in public." "Yes, I believe in God, but not the same God." "No, not everyone in America will sleep with someone after a very nice meal with wine - that is only in the movies. And I don't drink wine. Or beer. Just water. And of course chai."

One of the largest issues circulated around sex: Do boyfriends and girlfriends sleep together? Do couples really have sex before marriage? How can a woman still have respect for herself if she loses her virginity before she is married? My village neighbors couldn't believe what American movies were portraying; one of their favorite references was from the movie Titanic: "Titanic is the best American film ever. Ever. But Kate Winslet should not have slept with Mr. Leo on the ship. That is a disgrace."

In Muslim cultures, premarital sex is forbidden and women are expected to be virgins when they get married. Texting a boy messages like "Flower to me you are" or "Love is the petal I smell when I think you near" meant that you were dating - at least to my female villagers who went to university in the city. Other daughters whose families couldn't afford to pay for university or who didn't pass the high school exam were married to suitable cousins, and we're not talking second or third down the relative line.

Virginity is sacred, and I never admitted to any of my villagers or Muslim friends in Jordan my true sexual status. Why would I lie - outrightly and with a straight, honest expression - to my best friends and neighbors that I'd known for 2 years? Why would I want to shield Bedouin women from true American culture and lie to them to save face? I didn't want to jeopardize my status as a respected English teacher and the first American most of my female students had met - I have no doubt that if certain facts would have surfaced about me, there would be no mercy in the requests by village parents for me to be removed from the school; they would not tolerate their daughters learning from someone who prances in bikinis on the beaches in America.
---------------------------------------------------------
I stumbled across an article in a grocery-store magazine - an interesting read mainly because it points out the new wave of liberalism spreading through the Middle Eastern female population: they're less conservative and more willing to break the traditions that are the foundation of Islam religion.

From Marie Claire magazine, February 2010 edition:

"Virginity For Sale: A new product aims to save lives by making women into 'virgins'"
A Chinese retailer has found a new market in the Middle East by selling virginity to women - in the form of a fake-blood-squirting hymen.
Why would someone want such a thing? If you're a woman living in a conservative country like Egypt or Syria, it could save your life. There, women are expected to be virgins when they get married; failure to produce bloodstains on the sheets can be fatal. Premarital sex is forbidden in Islam, and some hard-line husbands - or even the brides' own families - will beat or even kill women if they don't bleed on their wedding night.
Gigimo, an online sex shop based in China that offers everything from vibrators to "portable urinals," sells the Artificial Virginity Hymen for 30 bucks on its website. How the item works: A small plastic insert adheres to the sides of a woman's cervix. During sex, the pouch is punctured, releasing a red liquid ("not too much but just the right amount," according to the website). The site also offers some free advice: A woman should add "a few moans and groans" to make her case more believable to her partner. What happens to the fake hymen after the deed? It will simply "melt inside the vagina," the site says.
Conservative religious leaders in Egypt have been quick to denounce the fake hymen, promising strict punishment for anyone caught importing it. Let's hope the vendor sends it in an unmarked box.

Where the Wild Things Are - A Tanzanian Safari

2010-01-23T18:40:00.001-08:00

Yes, the obligatory safari when in Africa. I must admit that, even though I love animals and Planet Earth, I wasn't all too excited about spending 4 days in 3 national parks with the sole intention of wildlife spotting.
But how many people can claim they've seen the Big Five - lion, leopard, rhino, elephant, and cape buffalo? And boast that a cheetah came within 3 feet of their convertible jeep? Or that, when camping at the rim of a 3,200-sq-mile crater the size of Crete, 2 wild elephants rumbled through during an early breakfast? Not to be overshadowed, of course, by the thrill of watching a live chase of lion vs gazelle. Even though our entire group cheered for the lion, in hopes of seeing some bloodshed, the gazelle swiftly escaped. And despite their physical hideousness, seeing thousands of wildebeest in a mass seasonal migration was pretty awesome.
We marveled at the gait of the giraffe, the sea of pink flamingos lining the edge of the crater lake, and the 1950's-style hairdo of the cape buffalo. We all proclaimed disgust when, thanks to the power of binoculars, each of us saw a hyena feeding on a carcass, surrounded by 5 vultures waiting their turn.
Four days through Lake Manyara, the Serengeti Reserve, and the Ngorongoro Crater, were enough to satiate my lifetime curiosity for wildlife viewing. And it's pretty awesome to have seen a pride of lions surrounding a near-decapitated giraffe on my birthday. What a great start to, as Vijay and Amrit would proclaim, an auspicious year - 27 = 3 cubed. Having a charcoal-baked birthday cake brought out to my pacha (Swahili for twin) and I as we dined outside in the Serengeti, and hearing Happy Birthday sung in Swahili by 3 off-key Tanzanians, was Kachizi Kamandizi Bareedi (Swahili for 'Cool as a cold banana').

Prefer photos to words? Click here to view my Tanzania album.

Building Snowmen at the Summit of Kilimanjaro

2010-01-21T19:39:00.000-08:00

The 6-day Machame route takes you through every terrain possible. And nearly every climactic zone as well. We started our trek up Mt. Kilimanjaro through rainforest, and our entire first day can be summed up in one word: wet. Boots proclaiming to be waterproof were proven to be posers - our entire group, sporting Merrells and Asolos, had rain sloshing through our socks and shoes by the early afternoon. By the time we arrived at our first base camp, it was pretty much an expected disappointment to find our sleeping bags and sleeping mats had been soaked through.

For the next several days, any trails below 4500 meters were predictably unpredictable. Our late December start coincided with the mvuli, or short rainy season in Tanzania - which translates to bouts of drizzling rain, peeks of radiant sun, blankets of thick fog, and torrential downpours all within the span of an afternoon. An early acceptance that our tents, sleeping bags, and trekking clothes would never be completely dry turned miserable dampness into tolerable humidity.

I adopted a classic trick that was passed down to me by a 56-year-old French backpacker I'd met in the Andes: sleep with any damp clothes or socks in your sleeping bag, and by the time morning rolls around, they'll be remarkably drier because of your natural body heat. Even though I probably slept an average of 3-4 hours each night on Kilimanjaro, it was somehow so satisfying to wake up and pull semi-dry socks out of my sleeping bag.

The 4 1/2 days preceding summit day were, to be blunt, anticlimactic. I'd been spoiled by treks through the Himalayas and the Andes, and for the entire Kili trek, I craved vistas of mountain ranges extending horizontally in each cardinal direction. Mt. Kilimanjaro, as the highest free-standing mountain, afforded none of that. There were no other peaks, save for a single Mt. Meru in the distance. It's a bit depressing to hike for 4 days through intermittent bouts of rain, only catching temporary glimpses of the summit when the fog lifts and the rain clears.

The night of the summit, under a near-full moon, our group (minus 2 who succumbed to AMS - acute mountain sickness) set off at midnight, head lamps directing our dragging feet. Our single-file line of m'gunzus (Swahili for white foreigners), interlaced with Tanzanian porters, trudged up the scree on switchback trails, occasionally running into human traffic jams of slower groups holding up quicker-paced groups. Porters repeatedly nudged us with the now-all-too-familiar phrases of "Pole, pole" (Swahili for 'slowly, slowly') and "Haraka Haraka haina baraka" (Swahili for 'Hurry hurry has no blessing').

Our consistent and steady pace was a perfect match with the sunrise. I arrived at the summit of Mt. Kili and stood at 5895 meters 5 minutes before the sun glared over the horizon. Every prior grumbling about the lack of sun and panoramic views, every morning waking up sleep-deprived, stinky, damp, and bruised, every raindrop that kept me fighting off an interminable cold, was suddenly worth it. Towards the East, Mt. Meru peeked over a blanket of morning fog, and to its left, an iridescent wall of glaciers were the highlight of the summit. The rising sun instantly made the summit tolerable, as my near-frost-bitten fingers slowly dethawed to a degree that I could actually operate my camera.

I spent nearly 20 minutes at the summit, dancing and singing with Lobulu, our head guide who had stayed behind with me as the rest of the group impatiently headed down to base camp, where hot tea and breakfast awaited. Running back down the switchbacks and literally skiing down the scree of the no-longer-active-volcano with Megan, I slapped high-5's with trekkers trudging up to the summit as I gaily skipped down. The glaciers of Mt. Kili had given me the natural high and endorphin rush only afforded by nature.

It took only 90 minutes to make it down to base camp, where a Tanzanian greeted me with a glass of sugary juice and a plate of sugared popcorn balls. As Elle filtered into camp, then Amrit and Nick, followed by Phebe, Megan and I giddily congratulated them on a successful summit and bombarded them with "Wasn't it awesome? Did you see the glaciers? We're so happy - we've already planned our next trip to Aconcagua in Argentina!"

A lazy late-morning nap and a proper meal later, we were only missing one from our group. We all began to worry about our 11th man. It was 13 hours after we had set off at midnight, and Vijay's red jacket wasn't visible from base camp. Several porters were sent with juice and a thermos of tea to rehydrate him. At about 2 pm, Vijay and a crew of about 5 porters strolled into camp. His lips were parched and he was clearly dehydrated, but he was lucid and relieved to have made it back to camp. Summit day was inarguably the most difficult day of the Machame route up Kili...and the most rewarding.

There are certain moments in life that can't be captured through the lens of a video recorder or camera, and that's exactly how I felt at the summit of Kilimanjaro. Even though my hands and toes were frozen, and I hadn't slept more than 3 hours the night before, the sheer bliss when surrounded by glaciers, viewing a 360* panorama of clouds and curved horizons, and shouting "Harry Ya Mwaka Impia!" (Swahili for 'Happy New Year!') with Phebe and 2 Tanzanian guides, was an adrenaline rush of happiness, mile-wide smiles, and contagious laughter.

To view my Tanzania album, click here.

Sprinklings of Brown, Yellow, and White over Tanzania

2010-01-20T22:10:00.000-08:00

All my travels prior to Tanzania have been more spontaneous than planned; a rough itinerary of "must-do and must-see," a few photocopies of Lonely Planet maps, and a pocket dictionary of useful phrases in the local language were pretty much all I needed to feel ready to take on any country.

Backpacking adventures through the Middle East? The only tools necessary to enjoy Arabian nights in a Bedouin tent, camel riding bareback, and 3 am wake-up calls from the village mosques are practiced patience, the willingness to drink bottomless cups of chai, and occasional proclamations of "Insha Allah," "Bismidlah," and "Masha Allah."

The chaos that India exudes from every pore? Combated with an early acceptance that I would be a permanent shade browner (read: filthier) for 6 months, an insatiable curiosity to try every curry, puri, paratha, and kofta sold in a street cart, an adopted dexterity for staring back when stared at, and the confidence to battle nightly with bedbugs.

Peruvian treks in spite of a swine flu epidemic and a warning by the CDC to avoid South America? Easily overcome with the itch to practice my rusty Spanish, an embrace of avocados, churros, and empanadas, a quick willingness to convince myself that underwear and a non-white bra can always be a substitute for a swimsuit when I stumble on thermal hot springs in the middle of the Andes, and the thriftiness of rotating 2 shirts over 5 weeks.

It would only be common sense to assume that my trip to Tanzania would be approached - dove into - with the same spontaneity and zest of prior adventures. Wrong.
Complete, 180* deviation from the "Minimal Planning = Maximum Fun" style. Three months prior to Tanzania, the mastermind of the group, Karthik B., sent our entire 11-person troupe of travelers an Excel spreadsheet that laid out in painstaking detail when, where, and how each segment of the trip would be spent.
The hike up Mt. Kilimanjaro was planned to a tee - what route we would take, an entire list of necessary (and often superfluous) gear to bring to ensure a successful summit, and even how much we should budget for tips.
Our transportation from airport to hotel, and from Arusha to Machame, was prearranged. My expectation of having to fight for a seat on an overcrowded bus was never met: Karthik B. and the tour agency made sure that a van or safari jeep shuttled us 11 Americans to our pre-determined locations.
It still boggles me - the difference in service that 3 months advance planning, and a couple of thousand dollars, can afford you. I have to admit, as much as I thrive off of spontaneous decisions to hitchhike 30 km west to visit a Jain temple or to hop on the roof of a bus so that I can make the red-eye train to Calcutta, having a 2-week itinerary laid out, and not worrying about where I'm going to sleep each night, made the trip...easy. Breathable. Organized.
Especially when traveling in a group of 11 diverse experiences, expectations, and energies, having a Karthik B. among the group to organize the logistics made for smooth sailing to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro and through the Serengeti.

Not to say the rest of us didn't add any dynamic to the group, though. The whole crew formally met the night before we started on the 6-day Machame route to 5895 meters on Mt. Kilimanjaro, and over the course of a too-short 12-day vacation, bonded over discussions of how many times we peed each night at high altitude and indigestion problems, debates over whether Milo or Cadbury's made better hot cocoa, and sleepless nights huddled in damp sleeping bags.

Karthik B - Kudos for bringing together a hodgepodge of South Indians, a duet of Asian giggles, and some white m'gunzus for an unforgettable (and stinky) whirlwind of Tanzanian peaks, ugali, wildlife, and culture.
Sue - Way to kick corporate in the booty and good luck with taking San Francisco by the horns.
K2 - I'm still disappointed that I didn't capture a picture of the rat/mouse/rodent for you.
Amrit - It still cracks me up when I picture your 20-second spurt post-Stella Point, overtaking Megan, then plopping firmly down on a rock.
Nick - Your 2 Ibuprofen tablets saved me from those high-altitude sun headaches.
Megan - It's just the beginning, baby. Rainier in July, Aconcagua in December.
Lizzy - Cheers to a traveling first-aid kit.
Elle - Who else could make running spandex with hiking boots look sexy on the Machame trail? Oh yeah, and Hakuna Matata is from the Lion King. And Sound of Music was not filmed in San Francisco.
Vijay - Our hero. Strolling into base camp after 15 hours of hiking, then being carried down on a stretcher-turned-wheelbarrow; anyone who overcomes dehydration and summits Kili will henceforth be known as "pulling a Vijay."
Phebe - Na Ku Penda, Pacha.

Thanks, Kili crew, for an epic Tanzanian experience. It's ALWAYS Kili time.

If you prefer pictures over words, click here to view my Tanzania album.

TIA, Baby - This Is Africa

2010-01-20T21:03:00.000-08:00

The morning our group departed for the Serengeti, I went for a short run through the town of Arusha. Some stares by the locals, some cheerful outbursts of "Jambo!" (the typical Swahili greeting), but nothing compared to the incessant gawking and rock-throwing by Bedouin farmers and boys when I was living in Jordan.
20 minutes into my run, and only a few seconds after I passed a grinning, toothless man walking in a navy suit and sporting a red baseball cap, a fat insect dove straight into the inner corner of my right eye.

I braked mid-stride, desperately speed-blinking to bat the violating insect out of my eye. I could feel it struggling in my tear duct, cursing itself for the stupidity of flying into an oncoming retina.
Bent over at a 90* angle, stabbing my pinky into my eye in a frantic attempt to flick the insect out, I stood up and realized that Mr. Red Baseball Cap's face was inches from my own.
His curiosity about the m'gunzu (Swahili for "white person" but used on anyone any shade lighter than 70% cocoa) must have peaked when he saw me swatting at my own eyeball in an unsuccessful attempt to get the bug out.
I looked at him, still blinking my right eye at 100 BPM, pointed to my eye, and asked him if he could see anything.
The Tanzanian's reaction came straight out of a comedian's textbook. He pulled my upper and lower lids vertically apart, drew his mouth within 2 inches of my eye, puckered his lips, then sharply exhaled a strong puff of wind directly into my eyeball.
I jerked my head back in response, but he didn't loosen his grip on my lids. He lowered his eyes to my eye level, peered at my right eye, and proclaimed, "Po'a" (Swahili for 'It's cool'). I blinked several times to verify that no bug (or bug appendages) remained lodged in my eye, and thanked him with "Asante sana." We mutually turned our backs on each other, and he continued on his stroll to the morning market while I resumed my morning jog. There are some moments that can only fit a certain time and place, and only in Africa will you encounter a toothless man who voluntarily blows bugs out of m'gunzus' eyes.

For those of you who would rather click through photos rather than read words, click here to view my Tanzania album.

26 Greatest Memories from my 26th Year

2010-01-18T15:00:00.000-08:00

1. Backpacking through southern India, sleeping in hammocks and on rooftops of booked hostels, eating coconut curries with my fingers, and rummaging through stone temples

2. Reuniting with my mom and sister in DC after working and backpacking through the Middle East and Asia for 3 years

3. Falling in love with central heating, air conditioning, high-speed internet, hot showers, western toilets, laundry machines, a real mattress in an elevated bed frame, reliable and efficient transportation, shorts and tanktops, and individualism all over again

4. Rediscovering the ecstasy of raw fish with wasabi and soy sauce

5. Visiting my parents' new house in Utah and seeing the sun room and rock garden

6. Running in shorts and a sports bra outside without having wild dogs chase me or rocks thrown at me by Jordanian snot-nosed children

7. Getting a real haircut for the first time since high school at Supercuts and relishing straight locks and un-split ends

8. Driving Tic Tac

9. Team in Training - early weekend morning BRICK workouts, happy hour fundraisers, overly enthusiastic and addicted training partners

10. Watching the sun rise over Machu Picchu in Peru

11. Soaking my feet in thermal hot springs in the world's deepest canyon - Colca Canyon, Peru

12. Trekking through the Huayhuash Range in the Andes with 11 Israelis, a perrito blanco, and 2 Peruvian brothers as our guides. I learned a lot of Hebrew and Spanish in those 7 days in the mountains

13. The pure ecstasy of standing at 5752 meters at the summit of Pisco, turning 360* and seeing only snow-capped, jagged mountain peaks layered on a blanket of clouds

14. Becoming an REI member

15. Walking through the cheese section at Whole Foods and realizing that, in America, it really is all about choice

16. Cheering Phebe on at the Pittsburgh Marathon

17. The luxury of having my own kitchen to experiment in and friends and family to cook for

18. Road trip to Philly with Phebe and Will, 4-course meal at an open-kitchen Italian restaurant, watching Ryan Hall and Phebe Ko race, munching away at the Elite Marathoners tent

19. Nation's Triathlon - a 1.5K swim through giardia-infested Potomac waters, a 40K bike ride through roads leading back to my Bethesda stomping grounds, and a 10K run past a series of national monuments. The beginning of a wonderful addiction to triathlons.

20. Potluck dinners with my uncle's Chinese friends and DC buddies

21. Clasping near-frost-bitten hands at the summit of Kilimanjaro,
marveling at the curvature of the horizon and the iridescent
glaciers at the highest point in Africa

22. Belting lyrics at Rob Thomas concert

23. An all-you-need buffet of Under Armour clothes, compliments of my best friend (and world's greatest sister)

24. Sleeping in on weekend mornings in Arlington for no reason other than a great conversation and the law of entropy

25. A trio of Tanzanians singing "Happy Birthday" in Swahili on Jan. 5th, and sharing a charcoal-baked vanilla cake with friends in the Serengeti Reserve under a brilliant blanket of stars...while swatting at a constant swarm of flying African beetles

26. Planning future trips to jungles and summits in the Americas and Asia

Travel Bug Bites again!

