tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-294746872024-03-05T09:59:28.054-05:00This Bag Is Heavy.comA rambling account of my attempt to travel around the world without throwing out my back.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-75920893493300754342007-09-12T11:26:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:29:00.862-05:00<div align="center"><strong></strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">I Leave Mandoli for the Big City and Make Some New Friends</span></strong></div><br /><br /><p><br />After Gao, we went back to Mandoli and I spent the next couple of days in the village getting my stuff together and saying goodbyes. Then I headed out to Bamako for a few days before taking off. For your dozing pleasure, here's a little review.</p><br /><p><br /><strong>I Carry Water Like the Big Men (Or, Small Women. Whichever.)</strong><br /></p><br /><p>I decided to try carrying water up the cliff from the spring. So, I did some light stretching (not really) grabbed a 5-gallon jug (really) and joined the chief's first wife on her water run. Here's the break down. </p><br /><p><em>Her: Age-60ish. Height: 5'2" Weight: 100lbs give or take</em>. </p><br /><p><em>Me: Age-26ish. Height: 6'2"ish. Weight: 230lbs</em>. </p><br /><p>And, so we set off.<br /></p><br /><p>Now, I think I mentioned that the women usually do the hike to the spring wearing flip-flops. But, it turned out that I was wrong. They do it barefoot. I opted for my Merrell hiking shoes. </p><p>And down we went. I can't say much about it as I'm trying to block it out. But, in sum, it was friggin' hard. I mean gut-wrenching, heart-pounding hard. Like a workout from a Rocky training scene hard. Except they wouldn't show it because the general public would never believe anyone could actually do it. </p><p>That, at least, was my perspective. The chief's wife didn't seem to have too much trouble. </p><p>After we got back to village, she didn't want me to take her picture because she didn't like what she was wearing. But, I can assure you she looked fine and exactly the same as she had when she left for the spring. Now, here I am after my triumphant and painful return. Notice the forced smile and awkwardly stiff back position? It hurt. And, Rocky, you don't even know. </p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113345490205711282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAcWrqXiZXBU2ZmWTw2WgKRWeliz3mFf4wxwEUj5dwwbCMpey5VWOhPdKrm2w0bV3-AaJTGxrameTKUcT54VKomTYV-x5Lqbrrqj6IDMBQm-37i994nezDFdZWaM7L09E9WJdr2g/s400/CIMG0046.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><p><em>Please note that only some of this is sweat. I also spilled water all over myself trying to carry the jug on my head and trying to carry it like a baby. None of those carrying positions made it any lighter. But, spilling water all over myself did. </em></p><p><em>That said, wouldn't it be crazy if my hips did sweat like that?</em></p><br /><br /><p><strong>The Kids Get Kisses</strong><br /></p><br /><p>Ms. Emily Rechter sent Hershey Kiss stickers and the kids loved them. This pic doesn't even do it justice. They loved them. And, as soon as the other kids saw them, we had a crowd outside of Heather's door. Luckily, Em sent a bunch and there were plenty to go around. It must be noted that it was undeniably cute to watch them running around with big Hershey Kisses on their foreheads.<br /><br /></p><div><div><div><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFKVlHGmEJTSpH2NXAkhwFQ5bQdXaO35AIrMlPleQKImcidlhhyHUPvSRDlyj8VqDcMrWC1cNuNzsRIXhvw0UNkJxeprLl4Ms9ZpGtg3t00tcwjDHr6nR9NOW0KenPDBuo0Dersw/s1600-h/CIMG0051.JPG"></a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113345979831983058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2mrnSxezJpNM0zGPYq_1TJBgFG7ndDCQXUuxI6eEvuQHobAPK_vjE53KV7jG9wxwK1gJNqVzLABrE7iEA2Ug-c46JqIPjksyOC3qSJVT7femUJF8PgHHHAZFiUz8PBvtTAZqpDg/s400/CIMG0049.JPG" border="0" /></div><br /><div><br /><strong>Whenever You're Feeling Good and Hungry, It's Skyline Time. </strong></div><div><strong>Even in Mandoli.</strong><br /><br /></div><br /><div>My last night in village in the village, as a thanks for taking me in so warmly, I served Skyline to the chief and his wife and to several of Heather's neighbors who I had become close with. They loved it. I'm not even kidding. Loved it. Like the kids with the Hershey's stickers. Anyway, it makes me happy when people like Skyline. And, it makes me happy that, thanks to the warmth and hospitality of you guys at home, I was able to share it with people I cared about halfway around the world. So, thank you again.