tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43913349545784418672024-03-13T22:06:45.077+08:00JG, Over the Sea.Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.comBlogger608125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-90059675679887158252017-01-03T01:55:00.002+08:002017-01-03T07:23:09.872+08:00Garage Treasure Chest. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If you have ever travelled with me, you know one of the many weird quirks that I have. I buy things so that my grandchildren will find them one day. </div>
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For the last 8 years of life abroad and international travel, I have made a point to buy something, anything, from each location that could be found in an attic one day, dusty and fading, that could trigger the imagination and explorative spirit of the kin that will come after me. It's just my thing I do. I want my crap to be kept, preserved, and then found. These last few months in Florida have been less than exciting. My dad was diagnosed with cancer, the cancer is growing, my grandma sometimes knows me - sometimes doesn't, and my job search was heartbreakingly.close.so.many.times until I finally landed my dream job in December. One thing has been fascinating, however, which has been the opportunity to sift through family artifacts. To be on the receiving side of my own personal mission to send exotic things into the next generations. The same was done, purposefully or not, from my predecessors. </div>
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Back to that dream job - I'm moving to the DC Metro area this weekend to begin my job working in US - China relations. It's very much a "homecoming" and utter redemption for the way my 7 year China experience ended 18 months ago. </div>
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After 5 months of job searching and being with my family after 8 years away, I am leaping into the American unknown. In many ways, I feel like I have adapted back to American life. But in many ways I haven't. I've been in the in-between. </div>
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My African quilt has been wrapped in its dry cleaning bag and sitting in my pink suitcase since August. I've been eating my parents food - lots of dry goods and packaged foods and oven meals, not the stove top one-pan creations I like to make for dinner. I've been using my dad's Keurig, while a tiny part of me dies thinking about the massive additions to landfills these little "convenient" pods are. I look forward so much to using a french press again. I look forward to my habits and routines again. </div>
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My things that have been collected over years of travel have been in reusable bags, shoved to the back of closets or lost in the sea of the garage. My paper umbrella bought on the beach in Thailand - in the back of the closet. My golden dragon gifted to me by the WeiFang government official, on the shelves in the garage surrounded by paper goods. Last night I found my ticket to the Taj Mahal, tacked to a bulletin board. Remnants of a season of life that has ended. Waiting to be compiled and saved and held onto for their memories. </div>
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My treasures are many and fascinating. But they pale in comparison to the other treasures piled in our 2 car garage. </div>
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Shortly before I returned home from Africa, a course of events occurred that resulted in my dad single-handedly moved all of my grandparent's belongings from their house into our garage. Weekends were spent boxing precious china, stacking old photos, removing every document. The task was monumental. But my dad is a loyal son, evidenced in the labor and ongoing care he provides his parents (alongside my mother who has already spent 28 years of her life caring for her mom). The result of this quick exit from my grandparent's large and beautiful home is that our garage is a (very messy) treasure chest. I directly benefit from this suddenly accrued treasure. Since securing an apartment, I have spent hours boxing dishes, utensils, and pyrex bowls, preparing to haul my grandparent's things to DC and use them until my own children take over one day. Pillows, towels, paintings, souvenirs from my grandparent's travels across the world. They're coming with me. </div>
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I often find myself just staring into the abyss. I am in awe that the physical reminders of two successful, profound, happy lives can be condensed into a garage. Sometimes I think to myself, "What is it all for?" We gather things only to have them released from our grip one day. Sometimes I envision the goat boy in Rwanda, or my friends in the desert of Ningxia and wonder that my parent's garage houses more belongings - more haphazard wealth - than most world citizens will ever see. I work hard to draw myself back from these thoughts, to focus on the here and now. These are my grandparent's things from lives well-lived. </div>
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I'm fascinated by each piece of treasure. The untold stories suck me in and take me away for brief moments. </div>
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There is the Churchwomen's Recipe Book given to my grandmother in 1968 from her foster mother. My grandma arrived via ship to America from France where she was orphaned in WWII. She was placed with a foster family in Ohio, and after her marriage to my grandfather (they met working at JCPenny), this little book was gifted. I love the typewriter- written pages and the personal notes left behind. </div>
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My grandmother made this Hershey Bar Pie on September 12, 1985. One year before my birth and nearly 20 years after being given the recipe book. "Good," she wrote. I can see her penning that thought in her kitchen, dirty dishes waiting to be washed in the sink.<br />
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She added 2.5 cups of milk to this Coconut Custard Pie recipe. I like to think about how she came to that conclusion. Trial and error? Did she already assume?<br />
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And then, for me, the best part of the book. A clipped out recipe from a package of Florida grown mushrooms. "Deep Fried Mushrooms" made of club soda, garlic salt, and flour. Did my dad eat these as a kid? Did she prepare them for a party or social gathering?<br />
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In a stack of framed items, I found this artifact. A certificate of shares owned for Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. My grandfather owned 10 shares valued at $.50 each in 1968.<br />
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Then there's this. A family Bible from 1879. EIGHTEEN SEVENTY NINE. I lost my breathe over this one. The cover is heavy and thick, the pages full of drawings depicting parables and stories of Jesus. It looks like something that should be kept in a glass case.<br />
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Perhaps more amazing, if possible, are the newspaper clippings, hand written notes, and telegrams inside the front cover of the Bible.<br />
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This note is a handwritten list of people from February 12, 1893. I don't know any of the names on the list as family members, it seems like a prayer group list or something. The handwriting is flowy and beautiful. The paper is silky soft. Who were these people? How are their names on a list in our family Bible? What were they doing on February 12, 1893? What did their world look like?<br />
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Here is a telegram announcing the death of Ora McCormick on February 1, 1943. My great great grandpa. He died in New York, after living a life as a prominent industrialist. He invented the flour sifter and the Hoosier kitchen cabinet. His services were at 2pm on a Wednesday.<br />
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And this handsome fella photographed at the age of 21 in 1951. My grandfather. I hope to have a son one day and name him Philip after this dashing, generous man. *fingers crossed*. This photo will go with me to DC. A handsome gentleman to remind me of aging, of accepting and cherishing the varying stages of life, of pausing in the moment to reflect, of the importance of building a story. Is my grandpa still this person? What did 21 year old Philip think about, care about, dream about? Did it all come true?<br />
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One of my favorite finds is this Cuba travel guide. My grandparents went to Cuba on their honeymoon in June, 1956. (I hope to travel to Cuba this year. "Getting in" during the initial opening up stages is so important to see a place before it loses its original "charm." I felt this way about visiting Burma, and now I feel this way about Cuba.) My grandparents enjoyed the sunshine and the food and the tropical charm. I like to envision them wandering around Cuba holding this guide, using the map of Havana to find their way to their romantic restaurant choices. A French woman and her stock broker husband honeymooning in "The Paris of America."<br />
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These treasures. Held onto and preserved and found again.<br />
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As I prepare for a new season of life, it's been such a gift to reminisce on the past. To be humbled that my journey has barely begun. My grandparents have lived a lush, hard-working American life. They are an inspiration, as is my parent's care for them in these later stages. I love sorting my mamaw and gramps' treasures as much as I love seeking and buying my own to leave behind. A cycle of things, of little reminders of our existence and how intricate and multi-faceted (and lucky) they are.<br />
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Maybe I'll make some fried mushrooms once I get my kitchen in DC unpacked.<br />
I'll let you know how they are.<br />
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-29252695224914339692016-10-01T02:37:00.002+08:002016-10-05T14:09:33.739+08:00That Time We Got Cancer. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I often wish I could go back to before August 29th.<br />
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Before the deluge of supplements, the expensive juicer, the articles on holistic health, and the gallons of alkaline water. When "active" was my online shopping habit and "dormant" was Mushu my cat between the hours of 10am and 5pm. When I was home to help my parents with the burden of being alzheimers caretakers and meant to be looking for a job "in a big city on the East Coast." </div>
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Before we got cancer. </div>
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(I've read that a person doesn't get cancer, a family gets cancer. And that is exactly the truth.) </div>
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We didn't see it coming, not a little, not at all. A few weeks before C day, I had accompanied my dad to a routine bone marrow tap because the doctors had found some weird numbers in his yearly blood tests. It was thought to be arthritis and the doctors said over and over again, "It's not an emergency, it's not cancer, we just want to know what's going on." </div>
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So my dad scheduled the bone tap and I went with him, at my mom's request, to the Florida Cancer Whatever office and waited in the waiting room during the procedure. I marveled at the lobby while the Indian doctor (noteworthy to me because I love Indians so much thanks to a glorious India backpacking trip in 2011) plunged a thick needle into my dad's spine in a back room. The lobby was so clean. It had a flat screen tv scrolling news and advertisements and a stack of books on a shelf - more books than an entire Rwandan village has. I listened to the patients come in one by one, greeting the desk manager and passing American sincerities back and forth. I recalled the last time I was in a doctors office - during a bout of horrific stomach parasite while in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia a few months ago. I was taken to an "American hospital" to get the best care possible. But like most things labeled "American" in the third world, it was American only in name. Privilege can't be replicated. </div>
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So there I sat, marveling at the office, when a little old lady called me back to dad's room. There was blood all over the testing screens and she had me sit down while going on and on about how she had just come out of retirement because the office was so short staffed. "Great," I thought, "At least we won't have to come back here again." If I only knew. The doctor sent us on our way, reassured my dad yet again that it was no big deal, and we jumped in the car, me in the drivers seat. I focused on the road while my dad opened a conference call right away on his phone. He made no mention that he had literally 5 minutes prior to the phone call been laying on a table with a needle in his spine oozing blood. "Is Jim there? Kathy? So and So? Ok good, let's get started...." in his "business dad" voice. I made a mental note to be more tough. I would surely have milked that procedure for sympathy and attention. Dad just moved forward with his responsibilities. "Be stronger and tougher and more professional like dad," I thought. </div>
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Two weeks later it was a normal Monday. My dad was working from home that day, aside from his quick trip to the doctor for his results, and I was off doing errands and job hunting from my usual perch at the dining table. We passed each other randomly, but I didn't really pay attention to anything because everything was supposed to be fine. That evening mom and I went to her spinning class at the local YMCA. And class was HARD. I thought she had had a rough day at work, since we usually don't get a lot of quality time before spinning to chat. It turns out my dad had pulled her aside before spinning to pass off the news that the doctor had told him his blood cells in his spine were "malignant" aka cancer. I guess there is no good time to tell your chosen life partner that you were diagnosed with cancer that day. But I can't help but think that if I was writing our lives as a story, my mother wouldn't have found out with no time to process. So we did spinning - her fresh off of horrific news and me completely unaware. After returning home, I grabbed my computer and sat on the living room floor to answer an email. My dad came and sat on the couch with a usual bad news preface. And then..."I have cancer." I reacted in a way you'd expect me to react - loudly and verbally processing. Wanting answers to every question under the sun. Processing the fact that disease just got a generation closer and we now not only have old people to take care of, but the caretaker also is a patient. The one in charge of leading the care-taking mission of others must now be cared for. A few minutes later my sister in Los Angeles called me. My dad had not told her yet, so I just sobbed into the phone like a maniac and eventually hung up on her, completely unable to play it cool but knowing it wasn't my news to tell. "Will someone tell me what is going on?" she texted me. I messaged her back, "Sorry, bad news is coming." </div>
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In perfect timing (sarcasm), my dad's doctor was scheduled to be out of the country for a few weeks following the diagnosis and so we had quite a bit of time to stew around with this news before getting any concrete details of his diagnosis. We did a body scan and some more blood tests and we waited. And waited. And researched. And cried. My dad worked on his super-important-very stressful work project which was perhaps a welcome distraction (I can't speak for him), though seemed to be quite a lot for one person to navigate on the heels of a cancer diagnosis and caring for his parents and their estate. I often found myself watching him. In disbelief that my all-powerful dad could somehow have this disease just sitting inside of him - unaware to us for how long? Also in disbelief that he could somehow handle so many stresses at once - work, family stress, me and my mom harping on him about every cancer article we have ever found on Google, and his own internal processing. <i>(I guess it's good to point out that this blog is my own experience of finding out my dad has cancer, and not his voice or narrative. And that I mention "we got cancer" as a way to alleviate his burden through familial community, not to belittle his unique experience). </i><br />
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For me, all job hunting was thrown out the window and I decided that I needed to embrace and enjoy being closer to family. In last several years, my life has been all about me. About my adventure and advancement and experiences. They've cheered me on, and it's been great. No regrets about spending my last 8 years away. But now my life is about us. About my family, and being together to make memories, and supporting each other in a tangible, non-technological way. It's really been a time of a priority shift and deciding what is important to me as I build my life moving forward. It is so sad that my sister is in California. I feel bad that I get to be here during this time while she is so far away. For sure she would love to be here too. If only we could write the story.<br />
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During the wait, we concocted the best and worst case scenarios that could exist with his bone cancer. Best: the cancer is dormant and he does not need chemo (yet). The doctors found it really early and it just gets monitored and when it does become active we strike it down and move on. Worst case: The cancer is active and in conjunction with another active cancer (very common in bone cancer) and he is one of the 1/3 people who die within 5 years of a bone cancer diagnosis. Quite opposite outcomes on the spectrum of possibilities. </div>
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Last week was my dad's follow up visit. We were so nervous. The day leading up to the visit, everyone's cautious calmness turned into snappy jitters. Humans are so funny. We all handle stress and fear and sadness so differently. </div>