2009-10-08T20:53:00.000-07:00

I've been bitten again. This time it's not an Asian bug, nor a Middle Eastern virus. South America has already infected me, and left a hungry appetite for exploring Argentina and Chile the next time around. My most recent infection, spurred by the lure of a cheap plane ticket (don't they all start that way?), some National Geographic photos, an unsettling itch to summit another peak, and a very convenient vacation period in my job, is MT. KILIMANJARO.

So, another adventure abroad awaits in December. Except this one's a bit different. I'm not going solo, relying on rudimentary translations from a dictionary in an attempt to speak the local language, and I won't be sleeping in 12-bed dorm rooms at backpacker hostels with 11 other Israelis. For the first time abroad, I'm traveling with my twin sister and a troupe of university friends. I've gotten so used to traveling alone and making my own schedule, sleeping on rooftops and doing laundry in the hostel bathrooms, that I'm sure several adjustments are needed if I'm going to be tolerable to my travel buddies.

To start with, I'll pack more than my basic 2 outfits. To gain respect, I'll need to show that I have better hygiene than a day outfit rotated with a p.j. outfit.
I'll probably also have to cut down on my baby wipe showers and take regular water showers - for the sake of appearing not completely hobo-ish.
And I certainly can't couchsurf when I'm traveling with 11 other friends. I'll also have to give up my independence; it would be considered rude if I abandoned the day's plans because "I had a conversation with another backpacker and he recommended that we do this instead." I certainly can't change a whole group's plans based on my own whimsical fancies and gut instinct that spontaneity makes everything better.

Tanzania, I'm borrowing nearly all my year's vacation for you. Please reciprocate by blessing me with sunny and clear skies, jaw-dropping views, and an absence of any AMS symptoms among my friends and me at the summit of Mt. Kili!

Almost Nap Time!!

2009-09-26T01:35:00.001-07:00

It's 4:34 am, and van #2 has just done our last slap-bracelet exchange for the night...er, morning. Virginia's heading out on her second leg, a 5.6 mile run starting in Frederick. I'm still awake and bright-eyed from my own 5.6 mile leg, a boring, follow-the-highway-shoulder run that was in pure darkness.
The team headlamp, handed off to me by an Energizer Pickles, was sweaty and heavy. Very sweaty. And dying. But its progressively dimming beam helped me to avoid any roadkill on the shoulder of the highway.
Team highlights of all of our second legs: Pickles reported a hill-billy coming out on his front porch at 1:30 am to ask what this whole 200-mile bid'ness is 'bout. I avoided stepping on racoon brains and my only scenery thru pure darkness was a half-moon. Heather had to cross the highway twice because of a very sketchy pickup truck "waiting" in her running path. Andrea ran, headlamp-less, thru dark alleys in Frederick to salsa music jammin' on her iPod. Eric stepped, no joke, on a bloody serrated knife lying in the middle of the sidewalk. Location: Frederick. He couldn't identify any corpses or victims, but now all of us van #2 are "shadowing" Virginia, the last runner of our van. Making sure she crosses that finish line safely so we can all finally have some sleep.
Van #1, we really wouldn't mind if you took a bit longer on all of your third legs.
Basso, 2 bananas are waiting for you to inhale them.
Follow the team's progress and pictures here!
- Mindy

Following the Carfax Ragnar Relay team

2009-09-25T16:34:00.000-07:00

rIt's Ragnar time! 200 miles, 12 runners on each team, and 2 vans full of food, power and gu gels, water, bananas, stinky shoes, and sweaty running jerseys. I've just finished my first leg of 5.7 miles, and I'm in Van #2 now, cheering on runner #9 Andrea and updating the Carfax team's blog for all those fans following us all the way from Cumberland to DC! Click here for live updates on our team's journey...can't wait til the post-race party at RFK Stadium!

Ragnar Relay: A 200-mile relay with 12 runners

2009-09-19T18:13:00.000-07:00

Next weekend, I'll be racing with 11 other runners in a relay from Cumberland, MD to Washington, D.C.. I'd heard second-hand about the Ragnar Relay from a bike coach and a team captain that I had trained with for the Nation's Triathlon.
Two days ago, a fellow triathlete sent me an email, detailing that her Ragnar Relay team was desperate for a female runner to replace one of her teammates who had been injured and was unable to race. It didn't take long to convince me that staying up for over 24 straight hours, running a total of 16.4 miles, some in the middle of the night,riding in a van and cheering on my teammates, and taking turns cycling next to a running teammate to encourage them would be exactly how I want to spend a hard-earned weekend.
The Ragnar Relay starts in the Appalachian town of Cumberland, MD, and ends in the heart of the nation's capitol. The 193-mile course begins by following the C&O Canal, then sometime in the middle of the night diverts from the trail to roads that weave through charming historic Civil-War towns. By the next morning, the 12 of us will be finishing the relay in the vicinity of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. Each of us will run three legs, ranging between 3 and 8 miles.
Am I pumped, excited, and thrilled to be running with the Carfax team? A resounding yes, yes, and YES! Do I care that my weekends have, for the past 4 months, been geared towards running events, bike workouts, and triathlon training? Or that my "Favorites" on my computer are filled with future races, USAT events, training programs, and sites devoted to cycling and the latest road bike reviews? Not one bit, and I'll continue succumbing to these fanciful whims to race and train for events that give me a reason to wake up at 6 am on weekends and innocently indulge in carbs each meal!

Confessions of a Triathlon Addict

2009-09-15T18:10:00.000-07:00

Blame it on my insatiable appetite to get my hands dirty in something new, or my itchiness to be the first Ko to pay over $200 for a bike...when I moved back to the States after more than two years abroad, I decided to try a new event.

Rock climbing? Check, but every time I go it costs $40. Yikes.
Half-marathon? Check, check - in Houston and in Jordan.
Marathon? No thanks; I'd rather have knees when I'm 50.
Triathlon? Hmmm...why not?

And so the obsession began.

After some quick research, I settled on racing in the Nation's Triathlon - an Olympic-distance event in Washington, D.C.. My "research" must not have been too thorough, though: the race had sold out about 4 weeks before. The only option? Sign up with Team in Training, the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's largest fund-raising program.

And so I became an advocate for blood cancer research. For the next 4 months, I lived and breathed for training and raising money. I exuded triathlon fumes. Emails sent out to relatives and friends pleaded for any amount that would inch me closer to my fundraising goal of $2800. Some donated $5; others donated quirky amounts like $104.37. As the triathlon date of September 13 crept closer, I blasted the emails harder and more frequently and hosted several fundraising happy hours as excuses for friends to spend money on a good time and simultaneously contribute to my campaign to Annihilate Blood Cancer.

I had no idea how to train for a triathlon, and registering with Team in Training was the perfect remedy. TNT coaches and mentors hosted weekly BRICK workouts, an acronym triathletes use to refer to Bike + Run = ICK. My first team workout, I took my uncle's mountain bike, a dusty, too-big, fat-wheeled, heavy monster from Craig's List. I hadn't ridden a bike since I chased the postman around the block, but Hey, I thought, how hard can it be to balance on 2 wheels? I balance on 5 toes in yoga all the time! On the road, though, I found myself passed by 60-year-old recreational riders out for a stroll on their skinny-tired road bikes.

It was only a matter of weeks before I succumbed to my road-bike envy and bought myself a Felt FW35: a bold and beautiful, sleek frame with skinny tires and Ultegra components! My tri-friends had warned me about riding clipless, and so I practiced for an hour in an empty school parking lot, riding in circles, clipping in and out, giddy with excitement every time I felt the satisfying click when my shoes nestled in the right place on those big-as-my-palm pedals as I gently rotated my ankle outwards.

My weekends became booked with brick workouts, open water swims, and endurance runs - and I loved it. On Mondays, I couldn't wait until Saturday, when I'd wake up to a 6 am alarm, drive for an hour to get out of the city, and power through a 3-hour workout with my fellow triathletes-in-training. My quads, once flabby from eating goat and fried eggplant for two years in Jordan, slowly started to show traces of muscle. I started copying other athletes, wearing cycling shorts that made me feel like I was wearing a diaper but saved my butt from the numbness of a 2-hour ride on a tiny saddle. As the date of the Nation's Triathlon approached, I increased my training rides and runs, grew more comfortable in open (and brown) water, and ate like a sumo champ to compensate for my 2-a-day workouts.

The donation that put me over my fundraising goal of $2800 for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society was from Alan Lyss, the father of my honored teammate Aaron. I had met Aaron through swim practices at my gym; in simple words, Aaron is a lymphoma survivor, competitive triathlete, brother and son. Diagnosed with lymphoma on his 28th birthday, he underwent 6 cycles of aggressive chemotherapy and during his treatment, came up with the brilliant idea that he'd compete in a triathlon only 3 months after he finished his last chemo treatment. And he did. He beat cancer, and he beat the lows that come with chemo to surface as a triathlete, a mentor, and a hero.

On September 13, the day of the Nation's Triathlon, I was pumped, psyched, giddy, nervous, anxious, and nearly peeing with excitement in my wetsuit. A few minutes before my heat's 7:54 am start, I was treading water in the Potomac, waving to my family on the sidelines, and peering out into the horizon at a stream of swimmers from previous heats. As soon as that gun went off, I made a beeline for the first orange buoy. Around every buoy corner, I met ankles and elbows, and fought to cut the closest corner. Several times, I swam straight into the hips or crotch of a slower swimmer from the previous heat, unable to avoid the crash because of near-zero visibility in the Potomac.

1.5 kilometers and 26:46 later, I was in T1 (1st transition). I slipped out of my wetsuit, strapped my helmet on, took a deep breath, and smiled. Bon Jovi was blaring from the megaphone over the 24,000 square foot transition area that housed more than $1,000,000 worth of bikes. And I was in the center of it all! A quick check to make sure I had all my gear, and I hoisted my bike off its rack and ran to the bike exit.

The bike course was flat, breezy, and followed a route that I'd driven repeatedly in TicTac, my Honda Civic. Repeated calls of "On your left. LEFT!" were made by impatient cyclists passing slower bikers who were straddling the center of the road. 40 K and 1 hour, 22 minutes later, I was back in transition for T2, exchanging my road bike shoes for a pair of bright yellow Asics racing flats.

The run was fast. I surprised myself. Redemption time, I thought, as I steadily passed the cyclists who, just half an hour earlier, had been screaming at me to get out of their 30-mph-bike path. At each aid station, I splashed my face with water to cool myself from the ruthless absence of shade. 10 kilometers and 44:29 later, as I turned the final corner, I heard the famous Team in Training cowbells. This must be how people feel when they talk about angels singing, I realized, as each annoying cowbell clanger and "Go, Team, Go!" cheer grew louder and more frequent. Volunteers and staff from Team in Training, sporting bright purple shirts and purple-and-green pom-poms, yelled at me from the sidelines. My family and friends leaned over the tape dividing the course between the sidelines, spitting into my face to "Go, Mindy! GO! You can do it!"

And I did it. I completed my first triathlon in 2:39:12, beating my tentative goal of sub-3 hours. I raised over $3000 for blood cancer research, surpassing my initial goal of $2400. I fostered a new addiction and found a reason to justify eating big breakfasts, even bigger lunches, and massive dinners. Triathlons, let me tell you, can lead to an obsession worse than any caffeine or TV-series addiction. It makes you do insane things, like buying a $1000 road bike and waking up at 4 am on Sunday mornings so that you can have the roads all to yourself. It makes you want to swim in giardia-infested waters with seaweed clinging to your wetsuit. It makes you quiver with excitement when you hit mile 7 of an endurance training run. It introduces you to the most overzealous, obsessed, inspiring, and motivated community in any city.

I'm hooked, I'm happy, I'm healthy, and I'm gonna keep on racing in triathlons if this high from racing in the Nation's Triathlon repeats itself each event. I've already lined up a schedule of future Olympic-distance triathlons that I plan to train for in October, May, and April. And in June, it culminates in a half-Ironman. There's no better way to spend my first winter back in the States than training for triathlons.

The Merits of Pescetarianism

2009-04-16T15:59:00.000-07:00

Since my return to the U.S., I've been surprised at how much meat we Americans inhale.
For the entire two years that I lived in Jordan, chicken on Fridays was the norm.
This meant lentils or potatoes Saturdays-Thursdays.
Occasionally, there would be goat meat or, for the annual celebration of Eid al-Adha, camel meat. My favorite days were when my neighbors' daughter, with her 10-month-brother on her hip, would be standing at my door when I came home from teaching, and in one breath pronounce, "My mom made fish for lunch today and she wants you to come over and don't forget to bring the coloring book that you brought last time because then we can play after lunch while she takes her nap." Fish, or samak in Arabic, was a delight; my neighbor would stuff the fillets with a concoction of tahini paste, parsley, tomatoes, and spices, then bake them in a simmering sauce tinged with flavors of whatever was fresh from the fields that day.
While traveling in India and Nepal, meat was a luxury that I actually learned not to miss. When the whole country subsists on a daily diet of dal, or lentils, and they cook it perfectly, you don't find yourself craving anything else. Without trying to, I was a vegetarian in India and Nepal for two consecutive months. Their curries and vegetables are so fresh, and paired so perfectly with turmeric and cumin, that I never once thought, "A fat, juicy steak would go really with this nan bread."
I know Americans love meat, but it still shocked me how regularly they consume it. At least once a day. Sometimes, you even have different meat options on the same dinner table (especially at a Chinese dinner table).
When I first arrived back on American soil, I voraciously gobbled up meat when I went out to dinner with my family and friends. I satiated myself with second and third helpings of the Main Meat Dish at home-cooked meals. It felt good to use those molars to gnaw away at a rare steak or to bite down into a chicken breast.
Then, a series of fortunate events fell into place, and I found myself proclaiming to the world that I am a Pescetarian! My family looked at me in confusion. Was this some sort of mutated branch of veganism? Has my daughter been overly influenced by the baba gis and bizarre hippies she met in India? Is she turning anorexic?
No, no, and no.
My new adopted lifestyle is simply that I consume any and every food except for the meats of land animals. I still eat fish (note to future dates: I love sushi), still eat cheese (note #2 to future dates: I love cheese), and still eat eggs and dairy products (note #3 to future dates: I love ice cream). I have converted to soy milk, but I still eat regular yogurt and cheese products.
I'm proud to say that I've been pescetarian for over two months now. And truthfully, in some small way, I feel like I'm making a difference. It's not just about animal cruelty; it's also about the health benefits.

I recently ran into a PETA booth, and grabbed some quick facts that justified my switch to pescetarianism and actually made me consider turning vegan.* Besides the obvious claims advocating for animals' rights, here are some to consider:

- A USDA study found that 96% of broiler chicken carcasses had detectable levels of E. coli, indicating fecal contamination.
Translation: In every package of chicken, there's a little poop.

- In the U.S., we have the highest permitted upper limit of milk pus cell concentration in the world - nearly twice the international standard of allowable pus cells.
Translation: Got pus? Milk does.

- Raising animals for food generates more greenhouse gases than all the cars and trucks in the world combined.

- Going vegetarian does more to fight global warming than switching to a hybrid car does.

- Raising animals for food requires more than 1/3 of all raw materials and fossil fuels in the U.S..

- Cattle-ranching is the #1 cause of Amazonian deforestation.

- The meat industry causes more water pollution in the U.S. than all other industries combined.

Let's close with a good one from Bill Maher: "Meat is dirty. I wouldn't touch a hot dog without a condom on it."

*I didn't turn vegan. But I thought about it. Then I thought about sushi and cheese.

Obama's Inauguration: Lines, Crowds, and a Lotta Awesome Energy

2009-01-20T16:12:00.001-08:00

Everyone was jealous. "I* got tickets to Obama's inauguration" instigated looks of outright awe and jaws hanging in disbelief. "And," I boasted, "they're blue." Blue tickets to Obama's inauguration basically translate into a standing room area that doesn't require binoculars to see the action and is close enough that you won't be staring at the Jumbotron with a stiff neck.
My mom, JoJo (Chinese for maternal uncle), my twin, and I set off for the Metro at 8:30 am on January 20. Once we transferred to the blue line at the Metro Center, the energy was electric. A sea of smiling Democrats proudly sported Obama pins and American flags. Phebe and I caught the contagious fever, and we excitedly anticipated standing in front of The Capitol, screaming out of sheer delight for Aretha Franklin and Yo-Yo Ma and peeing our long john and fleece pants when Obama would take stage.
Once we broke through the Metro crowd and out into fresh air, we were greeted by throngs of people speed-walking to The Capitol. We quickly followed the signs pointing to "Blue Gate."
Almost immediately, my family and I were hit by a roadblock of blue-ticket bearers. The line that spilled over the flimsy metal barricades was long, but there was no other way. We were pushed into the standing crowd, where the question of "Is this the Blue line?" was asked from every direction and greeted with the response "We think so. At least we got Blue."
And so, we waited. After 15 minutes, the sea surged forward. Cheers erupted as feet shuffled forward...but only 4 meters. Every 20 minutes or so, there would be a ripple of excitement as the line shifted ever closer to the gate...an inch at a time.
After 2 hours of standing in the DC winter cold and moving forward only 100 meters, the crowd grew impatient. The impending inaugural speech was only 40 minutes away, and at the rate we were moving, we wouldn't get past security by 3:00 pm tomorrow. Rumors filtered backwards - "Security has a problem so they have to check bags and people by hand," "They gave out more tickets than the blue area can hold, so there's no room for more people," and "We're not moving because people are jumping the barricades in front of the entrance gate and cutting in front of us" drew impatient sighs and cursewords from everyone.
Several times, we saw people quitting - they realized that it was useless to stand in the cold in a line that wasn't moving and chose to race to the nearest Jumbotron or bar to catch Obama's anticipated speech. The crowd I was in employed a 6-foot, 2-inch man to report our status. He borrowed a fellow Democrat's binoculars, and scanned the horizon. I couldn't see anything other than rows of fleece hats.
"What do you see?" us midgets shouted to our fellow giant.
"Uh, we're at least an hour from the security gate, and then there's another 500 meters to the Blue entrance gate. And the crowd is thick up there - it's not moving at all."
"Well, do you see people going through the security line?"
"I think so..."
After 20 more minutes of waiting and not moving, a rumor filtered through that the gates were now closed. My family and I decided to call it quits; besides, it was only 20 minutes until Obama was going to be sworn in, and there was no way we were going to be able to charge our way through the thousands ahead of us.
As we fell out of line, we found another standstill line...and the hundreds standing in that line claimed, "This is the right Blue line."
We had just stood in a Blue line for more than 2 hours! Now you're telling me that we were standing in the wrong line the whole time? No Jumbotrons were in sight, and my craving for Chinese dumplings was overcoming my Obama-mania adrenaline. We called it quits, and headed to the Metro to go to a small Chinese cafe.
So, I tried. I had the ticket in my hand (and still do), but all I did while everyone was feasting their eyes on The Capitol, Aretha Franklin, Yo-Yo Ma, and the Obamas was freeze, stare at fleece hats, and grumble with the other Blue-ticket holders about how the ticket committee gave out too many for too little space.
There is no next time; the best I can do is watch it on YouTube. Sigh. I feel sorry for myself and for the thousands of others who came all the way to DC from the South and West coasts just to see Obama, but never even caught a glimpse of him. Even the inauguration concert 2 days earlier was better organized.

*well, not really me. My mom got tickets by contacting the Utah senator.