<br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113345709249043394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46kVXdlKiMMRe3M5CLtOu3FXVeRJKP6kE64ExawGce-MixqNhE5VOKGQ1ZV-A8JBzBGRfI9a0ObhBKyXWNkRpj8UICk-fG7HvQI1j8K0jcDMxo3Dx3TZFMMjIeUrxjdb2ZEe4ng/s400/CIMG0048.JPG" border="0" /><br /><em>You'll note that, in true Malian fashion, we ate the Skyline out of a communal bowl using our hands. (Re-applying crackers and cheese as necessary.) It's really an awesome way to eat it. I think we should all try it when I'm back.</em><br /></div><br /><div><strong>I Leave Mandoli. And, with it, I Leave Some of the Finest Luggage Ever</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlIwZZsyyEcNBikAlHtSnegcw2HA6ka_PawrJ3mdTguK6fWJiPN2KoeGqlvgXuxtJRhK1WSu4StCvmqUgmN-a6LtSdSLvsjz3dmabDX1WtRtng7L896-3PRLzL-PapY6ckLWrMDA/s1600-h/CIMG0050.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113346134450805730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlIwZZsyyEcNBikAlHtSnegcw2HA6ka_PawrJ3mdTguK6fWJiPN2KoeGqlvgXuxtJRhK1WSu4StCvmqUgmN-a6LtSdSLvsjz3dmabDX1WtRtng7L896-3PRLzL-PapY6ckLWrMDA/s400/CIMG0050.JPG" border="0" /></a><em> Samsonite has nothing on the Northlich bag. </em><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113346602602241026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj86NaI6JnYsAljsevPffckkVowK0Re-3WEjBVUyhps99k2kmG0ijyh34i3qbmsJ5Z78BLFG9FZ-yBTgbsp-mkyrzQMOHFn1vsYozG_jxcEzWb1V8D4pZNaLJUiPfhXYdAo-nsfnw/s400/CIMG0052.JPG" border="0" /><br /><em>43 of us (not including the goats) packed into this truck for a 20-hour trip to Bamako. This truck made Chris Baker's Prospector Van look like a </em><em>Maserati. Seriously, the driver would turn the steering wheel completely around and the van wouldn't alter course an inch. Which made traversing washed out roads and the thinnest highway I've seen (at least since Ireland) all the more impressive.</em> </div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113347341336615954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU30Akq6pIvqx3_Tt-SLdevfayEBYV9oWLBdkoMT_7Rw9ERiDRw4SoMUtmcONt8RK4XoyOQW6ajk0tOYzHz5KpFhlWWaMcve55T9ZNG_yWiv0587aeRKyjVKvBZTrR3b28LFKNLA/s400/CIMG0053.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113347478775569442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbONqEhzPl_5Vsst9_KbVdG2pmNBdgs8G3nsYJ_RVr5h9zKHjIX7V9RvQ35sQq7ql7QdhFFAaURu8zXhQq1oQQGnkIMvcr5zQfpHFv0OLxefWenSpQgZiYYm5Of4vwhBqY0nfk3g/s400/CIMG0054.JPG" border="0" /><br /><em>Part of the reason the trip took 20 hours is because we ended up spending 5 hours next to a washed out road. It was actually kind of fun. Especially this part. </em></div><div><em></em></div><div><em>In situations like these, Malians seem especially easygoing and incredibly helpful. No one was overly upset or yelling. And, together, they rebuilt this road as I watched. Perfect strangers who definitely were not road builders by trade. </em></div><div><em></em></div><div><em>And when a pickup driver was brave (or dumb) enough to try an alternate route through a field and got stuck, more strangers jumped directly into the mud to help him. It was incredible to watch and speaks volumes about a really amazing culture.</em><br /><br /><strong>Bamako? Bama-OK!</strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div>Sorry about that dumb title. But, they're blaring music at this internet cafe and it's loud and I'm going to use that as an excuse. Plus, it made me giggle. Anyway. I spent several days in Bamako and I met several wonderful people. Two in particular who not only took me in, but also befriended me and helped me see an entirely different side of Mali's biggest city. </div><div><br />Meet Dana and Arnim. They are awesome.</div><div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113347835257855042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TBL9Xlcv-cmBu2Mv9ExMsC2RCOjV2jMkFMiuXvUmofXLnwhjSnF5RqDO6qamW-w5Tez0B6PpkszzqKvKpjkIa2Z_yRI2mWGXQy2-R-gPBSc1S5cApM7eqKCh2vKshr-OAOGyVA/s400/CIMG0071.JPG" border="0" /></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113347727883672626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxmXJrTX9ooQnh7mRdE_IF3tr8X49n3JwY8f14Ur7sIFZYstm_gztQGhTODJCsz75Hzj9BLrTpn4R7n3BRYRIv_jFHA1dEu72_rpA1qdRxK75skpa54Xu72rVfhOEX9QEy3JxXw/s400/CIMG0070.JPG" border="0" /><br /></div><div><em>Thanks to my new friends, I went to a Malian/German wedding. (Keeping my one wedding per country streak going.) And, I got to dance to traditional Malian music and 50 Cent (not at the same time). </em></div><div><em></em></div><div><em>And they took me to a crazy hike called a hash. And, a restaurant where I got the biggest cheeseburger ever made. It was Guinness Book of World Records big. And, it was awesome. Did I mention it was big?