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My mom took a half day off work and my parents went together to the doctor. My sister and I awaited the news from opposite ends of the country. She at her desk in LA and me at the small town Florida Walmart buying every makeup and beauty product ever created to mask that I was a mess inside. Not fast enough, the text came through...<b>the best possible scenario is ours!</b><br />
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It's a weird thing to be thankful for dormant cancer, but this is real life. Stuff happens. If you are going to have a cancer diagnosis, dormant cancer is the one you want. Basically, the little cancer soldiers haven't figured out how to be an army yet. It could be months, or even many years until they learn how to be a mighty cancer and because we are aware of the cells now, it should be an easy chemo fix. (Not that chemo is easy....but that early detection makes the process smoother...) We feel so much relief and thankfulness. It's like God tapped my dad on the shoulder, "Hey, dude, look at this..." We are so very aware that this could be much worse, that my dad has been dealt an "easy" hand at this cancer game. Comparison is definitely the thief of joy, yet when we compare this lot in life to others, we know we have a multitude of reasons to be thankful. </div>
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Our bodies are so finite. Getting a cancer label is such a wake up call. I hope that all of us learn from this diagnosis. My dad often says that, "Don't worry, things are staying the same." But I don't agree. They shouldn't stay the same and they can't. We have cancer. We need to be kinder to our bodies and more purposeful with our time. People matter. Nutrition matters. Hydration matters. Communication matters. Experiences matter. In a way, I hope this diagnosis scares us back to life. Not meaning that we were not alive, but that anyone could use a shake-up now and then to re-evaluate priorities, desires, and the way we choose to spend our years. Everyone has some sort of battle: being born into poverty, mental illness, difficult family members, addiction, health problems...etc. For my dad, he has been shown his battle, his fight. For the rest of his life he will fight bone cancer. What he eats, how much he exercises, the doctors he visits - it all matters. But, thankfully, he has an army with him. He's got us. </div>
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For myself, this is affirmation of my choice to come home. I am so thankful to not have gotten this news while living on the other side of the world - dealing with faulty internet connections and time differences. To be here in the flesh is such a gift. It is not lost on me the supernatural timing of all of this. Because of the good prognosis, I have extended my job search beyond the boundaries of Florida, but I am going to be picky about something that takes me away from my family. Cities with a direct flight to Tampa get priority. And I'm not in any rush. It's hard to believe that a few months ago I was living on perpetual safari in the beautiful heart of Africa. It feels like another life ago. </div>
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So now we move on. Into this new journey we never expected. A sad, stupid journey, but one we are strong enough for. Because a person doesn't get cancer, a family gets cancer, and my family is rock solid. Come at us, C. We got this. We understand our mortality and we know what to do with it.<br />
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<i>Thanks to everyone who had been a great support over the past month. My dad is very loved, and the community that has rallied around him is incredibly encouraging. If you didn't know, you weren't left out on purpose! We are keeping the news off social media for the most part because excess attention in a non-quality way (Facebook, etc) isn't necessary at this time. </i></div>
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Hug your people. Eat some vegetables. Go for a walk. Listen to your doctor. Love yourself. </div>
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Screw cancer. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-2795360333320193922016-09-08T11:52:00.002+08:002016-09-08T22:12:05.379+08:00On Returning. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been 7 weeks since Mushu the Chinese kitty and I stepped off a plane into the relentless Florida summer heat. It's hard to believe - these weeks fly by.<br />
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I guess returning has been everything I expected. When you really want something - like I really want a life closer to my family and to settle down, you just push through and do what you have to do. In order to be near my family it means not being the girl on perpetual adventure. Now I dream of perpetual togetherness. Of a peaceful life.<br />
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I don't burst out into spontaneous tears anymore. So, that's good. During my first few weeks home, the smallest, most random things would trigger uncontrollable sobs. Usually the triggers were food related, which is weird. A large ice cream at Marble Slab left me sobbing snotty boogers into my sleeve, a lobster roll in Maine made me cry elephant tears for 3 solid minutes. I think it's the abundance. The ease. How no one around me seems to be worried about...survival. And also, that ice cream is just so darn good. And lobster is such a treat. To have those things, to really enjoy them and be thankful, is a gift.<br />
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I miss black people. I miss ... interesting. In my suburban Florida oasis everyone and everything seems so monochrome. It's beige. Everything is beige.<br />
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But I'm hot pink. I'm filled with dumplings and pagodas. Burmese temples and the Taj Mahal. Korean soju and Thai massages. Ethiopian coffee and Rwandan gorillas. Victoria Falls and Zanzibar sand. All a part of me. Walking the aisles of Walmart, looking at 800 variations of plastic baggies and wondering how the world got this way. Pondering disparity but not-so-secretly thankful I am on this end of the bargain. Holding these worldly experiences close to my heart with thankfulness amidst everyday American errands.<br />
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Americans are so funny. They chat about the most mundane things. Everyone being given a chance to share their opinion in conversations even as dull as the weekend weather report. Customer service is amazing, having personal space again in places like grocery store lines is such a breath of fresh air. There's constant space. It's nice. I feel as if I am in a constant sociological observation. Not fully a part of what is going on around me, but rather an observer of 'the Americans.'<br />
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I've gotten decent at deflecting most questions like, "How was AFRICA??" Or my favorite, for those one year behind on keeping tabs on me... "You just got back from China!" It takes too much heart to give an honest answer. Too much time is needed to explain what Rwanda and China mean to me. What traveling the world the last 8 years meant to me. What the thousands of students and hundreds of train/bus/plane rides, and hundreds of times I packed my backpack and headed out. Out onto the road. To the next unknown destination that will be known in due time. I appreciate that my friends have mostly been fabulous about giving me space when needed, asking pertinent and thoughtful questions, reaching out via phone and social media, and being generally interested in what life in Rwanda is like. For them I am thankful. Coming home and reconnecting with friends has been seamless and wonderful. I truly didn't realize how many people I have in my American tribe.<br />
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What I am still overcoming are the international, developing world quirks. For weeks, I kept reaching to turn off the hot water heater after I got out of the shower. But - that is not necessary - our water heaters are located in the garage and are ALWAYS ON. (Blows my mind). I wondered out loud to my family while driving under our Parkways automated, electronic toll booths, "Wow, so when the electricity is out, we all can drive for free!" They kindly reminded me that the electricity is never out. I hate plastic bags. (Illegal in Rwanda). I always scoff when the cashier puts ONLY ONE ITEM in a plastic bag, and help them fill it up more, or ask for larger items not to have a bag. WHAT IS WITH YOU PEOPLE AND YOUR PLASTIC BAGS. We are decades behind the rest of the world in this arena. I always feel like I have to hide my electronics when we go outside. I have stopped hiding my computer under my bed blanket, like I did every day in Rwanda when I left my house, but I am still stunned when my parents leave their iPhones IN FRONT OF WINDOWS and leave the house. You can't do that in Africa.<br />
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In the first month I was home, I slept like a rock. Like I hadn't slept in a year. Mostly because I hadn't. I just felt so....relieved. I am home. Home with my family, where I come from. Where things haven't changed much in 8 years that I've been gone, but maybe that's not a bad thing at all. Without the known we wouldn't have the unknown. Without the predictable, we wouldn't have strength to face the unpredictable. Without seasons of peace, we wouldn't be able to face seasons of obstacles. They all go hand in hand.<br />
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It's a good, new season. Adventure, in a new form.<br />
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-77213034939413880682016-07-12T23:38:00.001+08:002016-07-12T23:38:52.500+08:00On Being "Here." <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm sitting on my Rwandan couch wrapped in a caftan from the Philippines, drinking tea from Zimbabwe. Three large, covered in cat hair suitcases sit on my floor. Besides these bags, my house is empty. All of my things have been given away. Mushu is sleeping next to me, very aware that something big in our little sphere of life is about to happen.<br />
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Tomorrow we move home.<br />
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I "left" home one-week after turning 22. I was off to China, bright eyed and idealistic to a fault. The world was beautiful and glorious and full of hope and promise and God's light.<br />
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I am returning, 5 weeks before turning 30. Returning from Africa where the disparity between daily lives of people in my hometown and my current town is shocking and vast. I am idealistic in the way that I am still an optimist about education and women's rights. I have seen beauty and wonder and glory. I've been kept alive by miracles.<br />
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But the world is not as bright as 8 years ago when I had an empty passport and a heart full of dreams. In the last 8 years I have been to 38 countries. The world is broken. People are displaced from their homes. Poverty makes thieves out of honest men. Healthcare and educational opportunities are saved for the "haves" while the "have-nots" receive charitable handouts linked to political motives. In 8 years abroad, I've been sick, I've been robbed, I've been followed, I've been struck, I've been conned.<br />
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I've also been made alive.<br />
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Because in the cracks, that's where the light shines through.<br />
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In the dirt, in the grime, in the unfairness of life is where we find humanity at its best. It's where community rallies around those who need care. It's where you Americans go abroad to volunteer years of they life for development, it's where friends care for each other like family. It's where strangers donate goods and pray for those they've never met. It's where babies get breastfed during international conferences, and inviting someone for tea and conversation is a giant gift of love. It's where we give each other bananas when we are hungry and share teaching resources like they are gold. We laugh and light a candle when the power goes out. Because it will come back. And then it will go out again. That's life.<br />
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To be super honest, I am afraid. I am afraid I will forget. That somehow I will lose this grittiness, this ability to observe and adapt. I am afraid I will become soft and expectant. Expectant of the world around me to be easy. 24 hour hot water and electricity. I don't want to take it for granted that in America I can get a nice haircut and shop for safe foods at a clean grocery store with nice carts to put my things in. And that when I leave the store I don't have to carry everything home in my hands (China) or on the back of a motorcycle taxi (Rwanda). I don't want to forget what it is like to ration internet usage or see if I have enough internet left to watch one tv show online. Or put things in the freezer when the power goes out so it stays cold. I don't want to forget the fear of malaria or the long bus rides through banana tree fields with people taking their goats out to pasture. I don't want to take my life for granted and forget this place or this feeling of survival and simple pleasures. Oh Lord, help me not forget.<br />
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It's an odd feeling, leaving Rwanda. I am not sure if I was even ever really here. 10 months is so short. I never really was given the chance to settle, since my fellowship went wonky at exactly half way through. I spent 5 months in a village at a crappy placement with no water or security. Then, I spent the last 5 months living in the capitol city but working a few hours outside and traveling constantly. But I was here. It's in the numbers:<br />
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Presented 5 international conferences (Rwanda (2x), Sudan, Ethiopia, DRC)<br />
Taught over 200 hours at the university<br />
Taught 60 genocide widows basic english and motorskills<br />
Went to 8 countries (Uganda, Tanzania/Zanzibar, Zimbabwe, Botswana, DRC, Ethiopia (2x), Zimbabwe, Rwanda)<br />
Started a mentor program with Rwandan business leaders and created a curriculum for refugee camps to use to keep girls from turning to prostitution<br />
Did work shops with Peace Corps and various schools and organizations around Rwanda<br />
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Personally, this final year abroad was spectacular. A friend from home came to visit, I had fabulous co-workers, I reconciled with my ex, met wonderful people in Rwanda, saw friends from China in Africa, and I had more downtime to really think, process, and be present.<br />
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I guess I really was here. Even though it feels too quick. Too soon to leave.<br />
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(There's a lot of "I's" in this post...sorry about that, just processing).<br />
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It's strange to go. Its stranger even that I was ever here. I asked for Africa, I yearned for Africa, I wanted to be here to "shake off" China and to get my spirit back. It worked. And I'll always be thankful.<br />
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Exactly 24 hours until my friend shows up to take me and Mushu to the airport. What would you do with 24 hours left in Africa??? Time to find out...<br />
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walk slow. xoxo.<br />
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-62461309117796848862016-07-05T21:21:00.002+08:002016-07-05T21:24:09.377+08:00Lessons on Being American: Part I. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What an incredible privilege it is to be able to dictate the course of your own life. What an impossible burden and blessing. Again in my life I find myself faced with the same problem that very few in the world's population get to address: Where in the world should I go? What do I want to do? Who do I want to be?<br />
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A year ago, I answered with, "Africa." So I came here, and it was the greatest decision for that time. I am so thankful. </div>
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Now, the answer is, "Home." </div>
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After 8 years abroad, I have a one-way ticket to America. And no plan. I want to sit on the front porch and drink coffee with my dad. I want to go to an American breakfast place and order scrambled eggs and bacon. I want to go for evening walks on paved roads. I want Vintners Red wine from St. Augustine and hot showers whenever I want. </div>
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I want a routine. Simplicity. Calm. </div>
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I want to cook dinner with my mom and read magazines on the back patio. I want to call my sister on an actual phone and catch up with the friends who have lived so far away for so long. I want to buy strawberries by the quart and cook with an oven. I want to go to the library and order from Amazon Prime. I want clean hair and feet. </div>
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These things all feel like little luxuries in my head. A world of possibility and comfort. </div>
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The way it works out, there are only a few days home before my family leaves on family vacation together. (Nothing says, "Welcome back to America" like a trip to Canada). So, I have been online shopping so that I can have some much-needed debrief time at home while also getting some things I need. </div>
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Last year when I left China, I gave almost all of my belongings away. Now, that is happening again here in Africa, as most of the shoes and clothes I came with have been ruined by the dust and hand washing and I want to give extra things to my African friends rather than taking stuff home. I find my self in a funny position: starting over in America with practically nothing. </div>