Food around the World

2009-01-17T14:40:00.000-08:00

I love food.
Here's what's eaten in different countries in one week around the world. And when you get to Ecuador, check out Papa's smile. It's humongous.

Chad: The Aboubakar family of Breidjing Camp
Food expenditure for one week: 685 CFA Francs or $1.23

Bhutan: The Namgay family of Shingkhey Village
Food expenditure for one week: 224.93 ngultrum or $5.03

Ecuador: The Ayme family of Tingo
Food expenditure for one week: $31.55

Egypt: The Ahmed family of Cairo
Food expenditure for one week: 387.85 Egyptian Pounds or $68.53

Poland: The Sobczynscy family of Konstancin-Jeziorna
Food expenditure for one week: 582.48 Zlotys or $151.27

Mexico: The Casales family of Cuernavaca
Food expenditure for one week: 1,862.78 Mexican Pesos or $189.09

United States: The Revis family of North Carolina
Food expenditure for one week $341.98

Germany: The Melander family of Bargteheide
Food expenditure for one week: 375.39 Euros or $500.07

Italy: The Manzo family of Sicily
Food expenditure for one week: 214.36 Euros or $260.11

Dogs (Woohoo!) vs. Cats (Booooooo)

2009-01-17T14:14:00.000-08:00

I'm a Dog Person. I don't like cats; in fact, I despise them. When people tell me they have cats, it's never just 1 - they always have 3 or 4 cats. Dog people have just 1 - why? Because you don't need to accumulate dogs to know that you've found the Perfect Pet. Dogs are better because they teach us valuable lessons, like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.
Take naps.
Stretch before rising.
Run, romp, and play daily.
Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.
On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.
On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.
When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body.
Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.
Be loyal.
If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.

Anatoli Boukreev's Great Words

2009-01-08T16:16:00.000-08:00

Anatoli Boukreev was a Russian climber, a mountaineering legend. From 1989-1997, he made 18 ascents on peaks above 8000 meters. He died in an avalanche on Annapurna in 1997, but no one today doubts that he had the stuff that Gods are made of.

When I was at Annapurna Base Camp, I read this quote by him, and I think it truly reflects what an obsession that climbing can become for some true fanatics.

"I wanted to achieve something essential in life, something that is not measured by money or position in society. I wanted to respect myself as a man, and I wanted the respect of my friends and family. My fate was to be an athlete. I was born with a certain physical and mental ability...I have tried to use those gifts to realize myself as a human being. The mountains are not stadiums where I satisfy my ambitions to achieve. They are my cathedrals, the houses of my religion. Their presence is grand and pure. I go to them as all humans go to worship. In their presence I attempt to understand my life, to purify myself of earthly vanity, green and fear. On their alter I strive to perfect myself physically and spiritually. From their vantage point, I view my past, dream of the future and with unusual acuteness I experience the present. My ascents renew my strength and clear my vision. They are the way I practice my religion. In the mountains I celebrate creation, on each journey I am reborn."

My First True Love upon Return to the States: The Office

2009-01-08T15:24:00.000-08:00

It's a lottery when you travel alone - who will you end up seated next to on a fifteen-hour flight from Delhi to Chicago?
A. Silent, sleeping types
B. Talkative but courteous types who shut up the minute you put on headphones or read the in-flight magazine
C. Garrulous types who keep on asking questions or giving you their life histories, even when you close your eyes to take a nap.
D. Business executive types who bring out their laptops the minute the captain gives the "Electronics good to go" speech - they're almost an extinct species in the economy class.
E. Mom with a crying baby on her lap. It makes me want to suffocate the kid.
F. Mom with a calm, cooing baby on her lap. It makes me happy.
G. Coughing, hacking grandpa. I wonder about his past: Was he a smoker? Does he have bronchitis? Is he traveling alone, too? Does he have any teeth left?
H. Supremely annoying types who watch the in-flight entertainment and burst out laughing manically every five minutes or cry at the end of the featured drama movie.

That's me. I'm H.

Yes, I confess to my crime of being one of the people You Fear Sitting Next to on a Plane. But it was my first time in 31 months that I had a television that wasn't blasting Bollywood music videos or horrible Arabic soap operas. I took advantage of my personal TV to watch three episodes of a TV show that I'd heard mentioned in the Peace Corps circle: The Office.
It was hilarious. I laughed out loud, unabashed that Steve Carrell's poker face amused me that much. And who is this Dwight character? Is he supposed to be mentally retarded on the show? If he is, great; if he isn't, great. I loved him either way.
Every 2 or 3 minutes, I'd burst out with a series of spastic laughs, and since I couldn't hear myself (I was wearing headphones and suffering an ear infection that rendered me deaf in my left ear), I didn't bother to tone it down. I mean, how else would you react when Steve Carrell burns his foot on a grill and then his coworker pops the plastic bubble wrap that his foot is wrapped in? What was I supposed to do when Dwight showed up in a kurta (traditional Indian men's dress) at a Diwali dinner and then tried to dance? And I couldn't help myself when Steve Carrell thought the samosas were s'mores and spit them out mid-chew on his plate.
Honestly, it felt great. The Office was hilarious and just the type of American humor that I missed while abroad. The only disappointing thing was that American Airlines had only three episodes available. But next time you sit next to someone like me, resist that urge to slap them silent, because who knows? They could just be enjoying some comedy after years of deprivation from entertainment as legendary as The Office.
Let them have their laugh (or 2, or 3...maybe 67). It would've been quite tragic if I would've tried to suppress any laughter - most likely, I would've wound up with snot all over my hand and that TV screen in front of me.

Good Ol' America

2009-01-08T15:15:00.000-08:00

I touched American soil for the first time in 31 months this morning at 5:35 am in Chicago, Illinois. I had to transfer through two American airports (Chicago and Nashville) before arriving in DC, where my mom stood waiting with her camera. Some of the fascinating things and habits that I saw meandering through the airports while waiting for connecting flights:

- All toilets are sit-down. No squatters.
- You can throw toilet paper in the toilet.
- All faucets are automatic, and they all work.
- You don't need to bring your own toilet paper with you to the bathroom.
- People throw their trash in the trash cans.
- There are trash cans.
- No one stares at anyone else.
- Women travelling alone.
- TVs in the airport lounge.
- In Chicago, where it was freezing outside, the minute I was out of the walkway connecting the plane and in the actual airport, I wasn't shivering. The power of central heating.
- Diet Pepsi has a new can!
- So does Coke!
- Almost everyone in the airport was well-dressed - and everyone was wearing closed-toe shoes! No plastic sandals or hand-me-down flip flops here.
- Cell phone obsession.
- There were two Starbucks in 1 terminal in Chicago!
- When people queue for customs and to board the plane, there's no cutting in line. People assemble in an orderly, single-file line, and there are no Bedouin women or impatient Indian men who simply walk to the front because they don't understand the concept of "You were here first, you're served first."
- African Americans! Didn't see much of you guys in Jordan or India :)
- Men wearing plain t-shirts. In the Middle East and India, all men wear shirts with print like, "I steal girlfriends" and "If you like what you see, you deserve to be with me." No joke. It's embarrassing just to be caught reading one.
- Drinking fountains...with safe drinking water!
- Well-behaved kids.
- Strollers. Those still exist? I'd gotten so used to babies straddling mothers' hips or tied to their mothers' backs with a scarf that I'd thought strollers were extinct.
- Snow in Chicago.
- Southern accents in Nashville.
- No Smoking - and people obeying these signs.
- Carpeted floors.

And these were just when I was at the airports waiting for connecting flights!

Birthday BBQ

2009-01-08T14:55:00.000-08:00

Swinging on a hammock strung from a thatched roof, I was enjoying a cup of chai on my birthday (Jan 5), pondering whether or not to lather on some mosquito repellent. I was devoting a day to exploring Auroville, a "universal town where men and women of all countries are able to live in peace and progressive harmony" as a second-to-last-stop in India before I jetted off to American soil.
Just as I was about to order myself a birthday dinner of egg masala dosa with a side of Bombay toast, 4 Indians and a German rose to leave the outdoor cafe. There wasn't even an introduction, but one of them went, "We're having a BBQ. You hungry?"
And I went, "Yeah."
And he went, "OK. You like fish?"
And I went, "If it's fresh."
And so I hopped on his motorbike, clutching a bag full of hours-ago-alive mackerel in my right hand and a plastic bag full of charcoal in my left. Off we roared through dirt trails and winding paths (Auroville thrives on ecofriendliness and natural roads), leading us to a thatched hut that was built out of all-natural materials, like most homes in Auroville.
For the next 20 minutes, we argued over how to make a fire. Two of the Indians were from Mumbai and had absolutely no idea what was required. I contributed by commenting about dry wood and some flint, maybe a couple of squirts of fuel from the motorbike's tank. The German guy didn't understand anything - his English was a bit slow. The third Indian was content smoking his joint while staring at the rest of us. And the Aurovillean host, having the advantage of several fire-starting experiences under his belt, finalized the decision by ordering all of us to find branches and break off dry twigs.
Once the fire started, Mr. Joint's job was to fan the fire every 5 minutes or so with a tin plate to make sure the flames didn't lose their vivacity. It took three hours to cut the vegetables and to clean and marinate the fish, not because it was a tedious task, but because the German and the host were involved in a deep conversation about finding the true purpose of existence, one was in charge of the fire, and the other 2 Indians and I debated over what spices to use and how we wanted to cook the fish.
But, as they wisely proclaim, "Patience is a virtue," and at 11:30 pm we all squatted around the fire. A delicious array of baked potatoes, masala-roasted mackerel, and barbequed onions lay spread out on the makeshift grill, along with a skillet of calamari that had oozed black ink and turned into what the Indian to my direct right called "cow shit." We set the calamari out for the cats to devour.
Then, we all ate until our stomachs bulged. My breaking point was when I couldn't even squat anymore because my stomach was being pressured by the weight of my thighs. A mere shift in position afforded more space for some extra mackerel.
We all rolled back, and it was then that I realized how much all 5 of these guys had smoked while I'd been oblivious to the number of joints being passed around (I say No! to drugs, like a good Mormon). In the middle of a conversation about potatoes, the fat Indian guy across from me suddenly asked, "What if there were a round classroom, like this?"
With a twig, he drew a circle in the dirt.
"And what if the teacher said, 'Go stand in the corner. Where do you go?'"
Then he started laughing hysterically. I couldn't help myself. It was a funny joke, and the randomness made it even more worthy. I joined in. Life was...life is great. A fish BBQ on the night of my birthday under a starry sky, eavesdropping on Mr. German commenting on his mission to find The Divine Path of His Life, and slapping thighs with Mr. Fatty whenever he cracked a joke was the perfect almost-ending to a perfect vacation in India.

You're a Doctor?

2009-01-05T02:19:00.000-08:00

Most of the travelers I've met don't trust the medical facilities in India, comparing it to the five-story, immaculate, marble-tiled hospitals in America. "Clinics" in India can be a windowless room connected to the "doctor's" house (saw one like this in a village in the Uttaranchal mountains), or a wooden room with 2 plastic chairs, a poster of Britney Spears, and 2 shelves full of meds that even the "doctor" didn't know how to pronounce (ran into here while trekking in Darjeeling). Lucky me, in 5 months of traveling, I hadn't succumbed to any injuries or sicknesses that required anything more than 2 Advil or squatting patiently (with twisted grimaces) over the hole-in-the-ground toilet several times a night.
But 3 days ago, I was swimming in the oceans in Varkala, reveling in turquoise waters that were ferociously strong. The waves were about half the height of a very decent surf, and I was humming doo-wa-diddy to myself when I got caught in a fast one. It flipped me under, and I immediately clawed my way up for air, but the waves were so strong that I actually somersaulted twice underwater before I broke through the surface.
Woohoo! That was awesome! I thought, and waited for more strong waves to tumble me around. There weren't any rocks or coral on the seabed, so I knew I wouldn't be crashing into anything that could render me unconscious.
The next morning, though, my left ear was pounding. It felt like it was plugged - like when you fly in a plane or ascend altitude quickly while driving. I couldn't hear out of it; there seemed to be a bubble in my ear canal.
The pain didn't go away, even after a strong coffee and my last Ibuprofen tablet. There were no hospitals or clinics in Varkala, so I waited until two days later, when I arrived (after an exhausting 17-hour train ride that started at 3 am) in Pondicherry. Pondi is a fairly big city in southern India, bordered on the west by the Bay of Bengal and populated by more than 220,000.
The first "clinic" I went to was closed. On the metal gate hung a sign: "Open 7 am-1 pm, 3 pm-7pm ever day." I looked at my watch: 9:30 am. No use waiting for a doctor who doesn't stick to his hours.
The next two clinics I walked to had no one who spoke English. Moving on.
The fourth clinic was bustling, a good sign, and one of the patients asked me, "What you want?" I told him I had what might be an ear infection.
"Here, no do that. Here only gives shots and takes blood. You go to Bussy Street. 5 minute walk."
Sure enough, as I looked around, all the patients were getting shots or having blood drawn (there were no separate rooms with doors or curtains; it was all happening in one big room with several long wooden tables).
I moved on, and eventually hit an Ayurvedic clinic that a. was open (score!), b. had an English-speaking staff (score 2!), c. was clean and organized (score 3!), and d. had a website (bonus point!).
My "doctor's consultation" was simply a chat (interrupted briefly by him responding to a text message that came through), a look into my ear canal without any medical instruments, and a poking of the area behind my ear.
Authoritatively, he sat behind his desk.
"OK," he stated confidently.
I leaned my right ear towards him so that I could hear him clearly.
"You have tenderness behind your ear. It is a little red. I think maybe you have water build-up...no worries. It will clear in a week. I will give you antibiotics."
"It's just water? I can't hear anything outta my left ear...are you sure my eardrums aren't broken or something?" I questioned.
"No, no, simple antibiotics, and soon the water will clear. Have you tried knocking your head?"
He demonstrated by violently thrusting his head to the side.
"Yeah, but it doesn't do anything."
"Have you tried to close your ears?"
The doctor placed both palms over both ears, looking ridiculously like a four-year-old who plugs his ears when he's told it's bedtime. "Then, you release, like this."
With a dramatic exhale, he released both palms from his ears.
I tried it. Nothing happened.
"Well, I think it will disappear in a week. Also, I see you have hair loss."
I was confused. Surely, I'd misheard him. I leaned my right ear closer and asked him to repeat.
"Hair loss..." He pointed to the top of his hair line. "You are losing hair, no?"
I didn't think so. I told him that my hair has always been like this, choosing to ignore his comment.
I bought some antibiotic pills from his Ayurvedic clinic, and was charged 100 rupees (about $2) for his consultation, aka peeking into my ear.
As I walked down the street, I pondered getting a second opinion. Was it worth it to seek out another doctor? I shrugged off the thought, knowing how long it would take to find another English-speaking doctor who might have proper medical tools...and might not.
"Oh well, two more days and I'm in Baltimore, where I can see a real doctor," I thought. Then, in shocked horror, I admonished myself for thinking a parallel thought to my fellow travelers who constantly complain about facilities in India and proclaim that "everything's better in America."
Within fifteen minutes, I was treating myself to a wonderful beachside lunch of Navra Kofta, curd rice, and a sweet lassi - for 75 rupees ($1.50), and there is no place or taste in America that beats that. India wins in cuisine and culture, America counters with medical facilities and big cars.

Varkala: Sun, Beaches, Bikinis, Pineapples and Coconuts, and a Rooftop Bed

2009-01-03T08:43:00.000-08:00

There wasn't a single available room in all of Varkala's hotels that wasn't under 500 Indian rupees. Yes, that's only a bit over $10, but for five months I'd been getting rooms as cheap as...well, for free, and "splurged" for a room with an attached bathroom for 300 rupees. So why break the streak and start forking over the money now, during my last week in India? I was prepared to walk through the entire town before I settled for paying in the double digits of American dollars.
Luckily, the Tibetan-owned guesthouse I walked into took pity on me - my face mirrored exhaustion and frustration, and she probably softened a bit because I looked like I could be her sister. She offered to lay out a bamboo mat on the roof of their humble guesthouse and said I could use the water pipe on top of the building to take a shower. So far, so good.
"How much?" Because it was high holiday season, I was prepared to hear '700 rupees...only for you. Special price.'
"200 rupees."
I didn't even try to bargain - I happily followed her up to the roof, where, as promised, she laid out a bamboo mat and gave me a pillow (clean! This guesthouse passed the first test). At the corner of the roof, under the branches of a coconut tree, she pointed out my shower: a faucet pipe that was 3 feet tall.
"And you can shower here. But if you need toilet, you go downstairs, around the back, and use old outhouse. And, don't leave any food or apple leftovers on the roof. You have any food in your bag?"
I shook my head.
"Good, because ants will come to the sugar and then maybe bite you at night."
I made a mental note to wear socks and full-length pants and shirt to bed. I didn't want to wake up to unidentifiable insects feasting on me.
Later that night, I took a shower on the roof fully naked, squatting under the short faucet pipe and shaded by the coconut branches. The bamboo mat and thin cot set up for me was surprisingly comfortable - more so than 70% of the "beds" that I'd slept on in India - and no mosquitoes or ants attacked me. I slept under the stars and woke up to nature's alarm of birds and roosters, looked at my watch (5 am?!? Another 2 hours...), pulled my blanket sheet over my head, and returned to sleep. An hour and 43 minutes later, the sun woke me up - and that's a brilliant start to any day.
I did my business in the outhouse, brushed my teeth over the roof gutter, and tidied up my "room." I went for a run along the cliffs of Varkala that tower above the beaches, overestatic to be in shorts and a skimpy tanktop, running without having rocks thrown at me (Jordan) or male gawkers scratching their crotches (northern India). I ran past a fisherman preparing his net for the day, and he smiled (gotta get you some false teeth, pops...) and pumped his small fist firmly in victory.
I spent nine hours on the beach, alternating between taking dips in the ocean, soaking up Vitamin D on the beach, rolling over to read in the shade, and snacking on almonds and pineapple.
When I returned to my guesthouse for a rooftop shower, the Tibetan owner greeted me with a "We have a bed for you!" I'd been upgraded? Sweet!
My bed was set up on the roof, and was what we call in the Middle East a charpoy - a steel bed frame, with thick strips of braided fabric crisscrossed to form a sort of bedding. No mattress, just a sheet. I loved it. It was worth every single rupee I paid, and there's nothing better than falling asleep, exhausted from the sun, under a canopy of stars and coconut trees and waking up to a symphony of birds. I'd stay a whole two weeks here on the roof of Holiday Homes and on the beaches of Varkala if my damn Indian visa didn't expire in 5 days!