</em></div><br /><br /><div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113348071481056354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCsQ7hCdazv3LVcS9DdXzIyB9jNuY1Lpgw4Ys1ZbqMx5E9kP3QdJqdbb4Rhmcdd1AYPUEWE-bHrnw_ClKR9_Un0KL5GzpRuewuo8_2PiyIxqDBbMnE5gRn-uD-3v2GDhi4ml2zyg/s400/CIMG0073.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113347959811906642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtbgYoDccY6W__HgXFbF0v-cfLX7FfnPBZ83584ZCzlzn4-zyuP4xEge_cb5oYXElBF9IlIs4VXJ2zGvKdNkWqrEV8pw5AL3zhKbeCWsRH4TzxqFjVfpE7Jg-hWo3MVAJLYrl4Q/s400/CIMG0072.JPG" border="0" /><br /><em>Here are some random pics of Bamako. I wish they could capture the feel of it. I'll give that a try with words at a later date. In the meantime, it's time to move on. </em><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-1598776378262613842007-09-07T11:05:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:34:00.387-05:00<div align="center"><strong>My Overwhelming Fear of Worms Crawling Into People's Ears (Which Came About After Seeing Star Trek III: The Wrath of Kahn) Is Removed, and Promptly Replaced, by Seeing Worms Coming Out of People's Other Body Parts.</strong></div><div align="center"></div><br />Heather and I went to Gao in the northern part of Mali to do a Guinea worm project with the Carter Center. Guinea worms, for those that don't know (and I didn't know), are worms whose eggs live in fleas that are sometimes found in the water that people can drink. When the egg finds itself in a person's stomach, it hatches, and over the course of the next year, grows up to four feet in length.<br /><br />Then, when it has matured, it burrows through the body (even through bone) and waits just on the inside of the skin. When it senses that the body is in contact with water, it breaks through the skin and shoots its eggs back into the water so the process can start over again.<br /><br />It should be noted that, because they can burrow through anything, they can come out anywhere. And, I mean anywhere. Imagine the worst place for it to come out of a body and it can do it.<br /><br /><br />I'm sure Wikipedia has more info (and pictures - so if you're bored at work and can't think of a good thing to Google to pass the time, Guinea worms would probably be a good choice).<br /><br /><br />Anyway, we decided to head up that way. What should have taken 9 hours ended up taking 24 hours and involved us sleeping by the side of the road and paying 40 dollars to a guy with a pickup truck so he would drive us around a washed out road.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113343389966703474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnTF0MS_Ze-V8AiHf_kawleYOay2rFuD98kWkob1A6rToA8_FSKSPYY-9tFh5oJ2Br22Qyd55N79zUL_uPTnChQOvzb2gOJ6cMh45B6LXySJf23GpEQo-n5CP_8m049URc8hNp2g/s400/CIMG0039.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div align="center"><em>Waking up by the side of the road. When you're on a hot, crowded bus for 10 hours, sleeping by the side of the road on a cool night is actually rather pleasant. And, the view is amazing.</em></div><br />After our big (well, long) trip, we managed to make it in time to meet up with Steve who was the Carter Center volunteer for the Guinea worm project. And, he took us to meet the medical director for the region.<br /><br />She, however, put a stop to everything. Apparently there were bandits in the area and they had attacked two different groups of people over the past two days - taking one of the groups hostage. The medical director said it was much too dangerous and she was not going to allow us to go.<br /><br />Steve was upset. Heather was outraged. And I... well I thought she had a good point. I'm scared of bandits. And, while were at it, I'm kind of scared of Guinea worms.