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Truth: I have no idea what Americans use and need. I have a running list of what I "need" as an American...health insurance, a phone and phone plan, a french press, a cat scratch tree for Mushu, Birkenstocks....just to name a few things, ha. </div>
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A few days ago I was on Amazon looking at coffee machines and broke down in tears. I have no idea why coffee products made me cry. I guess it is just going to be part of the experience of the next few months - reacting to my new reality and accepting that reaction for whatever reason it has occurred. </div>
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I think it is that for 8 years I have lived with less and been very ok. The abundance of America is daunting, even from 8 days out. </div>
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I guess it's all part of learning to be American. How lucky am I to be able to make this choice, the choice to go home. Those without a family, those who are refugees, those who are bound by debt or corruption or difficult life circumstances...they don't have this liberty. The grandness of returning home is not lost on me. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-80097558053397180352016-06-22T21:31:00.001+08:002016-06-22T21:31:31.039+08:00Currency Exchange and Chats Above the Clouds. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I sat in my seat on Ethiopian Air and checked the seat back pocket in front of me. Same Selampta magazine as the last international flight I took a few weeks ago. I’ve spent so much time on Ethiopian Airlines flights this year that I know that they always serve the same meal - chicken with rice, and that they don’t routinely change out the magazine in the seat back pockets.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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These past months have been insane. It seems I don’t stay in the same city long enough to let the dirt settle under my feet. It all happened strangely, the plans to hold conferences in 3 countries in May and early June. It’s been exhilarating yet also exhausting. </div>
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With a few weeks left of the fellowship I was flying to Addis Ababa to relax and close a chapter of my life that has spanned over 4 years. I love Ethiopia. I love a few people in Ethiopia. And I knew that this was the place I wanted to spend the remainder of my time in Africa. Addis Ababa is the closest place to “home” I have on this continent. </div>
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Addis Ababa is a hub for Ethiopian Airways, the largest carrier in Africa. The clientele are always diverse and unique. There’s the Chinese business people, usually middle aged men, greasy, yelling across the plane at each other and jumping up once the plane wheels touch down to grab their bags from the overhead bin while we are still zooming down the runway. There are the white business people in their smartly dressed attire, expensive “comfortable” shoes, and grass woven baskets purchased at an NGO bazaar for 300% up charge of the local markets. There are the church groups, in their matching shirts, overzealous/eager/wide-eyed smiles with at least 1 guitar as a carry-on. Then there are well-traveled Africans ordering beer from the flight attendants and resting peacefully alongside the Africans who have never flown before and have no idea how to make a connection or where to get their luggage. It’s a fascinating crowd and I have had some of the most fun conversations amongst these groups on flights across Africa. </div>
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Last Saturday was no exception. </div>
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After my initial disappointment in inflight entertainment, I ended up having one of the most entertaining flights of my African career. </div>
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The elderly man in the middle seat pulled out his phone as soon as we took off and turned it on. I have stopped worrying when practically everyone on the plane ignores the “phones off” rule. It seems air culture is the same as on-the-ground culture in Africa - anything goes. He checked the time and showed me, 3 minutes until 6pm. Our flight had taken off late and he was concerned with breaking fast on time. He explained to me that dates are best for breaking fast and as soon as the seat belt sign was off, he hopped out of his chair and grabbed a bag of dates from the overhead compartment. After about 30 minutes, the flight attendants finally stopped at our seat to serve us drinks and the man had his first taste of liquids of the day. </div>
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Ramadan Iftar. At 30,000 feet in the sky. </div>
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It turns out me seat mate, turned friend, is Mohamoud from Khartoum. He was flying home from a conference in Kigali, via Addis, on the same flight I took to Khartoum just a few weeks earlier. When he told me where he was flying, I was so excited. I sensed a business deal in the making and set to work making it happen. </div>
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As it happened, there was some confusion when we were preparing to depart Sudan in mid-May. We had heard from a friend and also read online that there would be a “departure tax” and that it would be stressful and time consuming to obtain. Knowing that this tax was looming, each of us Fellows saved about 60$ worth of Sudanese pounds. When we were going through the airport to leave, no one mentioned the tax. We were stamped through immigration and still were asking, “Don’t we need to pay a tax?” Nope. Leaving Sudan was easy and cost us no money. This was great, but also meant that we were left with an excess of money that is impossible to exchange outside of Sudan thanks to sanctions. </div>
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I tried to find someone in Rwanda to exchange the money but was fruitless. Then, I was given the tip that there are many Sudanese who do business in Addis, so at the last minute I threw the Sudanese pounds in my passport pouch, hoping to find someone to exchange with, but not exactly sure how that would work. </div>
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When Mohamoud explained he was heading home to Sudan, I asked him if he would like to exchange some Pounds with me since I had just spent some time in Sudan and needed to get rid of extra cash I had saved and ended up not needing. Outside Sudan, the pound is basically worthless, so my new friend understood my predicament. He seemed possibly interested in a possible exchange, but was much more interested in telling me stories of his 3 years in America in the 1980's, "Well before my time." (he misjudged my age, in my favor). It turns out, Mohamoud was the proud owner of a Ford Mustang purchased for 600$ in 1985 and re-sold in 1988 for $750. He spoke fondly of the American family who hosted him while he was a student in Missouri on an American government charity scholarship. He studied agriculture, and has made an impact on his home Sudan in the area of crop rotation. His 4 sons have turned away from the agriculture path, however, and though they have university degrees, they cannot find work in Sudan unless they are affiliated with the "corrupt government." Mohamoud expressed that he hopes his sons will one day become winners in the American green card lottery that is held the world-over, as he hopes that they can live a better life free from living under a war-lord controlled state. He said he would love to end his life in the country that was so monumental in his education - America. </div>
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Then...he asked the question I have become tired of answering, but knew was coming. "Do you think Trump will become president?"</div>
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"I hope not," is always my answer, "He is embarrassing and I am sorry for what he says." </div>
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"That's good. Because if he is president, I will not trust you Americans anymore. And I love you Americans. But what are they thinking?" he said, pointing a finger at me - which while seated in neighboring airplane seats, feels very close.</div>
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"I honestly don't know." I hoped for a change of topic. Apologizing for Trump's awfulness while a Sudanese man breaks his Ramadan fast for the day at 30,000 feet was not how I wanted to spend the next 2 hours flying to Ethiopia. </div>
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Thankfully, the conversation turned back to the wad of money in my purse. "I only have 20 dollars," he said. </div>
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"That's fine! 20 bucks is more than 0 bucks." And then we traded cash. 60$ worth of Sudanese pounds, worthless outside of Sudan, for two folded up American 10 dollar bills. </div>
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"But I still owe you money," he said sheepishly, while trying to wave down the flight attendant for more coffee and sustenance. </div>
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"We are both coming out on top, because 20$ is more than I would have if I never found anyone to trade money with me, and also to remember the kindness of Americans no matter what happens with our government." </div>
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"Yes, people are not their government. This is the truth of Sudan," he said. </div>
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"And America, too." </div>
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This is how I spent the 2 hour direct flight to Addis last weekend. Sharing with a new friend, exchanging money on the black market for less than half of its worth, and finding understanding that corrupt governments do not mean corrupt citizens. This is how we counteract the bigoted news coming from America. Person to person. One reminiscent conversation of a Mustang in 1985 at a time. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-76387101006815598622016-05-26T03:55:00.000+08:002016-05-26T04:03:13.346+08:00B-O-O-K. Book. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You are only as strong as your weakest link." </span></div>
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Last week I had the pleasure of presenting at a small workshop that a Peace Corps volunteer coordinated in her village. Because Rwanda is the smallest thing ever, it is quite funny how it all came to pass. Robert, my co-fellow in crime, was at a Chinese restaurant a few hours outside Kigali a few months ago and they met, because hey - white people in Africa. Robert invited her to one of our trainings and then she invited us to her village to assist her. She has single-handedly revived and grown the small library in the sector office. Her vision was to have a workshop for teachers in the sector to learn about the importance of reading and get a walk-through of the 3 shelf-library and learn how to use it (checking out books, books are free to read, etc.) The whole idea is new, so it was a great concept come to life. </div>
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One of the interesting things about Rwanda is that it looks amazing on the surface. Since genocide, Rwanda is an NGO's gem and has become a symbol for fast economic recovery post-war. However, when you scratch deeper beyond the surface there are human rights violations (How do they keep the streets so clean? Beggars are put in jail) and discrepancies across the country once you leave the capital. If you only come to Rwanda (or any African country for that matter) and see the capital, you will have not seen Rwanda. I fully believe that. </div>
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Another issue is the mis-direction of aid. There are many books on this subject (Dead Aid, When Helping Hurts - are two great ones) that highlight the negative impact or neutral/wasteful impact of aid. An example that is very obvious in Rwanda is the donation of books. It seems to be a popular thing to have embassies, NGO's, well-meaning religious groups in Western countries, send books to Africa. The problem is - getting a huge bag of books in a language you can barely understand is overwhelming! Those books typically get locked away or not even un-boxed. (As was seen at my university job, and at schools across the country). Just giving something DOES NOT HELP ANYONE. That donation needs to come with a training, a teacher, someone to explain how to categorize books, how to distribute books, how to READ. Gah, I could go one forever. </div>
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The PCV we were working with has done a fabulous job of seeing a need (a room of books locked away and dirty) and totally revitalizing the space and introducing the library concept. We were there to discuss reading with groups of teachers. Because everything must be taught. Even the importance of reading must be taught to teachers - nothing is intrinsic. (HUGE Africa lesson right there, ya'll). </div>
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I began my session like this: </div>
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"To be a good driver. You must drive." </div>
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"To be a good runner. You must run." </div>
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"To be a good reader. You must....what?" </div>
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And I was met with blank stares. From teachers. </div>
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This is our Rwandan education reality, people. No CNN article telling you how great Rwanda is for it's economics could come close to touching this reality in the education system. </div>
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When I gave enough time for thinking and gave them the answer,</div>
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"To be a good reader. You must Reeeead!" </div>
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Their sweet faces were like, "Ohhhh!" </div>
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But that wasn't the shocking part. (Actually nothing is shocking anymore). </div>
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In my session with the primary teachers, who typically have lower level english than their secondary teacher counterparts, I asked them to tell me if they read books to their students. I was not prepared for the response. </div>
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"What is...book?" </div>
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I had to teach the word "book" to an english teacher. </div>
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THIS is the reality of English education (and perhaps all education) in very rural Rwanda. </div>
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It is a light on a greater problem within this country, the continent, and perhaps the world over. Because truthfully, we are only as strong as our weakest link. If the teacher in the village does not know the word, "book," how can the country be praised as a global leader? When wealth, opportunity, education, health care access, and transportation development are concentrated on one small area of elite...you cannot say the entirety of the country is successful. </div>
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BOOK. It means freedom. It means knowledge. It means awareness. </div>
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And we don't all know what those things are. </div>
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Because the advancement, bright lights, opportunities...they don't reach all of us.<br />
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-70460674896430645292016-05-26T03:18:00.000+08:002016-05-26T03:18:18.581+08:00Integration of the World. And Heat Rash. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sudan.<br />
<br />
The intensity of pre-conceived notions is heavy.<br />
<br />
Genocide. The president is a wanted war criminal by ICC. U.S. sanctions. Sharia Law.<br />
<br />
When I was offered the fellowship in Omdurman, Sudan last summer I yelled at my computer, "SUDAN??" I took 24 hours to research what living in Sudan meant - I didn't want to be closed minded, but eventually I turned it down because 1. I am way too much a free-bird for Sharia law 2. HEAT, 3. Terrorist sympathizers as neighbors...ya....not so much. My next match was Rwanda, I accepted happily (moderate weather, moderate people, moderate freedom), and the rest is history.<br />
<br />
What I didn't know is that though I turned down the chance to live in Sudan, I would be given an extraordinary opportunity to visit Sudan and collaborate with my fabulous co-fellows. It ended up that the fellow in Sudan and I became very close through messaging and emails over the first semester. When we all met in Ethiopia in February, my boss, her boss, and the Sudan fellow, Denise, were having beers one night in the hotel and Denise mentioned she wanted to plan an event and have the Rwanda fellows join her since we are close friends. My boss is great at going with the flow and throwing US dollars at our ideas, so he was quick to say yes! As was her boss. Denise was then tasked with getting us into Sudan (not an easy task) and planning a conference in the dead of summer in Sudan.<br />
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After much bribing, emails, being sent out of the Sudan embassy in Kigali, a million small passport photos sent here and there and everywhere...we were eventually granted visas to Sudan. We still aren't sure exactly how it happened - but the important thing is that it happened. Thanks to the steadfast support of the international school where our conference was going to be held. Getting international visitors into Sudan to hold a conference based on teaching best practices is not something that happens every day. The school really placed value on our attendance and apparently was willing to front a bunch of black market money to make it happen.<br />
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Leanne and I flew first to Khartoum because Robert had some trainings to finish up in Rwanda. Stepping off the plane in Khartoum the dry air hit my face like I had opened a giant oven. I smiled and laughed to myself - I was walking into Sudan! How serendipitous.<br />