Mindy's 2009 Resolutions

2008-12-31T07:01:00.001-08:00

Make laughter contagious
Schedule a LASIK consultation
Promote sushi
Ride a bike
Get a new pair of Asics running shoes
Make plans for Macchu Pichu
Wear my anti-teeth-grinding-device (terribly annoying and speech-impeding) at least 50% of the nights
Wear my seatbelt
Learn Mandarin
Master homemade ice cream
Support organic products when they support my budget
Run a half-marathon or complete a full marathon
Don't skimp on cheese
Attend Obama's inauguration
Learn how to make potstickers
Subscribe to the New Yorker (Don Hesse's influence)
Don't judge people who have piercings or religious convictions
Play the piano
Wear sunscreen
Eat with utensils and chopsticks, not with my hands

New Year's Bash on the Keralan Backwaters

2008-12-31T06:35:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve - when the whole world gets smashed, clothes come off, fireworks blast through the air, and everyone celebrates. It doesn't matter what religion you are, how much you look like a flapping monkey when you dance, or whether you're a pyromaniac or not...New Year's Eve is celebrated worldwide, in every village and city.
2008 was an awesome year for me - from January to August, I strengthened the relations that I had built in my Bedouin community in Jordan, and in July, I finished my Peace Corps service with a bang: Camp GLOW.
Then it was straight from Amman to Delhi, the start of a fascinating whirlwind of 3 months through northwestern India. I trained my tastebuds to embrace the fiery spices of Indian cuisine, learned to walk the streets without getting hit by any rickshaws, and argued my way through markets, bargaining for every last rupee. November was spent hiking through the Nepal Himalayas, completing the Annapurna Circuit and Base Camp and vowing to return for Everest Base Camp by 2010.
It was back to India, spending some time in Darjeeling and Sikkim before heading south to Kolkata's chaos and then on down to Goa, a blissful respite from all of northern India's entropy. I curved further south to Gokarna, where life doesn't get any more relaxing. No joke: I woke up to a coconut falling on my thatched roof. And fell back asleep before rolling out onto the sand.
New Year's Eve, I was in Kerala. This area is known as God's country, and I was in the city of Alleppey, the Venice of India. Wonderful backwater passages, tiny canoes with three generations of one Indian family squatting in parallel rows, and delicious thali meals served on fresh banana leaves. This was heaven, and I treated myself to a last dinner of 2008 of idli and coconut chutney, compliments of a potbellied chef standing in front of his 4-wheeled cart at the intersection of backroads. Yummy.
And so I found myself on Dec 31, 2008, at 9 pm, my stomach supremely satisfied with my dinner and my party hormones failing to kick in. I watched The Pirates of the Caribbean: Part 3 (in English!) with the hostel owner's family, then went to bed at 11 pm. I had no desire to walk to the beach and be surrounded by drunk Indian men who introduced themselves as, "I have a Master's from IIT and I am a technical engineer in Bangalore. I make 6 figures and I think you are beautiful. Do you want to get jiggy with me or can I buy you a drink?"
By 11:15, I was asleep. I woke up at midnight when the fireworks erupted, signalling the New Year. I poked my sleepy eyes out my window, realized that it faced the neighbor's window just 5 feet away, and crawled back under the mosquito net. And that's how 2009 started. What a bang!

My Very Green Christmas

2008-12-26T04:31:00.000-08:00

My past two Christmases were spent in my concrete house in the middle of a freezing desert, surrounded by Muslims who forbade any celebrations (including birthdays) except those ordained by Allah: Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha.
So this Christmas, I decided to treat myself. I wasn't going to be alone, I wasn't going to be freezing, and I wasn't going to be not feasting.
The day before Christmas, I left the wonderful beaches of Gokarna for Madikeri, a city in the Kodagu region of Karnataka. I splurged on a reservation in a retreat nestled in the middle of a rainforest for 1 night - $30 for a soft bed (with a real mattress!), 3 meals, tea breaks, trekking, 25 acres of spice and coffee plants, fellow Americans, and warm weather. It was fantastic. I stayed in a tent that was larger than a lot of the beach huts that I'd slept in for the past week, and my bed was so comfortable - Christmas day was the first morning in 2 months that I woke up without a sore neck or muscles (you really get what you pay for at most of these guesthouses).
One of the other guests was from Palo Alto, and she generously handed out a box of Trader Joe's chocolate-covered ginger snaps at the breakfast table. I couldn't stop my drooling. I chose the prime seat in the dining area - right in front of that tin box of wonderful sweets. The food was amazing at the lodge - all the veggies and spices were organically grown on the farm, and even the pomegranates were served already shelled and picked. What bliss!
And their coffee was fantastic. Mind you, I'm not a coffee addict. At all. I only drink it when it's free. Well, after 2 years of drinking Nescafe in Jordan, this freshly roasted and ground coffee was one of the best Xmas presents I could've received. I drank about 4 cups within a half-hour...and suffered the consequences for the next 3 hours, going to the bathroom about 6 times.
Xmas morning, all the guests set off on a trek together. It was relatively easy, but refreshing to hike through the rainforest and feel like you were breathing in oxygen that was healthy (unlike Calcutta's). We sang Xmas carols that didn't fit with the summer atmosphere, and we sounded horrible, but it was festive and cheerful and the mood was contagious. I kept making up lyrics because it'd been so long since I'd heard the words to "Jingle Bell Rock" and "Silent Night," but the others' voices overpowered my humming, drowning out my "da-da-deeeeeee-dahhhhhhhh"s.
But my real Christmas present is coming in 2 short weeks: Jan 7, I fly out of India (damn 6-month visa) and into DC...where my twin and mom will be waiting for me! I've already requested a first meal of dim sum and I can't wait to walk into a grocery store and buy Haagen Dazs and Dreyer's ice cream cartons. I'll be showered with love and "It's been sooooo long" from my mom, followed by eye-rolling from my sister. I'm fully preparing to be spoiled by wonderful seafood on the East Coast, a plush hotel room compliments of my mom's work (she'll be in DC for a conference), and a moment as American as it gets: a ticket for Obama's inauguration on Jan 20.

How to Blow a Snot Rocket, Nepali style

2008-12-16T08:22:00.000-08:00

For a snot rocket to be truly effective, it's best to be at high altitudes (at least 3000 meters) and to be in cold climates (not above 5*).
1. Be patient. Let the snot build up. Consistency will vary from as runny as water to as viscous as a snail's trail. Let the booger build up until you feel that there is enough mass to fund a potentially lethal velocity.
2. Sniffle, inhale/exhale quickly, and do tiny breathing exercises to determine if the booger is ready to be catapulted out. If the booger is moving along your nasal canal with your breathing motions, it's prime shooting time.
3. With one finger (you don't have to remove that glove, or the second glove), close the nasal passage of the opposite nostril. Make sure that it's closed tightly.
4. Bend forward at the waist, not at the back, at an angle steep enough so that any waste falling from your nose vertically downwards will not land on any raingear, outer jacketwear, or shoes.
5. Aim.
6. Inhale deeply through the mouth.
7. Close your mouth, and tighten the closure of the opposite nostril.
8. Exhale violently through the nostril clogged with snot.
9. If there's any lingering "residue," let it hang until gravity brings it down. If it takes longer than 3 seconds, take your glove off, wipe that hanging snot from your nostril, and wipe it on the ground (preferably on a rock).
10. Make sure you have no leftovers by wiping your sleeve across the bottom of your nose.
11. Repeat as necessary.

Julia and I perfected these by day 8 on the Annapurna Circuit. Whenever I'd hear her blowing a snot rocket, I'd comment, "How big was it?" And whenever she heard me, she'd ask, "Did you get it all?" We saved a lot of tissues by adopting the Nepali style of cleaning your nose.

Shantaram

2008-12-15T05:34:00.000-08:00

The best book to read when in India is Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. This guy's life is amazing...and he writes in a style that's addicting to read.
If you're not going to India, you should still read it. It's just better to read in India because if you buy it from the Indian publishing companies, it's 80 rupees (less than $2!), but in the USA, I think it costs around $12 - those American publishing companies and their greedy pockets!

A collection of great quotes from Shantaram:
- The simple and astonishing truth about India and Indian people is that when you go there, and deal with them, your heart always guides you more wisely than your head. There's nowhere else in the world where that's quite so true.
- There is no act of faith more beautiful than the generosity of the very poor.
- I know now that it isn't cruelty or shame that characterises the human race. It's forgiveness that makes us what we are. Without forgiveness, our species would've annihilated itself in endless retributions. Without forgiveness, there would be no history. Without that hope, there would be no art, for every work of art is in some way an act of forgiveness. Without that dream, there would be no love, for every act of love is in some way a promise to forgive. We live on because we can love, and we love because we can forgive.
- The Indians are the Italians of Asia. They are both people of the Madonna - they demand a goddess, even if the religion does not provide one. Every man in both countries is a singer when he is happy, and every woman is a dancer when she walks to the shop at the corner. For them, food is music inside the body, and music is food inside the heart. The language of India and the language of Italy, they make every man a poet, and make something beautiful from every banality. These are nations where love makes a cavalier of a Borsalino on a street corner, and makes a princess of a peasant girl, if only for the second that her eyes meet yours.
- At first, when we truly love someone, our greatest fear is that the loved one will stop loving us. What we should fear and dread, of course, is that we won't stop loving them, even after they're dead and gone.
- Salman and the others...were pretending that their little kingdoms made them kings; that their power struggles made them powerful. And they didn't. They couldn't. I saw that then so clearly...the only kingdom that makes any man a king is the kingdom of his own soul. The only power that has any real meaning is the power to better the world.
- Luck is what happens to you when fate gets tired of waiting.
- It is always a fool's mistake to be alone with someone you shouldn't have loved.
- Every human heartbeat is a universe of possibilities. Every human will has the power to transform its fate. I'd always thought that fate was something unchangeable: fixed for every one of us at birth, and as constant as the circuit of the stars. But I suddenly realised that life is stranger and more beautiful than that. The truth is that, no matter what kind of game you find yourself in, no matter how good or bad the luck, you can change your life completely with a single thought or a single act of love.
- We put one foot forward and then the other. Lift our eyes to the snarl and smile of the world once more. Think. Act. Feel. Add our little consequence to the tides of good and evil that flood and drain the world. Drag our shadowed crosses into the hope of another night. Push our brave hearts into the promise of a new day. With love: the passionate search for a truth other than our own. With longing: the pure, ineffable yearning to be saved. For so long as fate keeps waiting, we live on. God help us. God forgive us. We live on.

Doin' Things the Local Way

2008-12-12T05:21:00.000-08:00

Exposure to foreign cultures is mind-blowing - it reveals a grittiness that's only appreciated if you approach the streets with an open mind, an insatiable curiosity, and a disregard for hygiene and sanitation. More often than not, I've seen Western tourists shudder when they enter a temple and are requested to remove their shoes, gingerly stepping on the marble floors of the Taj Mahal as if any Indian bacteria will corrupt their pedicured feet. It's equally embarrassing to watch Westerners squeal in horror when they see their first squatter toilet - and refuse to "go in these conditions." Those who do plug their noses and squat over that hole in the ground then make the novice mistake of throwing toilet paper down the same hole...sigh.
Although I can't claim to be an expert on cultural customs, I think of myself as better trained than most (thanks to two years in a dusty Bedouin village). That said, once I get over the absurdity of some Westerners' reactions to local practices, it's easy to laugh.
In Jordan, we sit on the floor to eat. And we eat with our hands. Oh yeah, and when snot-nosed Bedouin kids stick their grubby hands in the communal dish, it's common. And, since it's hot and in the middle of the desert, flies are constantly buzzing around the food and in your face. But, the Jordanian dishes are delicious, so it's best to ignore these...distractions, and to wash it all down with tap water from the communal drinking bowl (It was hilarious when my friend's mom came to visit my village - and, after eating the greasy meal, used the communal drinking bowl to wash her hands. All my neighbors stared in disbelief, but graciously let it pass without comment).
In poorer regions of the Eastern world, toilet paper is not available. Instead, you're left squatting in a cement closet with a bucket of water next to you. If you want to truly convert, then use your left hand to wash yourself. If you're not quite ready to make that full plunge (and I don't blame you), then always enter the bathroom equipped with toilet paper. Just remember to throw it away in a proper trash can (sometimes hard to locate) and not down that ominous hole.
Another habit of foreign cultures is to eat with the hands - using either fingers or bread as utensils. This would never fly in a white-tablecloth restaurant in the States, but you're not in proper America, so stop asking for the invisible fork and knife. In Jordan, the Bedouins use their hands to shape rice in their fists, then jam the "dumpling" in their mouths. In India, chapattis are used to sop up curry, to ladle vegetables, and to wipe the metal plate clean. Atkins diet would never succeed here. Nepalis' method is to pour dal (lentil soup) onto a heap of steaming rice, then to nimbly mix it with their fingers. When the consistency is right, they use their four fingers as a ladle, scooping both dal and rice in one deft motion that ends in their mouths.
And, after the meal, it's not rude to belch. The louder, the better, and the more pride a chef feels. Burping is a way to express satisfaction with dinner, and is followed by openly picking at your teeth with a toothpick. Farting also isn't considered to be impolite, except in the Middle East - "Only babies fart out loud," as my Jordanian neighbor used to say.
Another culture shock? Spitting and blowing snot rockets onto the street is a common affair in Asia. Some "modern" countries have made it illegal to spit (Hong Kong and Malaysia), but it's ingrained in the rest. Trekking in the Nepal Himalayas, I found myself watching the trail so that I wouldn't accidentally slip in donkey shit, cow dung, or porters' snot or spit wads. It became my wake-up call when, in the teahouses, the sound of porters hacking and coughing and blowing their noses at 5:30 am echoed through the entire village.
Although some habits are disgusting (one which I'll never endorse is the open crotch-scratching by Indian men), that's part of the thrill of traveling. You meet new people with strange customs, you watch them in horror, and then you attempt to adopt the same ways. When you succeed, it's inevitably met with gleeful laughter and immediate acceptance by the locals.

A Day in the Life of a Gorkhaland Supporter

2008-12-12T04:03:00.000-08:00

For 22 years, Darjeeling has been fighting for independence from West Bengal in an attempt to establish Ghorkaland. Darjeeling's tiny size, in contrast to the vastness of West Bengal, is misleading. In terms of income, Darjeeling generates much more than larger cities, mainly from tourism and its tea estates. According to the friendly natives I've met, Darjeeling would be as economically flourishing as Sikkim, its northern neighbor, if it were independent.
Yesterday, the Morcha party (supporting Ghorkaland and Darjeeling's independence from West Bengal) called a 12-hour strike from 6 am to 6 pm in an attempt to prove how much money Darjeeling's businesses generate. None of the locals thought to inform any of the tourists, so I woke up to empty streets and wandered through Darjeeling hauling my luggage until I stumbled on an empty bus stand. My plans to leave for Sikkim had to be delayed 24 hours - a passing early riser told me that there were no vehicles running in all of Darjeeling for the day, except for the police jeeps patrolling their grounds.
All businesses - restaurants, shops, banks, the tourist bureau, museums - were shut down. There's a large public square in Darjeeling called Chowrasta, where locals and foreigners gather to chat, stare, and drink tea. I spent my entire afternoon there, on a green park bench, sandwiched between an old, toothless lady and another old, toothless lady (not related). My day's events while waiting for the strike to end:

1. A local gave me his English newspaper. The lone Mumbai terrorist captured has confessed that he went through a 222-day training camp in Pakistan, where he learned how to handle weapons such as grenades, rocket launchers, and mortars, listened to stiff doses of religious discourses, underwent training of swimming and experience at sea, and studied the patterns of Indian security agencies. Such a scary world.
2. I watched kids playing badminton and cricket in the square.
3. Some stupid Westerners stumbled into the square, looking lost. They stood in the middle, discussing what their next plan of action would be. I couldn't hear their conversation, but I'm sure it went something like this:
"Is Darjeeling always so dead?"
"I don't know...I didn't expect this..."
"And look at those pigeons just pecking around. Disgusting!"
"And all those stray dogs. Honestly, if only they had an animal rescue agency, India wouldn't be so filthy."
"Quite right."
"Why are all these shops closed? All I want is my espresso and I can't even get that here..."
4. The old lady next to me peeled a clementine and offered me half. After refusing 3 times (the golden number in the Middle East), I took those 5 wedges and happily munched. It took her 32 minutes to finish her half - she patiently picked off the flesh lining on each wedge, then chewed each slice at a snail's pace.
5. A smoker lit up right behind me, and I fanned the second-hand smoke obviously. He moved.
6. The old lady (not the one who gave me her clementine half) got up and strolled along. Down sat a teenager, annoyingly playing American songs from his mobile phone in an obvious effort to attract my attention. When I ignored him, he started singing along to the horrible lyrics. Ugh.
7. The old lady (yes, the clementine one) fell asleep.
8. I ordered a cup of chai (tea) from the chai-wallah and happily sipped it.
9. I thought about what I would order from my favorite local Indian cafe at 6 pm, the deadline for the strike. Malai kofta and vegetable paratha.
10. I finished reading Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. Two thumbs up.
11. Macho local Indians, strutting around in their fake leather jackets, stared unashamedly at schoolgirls in their uniforms. Disgusting.
12. The annoying teenager to my left got up and left. No more horrible music and karaoke accompaniment. Hallelujah.
13. The old lady woke up and played with her prayer beads.
14. An old Tibetan man squatting near our bench blew a snot rocket. I stared at his boogers for a while, then turned away.
15. I need to pee...
16. A 3- or 4-year-old girl screamed and cried while chasing her father across the square. He completely ignored her, while she ran to keep up with him, tugged at his pants, and tried in vain to get his attention. What a bastard.
17. I paid 3 rupees for my tea.
18. A beggar stopped in front of me as I was collecting my change from the chai-wallah, her hand held out. I ignored her. The old lady next to me muttered something to her, and the beggar looked down and folded her skirt around her waist so that it became shorter. I'm sure my friend said something like, "Hey, your skirt's dragging." The beggar left.
19. The old lady got up and left, mumbling, "Going." We shook hands, and she mumbled something else that I dumbly smiled in reply to.
20. I left to go to my hotel room to pee.

The strike ended, as promised, at 6, and all the tourists (including myself) rushed to internet cafes and to restaurants for dinner.I hope this strike brings Darjeeling several steps closer to its dreams of Ghorkaland.