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Over the next 10 days we facilitated a teacher - training conference with over 60 teachers from across Sudan. A large tent with giant fans was rented, it was bright red and looked like a fancy wedding tent (probably was). A generator was rented and we did the best we could - eventually teaching over 10 presentations each over the course of the week. It was like teaching bootcamp and there couldn't have been a better staff of teachers.<br />
<br />
Each morning we put on our long skirts (no calves allowed), our scarves (no necks allowed), and got picked up by a driver to head to the school. After work, we went to eat amazing Lebanese food with Denise's friends or laid on her floor in the air condition and drank smuggled vodka. (It's amazing the lengths the US Embassy goes to to get alcohol into the country, like, it's not that important, guys, but thanks anyways).<br />
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It was all a hot, sticky whirlwind that concluded with a day trip to see the Meroe Pyramids a few hours north of Khartoum. In ancient times, Egypt and Sudan were one civilization and there are smaller, but better preserved and more remote pyramids in Sudan! An interesting thing about Sudan is that there are no tourists. You can't just go to Sudan for fun. (And why would you? It's hot as hell). But there are a lot of interesting things to see, which means when you go see those things (like the pyramids) you are ALL ALONE. As a world-traveler and someone who has stood in the shadow of the Great Wall, Taj Mahal, Victoria Falls etc, I can tell you that being alone and quiet in a tourist destination is priceless and rare. It was surreal. It was also surreal when my chacos literally melted into the sand beneath my feet. The heat was so hot it felt like science. Hot science whirling around you.<br />
<br />
I was touched by Sudan. There are so many directions I could write about. And I hope I do. I just want something up on the website to commemorate the experience because these days are a whirlwind and I might soon forget. I have more "friends" in Sudan after 10 days than I do in Rwanda after 8.5 months. It's just a warmer, more friendly, outgoing culture. You would have to work hard NOT to make a friend with a Sudanese person. In this way, I was quite jealous of the Sudan fellow and wishing I had taken the job! (Also her washing machine, cable tv, and access to having international mail made it look posh.) In the end I am thankful for my time in Rwanda, as chaotic and far from what was promised as it has been. If anything, I am thankful for the experience to see Sudan with my own eyes, shake hands with the people, share tea and cake, and be taught that not everything is on the surface. International travel warnings do not a culture make. There are vague, distant warnings, and then there is humanity. I will take this lesson away from my time in Africa at large, and specifically Sudan.<br />
<br />
During the tea breaks, I would pause and look around and often would get a sense that we were part of something much bigger than ourselves. Something that will outlast us and our little conference the desert. To the average American, Sudan is a place Osama Bin Laden used to hide. To the average Sudanese, an American is a closed-minded twat who is aggressive and Islamophobic. Both of us are wrong, in many ways. Sudan is not a place to be feared, and I, as an American, was very happy to be there with my Muslim brothers and sisters. Laughing at jokes, drinking endless amounts of tea, complaining about the heat. To be there and to be welcomed, and also to be a gracious, curious, and respectful guest, was such a powerful experience. For all. Perhaps some wayward pre-conceived notions were dropped on both sides. Inshallah. ;)<br />
<br />
During one of the closing remarks, the founder of the international school said this,<br />
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"If you do not know the other, you will consider them something to fear. We are here for the integration of the world."<br />
<br />
YES.<br />
<br />
We are here for the integration of the world.<br />
<br />
Thanks for the memories, lessons, and heat rash, Sudan. I will cherish those days in the desert.<br />
<br />
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-84798493454214786242016-05-21T02:33:00.002+08:002016-05-21T02:49:23.495+08:00Interactions. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hey hey! Here's a few things that have been happening around here in short story form...way too much going on for several blogposts (and I just worked 12 hours and I'm tired...)<br />
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<i>Alice and Her Girl:</i> </div>
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Today my co-worker Robert and I had the chance to travel 4 hours outside of Kigali (moto - bus - taxi to arrive, then taxi - bus - bus - moto home). Robert met Peace Corps Volunteer Tara at a Chinese restaurant in another town a few hours away and the two of them hashed out a few ideas for collaboration. Because that's the way things go around here. </div>
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A few weeks ago Tara invited us to be the presenters at a workshop focused on reading. Her main project has been revitalizing the local village library (most books seem to be locked away in this country for "safe keeping") and she wanted to invite local sector officials and teachers to learn about the value of reading, how to teach reading skills, and how to use the library. It was a great event that really shows how much of an impact Peace Corps has on their villages and how collaboration across US Gov agencies is beneficial for all. </div>
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Between my first and second presentations, I went outside the sector office where the workshop was held and just waved at people and wandered around. Eventually, I stumbled upon Alice sitting in the grass, leaning back in obvious pain. Alice is a primary school teacher in a rural area and she is very pregnant. She had been a great addition to my morning session, in fact, she was one of the few teachers with an english level to even understand me. I walked up to her and offered her my water, asking if she was ok. </div>
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"I was labor last night and slept in the health center. But this morning it stop and I had to come here because the teachers were coming to us. We need to have more more more lessons." </div>
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"What?? You were in labor last night??? You are 9 months pregnant and came to this workshop? WHERE IS THE HEALTH CENTER?" I started having visions of delivering a baby on the concrete sector office floor. </div>
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"You are good teacher, you know teaching. Please come back to have more more lessons." </div>
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"Alice, where is the health center? Thank you for coming here, but we need to make sure you and baby are ok!" </div>
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"Oh, just over the hill. I fine. Thanks for water." </div>
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"Is the baby a boy or girl?" </div>
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"A girl. I have 3 already. I mean 2. I have 2, this is 3. How many children do you have?" </div>
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I sank a little bit inside. I hate this question. To a Rwandan, me being almost 30, single, and childless is practically a crime. At the least I am a shame to my family. "I have no children...yet." </div>
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And then I walked away. Alice, 9 months pregnant, laboring overnight in the village health center, chose to come to the workshop because she knew foreign teachers were coming. When she didn't feel well, she went to sit in the grass outside. Alice has no cell phone. If things got serious, I assume we would get someone to drive her to the health center. Her determination and grit amazed me. My co-worker and I mused on the way home, "She came from the health center just to listen to us!" But that is the reality of rural Sub-Saharan Africa. Any chance to learn new skills, be given new activities as a teacher, or be exposed to new ideas is gold - because it doesn't happen often. I am encouraged by Alice not to have excuses when it comes to my own development. And the district of Muhanga will have a new baby girl very soon, with a rockstar mama. </div>
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<i>International Pee Pee and Saving My Soul: </i></div>
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Peace Corps Tara was awesome enough to arrange a driver for Robert and I the 1.5 hour ride on a dirt road to the closest town where we could catch a bus to Kigali. (She literally lives in the middle of nowhere). Our driver's name was Thomas (Toe-mahs), he was young, spoke no english, and was only 15 minutes late which is practically early in Rwandan-time. We had a super early start from Kigali, and had stopped for tea on the way because we got to the city early (gosh darn American-time). Thus, while swerving along the mountain-side dirt road, natured called. "Do you think I should tell him to stop, what do we say?" Robert wondered. I leaned toward Thomas and said in my most grown-up ESL teacher voice, "Stop, please? He has to go pee-pee," pointing at Robert. </div>
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Thomas started howling laughing. "Pee-pee! hahahahahaha. You pee-pee!" He promptly pulled the car over and Robert hopped out. When everything was right in the world again and we were all in the car rattling our way toward our destination, we kept laughing. "How did you know to say that??" Robert asked me. "'Pee-pee' is international," I said, "And I used to teach pre-school. Pee-pee always works." What a great morning laugh for all of us. </div>
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When we met Thomas again several hours later after our workshop, we climbed into the car and were greeted with the same kinyarwanda church music we had listened to in the morning. I didn't even notice it, but Robert exclaimed, "Not this song again!" I laughed and we continued to zoom along the road in quietness until we almost reached the town where we would part ways. As we approached the town, Thomas pulled out a DVD out of his bag. On the cover is the picture of a Seventh Day Adventist choir (including him) and a large Jesus figure photoshopped coming out of the clouds above the choir - seeming to look down upon them in favor. </div>
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"I...sing...take...there America!" he said and pointed out across the abyss to "America". </div>
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Robert and I exclaimed how great it is that he sings, he didn't understand a word of it but he grinned so proudly, and then he parked at the bus station and we went to leave the car. "Is this for us?" I asked Robert. "I don't think so..." he said. I laid the DVD back on the seat and went to leave. Then Thomas yelled out, "You no??" seeming very disappointed. "For me?" I gestured. "Yes, America need." </div>
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And that is how I got proselytized to by a Rwandan village car driver. And you know what....I think he's right. America does need something. </div>
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<i>Arabic-African Booty Alert: </i></div>
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Last week I was in Sudan, (long post to come - short version, It was fab!). On one of the days we didn't have to work, the other Fellows and I ventured out into the heat and dust to the National Museum of Sudan. The museum is heralded on Trip Advisor as "the top museum in Sudan!" which is quite hilarious because it might be the ONLY museum in Sudan. But I digress. </div>
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For a huge sum of 15 American cents, we each got to see old relics from the Eqyptian times, ancient jewelry and caskets of mummies and carvings. It was cool. I don't know hardly enough about that period of history - the ancient times when Sudan was filled with wonder. As I walked around the museum's first floor, eyeing the baubles and touching the stone carvings, a female museum worker approached me. "You have Arabic roots?" she said. I was so confused. "Um...no. I have red hair and blue eyes...I have European roots." "You no have African roots? she pressed on, changing the possible location of my ancestry. "No, I am very white. I think I am just American." She sighed, obviously disappointed, and I just kept walking around looking at the artifacts. </div>
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Several minutes later I approached a stone carving of a woman. Life size, round and curvy, her shadow was thrown against a purple wall behind her. I loved the shadow and took out my phone to take a photo of her. While I was taking the photo, the same worker lady came up to me. "See! See! This one! This is why you have Arabic African roots. You have our body. You body so good like her." pointing to the statue. </div>
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I chuckled whole-heartedly and finally understood her. This lady spends all her days looking at these artifacts and must know them by heart. When she saw me...a round, curvy white girl...she assumed since I had a body like the statue that I must come from the same part of the world. </div>
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"Thanks, girl. I'll take that as a compliment." I shook her hand, chuckled some more, and walked away. </div>
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Just a little slice of what has been going on in Africa! So many hilarious, meaningful, and interesting interactions. </div>
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More to come. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-27837923088266671742016-05-05T22:07:00.000+08:002016-05-05T22:07:57.081+08:00Mustard seeds are small. So is my bravery. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This afternoon is sunny and warm. I just got back from lunch with my friend and her toddler and I've opened the windows so Mushu can run outside and chase the birds that circle around our blue concrete compound. I've pulled my backpack down from its perch above my clothing cupboard and I'm packing again. </div>
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I've got the routine down now, after many months and dozens of flights across the African continent. Water is boiling in the kettle to be left for Mushu, a last minute underwear batch is soaking in the bathroom sink, I'm hydrating with my Nalgene full of water, emails are up-to-date since I'm not sure the next time I'll have internet, the essentials like baby wipes, baby powder, my headlamp, power convertors, and tea for my host are all packed. All electronics are charged and backup power banks are ready in case electricity is out at my destination - which it probably will be. Entry permits are copied, extra passport photos are ready to be passed out like candy, and my little pink pouch from Thailand is ready for another adventure. </div>
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I've had this pouch since 2005 when I backpacked in Thailand with some crazy friends. Since then, I have kept my passport, passport photos, vaccination cards, boarding passes, and random tidbits in it as I travel around the world. In 2007, I took this little prayer card off the refrigerator at my parents house before I was to fly to China for the very first time. I've kept the prayer card in my pouch ever since. When I am packing, it is a gentle reminder that I have all the power of the universe inside me, if I just have a tiny bit of faith. </div>
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Often, people who don't know me very well tell me how brave I am. It usually goes like, "Wow, Jessica, you, *insert random comment* , you are so brave and strong!" I usually roll my eyes. They don't know that I am actually afraid of a lot of things. I'm scared more often than not scared. I say, "I'm nervous!" probably 100 times a week. Having a life like mine doesn't mean you are unafraid, it means you have faith to face the fears.</div>
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This upcoming trip gives me an eensy bit of anxiety. I've been to dangerous places, but I've never been to an enemy of the state. I turned down the fellowship at a women's college in Omdurman, Sudan. It turns out the most perfect person ended up taking the fellowship and we became close friends. Tonight, the 3 Rwandan fellows are off to provide a week-long training for Sudanese teachers, a feat that is a small miracle in terms of international diplomacy and the education landscape in Sudan. Because of sanctions against Sudan, foreign education materials are hard to come by. But now, we get to take our bodies over there and do some teaching! I'm mostly excited, I know everything will be fine, but a tiny bit of fear is natural, I think. While packing up my purse and checking off items: chapstick, sleeping mask, ear plugs, e-reader, pens, travel documents...I came across my little card and it gave me some peace. </div>
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Mustard seed faith. That's not so hard. </div>
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Off to Sudan we go. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-52011550648808956432016-05-05T01:21:00.003+08:002016-05-05T01:21:36.094+08:00The Miss List. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This afternoon I was walking down the street, arm in arm with a dear Rwandan friend and a woman passed by carrying her baby in typical African fashion - blankets wrapped around the babe and little feet popping out the front around the woman's mid-section. <div>
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And I got teary-eyed. </div>
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I'm going to miss seeing little feet popping out from around random women on the street. I love those little feet! </div>
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I added "little baby feet in the air" to the mental list of things I am going to miss about Rwanda. Time is absolutely flying by, and with the mayhem of work travel that is May - there is not much actual time left in this country. I welcome the coming change, Rwanda is not somewhere I would like to stay forever, but in my daily life I find small things that have become endeared to me that I will truly miss. </div>
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Like...</div>
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The Congolese tailor who takes sheets of fabric and makes dresses that hug my body so perfectly I feel like a kitenge Goddess. </div>
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50cent mangos purchased from buckets atop women's heads. </div>
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The ever-present green mountain view. It's everywhere in Rwanda. Every inch has a scenic view. </div>
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Red roof tops. I love the red roof tops cascading down into the hills. </div>
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The fact that this country has literally 3 roads that span outside the capitol city. </div>
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Boiled bananas in tomato sauce. </div>
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Fanta. And "chips" (french fries). I will always associate Fanta and Fries with Rwanda. </div>
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Motorcycle taxis. Love 'em, hate 'em. I'll sure miss the wind in my hair, about to die but don't care feeling. </div>
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"Imperial Leather" soap bars. I love that stuff! Liquid soap is extremely expensive so I have become a bar soap convert and I might never go back. </div>
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Guesstimating how much electricity I am using. Here, we buy electricity in little shops and add it to our meters outside our homes. When the electricity you have purchased runs out, your electricity shuts off. Thus, I have perfected estimating the amount of electricity everything takes (taking a hot shower, running the refrigerator for days at a time, etc). I'm pretty proud of myself for figuring this out and I'll miss checking the meter every few days to make sure my usage is on target. </div>
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Geckos. Little baby geckos everywhere. Cute, except when Mushu leaves them in our bed. I'll actually miss them. </div>
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The African sky. It's just so blue. And so expansive. Clouds look like candy. It mesmerizes me. </div>
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My co-workers. I've been insane lucky to have been placed in a country with two other fellows. I might not have made it through the chaos that was the first 5 months of my fellowship without that fabulous pair. </div>
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Being told I look, "Smart." "Smart" is the way to say "You look nicely dressed and put together." </div>
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And this is just the beginning of the "Miss List." Things I never want to forget (but probably will in a few decades). I'm compiling what I will miss, and what I never want to forget about this surprising, beautiful, confusing, interesting place, Rwanda. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-73086435683607982172016-05-03T19:04:00.001+08:002016-05-03T19:07:50.584+08:00quote of the year. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You are not so other. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When I walk with you, it is as if I am walking with a Rwandan." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">-my dearest Rwandan friend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*cue philosophical thoughts on immersion, integration, adapting to knew cultures, acceptance, and the perpetual "otherness' that comes with expat - especially white, female expat in Rwanda - life. </span><br />
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-76087959531732106772016-04-22T18:10:00.000+08:002016-04-24T05:56:55.186+08:00When I Dream of America. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This morning when I made my coffee, I found that my tin can full of sugar was full of ants. It was 6:30am and I was due to the bus stop for the first part of my commute at 7am. So I stuck my tea spoon in the container, spooned out some sugar and drank a few ants. No problem. Or as they like to repeatedly say in Rwanda, Nyakibazo.<br />
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I laughed to myself as I finished the cup of coffee. "Haha, I live in Africa and I've lost any idea of normalcy. I just knowingly spooned ants into my coffee." And then the pang of worry reared it's head. The worry I sometimes have that I have lost touch with American culture. That I have become culturally ambiguous and thus...quite strange in my behaviors.<br />
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Sometimes I dream of what life is like in America. I mean, I technically know what life is like in America, but for the past 8 years I have only had a few weeks home a year and distorted social media to link me to the land of my birth. Sometimes, my friend's posts online surprise me. I am surprised by what is seen as important, what is "share-worthy" or what is popular back home. It's hard to "like" another picture of a friend's toddler in Lily Pulitzer clothing when the kids outside my gate don't have shoes. I sometimes look through Facebook and think I'm looking at another universe, where anyone can say anything - no matter how ignorant, guns are normal, which stroller to buy is a life-changing decision, and a music video sparks more interest than a terror attack in West Africa.<br />
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Though aspects of American culture appear foreign to me, there are so many wonderful parts of the American ease of life that I look forward to almost every day. As my return to the land of plenty looms, I mostly think of food and cleanliness. The social aspects of American life will take time to adjust to. But food and cleanliness! Oh man. I am so, so excited to be an American in America after so long.<br />
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I dream of:<br />
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A big bowl of salad.<br />
Shaved carrots, boiled eggs, fresh arugula, topped with a sauce of some sort.<br />
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A bowl of berries.<br />
Blueberries, raspberries, strawberries...so sweet and luscious.<br />
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Bacon.<br />
Give me all the bacon.<br />
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A pint of ice cream.<br />
I want to sit on a couch, with a pint of chunky ice cream in my lap, watching reality tv.<br />
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A bathtub.<br />
Full of clean, hot water.<br />
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Women's Community.<br />
Exercise classes. Book club. Walking group. Dinner Potlucks. Bachelor Mondays. I want it all!<br />
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A Washing Machine.<br />
Clean clothes. That don't smell like outside. Oh my goodness.<br />
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Clean Feet/Shoes.<br />
I want to wear nice shoes. And feel pretty.<br />
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I also want: long walks, to learn to bake bread, a chiropractor, to drink soy milk, to buy a big cat scratcher for Mushu, weekend brunch, regular hair cuts, hockey games, to be able to wear my hair up (must be down in a moto helmet), to wear contact lenses again, a gym membership, regular church services in english, to spend hours in the greeting card aisle, curly hair products.....<br />
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America, you're a silly place. At least you look silly from far away. But oh man...I can't wait to be clean and have wonderful food available to me. I can't wait for constant running hot water and a fridge full of whatever I can dream of.<br />
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There are hard and wonderful aspects to life anywhere. But as I begin to mentally prepare for life in America, I am thinking of what awaits me. Ben and Jerry and a hot bath will ease the social awkwardness. Oh yes.<br />
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Ant-less coffee.<br />
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82 days.<br />
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But who's counting?<br />
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walk slow. xoxo.<br />
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-10189252576984884992016-04-20T02:56:00.003+08:002016-04-20T02:59:25.176+08:00To Zanzibar With Love. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">-</span>Rumi</span></div>
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I went to Zanzibar. </div>
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My heart soared. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMqEYr4MptSpMwFWnNuMiMoS_PDLxQLN6RiUn5Xw3r9lAj2571C-9JWGhoH1zxb2pctu0hancnyNWkJ1vA9w6v8YzxrcIkyu1J0844PleL05wW_6IwnZ3Eokh0GaSBLN_iirSYDaWmg8/s1600/IMG_0910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMqEYr4MptSpMwFWnNuMiMoS_PDLxQLN6RiUn5Xw3r9lAj2571C-9JWGhoH1zxb2pctu0hancnyNWkJ1vA9w6v8YzxrcIkyu1J0844PleL05wW_6IwnZ3Eokh0GaSBLN_iirSYDaWmg8/s320/IMG_0910.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">spf 100 required. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh884T4YYeOy25UVTNNf1XJ28CCrni5gkURqa9FkQ6rFYy9nbsegV9CjiCCslTIbaohcAR9W5gu_ttVDod-PxkSyRFUvtZ8YIJE3_AS6KEu0Bm_71BauDqK0eHQC6PNOKOHQzKQQ6Dgn30/s1600/IMG_8117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh884T4YYeOy25UVTNNf1XJ28CCrni5gkURqa9FkQ6rFYy9nbsegV9CjiCCslTIbaohcAR9W5gu_ttVDod-PxkSyRFUvtZ8YIJE3_AS6KEu0Bm_71BauDqK0eHQC6PNOKOHQzKQQ6Dgn30/s320/IMG_8117.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cats everywhere! </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiRpDfZWSZmac4X7s0wwgzmxmSbgu9_U-k2NxQXoLcva7iHDu4Fpi4dPv6juogOrp94sKFYBDlFzyrHimFzSRxNjRDhM-IC_P9267wz0MNnOgJ3Sf-GdzvCCZ34KCioqir3DRwau1dyJE/s1600/IMG_8134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiRpDfZWSZmac4X7s0wwgzmxmSbgu9_U-k2NxQXoLcva7iHDu4Fpi4dPv6juogOrp94sKFYBDlFzyrHimFzSRxNjRDhM-IC_P9267wz0MNnOgJ3Sf-GdzvCCZ34KCioqir3DRwau1dyJE/s320/IMG_8134.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">view from bed. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiH93vqaismeLJxXVydOBjFfxW49QEroQEzHHdThFKzAiGHF3wvW9JO9UvcJ0qjCtc-B0EYXFGxmBS7ZxDBNNug7nXS2FzNQuKt7HXbxdGtAJknJbDYl_2FNWu2L1YK_9E5pwvIAoGin8/s1600/IMG_7975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiH93vqaismeLJxXVydOBjFfxW49QEroQEzHHdThFKzAiGHF3wvW9JO9UvcJ0qjCtc-B0EYXFGxmBS7ZxDBNNug7nXS2FzNQuKt7HXbxdGtAJknJbDYl_2FNWu2L1YK_9E5pwvIAoGin8/s320/IMG_7975.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">fruit and tiles. in Stonetown. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjny8M2nqCw2ZhdAT_6yGRJYJEek0bsEiO595NcxDAdfr0-ABp0JColXBhAArqhJCgQ1JPpSZVKKxs3aQM6vnXbZY3plaL9oMaNBxJc1gfKZUd65L114VFjc58y1yNUOQ_LqfIHXEyXGf0/s1600/IMG_8086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjny8M2nqCw2ZhdAT_6yGRJYJEek0bsEiO595NcxDAdfr0-ABp0JColXBhAArqhJCgQ1JPpSZVKKxs3aQM6vnXbZY3plaL9oMaNBxJc1gfKZUd65L114VFjc58y1yNUOQ_LqfIHXEyXGf0/s320/IMG_8086.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">looking for snacks in Stonetown. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61LePyJipYkaYv9vPSt29Qj-vtKt2n9dkYMK4h0irb9okUTPNUB5mEG5dld45tKd2_ycO8-lErZKWVxmk8Od4ao2eVX8r12bPdSTLWaDuDjiE0JhLV5asRiuXFy3-uv17rDrPzyTY0IM/s1600/IMG_8094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61LePyJipYkaYv9vPSt29Qj-vtKt2n9dkYMK4h0irb9okUTPNUB5mEG5dld45tKd2_ycO8-lErZKWVxmk8Od4ao2eVX8r12bPdSTLWaDuDjiE0JhLV5asRiuXFy3-uv17rDrPzyTY0IM/s320/IMG_8094.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Freddy Mercury's birthplace, Stonetown. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6807YurttvbGCK8CHf5LYj9G5YvALyVjZ4t1SFIGfKy4zSSrfIZa5T4yVe5bqLWlYRRos4TMZ66PEgnENvxFsGlU61K81z_UZ8nZQp0AKDnZHEBGJ2YvQFJtbFVxhQzf29cPEtkJMZKU/s1600/IMG_7579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6807YurttvbGCK8CHf5LYj9G5YvALyVjZ4t1SFIGfKy4zSSrfIZa5T4yVe5bqLWlYRRos4TMZ66PEgnENvxFsGlU61K81z_UZ8nZQp0AKDnZHEBGJ2YvQFJtbFVxhQzf29cPEtkJMZKU/s320/IMG_7579.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel and Michael, Masai selling trinkets to tourists (I succumbed). </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvdqBctzuZyQhq8Z9-5V1R45NhKN8gOhj6HfTsXGeltQeA8k1RAaGoSx9tFxsJ1GV_grTSdyVu5BzkqDH3yoOcLiJOXWR1taUvRf9y_D1okgzEtlX5wQesSp4e1wnxYtmJd59exBrl8M/s1600/IMG_7780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvdqBctzuZyQhq8Z9-5V1R45NhKN8gOhj6HfTsXGeltQeA8k1RAaGoSx9tFxsJ1GV_grTSdyVu5BzkqDH3yoOcLiJOXWR1taUvRf9y_D1okgzEtlX5wQesSp4e1wnxYtmJd59exBrl8M/s320/IMG_7780.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ours. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHDfwuqOjHkMCISB5Df9tJ-PODwO5LsOLUtYN10O_xDi6n3G_QpcHEcKQB3VrgAfSVs4b_ALSzdcdWGcVGz06ZvyAAGeZSjT2s1upvoEzB7Hww-amzobDmPC76dVzP7XKujsG2Ku0qGvI/s1600/IMG_7776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHDfwuqOjHkMCISB5Df9tJ-PODwO5LsOLUtYN10O_xDi6n3G_QpcHEcKQB3VrgAfSVs4b_ALSzdcdWGcVGz06ZvyAAGeZSjT2s1upvoEzB7Hww-amzobDmPC76dVzP7XKujsG2Ku0qGvI/s320/IMG_7776.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Biking adventure. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTCdjXSYe8kTIeVv9zoLn9hiSnuY1DH-j6_C5t0BN4Q5GwqBaxJTpjmvSQWAa2E95eaJqyBUZ3ga3h6Bwise71AWKCEpUQJXGyoDC4mN4KAx5EsBUTr3fGlUfhSIq1ERGdxP7xI-JU3I/s1600/IMG_7779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTCdjXSYe8kTIeVv9zoLn9hiSnuY1DH-j6_C5t0BN4Q5GwqBaxJTpjmvSQWAa2E95eaJqyBUZ3ga3h6Bwise71AWKCEpUQJXGyoDC4mN4KAx5EsBUTr3fGlUfhSIq1ERGdxP7xI-JU3I/s320/IMG_7779.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">low tide beauty. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHidX36PF1TGI2pedqC9wlip9dboOj0zaBO0tlKOU4OHsT83lJW97OCdA0P0u4dFOv7MAzqluMVLUVBFVVcSSrPPkoh2GrFoxHbOZ2cnF0eRBCfVM0bSRXV721s0u_L72lobvIXgamE94/s1600/IMG_7771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHidX36PF1TGI2pedqC9wlip9dboOj0zaBO0tlKOU4OHsT83lJW97OCdA0P0u4dFOv7MAzqluMVLUVBFVVcSSrPPkoh2GrFoxHbOZ2cnF0eRBCfVM0bSRXV721s0u_L72lobvIXgamE94/s320/IMG_7771.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOg4zOv9PfHAQe6Z_Y60o9lYb1SptxGOSy55foLVYVntzlBiJ3Az-WLp_nSAZ9E6HcEius2iE_2GY5bELXPFNC7ElzHXf6ugi8If_-CH1BCS_gnBNKbgzdXP2w5nL1R9wlKE3kFthCj3o/s1600/IMG_7772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOg4zOv9PfHAQe6Z_Y60o9lYb1SptxGOSy55foLVYVntzlBiJ3Az-WLp_nSAZ9E6HcEius2iE_2GY5bELXPFNC7ElzHXf6ugi8If_-CH1BCS_gnBNKbgzdXP2w5nL1R9wlKE3kFthCj3o/s320/IMG_7772.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cloudy sunset. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGC3OF21cl27I577q2dH06iplt7xR1amOYBAOyNmq5NCUzxx9uzxecioScT7p5obRcGMOlhh7AVazTpw8cyeOVOqKaV-9WTwJZdaFDtz9I7yTqfdBEHVaxGCQ3H2iDVbFzI64smAUKUXI/s1600/IMG_7898.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGC3OF21cl27I577q2dH06iplt7xR1amOYBAOyNmq5NCUzxx9uzxecioScT7p5obRcGMOlhh7AVazTpw8cyeOVOqKaV-9WTwJZdaFDtz9I7yTqfdBEHVaxGCQ3H2iDVbFzI64smAUKUXI/s320/IMG_7898.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prison Island </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-okbeQE_TfTcQk4BrLtbIeXvRzhNpUVmHQxdbCvLGhAuhrtkfHJEU9HLseTfKbzda6Zbt29ot7GxQxTVpiI9G5piNw8ssGLr03DiZRwXfHFuSlL6mXcdXepoytQqIz5VPtVFkrimEvA/s1600/IMG_8089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs-okbeQE_TfTcQk4BrLtbIeXvRzhNpUVmHQxdbCvLGhAuhrtkfHJEU9HLseTfKbzda6Zbt29ot7GxQxTVpiI9G5piNw8ssGLr03DiZRwXfHFuSlL6mXcdXepoytQqIz5VPtVFkrimEvA/s320/IMG_8089.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Fort Stonetown</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjdhKpQAUCsJpD-Q-6eq50Gn5S3NgTEMvCUadI0WJcyUFtydwuEf1CYTyzF1lXbumKQ8c-vuRS0seojYJWD91s4uORTeONaML1LE75G6azu1Xjryb-E2er41cQJ0J-BM7tt8YtIz89Do/s1600/IMG_8084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipjdhKpQAUCsJpD-Q-6eq50Gn5S3NgTEMvCUadI0WJcyUFtydwuEf1CYTyzF1lXbumKQ8c-vuRS0seojYJWD91s4uORTeONaML1LE75G6azu1Xjryb-E2er41cQJ0J-BM7tt8YtIz89Do/s320/IMG_8084.JPG" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">church built at the site of the former slave market. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sailing away. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LBX_m1Y5-OYBzxQB17gQ19YtwGcfe5dz9b1YLKs88S39mMaSaaqzcp9YthBSdU3DuoDA5lo2y1HqXEf27FBl7qctttdU2gxE2NEZQ2QHQCKTqJhmYAtKDLsVNVrxEMVKNQH-QiFk3_Q/s1600/IMG_8092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LBX_m1Y5-OYBzxQB17gQ19YtwGcfe5dz9b1YLKs88S39mMaSaaqzcp9YthBSdU3DuoDA5lo2y1HqXEf27FBl7qctttdU2gxE2NEZQ2QHQCKTqJhmYAtKDLsVNVrxEMVKNQH-QiFk3_Q/s320/IMG_8092.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street Food = Chinese memories. </td></tr>
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I was taught lessons on forgiveness, grace and trust on the shores of the Indian Ocean. </div>
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Spicy tea, thatched roof huts, coconut rice, stray cats, wooden boats, and sunsets. </div>
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Thanks for the memories, Zanzibar, with love. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-17275268019217635792016-04-20T00:07:00.001+08:002016-04-20T01:46:32.471+08:00Coming Home. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The 22nd anniversary of start the Rwandan Genocide was April 7th. Every year in Rwanda there are 100 days of mourning (almost one third of the year!) for those lost in the 100 day genocide from April - July, 1994. All Rwandans must participate in government mandated and controlled meetings for the "commemoration week," and thus, most foreigners up and leave.<br />
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I struggled a bit if I should stay or leave. Ultimately, I decided to take advantage of the time off, and also get away from the heaviness of it all - the air is really, truly heavy in Rwanda - , and booked a flight to Zanzibar. </div>
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(More on that later). </div>
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Last Thursday I arrived home after a week of bliss in Tanzania. I gave Mushu some loving and went outside to grab a moto to run some errands (stock the fridge, get cat litter, buy electricity coupons from random people outside, etc). When I hiked up my long skirt, threw my leg over the moto, grabbed my purse close to me and gave the driver a confident, "OK!" It hit me...riding the motorcycles makes me feel like I am home. </div>