Through the Clouds, A Glimpse of Mt. Kanchenjunga

2008-12-10T05:19:00.000-08:00

"And from Sandakpur, you can see 4 of the world's 5 highest peaks. Mt Everest, at 8848 meters, is the world's highest, then next to it you can see Lhotse, #4, and Makalu, #5. And then on the left you can see the Kanchenjunga range - Mt. Kanchenjunga is the 3rd highest point. You can see all this standing on one rock. Yeah, it's cold, but it's worth it."
The Irish guy I was sitting next to taunted me with tales of the Singalila Ridge, a trek from Darjeeling along the India-Nepal border. After seeing his amazing photos, I planned to do one last Himalayan expedition before I dashed off to the southern beaches. It was December 2, when the weather is supposed to be freezing, but skies clear for the best views of the Everest and Kanchenjunga ranges.
As guaranteed, it was freezing...but the fog and clouds hung around every trail and every village. I couldn't see any mountain peaks, and there were no amber sunrises or sunsets. Only clusters of clouds that continuously rolled in each direction so that there was no patch of blue sky anywhere. The 4 other trekkers who were following the same route were equally disappointed - all of us had heard rave reviews of the panorama of mountains that were visible along the entire trek, but we couldn't appreciate any of it.
On the 2nd day of the trek, I reached Sandakpur, a village on the Nepal-Indian border at 3620 meters, famous for its mountain views, but the clouds still obscured Mt. Everest and Kanchenjunga. The views from this village were the only reason I had started the trek, so I decided to wait for clearer weather; I was willing to practice my patience until the clouds (hopefully) disappeared.
No trekkers stay in Sandakpur for more than one night, leaving immediately after taking photos of the Himalayan mountains. Other than its great views of the Everest range and Mt. Kanchenjunga, Sandakpur doesn't offer much. It has no electricity, no running water, 3 lodges, and a military base. When the lodge owner asked me what time I was leaving the next morning, I replied that I was going to wait an extra day, in case the skies cleared.
"But what you do?"
"I'll wait...tomorrow you think it's better weather?"
He looked out the window, stared intensely at the fog that made his neighbor's fence invisible, shrugged, and muttered, "You know?"
"Do I know if the weather will clear?"
"You don't know?"
"No..."
"So how do I know?"
I didn't respond to his practical reply.
"OK, you stay...but what you do?"
"I have a book. I can read."
"Read? Why?"
Silence
"What else you do?"
"I can help you cook!"
"You know Nepali food?"
"No...but I can cook rice and chop vegetables."
"OK, you learn from Mom."
"And what else do you do during the day?"
"You want to pick up trash?"
"OK."
"OK."
And so, instead of spending my day staring desperately at the clouds to lift, my 3rd day of the Singalila trek turned into a mini Peace Corps experience of working in an isolated village. I spent an hour picking up trash around the village, then stood with the lodge owner and some army men stationed in the village in the freezing cold, watching the collected rubbish burn. There was a fleeting thought that it might be dangerous to breathe in fumes of burning plastic and batteries, but it was quickly ignored (Hey, this is India).
Two hours later, my cooking lesson started. We prepared dal, vegetable curry, rice, vegetable pakora, chapattis, Tibetan bread, soups, and chowmein. After chowing down on our creations, I washed the dishes and asked the lodge owner what he did for the rest of the day.
"We wait."
"For what?"
"We wait to digest the lunch."
"Then what?"
"Then we wait."
"For what?"
"For the tourists to come."
So for the next 4 hours, we waited. I huddled with the lodge owner and his family around the fire (which is illegal in the Singalila National Park). They introduced me to tongba, a home-brewed alcohol made from millet. It was disgusting, but they drank it like it was chai. After some Indian tourists arrived, we started to cook dinner. I must have won some trust from Mom, because she delegated me to chapattis and vegetable pakora. That night, before I went to bed, the lodge owner handed me a hot water bottle (the best thing to snuggle with in the Himalayas), graciously announcing, "This free gift for your help Mom tonight."
The next day, the weather worsened. I woke up at 5 am, hoping to see a glimpse of sunrise, but when I cleared a patch on my foggy window, I barely saw the prayer flags 100 meters from my room. I stumbled into the kitchen at 5:30 and helped Grandma prepare the fire for the stove. We both sat on the ground and sipped our morning chai in silence. Just when I was about to attempt to ask if anyone else was awake, a mass of blankets stirred, and the lodge owner poked his head out. His sleepy eyes adjusted, met mine, then looked out the window. Seeing nothing but grey, he turned back to me.
"You stay one more day?"
I nodded.
"OK. Cooking lesson #2 today. And you take shower. Free hot bucket."
My second day at Sandakpur, waiting for clear skies, started with the lodge owner giving me a bucket of hot water, pointing to a closet, and commanding, "Shower." I hadn't had one in 4 days, so I gladly obliged. I spent the morning in the kitchen, cooking, washing dishes, drinking tea, and squatting by the fire. In the afternoon, we restocked the firewood, petted the village puppies, and walked to the springs 1.5 km away to fetch the day's water. Huddling around the fire again, the lodge owner's son taught me to count to 10 in Nepali while I massaged Grandma's wrinkled feet. Every 30 minutes, I'd unfog the window, but the forecast stayed the same the entire day - cloudy, no visibility, and miserable. Poo. I went to bed that night, spooning my hot water bottle and praying that the next morning would bring clear skies.
At 5:28 am, I poked my head out of my sleeping bag hesitantly, fearful of the grey skies that I'd woken up to the past 4 days. But through the transparent curtains, I could see the much-anticipated sunrise. Five minutes later, I was outside, staring at glorious Mt. Kanchenjunga. The wait in Sandakpur was worth it; from a viewpoint at the head of the village, I saw the Everest Range, the Three Sisters, and the Kanchenjunga range. The lodge owner joined me as I snapped photos, patting me on the head with a "Congratulations."
That morning, after a delicious breakfast of fried Tibetan bread and leftover curry, I set off, skipping on the trail towards Phalut. My joy at seeing the panorama of Himalayan ranges from Sandakpur was soon dampened, though; at 10 am, the all-too-familiar clouds rolled in again and obscured those wonderful peaks.
The next 3 days, descending towards the finish line of the Singalila trek, were exactly like the first 4 days: clouds and fog. But the four hours of clear skies on my last day in Sandakpur were worth the 7 days of trekking through opaque clouds with no visibility. And I now know how to make the classic dal bhat, along with chapattis and Tibetan bread, when I get the craving for traditional Nepali food.

Paragliding...What Really Happens in the Air

2008-12-10T04:56:00.000-08:00

I almost threw up. I should've, actually, judging from Julia's and Tammie's shocked faces once I was unhooked from my paraglider.
"You don't look too good..." Julia's worried face peered at my white lips.
"Are you OK?" Tammie quizzically studied me, inching closer but staying out of puking range.
No, I wasn't. The first 7 minutes of my flight had been awesome - I couldn't stop laughing and shrieking. Then, my pilot started "thermaling," which I understood as riding a wind current. Translation? Making large circles in the air so that slowly, unsuspectingly, your stomach pushes whatever breakfast you had up.
Despite the increasing urge to throw up, I was still enjoying my first (and probably last) paragliding experience, more so because I was coaxing myself that it would be ridiculous to pay $85 for a 30-minute tandem flight and not at least pretend to have fun. But over the next 15 minutes, my stomach became uneasy, and the views over Pokhara more and more boring. I kept myself distracted from the growing queasiness by asking my pilot mundane questions such as "Where did you learn to paraglide? Why do you love it? Where's the best pizza in Pokhara? Is that Annapurna I or Annapurna South?"
Since he was behind me guiding the glider, he couldn't see the grimaces on my face as I tried to ignore that awful feeling you get before you puke. He probably guessed I was having a great time in the air, because he then pointed below us at a pilot doing acrobatics just before landing. I saw Julia's glider, and her pilot was performing similar tricks to a lesser degree.
"You wanna try it?" he asked enthusiastically, and I knew from his tone that spinning acrobatics is the highlight to any paragliding flight.
No! is what I should've shouted, but that horrible phrase "Gotta get your money's worth" rang through mind. $85? I'd better get something other than spinning slow circles over Pokhara!
"Sure." And, without hesitation, he taught me how to rock in my seat so that I could spiral - quickly - down towards the lake. Acrobatics and tricks through the air are supposed to be thrilling, but I thoroughly hated it. My stomach churned even more, my throat grew dry, I felt like puking, and I couldn't even open my eyes because I was so dizzy.
The only positive thing about acrobatics is that we spun to home-sweet-Earth faster than our previous snail's pace. Once we landed, I unhooked my harness from the glider and stumbled over to Julia and Tammie. Their reactions to my white face and colorless lips were pitying, and Julia later told me that I'd never looked so horrible. We all had varying experiences; Julia loved it and was screaming and laughing the whole flight, I survived, but landed with a headache and an unsettled stomach, and Tammie threw up mid-flight (let's hope on crops and not on an unsuspecting Nepali farmer).
Would I do it again? Not unless I
a. take motion-sickness pills beforehand,
b. am flying over views at least as stunning as the Himalayas,
c. have a sexy pilot with a yellow paraglider, and
d. win a free flight.

Highlights and Not-So-Much-Ers From the Annapurna Circuit and Base Camp

2008-12-09T05:27:00.000-08:00

A Trekker's Worst Nightmare: Altitude Sickness

2008-12-09T05:00:00.000-08:00

Ascending to any height above 3000 meters has a dangerous effect on our fragile human bodies. It was actually quite scary when I educated myself on the potential symptoms I could experience during the Annapurna Circuit...Julia and I had heard plenty of horror stories from trekkers who succumbed to altitude sickness.
As altitude increases, the percentage of oxygen in the atmosphere remains the same but the number of oxygen molecules per breath is reduced. As I ascended through the Himalayas, I noticed my body fighting for more oxygen, and my steps were slowed so that my heart wasn't leaping out of my 5 layers of clothes.
The scary thing is that high altitude and lower air pressure causes fluid to leak from the capillaries in both the lungs and the brain...eeek. The main cause of altitude sickness is going too high too quickly, so I made sure to follow every trekker's golden rule: Climb high, sleep low.
Some symptoms of altitude sickness...those with a * were personally experienced.
- headache
- stomachache
- fatigue
- vivid and crazy dreams* (I dreamt that I snuck into my old roommate's house and tried on all her clothes, then was in the closet when they came home; another trekker dreamt that he went on a killing rampage with a machete)
- dizziness
- increased urination* (it sucks when you're above 3000 meters, freezing at night, and you have to pee at midnight...and at 1:30 am...and at 5 am)
- loss of coordination
- loss of appetite
- shortness of breath*
- disturbed sleep*
- jealousy of those who can afford hot water bottles*
- hallucinations
- retinal hemorrhage
- increased farting* (really, it happens! It is medically diagnosed as HAFE: high altitude flatulence emission)
- inclination to talk about a hot shower and sunny days on the beach*
- frothing at the mouth
- feeling of suffocation at night
- wanting to spoon with your roommate, regardless of gender, for their body heat*
- feeling drunk
- exponential increase of tea consumption*
- thinking the best place on Earth is in your sleeping bag*
- HAPE: High altitude pulmonary edema, the result of fluid build-up in the lungs
- HACE: High altitude cerebral edema, the result of swelling of brain tissue from fluid leakage
- loss of memory
- bigger calves
- decreased number of showers* (and, above 3500 meters, no showers)
- coma
- weight increase* (due to wearing 5 layers)

Blister Invasion on Julia's Feet

2008-12-09T04:09:00.000-08:00

Julia's blisters sneered up after only 2 days of hiking. She'd had her boots since high school, but had never worn them for more than a half day of leisure trekking. When we examined her blisters by the light of my head lamp, we cursorily dismissed them and thought Vaseline and Band-Aids would do the trick. But, they didn't. Instead of healing, her blisters grew and multiplied. By day 4, 8 of 10 toes had wicked blisters and we agreed that they needed to be popped. So, in true Peace Corps fashion, we sterilized a safety pin with a borrowed lighter, and I squatted next to Julia's bed. For both Julia and I, the blister-popping surgery was entertaining. Each time I pulled the pin out of a blister, we both analyzed how much liquid oozed out and its viscosity. Unfortunately, the surgery didn't save her feet, and new blisters popped up in the following days. Julia was a trooper, though, and never gave me a hint as to the amount of pain she must have suffered. She just kept on taking 300 mg of Ibuprofen twice a day.
It was only on day 13, after pushing through a heavy 24 km, that I realized just how beat up her feet were. We were doing our daily analysis of her blisters when she unemotionally stated, "I think my toenail is going to fall off."
Closer inspection made it obvious that her toenail wouldn't last long; it was hanging onto her pinky toe by just a ligament of skin. it was quite depressing, really, to look at her 11 blisters and think they weren't too bad next to that deathbed toenail.
When I returned from my (ice-cold) shower, she announced that, in the 5-minute span I'd been absent, her toenail had fallen off. Knowing Julia, I suspect that she picked at it until it fell off, so it was more like murder than natural death. Our short mourning period was interrupted by a French-Canadian couple we'd met in Ngawal and trekked with for the past 4 days. After examining Julia's feet, Robert pointed to a discolored toe and her left heel (we naively thought the yellowish skin was a side effect of being suffocated by boots for 10 hours a day). He diagnosed both as infections and generously gave Julia antibiotics (calling them Smarties) and a reassurance that her toenail would grow back.
Julia, I wish I could have somehow shared your suffering, just as I would have shared Martin's and Gerard's knee pains during the Sanctuary trek. I was victim to just 1 mini, painless blister the entire trek, and the imbalance of foot pain was unfair. If I could have taken 5 of your blisters so that you were left with only 6, we could have had blister-taping parties every morning. Instead, Julia's blisters never improved, and she developed right knee pain once we started our descent days after reaching Thorung La at 5416 meters. Two more of her dwindling toenails fell victim to the torture of those stone steps on the trail in subsequent days.
I never knew which hurt more - the popped blisters, the unpopped blisters, the toes without a nail, or her right knee - or how much they hurt, because Julia never complained. Whenever I asked her how her feet were, she'd reply, "the same" with a careless shrug. We separated paths on day 17; I continued on to the Annapurna Sanctuary Trek with some fellow trekkers, while Julia decided it would be best to skip the Sanctuary and head down to Pokhara, where she could heal her feet.
She adamantly refused to take a jeep down to Pokhara, admirably trekking to the finish line of the Annapurna Circuit. When I met up with her in Pokhara 5 days later, her feet were stunningly gorgeous (relative to their Himalayan state), radiating from their days of rest.
Julia, I love you, because you trusted me enough to pop your blisters each night and wrap your knee each morning. I love you because you shared your Snickers at Thorung La, because we can take baby wipe showers together, because you don't mind when I keep my head lamp on to read at night, because our "splurge meal" is when we spend more than $4, and because your injuries didn't stop your from completing the Annapurna Circuit. Next year, Everest Base Camp! (Do you accept?)

Annapurna Circuit and Base Camp Trekking Adventures

2008-12-09T01:33:00.000-08:00

AC: Annapurna Circuit, a 17-day loop through the Annapurna Range in Nepal.
ABC: Annapurna Base Camp, also known as Annapurna Sanctuary Trek, at 4130 meters. A 5-day trek tagged on to the end of the AC, essentially trekking inside the AC loop and going to the base of the Annapurnas.
Thorung La: at 5416 meters, the highest point of the AC.
MBC: Machhapuchhare Base Camp, the village before ABC, at 3700 meters.

To view photos from the Annapurna trek, click here.

Me: "OK, you got the contact solution?"
Julia: "Check."
Me: "And shampoo?"
Julia: "Check."
"I have sunscreen and toothpaste and lotion."
"How many pairs of underwear are you bringing?"
"Eeeee...4?"
"You only need 2."
"Eeeew! That's disgusting!"
"We'll just rotate them and wash them."
"Oh! We need baby wipes!"
"And batteries!"
"And Snickers!"
Julia and I were packing our bags for the next day's departure for the AC. We'd been planning to visit Nepal for the sole purpose of doing the AC and ABC since we'd been planning our escape from Jordan. We tested each other's packs, throwing the least necessary items out, until we were satisfied with the weights. Both of us agreed that hiring a porter would be too expensive and would mean less calories burned. So we mentally prepared ourselves to carry 15-kg packs each for 3 weeks through the Nepal Himalayas.
The first 3 days, we passed through Hindi and Tibetan villages. Looking back now, it was quite ridiculous how excited we grew each time we crossed a bridge. After bridge #7, we lost count and stopped posing for pictures at each river intersection. Prayer walls greeted us at the entrances to most villages, and it was almost comforting to stumble on a stupa strewn with prayer flags in the middle of no man's land.
The views were increasingly stunning, but the prices at the lodges grew as we ascended. A large pot of tea for 400 Nepali rupees (about $5)? Dal bhat for 320 NRs (a little more than $4)? Julia and I decided to put our thriftiness to the test, and we bought tea bags and powdered milk from a canteen in Chame...and in villages thereafter, ordered pots of hot water and unabashedly laid out our display of tea bags and milk, preparing our own tea (and saving hundreds of NRs).
Every 4-5 days, Julia and I would have laundry days, washing our stinky clothes in buckets while squatting in the shower. On lucky days, our laundry would be dry the next morning. But, more often, we'd wake up to still-wet clothes...and simply hang our damp underwear and socks from extra straps on our backpacks and start trekking. By the afternoon, the sun would've dried the hanging laundry. Towards Thorung La, when it was simply too cold to shower or do laundry, we didn't. Instead, we opted for the ever-popular baby-wipe shower and the "airing out" method of getting at least some stink out of those trekking clothes.
The amazing thing about AC and the ABC is that you pass through an array of climactic zones, see all types of vegetation, and experience every type of landscape. The entire 22 days were filled with stunning views of mountain ranges, wanderings through local villages, encounters with yaks and blue sheep, and dusty, barren trails immediately followed by paths through bamboo forests. The jaw-dropping views at Ghyaru, after suffering through a 45-minute ascent winding up a steep mountain, were the first that left me speechless and addicted. Equally captivating were the views from Manang, Ghasa, Chuile, and ABC, and by far the most stunning and intimidating peak is Machhapuchhare, a mountain that has never been summitted because it's holy...and impossibly angular.
Looking back through photos now, the highlight of the trek was Poon Hill, a viewpoint 330 meters above Ghorepani. I couldn't get enough of it; I went up for 2 sunrises and 1 sunset within 36 hours. It's breathtaking when, from one single point, you see clouds hovering above a series of lower ranges, and the panoramic views of Dhauligiri (8167 meters), Annapurna (8091 meters), Machhapuchhare (6993 meters), and Manaslu (8157 meters) stretching along the world's deepest gorge. I really fell head-over-heels for Poon Hill when I saw the endless streams of prayer flags draped around bushes, adding color and reverence to my favorite spot on the trek.
The Nepali porters were just as amazing as the views. Some looked as young as 15 years, hauling loads as heavy as 35 kilograms on a woven basket that had a single strap they placed on their foreheads. Some carried a wire cage with 4 levels of stinky, squawking chickens. Others carried baskets of 3 or 4 duffel bags stacked on one another. The most impressive were the porters who looked to be 60-plus years, wearing plastic sandals, and enunciating "Namaste!" with a toothless grin each time I passed. The loads were just as curious; I saw a Nepali villager carrying a basket full of cow dung, another hauling wood strips 10 feet long, and another whose basket was so full of leaved branches that he looked like a tree with a trunk of short and thick calves.
The menus in the lodges were surprisingly well-catered to foreigners. I'd been warned that "all you'll eat is dal bhat (lentils and rice) for 3 weeks." Not true. I only ordered dal bhat once in 22 days. Menus almost always included chowmein, fried rice, curries, and roasted potatoes. In larger villages, my cravings for pizza and cheese mashed potatoes were satisfied, although I quickly learned to avoid any item that included tuna and any of the soups (salted water). One advantage to being mistaken as Julia's porter was that I could walk in to any kitchen and oversee that extra cheese be put on my pizza and that my eggs were fried on both sides.
Bakeries were, by far, the best surprise any trekker stumbles upon. The AC is also known as the "Apple Pie Trail" - and it lives up to its nickname. The better lodges in bigger villages had irresistible displays of apple pie, apple crumble, and chocolate cakes lining the glass case. The best apple crumble I had, worthy of being served in an American diner, was at Tatopani (Thanks for letting my wandering fork dig into your dessert, Martin). The pizza at Chomrong, the spinach and mushroom enchiladas at Ghorepani, the cinnamon rolls at Manang, and the cheese rolls at Thorung Phedi were the culinary highlights of the AC and ABC. No wonder I came back from the 22-day trek not a kilo lighter - the food along the trail is irresistible, nourishing, and quickly replaces those calories lost on 7-km uphill stretches.
Each night at the teahouses, all the trekkers gathered in the dining hall, huddling around the fire or with each other for any spare warmth. Julia and I met some amazing people who followed our route and schedule. Oded, a fresh-out-of-the-Israeli-army trekker, had his first laundry day on Day 15 of the trek. Despite his clothes' stinkiness, he entertained us with conversations about homosexuality and Judaism. Meital, another ex-Israeli soldier, somehow survived through the AC without a sleeping bag. Inevitably, I found her pleading with lodge owners each night for "an extra blanket...come on, just one." Robert and Josee, a French-Canadian couple, were lifesavers; they supplied the necessary drugs to cure Julia's infected feet. We were amazed at their post-trekking plan to tandem-cycle from Kathmandu to Delhi (Are you there yet?).
Ben and Tom from southern California first stumbled upon Julia on the trail two days before the pass. Seeing her very-poorly-fitted 15-kg pack (a symptom of first-time trekkers), they asked her if she'd ever trekked before. Their honest question was met with an honest answer: "No." And so they adjusted those dozen straps that hung uselessly until the weight was properly balanced on her hips. They were using the AC as a mere preparation for their real goal of scaling Island Peak - I hope you 2 succeeded!
I first met Gerard from San Francisco at a village where I stood waiting for Julia and he stood waiting for his partner Martin - and he pulled a cigarette out of his pack to smoke. Who smokes at such a high altitude, where lungs need every extra bit of oxygen they can afford? But Gerard and Martin, reliably sporting their Ipods as they trekked, grew to be Julia's and my favorite pair (no, they're not gay). Julia swooned over Gerard's toned calves and Martin's ass (or was it vice versa?), while I unashamedly accepted every generous offer of "Do you want a slice of my extra-cheese pizza?" and "Here, have a bite of my apple crumble."
And, of course, Imogen from Germany - my partner to the very end. After completing the AC, only 5 of us set off for the ABC (Julia's feet were so blistered, and she'd already lost 3 toenails from the AC...it was only common sense that she skip the ABC). We quickly lost Adam when he dashed off to Chomrong while Gerard, Martin, Imogen, and I settled in Chuile. On day 20, the 4 of us trekked through clouds, mist, and, eventually, snow to reach ABC. The next morning, we woke up frozen, but were rewarded with the most jaw-dropping views of Himalayan peaks in snowy bliss. Gerard made a snow angel, Martin shot his expert photos, and Imogen cuddled with her rubber ducky. We were the last to leave ABC that morning, savoring that amazing feeling of being completely surrounded by dominating peaks.
During the descent, though, both Gerard and Marting complained about knee pains - and Gerard's left shin was inflamed to twice its normal size (later discovered to be tendinitis). Once we reached MBC an hour later, it was unbearable. Imogen and I slept in the sun while Gerard and Martin investigated hiring a private flight to rescue them from their suffering. One hour later, and $1900 slimmer, Gerard and Martin were skipping towards the helipad landing.
Imogen and I continued our descent, motivated by the thought of hot showers and a rare steak in Pokhara. We made a great team - on our last day, we raced 28 km to the finish line, stopping only for Snickers, chocolate croissants, and a rare photo opportunity (Do you still have that scar on your boob?). Imogen, cheers (with a thormas of tea, of course) to completing the AC and ABC together, marching in to Nayapul with your blistered pinky toes, my sore knees, and dreams of showers and steaks!