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Rwanda has one thing really going for it that other Fellow placements do not have - ease of transportation. As a solo female, I can grab a moto and get anywhere I need to in town for less than $1.50. It's more expensive than the bus, but faster and more convenient (and less smelly). Sure, motorcycle taxies are ridiculously dangerous. I've seen 2 horrific accidents, and peace corps volunteers are not even allowed to take them on paved roads. But we fellows are not bound by State Department rules, and motos are my main form of transportation in Kigali. </div>
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It's a feeling I get when I get on the moto after being on a trip where I was confined to taxis and busses. It's somewhere between fearing impending death and imagining all the ways it could happen (the helmet is worthless, the moto is going to slide, the driver is high/drunk, someone is going to hit us, etc) and the feeling of absolute freedom as the wind blows past my shoulders and we zoom up and down the never-ending hills of Rwanda - green growth and brown and red earthen colors beneath an ever-reaching blue sky. </div>
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Riding a moto. It's a feeling I only have in Rwanda. It's the feeling of coming home. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoLlfRdyq6jTGxjCvaFeozK5Tq1vVvKYan4cKOVt3SadfvpeIK7wHYh_ZCYgOM88KnW9KFeUphAc1YSrE_UV0ZfOxbGIYmR3P3IsTpgVXU7SSQoViC40GkOFCo7BS8VUM9NFcmau80C4/s1600/IMG_5079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoLlfRdyq6jTGxjCvaFeozK5Tq1vVvKYan4cKOVt3SadfvpeIK7wHYh_ZCYgOM88KnW9KFeUphAc1YSrE_UV0ZfOxbGIYmR3P3IsTpgVXU7SSQoViC40GkOFCo7BS8VUM9NFcmau80C4/s320/IMG_5079.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-80418721856804865962016-04-07T00:08:00.000+08:002016-04-07T00:08:05.038+08:00When Water Thunders: Victoria Falls. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I don't believe in "bucket lists". For many reasons, actually, one of which being that you never know where life will take you. Bucket lists can box you into what you think you what your life to look like, but what about all the other possibilities you don't even know exist! Case in point: Victoria Falls. </div>
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For me, in all my life, I never thought about going to Vic Falls (as the Zimbabweans call her). I've heard it mentioned as a possible destination by many of my fellow fellows and thought to myself, "Ya, that sounds cool." But when the opportunity came to venture south to Southern Africa, I was stoked. If I were to have a bucket list, Victoria Falls would be on it. </div>
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We spent the first few days in Harare (post to come) and then flew one hour north-west to the Falls which lie on the Zambia/Zimbabwe border. We stayed in Vic Falls town on the Zim side and had a glorious 3 days touristing around the sights and bleeding money (so expensive thanks to zero economy....) It was amazing.</div>
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I'll never forget the first glimpse we had of the Falls. We paid our 30$ entrance fee into the park and meandered down the well-maintained rock path, following the sound of water rushing. We turned a corner, and there she was! Victoria Falls! I was excited like a kid at a circus. My heart raced and I couldn't wipe the goofy grin off my face. She was as magnificent and spectacular to behold as I had imagined. Worth every penny and hour in the airport. </div>
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We went at "high tide" time when the water is really high and strong, thus there was a lot of smoke and water flying from the tops of the Falls. While walking along the trail we got soaking wet at the end as the trail bent closer to the Falls. The local guides kept saying "It's raining," which made me laugh. </div>
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After walking along the Falls we walked across the Victoria Falls bridge which is an architectural wonder in itself. The bridge links Zimbabwe and Zambia, so we had to get immigration passes to walk the bridge and have a coffee in Zambia before walking back. How fun. To be having coffee in Zambia and walking home to sleep in Zimbabwe. That never would have made my bucket list because I couldn't have made it up if I tried. </div>
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I kept thinking to myself that Victoria Falls has been flowing with such power and majesty every day of my life. And she will keep flowing, tides rising and falling, for all the days that I will live. I could have missed it, but for one day of my life I got to bear witness. It was very existential to think about all the wonders across the world that are existing every day. Amazing natural wonders doing their thing. And hopefully our paths cross at some point, to see some of the beauty of the earth between the "normalcy" of human life. </div>
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Thanks for the glory and wonder, Vic Falls. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1vac9VC_rYBmYrV6ejnOnL13k0HCfsqoxJgdmPMhU33ftxpqYiTRNHE9gQEaavRkOt47ogkXc9mI07FEPymyIDT25w4S6WzJHHxWuGRZliWC8tXAYEmKE92koluY_Rh4sXzF_CjEGZY/s1600/IMG_0583.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1vac9VC_rYBmYrV6ejnOnL13k0HCfsqoxJgdmPMhU33ftxpqYiTRNHE9gQEaavRkOt47ogkXc9mI07FEPymyIDT25w4S6WzJHHxWuGRZliWC8tXAYEmKE92koluY_Rh4sXzF_CjEGZY/s320/IMG_0583.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warthog, Impala, and Beef </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drumming at the Boma</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zimbabwe: Africa's Paradise </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You are now entering Zambia" </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend Rebecca (ELF Namibia) and I</td></tr>
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walk slow. xoxo</div>
Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-41095573197090091682016-03-20T20:06:00.000+08:002016-03-20T20:06:02.029+08:00Ethiopia: "Oh, ya, I have a job." <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After almost 2 weeks of reunions, travel, and touristing in Ethiopia, it was time to get down to business and acknowledge that we were actually in Ethiopia for work purposes.<br />
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The <b>real</b> reason we were summoned to Addis was to attend the English Language Fellow Africa mid-year conference. Each region of Fellows has their own conference at the 5 month half-way point to bring everyone together, get new ideas, encourage each other, plan upcoming events, and network.<br />
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Twenty five-ish fellows and our bosses conjoined from across the continent at a hotel in Addis where we spent 3 days in workshops for ourselves - re-examining US policy towards soft diplomacy and realizing though our countries are very different, our experiences as fellows are not so different. After 3 days of sitting in the hotel, we had a day off and then gave a two day conference for Ethiopian Program teachers and university lecturers. My Rwandan co-fellow Robert and I did a presentation on active learning strategies for large groups (more than 80) students. It was work, but it was good work.<br />
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One of the greatest takeaways of this fellow program for me will be the other fellows. The fellows this year in Africa are stellar. These are my people. The kind of people who quit stable jobs to go live in Africa and teach, because you only live once. The kind of people who discuss books, who complain about inefficiencies in learning systems around the world, and who truly believe that each class makes a difference because true change is people based not technology based. I love these smart, interesting, culturally aware people.<br />
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The countries represented were: Mauritius, Togo, Burkina Faso, Benin, Gabon, Niger, Senegal, Ethiopia, Sudan, Congo, Rwanda, Uganda, Tanzania, Mozambique, South Africa, Namibia, Malawi, Egypt, Ivory Coast. <i>Our Fellow in Ivory Coast was with an American delegation that was scheduled to be at the restaurant that was attacked last week. Her group decided to visit a museum first, and thus was spared. This incident hits close to home. Our girl is safe, and for that we are thankful. I was originally matched to this job last summer and ended up in Rwanda instead. This stuff is real. Keep West Africa/Ivory Coast in your thoughts. </i><br />
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I was reminded yet again of the broad scope of programs that our government is involved in. Each with it's own agenda and initiative. I'm proud to be a fellow here in Africa. While my fellowship has not been exactly what was expected, it's still a rollercoaster I'm happy to be riding. Especially with these crazy teachers along for the ride.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">team Rwanda...always so serious </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couldn't seem to get a decent group pic, ha. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO7aVp7tRn9qJkVTPZJHKXS8mk2VX_Ja8KIR4SyOTUho01_2eCBnqHESacdf-KAeeX_g6D6VvtcbLMwcoNJa0f2jHoCJskTpGMNI5utYrJ9T-Se9hnu65gSnzFQRI_g2_mcmeKixxR7CU/s1600/IMG_6360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO7aVp7tRn9qJkVTPZJHKXS8mk2VX_Ja8KIR4SyOTUho01_2eCBnqHESacdf-KAeeX_g6D6VvtcbLMwcoNJa0f2jHoCJskTpGMNI5utYrJ9T-Se9hnu65gSnzFQRI_g2_mcmeKixxR7CU/s320/IMG_6360.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">team East Africa with our trusty boss</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXdUGzISDoPNTBkjXPvZnZr6LlrJD9fU_egyH_bVzdwe-BWYIakMRjrJc0ykHs2uqXJOLU9mpmdzBBHQhR3Sxi02NDeFgqM28X-xpan0fKg6pU0K9FNAfww88tXaZmcVumCsqnoy4KhzY/s1600/IMG_6300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXdUGzISDoPNTBkjXPvZnZr6LlrJD9fU_egyH_bVzdwe-BWYIakMRjrJc0ykHs2uqXJOLU9mpmdzBBHQhR3Sxi02NDeFgqM28X-xpan0fKg6pU0K9FNAfww88tXaZmcVumCsqnoy4KhzY/s320/IMG_6300.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">team Rwanda filling out visas for..... somewhere awesome, TBD! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2/3 of team Rwanda talking about large classes and how to deal effectively </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBoqiYph3z0X3BFDkB0FQlJ8tn6V3FuliR624Rx14m3fagnaPAXa5fRVG-droqZ8RsDbXLl0rRBXRHrJhf7LRNfGqPLDgKXH6RIM9iIRdabk-fIDFxykUPSQUVrWfzCZvU69tgLJmSr6Y/s1600/IMG_6297.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBoqiYph3z0X3BFDkB0FQlJ8tn6V3FuliR624Rx14m3fagnaPAXa5fRVG-droqZ8RsDbXLl0rRBXRHrJhf7LRNfGqPLDgKXH6RIM9iIRdabk-fIDFxykUPSQUVrWfzCZvU69tgLJmSr6Y/s320/IMG_6297.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">that's a handy name </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">white girls in kitenge. one of my favorite things. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">international gift exchange night! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sudan, Namibia, Rwanda, Malawi represent. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mid-presentation photo because...we can. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gabon Dave letting the crowd in on some teaching tips</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">more white girls in kitenge. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proposal and grant writing session</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Korean dinner! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the US Ambassador to Ethiopia and representatives of the Ethiopia Ministry of Education<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-91515029700871665032016-03-20T19:12:00.000+08:002016-03-20T19:17:14.826+08:00Ethiopia: Debra Zeit and Addis Ababa. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>It occurred to me when beginning this post that Ethiopia will have 4 blog posts. A little excessive, but we were there 3 weeks and there were so many stages to the trip! I like having the separate experiences catalogued as such. So here's another one...ha...Ethiopia blog post 3 out of 4. </i></div>
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Traveling to Ethiopia was like having a homecoming with a place I had never been. </div>
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It was familiar yet new, wild yet comfortable. </div>
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After the trek, the girls and I split up and they got on another tiny plane to a lake town in the north, I got picked up at the airport by my ex-ethiopian. I think this is a reason that I took to Ethiopia a bit more than my co-workers, I didn't have to navigate alone. The few times he was at work and I was alone wandering around were a bit stressful. Luckily, the majority of the time I had him to drive me around, talk and order for me, take me to the insider places, and explore on a more local level - which is always the goal of a good traveler. </div>
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We had a great few days. I got to see some old friends I had in China whom I hadn't seen in years. They took me out and treated me very special, which was so nice. At the weekend, ex-ethiopian took me a few hours out of town to a beautiful and peaceful resort that acts as a weekend respite for Addis city-dwellers. I enjoyed driving outside of Addis and getting to see the horse carriages and donkeys along the road on the way there. You really get to see more of a country when you drive outside the capital where wealth and education seems to be concentrated. </div>
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I continued to be sick, which was very strange because usually I pride myself in my body's ability to adapt. After 7 years in China I feel like my guts are ironclad. But Ethiopia did me in. I am thankful I had my trusty translator and driver to worry about me and get me better. I am very anti going to the doctor in developing nations, but he took care of me and by the work portion of the trip I was on the mend. Thank goodness. </div>
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Addis was a city that left me feeling very alive. The more I travel in Africa outside Rwanda, the more I notice that I am more suited for places that have high energy and require more culture clue observation and adrenaline. I think Rwanda is a little bit too subdued for my ideal atmosphere. </div>
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Some of the highlights of Addis for me were visiting the sugar can juice shop where Yoni used to stop as a kid; the juice was amazing and it was a place a traveler would never find on their own, having the best coffee I have ever had in my life at Tomoca Coffee, and eating a home cooked meal in an Ethiopian family's house then watching re-runs of the Oscars on the couch. What a special time it was in Addis. </div>
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A homecoming...to a place I had never been. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cultural restaurant. wonderful food and dancing. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">stool sample pre-input. sums up my addis experience haha. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I used to cook chicken for these boys in China. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first metro system in Africa, built by the Chinese. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">downtown Addis </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZ81kgFGx2X_8VJfIlZ6PVQZHc0rJsPZFj-ZFhfB99xPOJ4qZLULAqkvqqH8_xsPcWZwtSAiMWwbnV4H3wdeSvTDer-363j_aITS4VSX21jpb1gnOe2dx6PJkbwNaiyvZUyHnr7sdrHU/s1600/IMG_5969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZ81kgFGx2X_8VJfIlZ6PVQZHc0rJsPZFj-ZFhfB99xPOJ4qZLULAqkvqqH8_xsPcWZwtSAiMWwbnV4H3wdeSvTDer-363j_aITS4VSX21jpb1gnOe2dx6PJkbwNaiyvZUyHnr7sdrHU/s320/IMG_5969.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My slip for the doctor, in the Ethiopian calendar it is 2008.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Z_-iPfhvcQCoOHNAFt31AqhDnDdpYWJEDn3etLW1c3F_EgGDBIdSEXJM9hBDuOlaiSs5pE6gSeNnASOu_B44Y-mRrVPuvRjAuQP7bq486LnUCLoWLy4sv-mg2trsu_VfRYcpZFVwa9w/s1600/IMG_5986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Z_-iPfhvcQCoOHNAFt31AqhDnDdpYWJEDn3etLW1c3F_EgGDBIdSEXJM9hBDuOlaiSs5pE6gSeNnASOu_B44Y-mRrVPuvRjAuQP7bq486LnUCLoWLy4sv-mg2trsu_VfRYcpZFVwa9w/s320/IMG_5986.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Yoni's house. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lPaxgwCa62g5ucUxRAy4GoMFYIbakdNxruuH64p7ZO8ssOx9rTGOXEw0Jl6k2epQyhN_PF9Cf5KtZeLOlCDhZ3wle5ZmrlKmgZKmLwdPY70M0CpFy7s3OIaC9-8uvQDtpcXnGgL_ORY/s1600/IMG_6106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lPaxgwCa62g5ucUxRAy4GoMFYIbakdNxruuH64p7ZO8ssOx9rTGOXEw0Jl6k2epQyhN_PF9Cf5KtZeLOlCDhZ3wle5ZmrlKmgZKmLwdPY70M0CpFy7s3OIaC9-8uvQDtpcXnGgL_ORY/s320/IMG_6106.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">driving back from Debra Zeit </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1icWnVc_TUD77PHWrimbarfEvRvDpbfHHJPfyCc3MmOIDD3bBDXnHXVEPUvLhx3UD1ytlqG6Ge9wJo7PqHTp6rn_9VTDqz4kRxg8fE7UVOShuT7NTBskDP4ZtdY9xz5ZTzMr8c3vup8/s1600/IMG_5975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1icWnVc_TUD77PHWrimbarfEvRvDpbfHHJPfyCc3MmOIDD3bBDXnHXVEPUvLhx3UD1ytlqG6Ge9wJo7PqHTp6rn_9VTDqz4kRxg8fE7UVOShuT7NTBskDP4ZtdY9xz5ZTzMr8c3vup8/s320/IMG_5975.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amazing food and honey wine. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyx3yewNi27nAwLlHBFTBnMzR4eDDBvNySMYpRoPAZXIvSSnoyD0YQw-OrLfXn1UqJCIIi8kDC7rjKSsV7Mb8YxvdEUDCeDfSGtgYxqdrLPOyrLALZNXQva7HvZyViSsLHnSIhU310W8/s1600/IMG_6111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyx3yewNi27nAwLlHBFTBnMzR4eDDBvNySMYpRoPAZXIvSSnoyD0YQw-OrLfXn1UqJCIIi8kDC7rjKSsV7Mb8YxvdEUDCeDfSGtgYxqdrLPOyrLALZNXQva7HvZyViSsLHnSIhU310W8/s320/IMG_6111.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Debra Zeit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8QrLmA-JnwEZoyiZ4jnkJ50sQV8THLwrjBr0JbS-gKdjZHpbO1dTXTW4JvcGQVlgj7bqPO5bHaFVp-nbwd9gAn3P5RYf0eJh2uJP-aTLOXMS-knDpqFB9oE1jm0cb00SFuLm_VIGdoU/s1600/IMG_5981.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8QrLmA-JnwEZoyiZ4jnkJ50sQV8THLwrjBr0JbS-gKdjZHpbO1dTXTW4JvcGQVlgj7bqPO5bHaFVp-nbwd9gAn3P5RYf0eJh2uJP-aTLOXMS-knDpqFB9oE1jm0cb00SFuLm_VIGdoU/s320/IMG_5981.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Merkato Market </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsq4_lwmAe_gPT2803ZpSpgoHsB2a1hdGTs2Ui1CquekymdhW0NFT07pRj_EXxrR8USxuMngITnri5k30KraCap-Iz6aDbteuEFbZDsQQesmMg21pl8tyYX1U5cXBJZhXQ94Rh6h_TJE/s1600/IMG_6062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsq4_lwmAe_gPT2803ZpSpgoHsB2a1hdGTs2Ui1CquekymdhW0NFT07pRj_EXxrR8USxuMngITnri5k30KraCap-Iz6aDbteuEFbZDsQQesmMg21pl8tyYX1U5cXBJZhXQ94Rh6h_TJE/s320/IMG_6062.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Debra Zeit </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTRde-otRj97v4qNSI0I3dYJHgWGYIV0HoKn7bI_pCsYB386eVvAiVPXaVdLowgHPY8lxUbZkbC4rbHjElnKPNCIB2sXMkchS9Cw_kxbeNIrdjEo-mJEEvvr3jzHiFF1rv16DweAbvJI/s1600/IMG_6060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbTRde-otRj97v4qNSI0I3dYJHgWGYIV0HoKn7bI_pCsYB386eVvAiVPXaVdLowgHPY8lxUbZkbC4rbHjElnKPNCIB2sXMkchS9Cw_kxbeNIrdjEo-mJEEvvr3jzHiFF1rv16DweAbvJI/s320/IMG_6060.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Debra Zeit </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xzFI9cPrPKeThFyW88-FJ2-5kwQKeroLYumFqs249B0C3_k92cNPjKvWNuhHfxze109pYZjldbqv3GPq4fmM2O78-1KnJp5hcyiiEwCIhVlIWxQu9mhOOZ4UJPkE1EbUakyK90dX4o8/s1600/IMG_5954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xzFI9cPrPKeThFyW88-FJ2-5kwQKeroLYumFqs249B0C3_k92cNPjKvWNuhHfxze109pYZjldbqv3GPq4fmM2O78-1KnJp5hcyiiEwCIhVlIWxQu9mhOOZ4UJPkE1EbUakyK90dX4o8/s320/IMG_5954.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addis mosque </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8iyvYnXla-fmFECqKaYVp8ymFs1n9bTQyW7jOSk6xKGbqlELTikLJYZdKVhMrGxYhpSeS497SE1p21HWQ9IIuJgSwbgHo9V_Ciyh-ho-SRMFigr0ZixUz_CLZt-1qyQ3XyRTf9M6dAY/s1600/IMG_5951.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8iyvYnXla-fmFECqKaYVp8ymFs1n9bTQyW7jOSk6xKGbqlELTikLJYZdKVhMrGxYhpSeS497SE1p21HWQ9IIuJgSwbgHo9V_Ciyh-ho-SRMFigr0ZixUz_CLZt-1qyQ3XyRTf9M6dAY/s320/IMG_5951.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yoni took me to get sugarcane juice at the shop where he always stopped after school as a kid. <br />