Diwali, Deepawali, Teohar...It's all about the lights

2008-12-09T01:15:00.000-08:00

Since arriving in India, I haven't met a single Indian who hasn't raved about Diwali. Everyone exclaims that it's the biggest and the best holiday, describing it as a one-day festival of lights that somehow extends itself to encompass 3 weeks of laughter, lights, good food, better company, and no work.
"But how do you celebrate Diwali?"
"We go to the temple!"
"But you always go to the temple...is there anything special you do only on Diwali?"
"Of course!"
Pause
"What?"
"We light oil lamps and put them around the house."
"And?"
"And we eat good food."
"And? Do you have presents or a specific meal you eat on Diwali?"
"Yes, you can give us a present if you want. And we eat a lot on Diwali."
For personal research about the so-called best festival in India, I delayed my trip to Nepal until after Diwali, intent on spending October 28 in India to experience the country's biggest festival firsthand. The week before Diwali, I spent my time in Ludhiana with Hemant Gupta and his family. I was spoiled by his wife Taruna, who prepared the most irresistible and mouth-watering meals, introducing me to the culinary paradise of perfectly spiced curries, a delicious version of Indian gnocchi, banana milkshakes, homemade samosas, and aloo parathas. I did my laundry in a real washing machine, read the daily English newspaper, played badminton with his daughter, learned Bollywood lyrics from his son, surfed the Internet for free, attended his sister-in-law's wedding, rode on his brother-in-law's motorbike, and entertained myself with his well-stocked home library of English books. When Hemant invited me to spend Diwali with his family, I quickly canceled any plans of leaving Ludhiana.
What a treat it was! I stumbled out of my room on Diwali morning when Hemant and his son Puru returned from an early morning shopping spree with piles of orange flowers. Misha, Taruna, and I outlined a rangoli on their balcony and filled each symmetrical section with colorful grains of sand.
The next hour was spent hanging alternating strings of orange flowers and green leaves along the gate and rails. I can't even remember the order of festivities after breakfast - I simply followed the Guptas as we shuttled from one place to the next. We visited Taruna's mother, performed puja at Hemant's office to ensure a successful year, went shopping for oil lamps and fireworks, and, once home, were visited by several neighbors and close friends.
The highlight of Diwali was, as all Indians claim, the lights. Just before sunset, we prepared dozens of oil lamps and arranged them throughout the house until each room had at least one lamp. Taruna gathered us around their temple upstairs, and we recited 3 prayers (well, they sang, while I stared at the indecipherable Hindi script) and offered puja to the gods. And finally! as if Hemant read my mind, he announced that it was time for fireworks. Earlier that day, we had stocked up on fireworks ranging from small spinners to ones worthy of being in a July 4th night sky.
We each took turns lighting fireworks, shrieking when we thought the sparks were too unpredictable and laughing hysterically when the sporadic flight of several wound up on the neighbor's top balcony. The whole night sky was lit up by fireworks erupting all over the city - and all throughout the country.
Two hours later, our pyromaniac desires satiated, we filed inside to settle down to a Diwali dinner and to watch the last episode of a Lord Rama marathon TV show. When I fell asleep that night, the sound of bursting fireworks from every direction was still echoing through Ludhiana.

"I Do"...Punjabi Style!

2008-12-01T02:28:00.000-08:00

A wedding in a foreign country, especially in India and the Middle East, is the prime opportunity to see the local culture at its most colorful and loudest. In Jordan, weddings are the village women's chances to shed their scarves, eat cake, raise their vocal cords, and shake their voluptuous curves to a song on playback for 4 hours.
When I arrived in India, one of my main goals was to attend a local wedding...even to crash one if I had to. Hemant, a couchsurfer I'd met who shared my passion for mountains and exploring, invited me to his sister-in-law's wedding in Ludhiana. I immediately accepted - at its most academic, a study in cross-cultural celebrations and, at its most irresistible, a tempting offer of free Indian food.
Hemant's family had been preparing for this wedding for over 3 weeks, and I arrived just in time to see the festivities in full swing. The day of the wedding, I went with Taruna, Hemant's wife, to her mom's house, where her 2 sisters (one the bride), brother, and mom were all sitting on one queen-sized bed. I joined them, watching as they discussed sari details and packed suitcases. The realization that 20-plus years of sharing a home, a bed, and countless conversations with her youngest daughter would abruptly end in 8 hours hit Taruna's mom as she supervised the flurry of last-minute preparations. Reena, the bride, comforted her mom's tears with a soothing smile and double-armed hugs.
After the chaos of packing clothes had slightly subsided, lunch was announced. The simplicity of the pre-wedding meal was overshadowed by its amazing twist of flavors. The pumpkin melted in your mouth, and was coupled with wonderfully aromatic Indian spices and whole bay leaves swimming in a mustard-colored curry. Mmmm! If every Indian wedding were prefaced with this kind of lunch, I would be a constant face in these celebrations!
Several hours later, the women having separated to go off to their favorite hairdressers and don their best saris, I followed Taruna and her daughter Misha into a fancy salon where I felt like Ugly Betty.
A brief interruption to explain my fear of salons. In 3 years, I haven't applied a single brush of makeup to my face. The last time I had my hair cut professionally was at Supercuts 4 years ago. Since then, I've cut my own hair and my friends have trimmed the uneven ends. The closest I've come to "prettying myself" is cutting my fingernails and shaving my armpits.
So, upon entering that salon full of gorgeous Indian women with flowing waterfalls of black silky hair, I immediately grew conscious of my untweezed eyebrows and thick mass of hair tied messily into an unflattering ponytail.
As I stood behind Taruna and her daughter, I heard the receptionist say, "So, a tweezing, makeup, and hair appointment for you, Ma'am, and a makeup appointment for your daughter. And for her?" I looked up to see them eyeing me, and next thing I knew, I was sitting in a lazy-boy recliner, being pampered by soft hands. When I opened my eyes 20 minutes later, it was horrifying. It looked like someone had grabbed a black magic marker and traced my eyes with it.
"How is it?"
"Too much!"
"Oh..."
"Can you erase, like, the black stuff?"
And so, I settled back into lazy boy bliss as she undid her previous artistry. I just wasn't used to staring at a painted face so I asked her 3 more times, and each time she successively erased a little more of the coal liner.
After my makeup session, it was time to wear my borrowed sari...but I didn't even know how to wrap that extensive fabric around me as elegantly as I'd seen Indian women wear it. So, like a princess, I stood with my arms outstretched in the salon while my makeup artist tucked and safety-pinned the sari around my waist and over my left shoulder.
After Taruna's and Misha's appointments had finished as well, all three of us headed to the wedding. I wasn't surprised that the next hour at the reception was spent taking pictures of the bride sitting, standing, smiling, and not smiling from every possible angle. Misha and I ran downstairs to look at the snacks being served.
"Do you want to eat now?"
"We can wait...no one else is eating yet."
"Why? It's all free. You don't have to pay any rupees. You can have as much as you want and it costs nothing."
And with that statement, I fell in love with Misha. We stood in line and sampled freshly made dosas, potato pancakes, mini pakoras, and fragrant pineapple and watermelon chunks.
Over the next hour and a half, I sat and stared at the other guests, laughed at the children dancing to (really bad) music, grabbed cups of lime soda whenever the waiters came around with their trays, and constantly adjusted my sari so that I wouldn't trip.
Finally, Hemant announced that the groom had arrived. I rushed outside with my camera to encounter a procession of dancing and singing Indians leading the groom through the parking lot. I couldn't gauge how tall or handsome he was because he was riding a horse and had 10-rupee notes taped all over his suit. To exaggerate his arrival, his horse stood gallantly in the parking lot for 10 minutes, while the groom's relatives danced around him. The bride's side was gathered at the entrance to the hotel, patiently waiting.
One by one, a relative of the groom's approached a relative of the bride's, exchanged handshakes, and received a gift of a garland of fragrant flowers and a comforter. After these formalities, the groom himself dismounted, was led to Reena's side, and together they walked to their queen-and-king throne on the stage in the wedding hall.
Fast forward through countless pictures, presenting jewelry to the bride, more garland-donning, and a final flurry of picture-taking...and the buffet was served. I helped myself to a sample of everything, and munched happily while watching the bride and groom pose for photos with relatives. Most of the guests magically disappeared once they had stuffed their stomachs, and it was finally the newly-weds' turn to share their first meal together. They fed each other their first bites, then finished the meal while their closest relatives stared smiling.
At about 11 pm, Hemant noticed that I was succumbing to sleepy eyes. I wanted to stay to watch the final official ceremony during which Reena and the groom were officially wed, but the day's events had worn me out. I'd seen enough to have a grasp of the customs of a Punjabi wedding, eaten enough food to satisfy me for the night, and danced in that gloriously pink sari to rhythmic Punjabi music. That was good enough for me, and my quest to attend an Indian wedding was checked off the to-do list.

Privacy in India? Not a chance...

2008-10-22T09:31:00.000-07:00

If you're a traveler who covets space, enjoys anonymity, and likes a city without ten pairs of curious eyes following you, then India is NOT the place for you. After 2 months here, I've grown quite accustomed to strangers requesting to take a photo of me with their cell phones. I've been bombarded by a flurry of rickshaw drivers the instant I step off a public bus, and I've had my U.S. passport examined by my porter on a trek.
No, India doesn't offer any privacy. But, my golden rule here is: Do as the locals do. If I catch someone invading my personal space, it's my personal right to do the same to them. It's not offensive; it's simply Indian.

Three weeks ago, I was visiting the small town of Joshimath, a gateway to spectacular hikes in the Uttaranchal region. For 3 consecutive days the village's satellite had been down so that the entire town had no internet, no ATM access, and no ability to dial from a land line. My incessant question of "When will the satellite be working?" was met with nonchalant stares that read, "I don't know and I don't care. Come and have some chai (tea)." I was quite desperate to access the ATM, because I needed to pay my porters for the Kuari Pass hike that I had returned from. By the evening of the 3rd day, the satellite was back up, and I ran to the nearest ATM.
ATMs all over the world are designed the same: there is a room with the ATM machine that is accessed by swiping your bank card to gain entry through the glass door. In every single country I've lived or traveled in, ATM courtesy is to wait patiently for the prior customer to finish his transaction, wait for him to exit the ATM room, and then complete your transaction. Simple, one-customer-at-a-time, private services.
In India, as I soon found out, none of these rules apply. I found the ATM room crowded with 8 people. Yes, eight. The line outside was only 2 people long, and as soon as one person exited the ATM room, all the outside customers would do their best to crowd into the narrow room so that they could at least be physically closer to the ATM machine.
I followed suit, and found myself crowded in the ATM room with 7 other men, all staring at the ATM machine like teenagers fixated on a video game. As each customer made his transaction, at least one man would comment. "You have to withdraw from your savings account." "Why did the machine reject your card? You have no money?" Interesting, I thought. As I inched closer to the ATM machine, I readied my Wells Fargo card so that the pot-bellied Indian next to me wouldn't elbow his way in first.
My turn, finally! I slipped in my card, and heard comments from behind me. "What country is her card from?" "How much are her international fees?"
Up popped the PIN screen.
"You have to type in your PIN number. You know your PIN number?"
I looked over my shoulder at the voice breathing down my neck, and found myself staring at 5 peering sets of eyes.
I didn't even respond. I entered in my PIN number, and each time I typed in a digit, I heard voices behind me repeating my PIN sequence. How annoying. But, they had done it to everyone else, so I couldn't scream that I was being targeted.
Up popped the "Savings Account or Current Account" screen. Debates of which account I should tap into ensued behind me.
"Push savings account."
"No, she should push current account."
"Savings accounts always have more money."
"She looks confused."
I didn't even turn around to face my intruders. I pushed current account, then typed in 15,000 rupees.
"Oooh, 15,000 rupees. I wonder what she does."
"I wonder if she works here."
"No, she's just traveling."
And then out popped my cash.
"Take it!" yelled the voices in unison behind me.
I took it. Then I counted it, while everyone else counted with me. Satisfied that the ATM machine had given me what I wanted, I turned around to exit and fight my way through the waiting bodies. Immediately, men started to surge forward, and the battle of whose ATM card would get into the slot first began again.

Another example of nonprivacy? I was standing in the line at the railway station in Haridwar, waiting to book a ticket to Amritsar. The line was long, and people kept cutting in front of slower moving folks. I waited patiently, clutching my stub that would reserve my ticket for the next day.
"You're going to Amritsar?"
I turned around to face a grandpa wearing glasses thicker than my dad's. He was pointing to my train reservation stub.
"Yes."
End of conversation.
After 20 minutes, and the line having only moved 2 feet, I curiously glanced over the shoulder of the man in front of me. His stub read that he was cancelling one seat on a ride to Delhi the following day.
"Why are you canceling your train ticket?"
The man turned around to face me, and answered, "Because I'm not going."
"Oh. Why not?"
"I have business."
I nodded understandingly.
5 minutes later, he turned around and shoved his stub 3 inches from my face.
"Does this say UB or LB?"
His fat finger pointed at an ink-smeared line reading "LB."
"LB."
"Good. I thought so."
"Why?"
"I wanna make sure I cancel the Lower Berth ticket and not the Upper Berth ticket."
I nodded understandingly, again.

And more invasion of privacy in India:
I was in a shared jeep going from Manali to Leh. These jeeps fit 12 people. Yes, it's a standard size jeep. Three passengers and the driver are in the driver's row. Four passengers are in the last row, and the trunk is converted into 2 rows facing each other, each with 2 passengers. A full jeep with no seat belts for maximum profit. True Indian style.
Along this 2-day jeep journey to Leh, there are numerous checkpoints where all foreigners are requested to show their passports. I was the only foreigner and the only female in the entire jeep, so whenever we would pull up to a checkpoint, the entire jeep would turn to face me and chant, "Passport. Passport. Passport." Take it easy, guys, I'm not stupid.
Because I was sitting in the back, I'd have to pass my passport to the second row, who would then pass it to the driver, who would then give it to the security post. At the first checkpoint, after we had been cleared, the passport weaved its way from passenger to passenger before it was returned to me. I didn't mind; my fellow passengers were simply curious and wanted to touch/stroke/attempt to read my visa stamps and passport pages.
It passed through 11 pairs of enquiring hands before it was placed safely back in my money belt. In any other country, would locals have read through your most important document and then passed it down the line? No; only in India.

And in my stay at a gurdwara (Sikh pilgrimage house), I was looking through the photos that I'd taken on the trek that I had returned from that day. I was sitting in the courtyard after dinner, surrounded by Sikhs who were drinking tea, staring at others, or heading off to an early sleep in the communal sleeping halls. As I looked through my photos, deleting some and studying others, a fan base slowly grew. Within 5 minutes, I had 8 peering Sikh heads over my shoulder. The comments were in Punjabi language, so I couldn't understand them, but I could see that they were itching to view a slideshow of the photos. I played the slideshow, and one man eagerly grabbed the camera so that he could see better. Soon, they were all standing gathered around him, oohing and aawing at my photos. I sat on my bench, waiting until they were done or got bored.
"OK, nice photos," the only English-speaking one among them thanked me as he handed back the camera.
8 smiles greeted me, thanking me nonverbally for the entertainment of the slideshow, and I smiled back.
Then, just as quickly as they had gathered, they dispersed.