The lady remembered him! </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3THA4Zd7i97lUderu9ugqOqmO9vlXZI-xl9ZgDOFnoYZBvdvj0-BsXsmE8_PexDeiUTZ4D4IWB1czeuELMIDLn_DANb2VoCs8G_tboSggEE7P8ONXroBFGIIbdvBblZd0ny3JTgk17Y/s1600/IMG_6058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3THA4Zd7i97lUderu9ugqOqmO9vlXZI-xl9ZgDOFnoYZBvdvj0-BsXsmE8_PexDeiUTZ4D4IWB1czeuELMIDLn_DANb2VoCs8G_tboSggEE7P8ONXroBFGIIbdvBblZd0ny3JTgk17Y/s320/IMG_6058.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Debra Zeit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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After all this exploration...it was finally time to get to work. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-84019995897122956552016-03-20T02:08:00.000+08:002016-03-20T02:25:57.445+08:00Ethiopia: Wollo Mountain Trekking <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's a truth known among long-time travelers, there are a plethora of "ok" tours out there. Charging lots of moolah and delivering a "meh" experience that could probably have been better constructed by the traveler themselves.<br />
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Tesfa Tours, operating "community treks" in northern Ethiopia, is NOT one of those companies. For the first time in awhile I felt like I truly got my money's worth out of a unique and well-planned tour experience.<br />
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Our trek started in Lalibela, where a mini-bus picked us up and drove us a few hours north into Ethiopia's dry mountain-scape. This area is dealing with drought and famine, and has recently been the benefactor of US Aid. The road was rough and un-paved, though they are working to pave it. At several points along the way up the mountains, we drove past Chinese camps of workers building the road literally around us.<br />
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Tesfa treks are designed to support the communities that the treks walk through. We were fed and housed by two different communities who split up the donkey-supplying, lunch and dinner making, and upkeep of each overnight camp site. It was like we were entering their world, quite literally, and were being cared for by the people who live in this arid, barren land. In return for the experience, we paid a decent sum. It seemed like such a great idea for travelers and the communities alike!<br />
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(The only small issue was that around this point in the trip I got a parasite/food poisoning/something in my gut that wasn't happy and I was having trouble keeping food in - which meant less amazing food and no amazing Ethiopian coffee for me....and lots of make-shift bathroom stops in the fields...bummer).<br />
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We trekked for two whole days. Donkeys carried our bags and an english speaking, super fun guide nick-named "Z" walked with us. Each afternoon, we stopped at a campsite whose views rival any views I have ever seen. I felt like we were sleeping in rock huts on the edge of Africa. In each location, there was a wooden box "toilet" in it's own rock hut. A bucket of water was placed near a tree that had bamboo wrapped around it for bathing privacy. (Although, at this point of living in Africa, bathing just doesn't always seem necessary. Wash your feet, wipe your pits and under your boobs. Use a face wipe if you're feeling fancy. Done. )<br />
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After arriving the second day to our camp we did what any normal, tired trekker in rural Ethiopia would do...we blasted Toto's Africa, danced around like the white girls we are, and drank crappy Ethiopian beer while wondering how the beer got brought in to the edge of the world. Typical African mountain side behavior.<br />
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At dinner time, a fire was built on the concrete floor of a separate rock hut and we sat around it on wooden benches. We were first brought a soup and a large slice of warm Ethiopian bread, followed by a home-cooked vegetarian meal. The community members who prepared the meal for us watched us eat first, which was super awkward and weird. We kept asking when the others would eat and were assured they would eat after we left the hut.<br />
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Following dinner, we retired with candles to our huts and slept in the itchiest beds I have ever been in. We checked for bed bugs, but it seemed like just fleas. There is not much to do on a mountain-side with no electricity, so 8pm bedtime was perfect. (And actually something we are all used to by now).<br />
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In the morning, we were treated to bread, eggs, and coffee sitting on benches overlooking the mountains. Donkeys grazed beside us, waiting to be loaded with our backpacks. Surreal.<br />
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On the hike out to the main road on our last day, we passed donkeys loaded with beer boxes. <i>So that is how they get the provisions out to the camps, </i>we thought<i>, ...donkeys</i>!<br />
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The actual walk itself was leisurely, though long. We walked through fields of animals (so much livestock in Ethiopia!), were followed by children, passed schools and churches and straw huts along the way. People were just doing their daily thing - raising animals, raising bare-bottomed children, living within the realm of relying on the sky's provision of water for their harvest. (That hasn't come this year...)<br />
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It felt semi-invasive to take photos. A few times I felt like a giant white alien marching around someone's home turf with a huge camera. It just didn't feel right. The photos I do have, however, give small justice to the grandeur and beauty of the landscape and mountain views.<br />
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Have a look...remember the people of northern Ethiopia who are going through drought...recognize climate change and ponder what you can do about it (don't waste water!)...and enjoy these snippets of beautiful Ethiopia...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvfdk-Sybr8UJuYaUJaLEIknctQ-2v-GjH1K3cvCsRa-smKqW8hoFnoFR8VoxhJJAxQn_XQk2BkWQLm8lBIGisviLPITL5xTSyR8eO5nLKyRg63x47_HV7ygA1mtTj70nzMmxJfG5LD8/s1600/IMG_0428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvfdk-Sybr8UJuYaUJaLEIknctQ-2v-GjH1K3cvCsRa-smKqW8hoFnoFR8VoxhJJAxQn_XQk2BkWQLm8lBIGisviLPITL5xTSyR8eO5nLKyRg63x47_HV7ygA1mtTj70nzMmxJfG5LD8/s320/IMG_0428.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw88dQF84Sv4s3CO4AU8jekhIkpJyZKQz2oCvL2t2KQHLwPTPUZIsPv9P-saVDqL1u10KtgmYssetTdV85zGa6Q9jTDexK4IejJ6Qqe0-P6wdgH1pb3s14atBXUk1D7l19Lo5CImq_86c/s1600/IMG_0432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw88dQF84Sv4s3CO4AU8jekhIkpJyZKQz2oCvL2t2KQHLwPTPUZIsPv9P-saVDqL1u10KtgmYssetTdV85zGa6Q9jTDexK4IejJ6Qqe0-P6wdgH1pb3s14atBXUk1D7l19Lo5CImq_86c/s320/IMG_0432.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMpJ6SzuQl5QRkEA7r0AlLzw4RmYmL8rp4ub16VZG4ObGQsRS93PWbliPUe9pqsYvQIdiymz27mHtrAqJiJlH_f8jH2tkzYiwyAXcszdRpqGAyYZeyhO8-b7bFueUG5nAj-VmhvXJ0Qc/s1600/IMG_0433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMpJ6SzuQl5QRkEA7r0AlLzw4RmYmL8rp4ub16VZG4ObGQsRS93PWbliPUe9pqsYvQIdiymz27mHtrAqJiJlH_f8jH2tkzYiwyAXcszdRpqGAyYZeyhO8-b7bFueUG5nAj-VmhvXJ0Qc/s320/IMG_0433.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rural church</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where we took our meals. Unreal. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beer donkey. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Give me a D! Give me an I! Give me an ARREA! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">shower, anyone? privacy not included. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waking up for sunrise is always worth it. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">another rural church</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">arriving to day 1 campsite</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">schoolyard </td></tr>
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If you ever find yourself with a little cash, good shoes, and a few days of free time in Ethiopia...do yourself a favor and go on a Tesfa trek. Experience of a lifetime.<br />
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walk slow. xoxo.<br />
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-44161430863688928522016-03-18T23:28:00.000+08:002016-03-18T23:28:32.237+08:00Ethiopia: Lalibela <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have wanted to visit Lalibela for years. It was one of those mystical destinations that plagued me. Making it to the small, northern Ethiopian town filled with underground carved churches felt like such a gift from life. Sometimes we get what we ask for...in a totally different way than we could have expected.</div>
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My friends and I, the other female fellow in Rwanda, the fellow in Uganda, and a fellow from Ethiopia flew on a little propeller plane from Addis to Lalibela a few short days after arriving in Ethiopia. We decided on Lalibela as our destination because of the trekking possibilities (in another post) and the draw of the World Heritage site that houses 13 underground churches known as the "Jerusalem of Africa." Lalibela is Ethiopia's second "holy city," behind Axum, where the 10 Commandments and Ark of the Covenant are thought to be housed. Ethiopia is predominantly Ethiopian Orthodox Christian and the religious history is fascinating and ancient. We had to see these living churches for ourselves. </div>
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We stayed in a hotel that conveniently had no electricity or water (dang, Africa!) but we made do by sitting by the pool and complaining a lot. Luckily, by the final night all was well and we got warm showers in our hotel rooms. Traveling in Africa has taught me so much about what I have taken for granted all my life. I am so glad to learn these lessons young so that I can have a more thoughtful life than I would have without Africa. </div>
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Anyways, the morning after we arrived we set out with a guide for a half-day tour. A half day was all we really needed, a full day would have been total over-kill. We donned our head wraps in respect (though we were told white people aren't expected to wear them) and wandered around the churches, all 13 within walking distance, and ooo'ed and ahhh'ed at the grandeur. They were as beautiful and big and inspiring as I expected all these years. </div>
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The churches are thought to have been built in the 12th and 13th centuries when Lalibela was the capitol of Ethiopia. </div>
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What was most impactful for me was that these churches are still in use. The town relies on these churches as their home base. They are also seen as pilgrimage sites for the faithful. Each church that we went into had believers on their knees, being blessed by priests, and elderly reading from stained books that seemed to be falling apart in their use and age. We were visiting as tourists, and we paid a hefty fee to get in as sightseers, but besides the obvious use of the churches as money-generating tourism, there was a sense of honor and respect. Of diety. </div>
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The faithful were there among us. </div>
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It is an honor to sit beside believers and observe their traditions and ferver. I have felt this way at holy sites in many of my travels, in Myanmar and Thailand and India and China...sometimes the holy mixes with practical tourism and someone like me finds themselves sitting next to an Ethiopian man knee deep in prayer. It's humbling to witness fervent faith that has somehow lived through generations of change (and mayhem) in Ethiopia. </div>
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Some photos of the churches and surrounding areas....</div>
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After 2 days in Lalibela, we set out for our next adventure....trekking....<br />
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-65787058161185467132016-03-14T06:24:00.000+08:002016-03-14T06:25:12.079+08:00Happy...Everything. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The reality of my job, working for the "Man," and life in Africa in general means that what is transmitted through normal communication avenues is not always what turns out to be reality. </div>
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(Isn't this life?)</div>
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Thus was my experience the day after returning from Ethiopia last week. I was exhausted from 5 full conference days, emotionally drained, and just wanted to cuddle with my cat and drink tea. But alas, the english diplomacy show must go on. I was scheduled to be the token American for a U.S. Embassy movie screening at a girls school about 1.5 hours outside Kigali. Our email communication about the event went like this...</div>
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Them: "Jessica, will you lead small discussion groups about the movie Selma to celebrate Black History Month?" </div>
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Me: "Sure." *plans small group discussion points based on non-violent leadership as portrayed by MLK Jr. in the movie Selma.* </div>
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<i>fast forward to the actual event*</i></div>
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School Official: "Jessica, it is so great you are here to lead a school-wide celebration of International Woman's Day!" </div>
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Me: slightly confused...."Oh yes, I am eager to lead discussion groups on Black History Month." </div>
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School Official: "Discussion groups? Oh no...the whole school is attending, 270 students, and they look forward to talking about woman's issues with you." </div>
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Me: "Great, where's the mic? Let's do this." </div>
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And that is how I ended up leading a Q and A session about women's issues and America in general with 270 bright, capable, interesting girls at the Gashora School for Girls in Gashora, Rwanda. I was so impressed with the girls. The aim of the school is to give the girls an even playing field with international competition for scholarships in the US. The school is a boarding school, so the girls have a safe and comfortable place to live and are fed wholesome, nutritious food. These two factors give the girls the edge that they need to thrive. Their character and smarts are intrinsic, but it is the environment that so often holds girls back from reaching their true potential. At Gashora, the girls have their physical needs cared for, are respected, and are held to high standards that they are very capable of reaching. Over 90 Gashora graduates are studying on scholarship in the US today...and more and more will be joining them in the years to come. How fabulous. We must <i>let girls learn</i>. </div>
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I was so surprised when my plans turned out to not be what was expected of the school. But in the end, talking about girl power was such a crowd pleaser and motivator. I got another experience in "going with the flow" and was inspired by such fabulous women who have a clear goal and are going for it.</div>
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Go girls! Happy International Women's Day, or Black History Month. It's all good. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-7917911300077113252016-03-09T04:05:00.000+08:002016-03-09T04:05:46.139+08:00 Morning Thoughts: On Faith and Fairness. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This morning while my eggs simmered over the gas stove in my new Kigali kitchen, I looked out the window into the pouring rain and saw my neighbor’s newly hired guard. He was sleeping on his back on pieces of cardboard outside my neighbors door. <i>Surely, he is being pelted with rain</i>, I thought, <i>poor guy</i>! I scooped up my bright yellow eggs, poured my coffee with coffee creamer bought at an American Walmart many months ago, and sat on my couch next to my Chinese cat, whose imported food probably costs more than an entire Rwandan family's monthly food budget. </div>
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And then the thought hit me again. That aching thought that has haunted me since nearly the moment I landed in Africa. <i>Why am I in here and he is out there</i>? </div>