Unforgettable Indian Moments

2008-10-16T22:45:00.000-07:00

- eating momos (Tibetan dumplings) in Leh with chopsticks, while the entire 5-table restaurant nodded approvingly each time I stuffed my face with a whole dumpling. The only thing that disappointed them was that the foreigner didn't use enough chili sauce in her soy sauce.
- Alchi village, a village to the north of Leh with one of the oldest Buddhist monasteries in the world. My trip there coincided with the Ladakh festival, so I had the wonderful opportunity to watch old Ladakhi men dance and 70-year-old women get drunk off of cheong, the local wine.
- Hem Kund and Badrinath treks: I would do this 1000 times over. I'm not religious or spiritual in any sense, but going on these pilgrimage treks, surrounded by Sikhs and Hindus who were trekking 20 km on rough rocks barefoot, was an indescribable experience. The views were out of postcards, the weather was perfect, and my fellow trekkers were the most hospitable I've met in India. Because I was traveling alone, and single females always attract a certain level of attention in India, I was instantly befriended by a group of 7 Punjabi Sikhs whom I met on the bus. They paid for every single cup of chai, they helped to organize my stay at the gurdwaras (pilgrimage houses), and they made sure that every other Indian knew that the American was with them. The Sikh values lie in honesty, courage, compassion, generosity, patience, and humility in daily life, and my 7 protectors exemplified all these morals not only towards me, but towards others as well. I saw how they helped a young boy who was lost on the trail find his mother, how they carried older men's bags out of respect for elders, and how they bought biscuits for beggars who were freezing in the middle of the street. These 2 treks, and the short 5 days that I spent with my new Punjabi friends, are what has kept me in India so long (I should, according to the Original Plan, be in Nepal in the Annapurnas by now).
- watching Tibetan parents walk their kids to and from school in the rain in McLeod Ganj, one of the marijuana havens in India.
- Malai Kofta. So delicious with some steaming naan.
- Tibet Museum in McLeod Ganj.
- Rajesh Joshi and his family: the most gracious Indian host who invited me into his home and didn't mind that I overextended my stay.
- Evening aarti ceremony at Haridwar; quite amazing to watch colorful flowers illuminated by a single candle floating down the Ganges River at sunset.
- Shanti Kunj, an ashram that was a sanctuary in a busy city. When I wanted to escape the Indian chaos, I would just walk there and people-watch as people stared at me, stroll through the herbal garden, treat myself to nariel ladoos (coconut balls that melt in your mouth), and read my book in the meditation halls. Such a sanctuary.
- Gurdwara stays at Govind Ghat and Govind Dham. Amazing people, great atmosphere, the perfect community feel. Donations if you can, but not required. I was showered with smiles everywhere I turned, incessant questions about my marriage status and what I was doing in a Sikh gurdwara, and constant offers of chai (tea). The meals were free, and by the second day of my stay, I was making chapattis with the volunteers. I was given a mattress in a hall of 70 snoring Sikhs, but I felt more at ease than when I was given a guesthouse room with 70 cockroaches.
- Thermal baths in Vashist temple...the luxury of daily showers and hot water!
- Scenery on Kuari Pass trek.
- Actually growing to enjoy hand-washing my clothes and watching as they dry in the hot Indian sun.
- Receiving a gift from my Sikh friend, Simrun, whom I met on the Hem Kund trek. He gave me a colorful bracelet that had beads around it reading "Friend." It was one of those bracelets that only a 5-year-old would find beautiful. But because it came from him, and was unwarranted, I wear it daily. For anyone who knows me personally, this says a lot, as I never wear any type of ring, necklace, or bracelet. Ever. This is actually my first piece of jewelry, and it's bright red.

To all Indian Women: Happy Karwa Chauth!

2008-10-16T22:34:00.002-07:00

Today is an Indian festival. Not surprising, as the Hindu calendary is filled with festivals, and October is the busiest month. Shopowners have already been preparing for Diwali, still 2 weeks away, and tailors have been telling customers, "Your pants won't be ready until November." The excuse? It's almost Diwali, and until then, all of India is on vacation.
Today's festival, Karwa Chauth, is almost synonymous to a Women's Day, or Mother's Day. All married women are required to fast the entire day - no water, no food, no sex, nothing passes the lips. Once the moon appears at night, they dive into a feast of curries and sweets, often sharing the meal with their female neighbors and friends. The fast symbolizes good health and well-being of their husbands, and it's a day for women to be pampered by their husbands, and the first bite taken is always from the husband's hand.
As an unmarried woman and fanatical food lover, I won't be fasting with married Hindu women. But to all Indian wives out there: Happy Karwa Chauth!

A Wonderful Gift After a Bloody Ride

2008-10-15T10:26:00.000-07:00

Imagine an 18-hour bus ride. Yes, it's natural that you just shuddered. I wasn't too excited either when I scheduled my 2-leg bus trip from Manali to Rishikesh. I would only have to do one bus transfer, but the long journey would take a total of 18 hours.
I mentally prepared myself for sitting on an Indian bus for 18 hours. At least frequent chai (tea) stops are guaranteed on any bus ride in Asia, a good chance to stretch my legs and back, I thought. Things got complicated, though, and a mere 18-hour bus ride started looking uglier. A monsoon rain that lasted 5 days hit Manali, and I found myself and my backpack completely drenched (rainproof does not mean monsoon-proof) as I loaded onto the bus from Manali to Chandigarh. Well, the expected 10-hour bus trip wouldn't be too bad, I thought, as I planned to sleep the entire way. I didn't account for the winding mountain roads that left me with a headache or the fact that my soaked clothes never thoroughly dried on that bus. Oh, yeah, and my reclining seat refused to recline because the long-legged Indian seated behind me wouldn't budge his knees a single inch from my seatback.
At about 4 am, 6 hours into the bus ride, the driver's assistant started collecting a 50 rupee fee from each passenger. A clueless German and myself saw that everyone else was paying, so we did, too, and I assumed it was for holding luggage. But at 8 am, when I began to wonder why we weren't yet in Chandigarh, I found out from a fellow passenger that the mountain roads had been closed, and the risk for mudslides was too great. So the bus driver had been forced to take an alternate road to Chandigarh, which was the reason for the 50 rupee charge (for gas) and the reason why we arrived in Chandigarh 8 hours late. Yes, 8 hours late.
Once in Chandigarh, I removed my still-soaking backpack from the luggage holding and proceeded to gloomily march over to what looked like a bus to Rishikesh, my final destination. After 10 minutes of being directed to wrong buses, I finally found my correct bus and loaded on. The bus to Rishikesh took another 8 hours, and I calculated in my head that I had spent a total of 26 straight hours on buses, wet and angry at the incessant rain.
I was tired, still wet, hungry, and frustrated when I unloaded at Rishikesh. Finally! I thought as I grabbed my backpack from the top of the bus, trying to ignore the fact that it was still soaking. Shower and bed, shower and bed, I willed myself to believe that these 2 things would be waiting for me within an hour.
Luckily, I had emailed an Indian family living near Rishikesh weeks before, and they had invited me to stay in their home while I toured Rishikesh and its surroundings. Immediately, my wet backpack clinging to my sore back, I dialed Rajesh's number and almost screamed into the phone when I heard the hesitant "Hello?"
"Hi! RAJESH! It's Mindy! I am finally in Rishikesh!"
"Oh...hi."
"Can I come over now?"
How could anyone say no? I immediately hopped into a rickshaw and hugged my backpack as we hopped over the badly paved highway towards his apartment. To say that Rajesh and his family provided me with a sanctuary after my horrible 26-hour-bus-ordeal would be an understatement. They welcomed me into their home like a daughter, and fed me like a queen. I was spoiled, and I unashamedly embraced every single ounce of hospitality that they showered upon me.
Because of the delay of the buses, I arrived at their apartment quite late. Rajesh's wife, Komal, was busy in the kitchen, making fresh chapattis and cooking up a wonderful subjee (vegetable curry) dinner. I only had the energy to lay out most of my clothes from my backpack, in a meager attempt to dry them, and then passed out on the mattress they set up for me.
The first morning I was there, Rajesh and his family gave me the privilege of the bathroom. I showered, then proceeded to wash every single article of clothing that I possessed, to save them from smelling of damp rain and accumulating mold. Rajesh and Komal never said anything like "You're using all the laundry detergent! You're taking up the whole building's laundry line! You're wasting water! You don't even know how to wash clothes!" They just let me have my time, let me hang up my underwear and fleeces all over the roof, and then fed me with parathas.
Yes, I still remember - vividly - the first breakfast that Komal made for me. Wonderful, oily, potato-stuffed parathas. The traditional northern Indian breakfast. I was in heaven.
I stayed in heaven. Who would want to leave this paradise? Every day, Komal made a mouth-watering breakfast, lunch, and dinner, somehow always served at the moment when my stomach would start to growl. She did henna on my hands (although then I was faced with Indians congratulating me on a recent marriage that I realized stemmed from the reasoning Henna = Newly-wed Bride). She gave me an Indian outfit (maybe out of pity of seeing me wear the same clothes day in, day out), and taught me food vocabulary in Hindi. Rajesh was a guru of knowledge about astrology and the power of meditation, and answered my incessant and annoying questions about Indian culture and spirituality. Khanak, their beautiful and giddy daughter, was a joy to twirl and sing songs to. She called me Auntie and dutifully learned the phrase "Ooh la la, Babeeee." I got rides to the market on the back of Kumar's (Rajesh's assistant) bike. I planned to stay a maximum of 3 days at this hospitable family's home, but ended up staying a week. And 2 weeks later, after trekking through the Himalayas near Joshimath and Uttarkashi, I was back.
Rajesh, Komal, Khanak, and Kumar invited me into their home and showered me with love. The only reason I stayed sane after that 26-hour bus ride is because I wasn't forced to check into a bed-bug-infested guest house and could comfortably sleep in their living room. I was fattened to the point that I glowed with ghee. For all your hospitality and generosity, thank you, to this Indian family, for letting me become an Indian daughter for a week.

Trekking Junkie

2008-10-14T14:11:00.000-07:00

Left: Mountains near Mana Village, the last Indian village before the Chinese border. Below: Our camp at Chandra Tal.

Left: My trekking partners to Hem Kund Sahib, a Sikh pilgrimage trek. Below: Mountain Views from the Kuari Pass trek.

I've fallen in love with trekking in India. More specifically, I've renewed my love for mountains and greenness and fresh air and solitude. Living in Jordan and surrounding myself with brown deserts for 2 years made me forget how beautiful green trees are, how refreshing mountain air is, how amazing it is to wear short sleeves, and how breathtaking high-altitude peaks are.
I'm simply posting this for future India travelers who plan to do some trekking. Keep in mind, my trekking experience is limited but that doesn't mean I've had any less of a great experience than those who have scaled Kilimanjaro or trekked to Gokyo Re.
1. Batal to Baralacha La: Started in Manali and did a 5-day trek to the midway point between Manali and Leh. I hit beautiful scenery, although none of it was green. This was the raw Himalayas, with snow-capped mountains, bare ranges, and kilometre-long stretches of scree. I had the wonderful opportunity to meet Gaddi shepherds herding sheep to warmer grounds and camped at Chandra Tal, an isolated and undisturbed lake in the middle of the mountain ranges. I was greeted at my destination, Baralacha, by Tibetans who were rearranging prayer flags that stretched down into the valley.
2. Dah-Hanu Valley: Started in Leh, and took an 8-hour bus ride to Dah Valley. This area is known for the locals who have white skin and blue eyes, believed to be direct descendants of Alexander the Great. Their headdresses are unbelievably colorful and their attitudes delightful. The scenery here is gorgeous, and the bridges over the fast-flowing river are simple but sturdy. The rocks lining the banks of the river have been smoothed by the waters and carved into larger-than-life grey gemstones. It was kinda cool knowing I was within 20 km of the Pakistani border - my trekking partner and I were stopped by military officials who demanded we show our permit - and after we did, they sternly told us not to proceed any further because "you are getting too close to the Pakistani side." These villages take quite a while to get to, but you'll most likely be rewarded by being the only foreigner there.
3. Hem Kund Sahib and Badrinath Temple: This was, by far, the best experience I have had in India yet. Hem Kund is a Sikh pilgrimage trek, while Badrinath is one of the four temples that Hindus make a pilgrimage to at least once during their lives. The Hem Kund trek didn't cost a cent: I stayed in gurdwaras all 3 nights, ate all my meals at the gurdwara, and had no need for a porter. Along the way, there were hundreds of Sikh pilgrims doing the same trek, some barefoot, others continuously chanting "Wahe Guru, Wahe Guru." I am probably one of the least spiritual people that I know, but Hem Kund was truly an inspiring experience. A posse of five Sikh pilgrims adopted me, and I was able to trek with them for the entire 38-km roundtrip trek. The lake at Hem Kund is undefinable in terms of beauty, and the water is so shockingly cold that my feet were blue after just a quick dip. For Sikhs, the lake's waters are holy, and it's compulsory for all Sikh pilgrims to take a bath in the icy cold waters.
Badrinath temple is a short 90-minute bus ride from the base of the Hem Kund trek, and is cluttered with Hindus making the pilgrimage to this holy temple, beggars lining the walkways, and locals selling offerings to the gods. The best part about Badrinath is that it is a short 3 km trek from Mana village, the last village in India before the Chinese border. From Badrinath to Mana, I continued to trek to Vasudhara Falls, a powerful waterfall that thunders into the Ganges River. I was lucky enough to have clear views of gorgeous snow-covered peaks from Vasudhara Falls.
4. Tungnath and Chandrashila: From Chopta village near Gupta Kashi, I trekked up a very steep path to Tungnath. There's a holy temple here, but to be honest, it's nothing much. I spent about 5 minutes there, and then proceeded another km onto Chandrashila, a peak that affords a 270* panorama of beautiful mountain ranges for miles and miles. Unfortunately, since I reached Chandrashila by noon, the clouds had moved in and I was only surrounded by mist. Go on a clear day and I'm sure the views are worth the trek.
5. Kuari Pass: I cut this trek short, and only went from Auli to Tapovan. This was the type of trek that I had envisioned when I thought of The Ideal Trek, with green rolling meadows the first part and unparalleled views of rows of mountain ranges on the second half. We slept in a small forest the first night, stumbled upon temples in the middle of mountain passes, and were honored with views of rice fields and local villages on the bases of the neighboring mountains. If I could do this again, I would, but I would extend it to a 12-day trek from Auli to Rup Kund, a crystal-clear lake that has mysterious skeletons and skulls lying at the bottom.
6. Kedarnath Temple: The second of the four temples that Hindus make pilgrimage treks to. This temple is beautiful because it's so isolated and because the temple is framed by beautiful snow-capped peaks. Also, the night I arrived, the first snowfall came and in the morning, the blisteringly cold weather afforded gorgeous, unclouded skies and views of the mountains behind the temple.
My addiction to greenness and altitude can't be cured, and next month I'm setting off to Nepal to conquer the Annapurna Base Camp and Sanctuary Trek. It should take a total of 26 days, and will surely be a test for my lungs! Wish me luck and oxygen...

Getting Naked with the Local Indian Women

2008-10-14T14:02:00.001-07:00

I'm lucky if I get a bath every 2 days here in India. I've been perpetually dirty and dusty, and I've simply succumbed to the idea that I'll always be a shade darker than my real skin color. There was a week-long period, however, where I was in luxury: I was taking baths at least once a day and, to top it off, the water was heated!
While staying in Manali in the Himachal Pradesh state of India, I took a rock-climbing course that left me sweaty, dirty, and bruised every afternoon. The $2-a-night hostel I was staying in didn't even have a shower, so I simply followed the villagers to their bathing grounds, the thermal springs at Vashist, just 3 km from Manali. I'd leave my shoes with the toothless man, walk inside the temple, turn the corner, and open the curtain to the wonderful world of naked Indian women, a steaming pool, gushing thermal springs, and no ogling Indian men. What bliss!
The water was warm, the women shared their soap, and everyone stared at how my small my breasts are. Indians are very unashamed and unabashed when it comes to staring, and I adopted this habit right back. When a naked women started doing yoga and breathing exercises by the pool that made her breasts bounce, all the women in the bathing area stared. When I brought down a bucket and proceeded to wash a week's worth of laundry in the springs, all the women stared. When a pregnant woman stripped down to take her bath, everyone stared at her round belly.
That's the only consistent time period that I've had daily showers. And it's the only time in India that I've had heated water. Ah, I do miss those thermal baths at Vashist.

Taking the Public Bus in a Foreign Country

2008-10-14T13:31:00.000-07:00

There's something almost threatening, yet thrilling, about using public buses in developing countries. Signs and destinations posted in a foreign language, inevitable delays, people spilling out the windows, and car horns that incessantly announce their arrival. I've ridden and hated public buses in Jordan, I've seen a naked boy pee in the bus aisle in Cambodia, and I've had a baby placed on my lap on a fully-loaded bus in India.
Why are travellers so afraid of taking public buses? Almost everywhere I've been, I've run into countless foreigners who desperately search for the "Coach Air-Conditioned Buses" that promise reserved seats, a space for your luggage, AC, and faster connections. Why anyone would opt to take these over the dirty, broken-down, slow, mechanically inefficient, and spilling-over-the-edges-with-passengers-and-luggage public buses is a wonder to me. Public buses are just so much more of an adventure and gateway into the culture.
Some advice to those about to embark on a journey using public buses in a foreign country:
1. Don't expect anyone at the bus station to speak English. As well, destinations on buses will most likely be written in the native language, and I've often stared at a Hindi word, not able to decipher whether it says "Delhi" or "Uttarkashi." The best policy is to look as you feel: lost. Within two minutes (30 seconds if you're female), a local will approach you and ask where you want to go. Even if they don't ask you in English, just tell them your destination and they'll lead you to the right bus (or find someone who can understand your garbled pronunciation).
2. Don't be surprised when someone leans their head out the window to throw up. In India, I've seen countless locals suddenly lurch their heads out the window and succumb to motion sickness. Ninety percent of the time it's older women, who aren't used to traveling on the winding Himalayan roads. Be prepared, if you are occupying a window seat, to be asked (read: forced) to switch seats mid-journey so that a local can be near the window in case of emergency puking. This has happened so many times in India that I started to wonder why it never happened in Jordan - why in 2 years, I hadn't experienced the same frequency of Jordanian women throwing up on public buses. I realized that it's because Jordanian women don't travel on buses, since they rarely leave their homes.
3. When a bus arrives, be prepared to fight for your seat. I've mastered the art of using my elbows, of racing on board even before the bus stops at its loading station, and of throwing my bag in through the window to reserve a seat on the bus. The strongest will survive, so be strong and quick.
4. Expect buses to stop frequently. This is a given - public buses will stop anywhere to let someone take a quick bathroom stop, to pick someone up, or to allow the driver an excuse for a cigarette break. In Jordan, the bus would often stop in the middle of the desert - no civilization visible for at least 5 km - to pick up or let off a passenger. In India, as well, I've often wondered from where these magical villagers appear from or disappear to when we stop in the middle of a mountain road to pick up a 60-year-old man who is carrying a load of 6 crates full of apples or to drop off a family of 8.
5. People will carry any and everything onto the buses. There is no maximum weight limit. I've seen a woman load onto a bus with 6 20-kg bags of flour and a man get on with 4 truck tires. I've seen a boy get on carrying a humongous drum wrapped in a quilt and a farmer load baskets of vegetables onto the top of the bus. Once, during Ramadan, I was taking a public bus in northern India when, at one of the stops, a man stopped to buy chicken thighs and breasts for his family's sunset feast. I watched, horrified, as the chicken seller cut off the selected parts, wrapped them in newspaper, and handed them to his customer. After haggling over the price, the man, cuddling his chicken meat, jumped on the bus, and tossed his chicken-in-newspaper onto the compartments above. I snatched my bag down, certain that with the amount of jostling on the bus, there was sure to be chicken blood all over within 5 minutes.
6. Calculate which side of the bus - right or left - will be shaded during your ride. To do this, ask yourself 2 questions: 1. Which direction (north, south, east, west) am I travelling in? and 2. Will the sun be rising or setting? Then, determine whether you should stake a seat on the right or left hand side of the bus.
7. Enter any public bus with a free and open mind. Public buses are an experience in themselves, and use this opportunity to people watch unabashedly.

India and all its colors

2008-08-28T21:26:00.001-07:00

My treat to completing 2 years of Peace Corps in a Muslim village is a trip to India. I want all the greenness, all the colors, all the spices, and all the laughter that abound in every single Bollywood film. It's only been a week in India so far, but I already have a list of favorite experiences:
Spicy curries and freshly baked naan.
Trying dosas (southern India dish) for the first time.
Staying with a friend in Amritsar who lives in a hotel suite and doing laundry in his bathtub.
Getting naked with the locals in Manali - I went to the thermal hot springs inside the temple, stripped down, and attempted not to wince at the extreme temperature of the water that gushed from the thermal springs in the mountains just above us.
Watching the Pakistan-India border crossing ceremony in Amritsar and laughing at the bravado of it all.
Drinking chai masala every single morning.
Taj Mahal - wandering around, gazing in awe at the whiteness of it all, enjoying the people watching at the temple, and getting chased by the monkeys that live in the garden.
Eating momos (Tibetan noodles), watching Tibetan parents walk their kids to and from school, and seeing friendly smiles in the Tibetan faces of McLeod Ganj. I love Tibetan culture.
Wandering through markets and bargaining.
Hiking in the mountains through McLeod Ganj, avoiding humongous slugs that were on the trail, and realizing what it's like to be in a cloud.
Running through monsoon rain.
Tibet Museum - realizing the true story of China's occupation of Tibet and Tibet's disappearing culture.
Eating more naan and curries.
Tomorrow, I leave for a 5-day hike in Himachal Pradesh. It's my personal training for trekking in Nepal. I've heard horror stories about AMS and about hikers being assaulted on the trail, but I'll be with a horse, a cook, a guide, and another American who I'll meet tomorrow and has been described to me as a true mountaineering man. Still trying to absorb everything that India throws at me and trying to take advantage of all the wonderful outdoor opportunities that Himachal and Leh offer.

Leaving Jordan behind...

2008-08-28T20:43:00.000-07:00

After 2 years of living in a village where every time I step outside my door, there's either a child squatting on my porch and staring at me or a toothless Bedouin woman rushing over to pat my shoulder and invite me for tea, you'd think that I would've left Jordan with regret that I couldn't grant everyone in my village an American visa and with immediate plans to return and see my 10th graders graduate from the madrasa.
Unashamedly, I admit that I didn't leave with one ounce of longing to stay in the country a minute longer. Don't get me wrong; my 2 years of Peace Corps experience have been amazing and irreplaceable, but I was ready to move on. I was ready to shed those layers and wear shorts and prance around in a tanktop. I couldn't wait to eat meat that wasn't my neighbor's goat and I was so excited to walk around anywhere in complete anonymity. I dreamt of strolling down a Main Street and not getting rocks thrown at me, and I lusted for the chance to be able to have normal cross-gender relationships that wouldn't be perceived as sinful.
On the last night in my village, I made the rounds. I visited all my favorite neighbors, giving them clothes and spices and toys that I'd accumulated throughout my Peace Corps service. Goodbyes weren't all that difficult and none were tearful, because I explained to them that although I would be leaving Jordan, I was going back to see my family and sister whom I haven't seen for a very long 2 years. The concept of familial relationships is just as ingrained in Middle Eastern culture as it is in Asian tradition, so this was easily understandable. I wasn't leaving them; I was going home to see my family. And, I told them, in sha Allah (God willing), we would meet later in life.
I left my village on a dusty morning, weighed down with multiple bags that were impossible for a 5-foot girl to manage. After a strenuous 3 hour fight to get to Amman, I made it and rejoiced with the thought that in 72 hours, I would be moving on to the next chapter in my life.
Because of the multiple medical procedures and administrative meetings that need to be completed before a Peace Corps volunteer can leave the country, I spent my last 3 days in Jordan in Amman. When I wasn't rushing around the office filing forms or getting a doctor's signature to say that I was healthy, I was sitting at cafes with fellow volunteers, reminiscing over how much we would or wouldn't miss Jordan, what we'd do with our Arabic when we got back, which couples would stay together after their service, and what we looked forward to: washing machines, air conditioning and central heating, driving, restaurants, wine dinners, not hiding that we have friends of the opposite sex, and greenness. The best way to get excited about something is to surround yourself with people who are equally, if not more, excited about the same things and to constantly talk about how great it'll be to stroke a washing machine again.
It's been a week since I've left Jordan, and I don't miss it one bit. I look back on my experiences now with more clarity and better perspective than I had when I was in the country, but with no longing to return to the days when I froze in the winters, fasted during Ramadans, had to wear long sleeves and a long skirt even when I hung my laundry up outside, and was expected to make students fluent in English in a mere 2-hour tutoring session.
Great memories do abound, but as for now, I'm still in that phase of the first lick of freedom: I'm not judged when I talk to males, I'm not considered Satan-ish when I wear short sleeves, and I'm not forced to say Bismid-Allah or Al-Hamdid-Allah before and after every single meal.

Funny metaphors used in high school essays

2008-08-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

This makes me want to teach in America...

Just in case you need some writing inspiration. Every year, English teachers from across the USA can submit their collections of actual analogies and metaphors found in high school essays. These excerpts are published each year to the amusement of teachers across the country. Here are last year’s winners:

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli, and he was room temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another
city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

(From http://help.com/post/124066-funny-metaphors-used-in-high-school)

Saudi Child Marriages

2008-08-12T23:08:00.000-07:00

From The Jordan Times, Thursday, August 7, 2008:

"Calls for end to Saudi child marriages" - by Donna Abu-Nasr, The Associated Press
An 11-year-old boy gave out invitations to his classmates for a big event his family was planning this summer - and it wasn't his birthday party.
It was his wedding to a 10-year-old cousin.
Mohammad Al Rashidi's marriage was eventually put on hold...after pressure from the governor of Hail, who considered the elementary school student too young to marry.
The case is among a recent spate of marriages involving the very young reported in the media and by Saudi human rights groups...The Human Rights Commission, a Saudi government-run rights group recently suceeded in delaying the consummation of the marriage of a 10-year-old girl after getting reports from medical centres in Hail that she and a man in his 60s had showed up for the mandatory prenuptial medical tests...but there are other marriages involving children that have gone ahead.
One involved a 15-year-old girl whose father, a death-row inmate, married her off to a cellmate who also was sentenced to death. The father's sentence was carried out July 21, when he was beheaded for killing another man.
Pictures of the wedding, held in the prison...appeared in several newspapers. Inmates recited poems and delivered speeches in the presence of prison officials. The teenage bride and other women...held a separate reception outside the jail.
The groom and his bride were allowed to spend two nights together in a special prison quarters after the wedding...
There are no laws in Saudi Arabia defining the minimum age for marriage. Though a women's consent is legally required, some marriage officials do not seek it. For example, a father can marry off a one-year-old girl as long as sex is delayed until she reaches puberty...There are no statistics to show how many marriages involving children are preformed every year...
Such marriages occur not only in Saudi Arabia. In April, an 8-year-old Yemeni girl sought out a judge to file for divorce from a man nearly four times her age. Her lawyer said she was one of thouands of underaged girls who have been forced into marriages in Yemen...
[Activists] say the girls are given away in return for hefty dowries or as a result of long-standing custom in which a father promises his infant daughters and sons to cousins out of a belief that marriage will protect them from illicit relationships...Al Muabi, a marriage official, said that because marriage in Islam takes places in two stages - a marriage contract can be signed months or even years before a woman moves in with her husband - that means a one-year-old girl can be married off.
A man "can enter a marriage contract with a one-year-old girl, not to mention nine years, seven years, or eight years," said Muabi. "This is just a contract indicating consent, and the guardian in this case must be the father." Muabi maintained such unions make sense in some cases, such as when a man is the sole guardian of many daughters.
"Isn't it better to marry his daughter to a man with whom she can stay and who can protect her and support her, and when she reaches the proper age, have sex with her? Who says all men are ferocious wolves?" said Muabi.
However, Sheikh Abdul-Mohsen Al Obeikan, a legal adviser at the justice ministry, said a girl's consent is crucial.
"A marriage official should not conclude a marriage contract without the woman's agreement and without her signature," Obeikan said...
"When girls are married off at a young age they will be deprived of education and of enjoying their childhood," said Suhaila Hammad of the National Society for Human Rights..."Their bodies won't be able to tolerate pregnancey and delivering children." But there's only so much the groups can do.

Toning My Biceps and Forearms

2008-08-08T07:42:00.000-07:00

The only exercise I'm able to do in my village are my early-morning runs or walks and jump-roping, lunges, and mock cardio-kickboxing in my living room. There's little opportunity for me to keep my arms in shape, which I did in the States by swimming and weight-training.
I do have a once-a-week routine that gives my arms a good workout and keeps my knees flexible. Every Friday is the oh-so-dreaded Laundry Day. Let me tell you, washing clothes by hand is the only way that I can hope to keep my forearms and biceps slightly worthy of a tanktop (to be worn immediately upon arrival in the States). Also, it makes me truly appreciate the efficiency of a washing machine (to be stared at and stroked upon arrival in the States).
My (Jordan) Workout Regimen for Upper Body:
1. Separate Week's Laundry into 2 piles: 1. Socks and Underwear and 2. Everything Else
2. Wait 20 minutes for water heater to do its magic.
3. Fill plastic tub with water and detergent.
4. Squat in my shower, scrub, scrub, scrub each individual sock and underwear.
5. Once satisfied, pour dirty water (don't be scared if it's dark brown) over my kitchen floor.
6. Repeat steps 3-5 (socks are really dirty).
7. Fill plastic tub with warm water only, and wash items again until no longer soapy.
8. Repeat step 5.
9. Hang up underwear on laundry line in living room, hang up socks outside on neighbor's outdoor laundry line.
10. Fill plastic tub with water and detergent.
11. Squat (ignore how stiff your knees are by now) and scrub, scrub, scrub each piece of clothing from pile #2.
12. Once satisfied, pour water over my living room floor.
13. Repeat step 7 for pile #2 items.
14. Repeat step 12.
15. Hang up clothes on neighbor's outdoor laundry line.
16. Wash the kitchen floor with my all-purpose squeegee, using water from puddles of the dirty and soapy water from Socks and Underwear load.
17. Wash the living room floor with squeegee, using water from puddles from Everything Else load.
18. Read a good book and wait.
19. In winter: 3 days later, take down frozen clothes from laundry lines. In summer: 2 hours later, take down dry clothes from laundry lines.

Skits from the Camp GLOW Talent Show

2008-08-02T00:55:00.000-07:00

The talent show from Camp GLOW's last night. Girls came up with their own skits...the counselors did, too!

The Fashion Show Skit:

Flexible Man Skit:

A Happy :) Skit:

Counselors' Skit (song taken from The Golden Girls):

For more entertainment, watch the GLOW girs' team cheers!

Videos of Team Cheers from Camp GLOW

2008-08-02T00:04:00.000-07:00

The GLOW girls were broken up into teams of 5, and each team made their own team cheers!

The Blue Team Cheer:

The Green Team Cheer:

The Orange Team Cheer (my favorite!):

The Yellow Team Cheer:

The Purple Team Cheer:

What else did we do in Camp GLOW? LOTS!!

Camp GLOW: My Legacy in Jordan

2008-08-01T23:42:00.001-07:00

The idea for Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) was born last November. It started as a brainstorming session, but eventually the excitement was contagious. Three Peace Corps female volunteers and I decided to create a Camp GLOW in Jordan, after reading that it had been successfully started in Eastern European PC countries. The idea was to invite Jordanian girls from Peace Corps communities and financially disadvantaged villages who had the potential to become great future female leaders.
Finally, after 9 months of planning, preparing, writing manuals, reading applications, selecting Jordanian females to be counselors, organizing activities, seeking a community sponsor, and pleading for friends and family to donate money, we made it!
We selected 26 girls for Camp GLOW, from ages 15-18, based on their essays, English skills, recommendation letters, and leadership and motivational qualities (and, of course, parental approval that they could sleep outside their homes...many for the first time!). We selected the best, the brightest, and the most interesting. On July 20, 2008, the Peace Corps counselors and four Jordanian volunteers (all university students) stood impatiently at the dorms, praying to Allah that all the girls would arrive safely and on time. Some campers were coming from as far south as Ma'an, while others were coming from villages only 20 minutes away.
The first day went perfectly; all the girls arrived before lunch and were soon chatting away and making new friends. I had previously been apprehensive about the girls' initiating conversations with other students from different regions in Jordan, but the campers were all more timid around the counselors than their new friends!
Throughout the week, we hosted sessions that ranged from environmental awareness to goal setting and from community service to the importance of writing in a journal. Each day, there were guest speakers, and the girls bombarded these invited professionals with questions about university education, nutritional diet, how they could strive for a similar career, and how to use the dental floss that was in the goodie bag from the medical professional. It was so encouraging as a counselor to see the level of English that these girls possessed and the motivation they had to pursue careers in pharmacy or aeroscience. In my Peace Corps village, I've never been able to get over the frustration of working at a school where the level of English in my 10th grade class ranges from students who don't know the alphabet to girls who have lived in Bahrain for 5 years and thus speak and understand English at a 5th grade level. In contrast, our GLOW girls were all enthusiastically speaking English to the counselors, and even the more intimidated girls had improved their English skills by the end of the week.
None of the 26 campers seemed to be overwhelmed by the busy schedule we had designed. Our plan worked; we had intended to fill every waking minute with group activities and sports so that the girls wouldn't have a chance to miss their families. Only twice during the entire week did we have girls approach a counselor and say she was homesick. Even better, her new friends' reactions were to console her and provide a comforting hug.
During a discussion on day three, one camper from Mafraq boldly admitted that, in the days leading up to the camp, she was scared that she wouldn't have any friends and that everyone would come in their already-formed cliques. However, she happily exclaimed that she had already made friends whom she felt closer to than her own schoolmates, and that this was the first time that she was meeting people from regions such as Shobak and Rumtha. She wasn't alone; all the campers found new friends whose personalities and goals matched their own. Camp GLOW gave all of our girls their first opportunity to travel outside their villages, to meet girls from regions they had previously never heard of, and to develop their individual personalities and goals.
Each day, a sports session was held in the late afternoon. Before camp started, the counselors tentatively scheduled an hour of sports a day, fearing that some girls wouldn't participate or that they would be tired and bored within the first 15 minutes. Imagine how happy I was when, on the second day, several girls approached me and asked, "Ms. Mindy, Do we get to play sport today?" And when I answered them with a yes, they huddled toward each other and giggled excitedly, like they had been told we were taking a field trip to the King's palace. They used the sports hour as a chance to shed their head scarves and act like giddy schoolkids. We taught them games like broom hockey and went on night hikes around the campus together, but they were just as happy with a simple game like Sharks and Minnows (which we called Lions and Deers because a lot of them had never been to the sea) and freeze tag.
Watching these girls unabashedly play sports and run around without worrying about being culturally inappropriate (since we were an all-female staff and had reserved the gym court only for Camp GLOW) was my favorite hour of each day. In my Peace Corps village, I'm often the only girl over 10 years of age walking outside, and I always see boys playing soccer or riding bikes outdoors, while their sisters are inside behind closed doors. It was better than apple pie to watch these girls scream at their teammates to pass the ball or squeal and jump when they thought they had scored a goal. I was especially touched when one camper ran up to me and shouted in one breath, "Ms. Mindy, Thank you so much! We are so much fun! This is first time I have learn game and play with balls! I love to do sport and you are my team captain!" Even though these jumbled sentences left me repeating them to unravel their grammatical errors in my head, I understood her perfectly: She loved sports, and she could play sports all day long. Ditto, I thought.
On our last night, as we were walking back to the dormitories, I overheard a group of 3 girls exclaiming to each other that they would stay up all night. "We won't sleep...this is our last night before going home tomorrow! You have to kick me if I start to fall asleep." Little did they know that I understood their excited Arabic conversation 100%. I didn't mind, though. I wasn't about to ruin a great camp by playing the Nazi who forces everyone to be in their beds by 10 pm. I remember summer tennis camps and outdoors retreats when all I wanted to do the last night of camp was to stay up all night with a flashlight and do girly stuff with the friends that I'd soon have to say goodbye to.
The next morning, we found the girls with hollow eyes and 30 minutes late for breakfast. We had to drag over half of them out of bed, and force them to eat our last day's breakfast of falafel. After the morning's workshops and sessions, our last activity before packing bags was to share thoughts about the camp. Each girl held a "Sharing Stick" and told the others what she had learned, what she would miss, and what her favorite memories of Camp GLOW were. By the 5th girl, we had sniffles and bloodshot eyes, chins trembling to keep back the tears. Even the counselors were tearing up. It was inspiring to hear directly from the campers how much they had learned from the camp, how much confidence they had gained in themselves, and how many fond memories they would carry back to their villages.
I'm so proud of Camp GLOW – in words it sounds quite mundane: a leadership camp for Jordanian girls. But if you could experience working in a village for a frustrating 2 years, never quite feeling that you had that glory moment which you could take home to America and say, "That's why I became a Peace Corps volunteer"...if you could know how patiently my fellow Peace Corps counselors and I have waited to see Camp GLOW become reality...if you could see how these girls walked away from camp with ideas about recycling and basketball to bring back to their little sisters and cousins...if you could believe that in a week, we had transformed 26 village girls into 26 inspiring models for their communities...if you could believe that these girls had come to camp on Day 1 wearing black abbayas (a full-length black robe traditionally worn by women) and head scarves, and walked away wearing the tie-dye t shirts that we had made on Day 5...if you could hear the enthusiasm these girls had when talking about becoming either a counselor or re-applying to attend Camp GLOW next year...if you could see the tears mixed with the smiles when these girls said goodbye to their new friends and mentors...then you'd know how proud I am of all the 6 Peace Corps counselors who helped turn this spontaneous thought into hard-won reality, of the 4 Jordanian female university students we selected to be mentors for the girls, of the 26 Jordanian high-school girls who embraced everything Camp GLOW threw at them, and of Jordan University of Science and Technology for being our community sponsor and letting us parade around their campus, sing our cheers in the early mornings, and sleep in their female dormitories. I'm still glowing from last week's successful Camp GLOW and, in sha Allah (God willing), next year will be just as successful and memorable.
Thank you, to my fellow Peace Corps volunteers and Camp GLOW co-founders:
Jessica Cho, for your ability to handle logistics and your wasta with our community sponsor.
Natasha Marwah, for always being optimistic and making me feel tall (physically, not egotistically).
Julia Hirschy, for always remaining calm, even when the rest of us were worried over the minor details.
Linsey Meldrim, because when I look at you I think of orange circles, and because we could count on you for discipline and barbeesh threats.
Bobbie Zerfas, because we both loved Rahma and I got more of a kick watching you sing "When You're Happy and You Know It" than watching the girls sing it in their skit.
I couldn't have asked for a better team of inspiring, motivated, funny, and dedicated girls to lead Camp GLOW.

To see our inspiring GLOW girls' team cheers, click here.
For live talent show videos, click here.

Also, the Jordan Times and MTV published articles about the camp!