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The answer in reality is simple, I live here, this is my apartment that I pay for with the job that I have. He is working, sees no pity in resting on cardboard, as I do, and is happy to be employed and to have a leisurely job. </div>
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But there is so much more to the answer. </div>
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If there is one thing Africa has taught me so far, it is that life - the lot we are each individually dealt - is incredibly, incredibly unfair. The dialogue of my conservative Christian upbringing would say that God created us all, placed us within our families, and has a “plan” for us. But what about my students whose families were slaughtered in front of them by their neighbors? What about the farmers who fear growing new crops, as instructed by foreign NGO’s, because they fear growing too much yield and being accused of witchcraft by their neighbors? What about the children who follow herds of goats each day after kindergarten and will never see a playground in their entire life? </div>
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In Africa, I have clung to my faith, even when it is unpopular in vagabond circles to do so. I do not doubt that God loves me, loves all of us. I do not doubt that divinity is alive and working. But the role that God has in our lives…that belief base of a God with a “plan” has been shattered and is being rebuilt. (Not that I will ever find a true answer, as a fallible human being). If I praise God for success, what about those who suffer? This takes us down a path of discussion of free will, divine intervention, etc that is perhaps too deep for my baby blog, but you get my point. </div>
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A few weeks ago after my class at Women for Women I was escorted by Eugenie to the side of the road where I would await a mini-van bus to take me to the large bus stop in town. Eugenie is a genocide widow and mother of 5 sons and one daughter. She has done well for herself, she works at the Opportunity Center as a secretary and is able to converse with me in basic English. She wears full gowns of colorful kitenge fabric and has a smooth, sweet face. While we stood by the road, I asked her about her children. She proudly informed me that all the boys were in school. And the girl stayed home to help in the house. Deciding to avoid the topic of gender equality, mostly because I was tired, I told her she must be so proud of her children and encouraged her for doing a great job as mother. “Jesus took care of me,” she replied. She pointed to her heart and said again, “Jesus.” </div>
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My guts shook with a mixture of anger, true understanding, empathy, and awe. </div>
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<i>Your husband was hacked to pieces with a machete and you think that Jesus has taken care of you????</i></div>
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I took a deep breath, looked into her eyes, and I felt it. </div>
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If you take away the belief that every singular act is caused by God, or divinity, then perhaps you can accept the good, the bad, and the ugly of life and learn to rely on God’s provision throughout. </div>
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I don’t know. I’m still mulling through this. Surely there are books and articles by religious scholars on this exact topic. But have they sat in a room of women whose husbands were brutally slaughtered? It’s easy to repeat rhetoric and say the world is broken and full of sin, but these culturally-manipulated sentences have real-life implications for humans. Real people. Who live through shit. Who sleep on cardboard. Who eat only beans and bananas once a day. </div>
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I am thankful my faith remains, through the questions that arise when faced with other realities. And also thankful for a broadening worldview that includes people and cultures that are vastly different than my own. Finding a faithfulness that includes all people, that allows for a world-wide God, who acknowledges the mini-van mommas in America and the baby carrying mommas in Africa, is my mission.</div>
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I want the world to be more fair. </div>
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I want Eugenie’s daughter to go to school and for countries to stop killing their own people. </div>
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I want to not feel guilty when I eat eggs on my couch with my spoiled cat. </div>
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Perhaps this is the price of exposure. Exposure to other peoples and cultures, exposure to poverty, exposure to unspeakable acts. </div>
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I guess all this is to say… I felt guilty and sad while eating breakfast today. And I needed to write it down. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-89267013860984397632016-03-07T02:16:00.001+08:002016-03-08T02:42:46.749+08:00Ethiopia: A Preface. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">"<i>There are many kinds of love in this world,</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i> but never the same love twice</i>." </span></div>
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Almost two years ago, and what seems like 6 lifetimes, an Ethiopian man broke my heart.<br />
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The aftermath was difficult and dramatic. And to be honest, a flame for this person (and the pain they inflicted upon me) has always burned in my heart. Perhaps that is how our deep loves stay with us after they are gone, in little vessels of fire in our depths. </div>
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When I arrived to orientation for the fellow program in Washington DC last summer, I was clued-in that our mid-year African fellows conference might be held in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. This news caused me stress and instigated the patience of my friends who had to listen over and over to the dialogue of, "What do I do?" I was unsure of the wisdom in reaching out and questioned my ability to keep it cool and stable. </div>
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Luckily, that question was answered for me. While on a bus one morning from Kibungo to Kigali in early December, I received a message of heartfelt repentance from the Ethiopian man who had stolen and then discarded my heart many moons ago. Thus began a journey of forgiveness, love, and ultimately - redemption. </div>
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Against the advice of my dearest friends and family, I informed my former lover that I would be in Addis Ababa in March. Slowly, over the months that followed, we shared our new lives, re-built smidgens of trust, and decided to meet again for the first time in what seemed like centuries. My ultimate reasoning: healing and closure. I booked my ticket to Ethiopia for almost 2 weeks before the conference, giving ample time to spend hiking with my friends and spending time with him in his homeland. </div>
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What resulted was one of the greatest, most redemptive and serendipitous (though quite emotional) experiences of my life. I am lucky. Not everyone has a chance to face their heartbreak head-on and redeem past pain. Not everyone gets the chance to sit down with someone who rejected them and be told how valuable you were to their life experiences. I truly believe this experience was a gift from God. </div>
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I'll be blogging the Ethiopia trip in a few parts: work and play. But, it seemed fitting while sitting here in the Entebbe, Uganda airport on an ungodly long layover from Addis to Kigali, to open the dialogue honestly. Going to Ethiopia meant the world to me. It meant closure and healing and discovery and adventure. It meant realizing that I am not a replaceable piece in another person's puzzle, as I have believed for so long. It meant traveling to Ethiopia because I have a kick-ass job and not because I was following someone who couldn't love me properly. I was there for me. There was so much power in that fact.<br />
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I realized that sometimes love doesn't go away, it just changes. Burning forever in a cavern of the heart, tucked away to remind us of our humanity. Of our capacity to feel and evolve.<br />
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Ethiopia gave me a great gift of redemption, of evaluation of the past, and a clearer vision of how I want my future to be (more full of grace, more full of self-value).<br />
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I will be forever grateful. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo.</div>
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-67542647964643397322016-02-16T19:46:00.000+08:002016-02-16T19:46:04.761+08:00Women For Women. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #282828; font-family: 'Proxima Nova', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">“Gender equality and empowerment of women is key to the success of the Millennium Development Goals. Not only as a specific target, but for the goals in general. Women bear a heavier burden of the world’s poverty than men, because of the discrimination they face in education, health care, employment and control of assets.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #282828; font-family: 'Proxima Nova', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">-Johanna Siguroardottir, Prime Minister of Iceland. </span></div>
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Meet my girls. </div>
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It's taken 5 months to get these classes aimed at empowering marginalized women started, and I am so, so happy/proud. Two weeks into the sessions, I am feeling tired and fabulous. I have two days a week at the Women for Women Opportunity Center, about 1.5 hours from my home in Kigali. On Mondays, members of the community who were vetted based on interest, goals, and poverty level come to the center for class On Wednesdays, genocide widows who have been selected by the center to train in handicraft skills such as weaving and basketry come for lessons. The two groups are very different. On Mondays we discuss sentences and ideas. Though a translator I explain cultural nuances of English and can get them to laugh. On Wednesdays, my ladies are illiterate even in their native tongue, kinyarwanda, so we drill the alphabet and numbers and recite simple dialogues...over and over. Most of the ladies don't know how to hold a pen or write their names. </div>
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My first week I found myself wondering, "What is the point?" I am riding the public bus 3 hours round trip to drill the ABC's with women whose husbands were slaughtered in front of them 21 years ago. It is easy to slip down a rabbit hole of, "Who really freaking cares about the ABC's at this point in life?" These women have seen so much. Lived through so much. Accepted so much. So much that I don't understand and will never ask. They have continued living after unspeakable tragedy in a culture that proclaims equality and yet has culturally ingrained injustices against women that are visible even on the surface level. They've raised kids, lost kids, managed a home, and just...continued. And now, some redhead chick from Florida has shown up with flashcards and a flipchart. What's the relevance? </div>
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Empowerment. </div>
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Self-pride. </div>
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Self-worth. </div>
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Dignity. </div>
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These women get a free english class with a native speaker once a week. Once a week, they can sit in a circular room together with an American and have an experience many have not ever had - proper education. For the first time my teaching objective is not a standardized test, or university admittance, or job acquisition. Now, our goal is <i>empowerment</i>. By adding an activity to the weekly schedules of these women that focuses on their own wellbeing, their minds, their creativity and individuality, we are giving them a safe place for expression. A place to challenge themselves and learn something new...like how to write their names, how to introduce themselves to foreigners, how to count and spell. I find that I have been tasked with the most meaningful (and challenging) work I've ever done. </div>
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Please send some uplifting thoughts our way, if you find the time. </div>
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walk slow. xoxo. </div>
Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4391334954578441867.post-68741916646504381892016-02-09T03:12:00.002+08:002016-02-10T14:37:24.793+08:005 month switch up. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The story is long and dramatic. But the blog post won't be. </div>
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Last week, at the 5 month, half-way point of my fellowship, I was granted funding and permission to move from the goat field to the city. Several of my superiors masterminded and worked to grant me this funding and approval. I am thankful for the kindness and understanding of my bosses, who understood that my situation was unique in its crappyness, but also recognized my true desire to be here and keep going. </div>
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Mushu and I have a one bedroom apartment in a wonderful and convenient part of town. I have a kitchen. I have tile floors. I have a hot water heater, a flushing toilet, and electricity 95% of the day. </div>
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I'm so pleased, and relieved, and guilty. I feel so guilty for being happy having creature comforts. </div>
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But for now, I am resting in my bedroom. Safe, comfortable, and surrounded by conveniences that make me feel better prepared to do my job. </div>
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Kibungo will be one of those things that I am really, truly glad it happened. </div>
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And really, truly glad it's over. </div>
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Photos of moving day: </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiPWFBwiX2BZMNTcMkpP8liMZKY8sPvWBdADbFdG79Fl85eJxH8kzvfrkWdUPF8xNeD5Lz2dnHitGTQGoNRCJExCfnOjtAmIZPJfUkmjVtWSunl7DgkXq6LBHr-B5_kqdGaKSPTWheCk/s1600/IMG_4896.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiPWFBwiX2BZMNTcMkpP8liMZKY8sPvWBdADbFdG79Fl85eJxH8kzvfrkWdUPF8xNeD5Lz2dnHitGTQGoNRCJExCfnOjtAmIZPJfUkmjVtWSunl7DgkXq6LBHr-B5_kqdGaKSPTWheCk/s320/IMG_4896.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the boys and mushu having a final pow-wow</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcOQ5UKu0q-Ym8QuVJnmC4r_1slukZdy5AcWAZqGv8CFLn-T-0mSyrGCrGqV2iGQiRXxL6UikyeEC8k8gjJdLpif8CErn_PLD_Y0HP98dItGasjV4WmX4gDEG5TPKURxUOfDjEj2MW0M/s1600/IMG_4903.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcOQ5UKu0q-Ym8QuVJnmC4r_1slukZdy5AcWAZqGv8CFLn-T-0mSyrGCrGqV2iGQiRXxL6UikyeEC8k8gjJdLpif8CErn_PLD_Y0HP98dItGasjV4WmX4gDEG5TPKURxUOfDjEj2MW0M/s320/IMG_4903.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">goodbye, goat boy! we love you! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0nbapQhl_U18GKr4TReseZNvZNcCu_Fv2csMjq6XZu8xipqgEXhXFdWYg3YO_YWnPBlDx9BTPjhyL-1uy4JEXINfSkS1mTh_02FlhuVCNR9DLKAkPuoKUPqHFCGul_L064859w71zgZM/s1600/IMG_4904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0nbapQhl_U18GKr4TReseZNvZNcCu_Fv2csMjq6XZu8xipqgEXhXFdWYg3YO_YWnPBlDx9BTPjhyL-1uy4JEXINfSkS1mTh_02FlhuVCNR9DLKAkPuoKUPqHFCGul_L064859w71zgZM/s320/IMG_4904.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the last ear scratch </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzo_ZXN_zNVaGjBkc-0bjnuP8Nic4Ogo3KVRi7HX_ldNthNeh4Yrz8fJq3keXU83B1KZWXsEjx_9Jih2K4_uO1vt_lL_2vaB-L0KE29BtZ5D32edLsF1_gYAwf040xEVeJEvBPdkPNS6k/s1600/IMG_4906.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzo_ZXN_zNVaGjBkc-0bjnuP8Nic4Ogo3KVRi7HX_ldNthNeh4Yrz8fJq3keXU83B1KZWXsEjx_9Jih2K4_uO1vt_lL_2vaB-L0KE29BtZ5D32edLsF1_gYAwf040xEVeJEvBPdkPNS6k/s320/IMG_4906.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mushu throwing a fit </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcq4fdkpoIjQ8CLG0IaVU4q2_VZliSiJf5q16md8NVwHSZ7jNkIgHMIL0ZY3u5wf2jyArJx7_sh4OtjHdOPySpq9yuAkxOoW4xg8TVjZVArasug2AG2hg8joDsYS_kkRDvSLGT9t5_VAo/s1600/IMG_4924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcq4fdkpoIjQ8CLG0IaVU4q2_VZliSiJf5q16md8NVwHSZ7jNkIgHMIL0ZY3u5wf2jyArJx7_sh4OtjHdOPySpq9yuAkxOoW4xg8TVjZVArasug2AG2hg8joDsYS_kkRDvSLGT9t5_VAo/s320/IMG_4924.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We both will miss our yard! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_0OmdkckbRD0WzPl0uHfaXEH642jI3JCs0SrJg3UBOeX2J5bzHaHqumad0_oULUihAh3lnIgapG_wXV8G-b7WMk-t7zA79RVCkc8QiHzD_kIjxYpD1cBwFbms8W_bofA7pWUqh9GlMc/s1600/IMG_4928.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_0OmdkckbRD0WzPl0uHfaXEH642jI3JCs0SrJg3UBOeX2J5bzHaHqumad0_oULUihAh3lnIgapG_wXV8G-b7WMk-t7zA79RVCkc8QiHzD_kIjxYpD1cBwFbms8W_bofA7pWUqh9GlMc/s320/IMG_4928.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">buddies</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXFcq6cnl4Aj88A-gySpYYr38rsbvDALJ_TOZbqB2S4dp7QTv38ai68NGSFmIPVyWqzVYUb40yp0_yOFQFq-BTjCT00fhtOaa8R4Tu_6uUEvdTUAKFzLk18cEiyGxkvEMXPrG89KEnFQ/s1600/IMG_4942.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXFcq6cnl4Aj88A-gySpYYr38rsbvDALJ_TOZbqB2S4dp7QTv38ai68NGSFmIPVyWqzVYUb40yp0_yOFQFq-BTjCT00fhtOaa8R4Tu_6uUEvdTUAKFzLk18cEiyGxkvEMXPrG89KEnFQ/s320/IMG_4942.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">best friends saying goodbye</td></tr>
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Cheers to 5 more months of a fellowship in Rwanda, without evacuations and commuting!<br />
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walk slow. xoxo.<br />
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Ke Xiao Meihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12042378850907525375noreply@blogger.com0