<br /><br />Still, I have some pride (seriously) so, I halfheartedly pretended that I was mad about the whole thing. "That's outrageous!" I said. "I can't believe we can't go!" "How unfair!" But, inside, I was thinking, "Thank God you stopped us." And, "I hope we can go back to the Peace Corps house and take a nap." Luckily, we could. And, happily, we did.<br /><br /><br />Regardless, Steve promised to have us over later to show us videos and pictures he had taken during other Guinea worm extractions he had done. We did go over and it is seriously crazy. In case you haven't stopped reading this to Google them (or to Google the color Green or other Google searches that are much more interesting than this blog), they take them out by winding them slowly around a stick and it can take days for them to come all the way out. Did I mention that it is crazy? They've been found in Egyptian mummies. So, they've been around for awhile. But, thanks to the Carter Center, they will hopefully be eradicated within the next 10 years. And then, maybe I'll be able to sleep at night.<br /><br />Anyway, other than bandits and Guinea worms, Gao was pretty fun. Here are a few pics.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113343115088796514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQAJqTGpT33UAqA8mPYkiFXgy5r2Nmfob9lGT4gLm8yANKaiEr5mmnx17c06G20becoKDv88M45cGJrxAa0rLbOw42AJY92YIUlFwV74r0fhrRbl40c-fOKvkWuh3Kz4plqEHkA/s400/CIMG0045.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><div align="center"><em>We took a trip out to the Gao sand dunes. Then, I went for a little jog. </em></div><div align="center"><em>(Actually, I thought I saw a Guinea worm.)</em></div><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113342505203440450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUx-UPrt2wivRdyY7vf2SHEj5K1X7SuRhjPT_Aoaiw3HrRhUyvaJFoQzlbzojBc3293w8Xx1xcskmV95lhVDvLP8scbMDbVG_ytKgDdEhyphenhyphenD-DCU6I-f5GKSOO_Vc9KzOi3BfaNQ/s400/CIMG0040.JPG" border="0" /> <div align="center"><em>On our way back from the sand dunes. </em><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113343866708073346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdg7U8-lXMObfYr03drusUjTgp7kkJdC4P2uYMZMpzJv3DKVduIJafJxu567yzPr_zE7385PbJ1R9PCC5cfH1JSyeJj-fEKUP3Kulvhoc4ikoA2gFImnJvnbErkojzzerh-qceHw/s400/CIMG0090.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Gao at dusk.<br /></em><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113344837370682274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uY_aGKr861QaXZn3irb4RhaYl8zOmFFKO35-bwAJnZXHEJShsACDbEqBZJQnP9047u7I_9saMvvW79v6jBWC8UnGcuhdoqdpq2I2MaBZx-kQqoRBuEtX6dyPws1yj6nnuMsQ9g/s400/CIMG0044.JPG" border="0" /> </div><div align="center"><em>Coming home from Gao, we got a ride from a guy who did not seem to care that the road was so flooded it could easily have been mistaken for a river. We somehow made it through but we were pretty much the only ones.</em></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-9643950590003990982007-08-27T07:12:00.000-04:002007-09-01T07:17:35.885-04:00<div align="center"><strong>Maybe You Can't Buy Happiness, But Happiness Sure Can Be Sent By Air Mail</strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>Thank You</strong> </div><br /><br /><p align="left"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105192733208856242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkN7AxFXK8pwxeAgkII-7dr56Um8bIsksMIKU2BGdfzYQr9ZY_iIFDsWbUieKV8L2RHD62EA3455FYmfkrNdQNC9dBLXN7TXf67I4XXpQ5Gt65C2PoZPN-iBIqwUg87ia8vwVMdQ/s400/CIMG0016.JPG" border="0" /><br /></p><p align="center"><br />Happiness </p><p align="center"><br /><br /> </p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105192956547155650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJtRh-h10ejQ4hf1PNhW6nAXFQJdJWowog1bnobstuCBRbPVkoFGCTAPG1-ZpjW9arjY8eKWh4iUJwG5nziCUxGL2RUBVWzZ5uKDY8vaAh9mS74Rgfp2FaT95aHJjRl4mwnUkxPA/s400/CIMG0017.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />In case you’re wondering, EZ Cheese completely works as a substitute for cheddar cheese in Skyline. And, I also can’t think of anything luckier than getting to eat Skyline in Mali. Heather and the other volunteers have loved it too. Thank you also for the nice notes and all the great gifts. Including, Jonathan Wolff’s lone sock. That will surely come in handy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-6395050806404243662007-08-21T07:17:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:38:04.335-05:00<div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><strong>If It’s Wet, And It’s Falling From the Sky, It Might Be Pee</strong><br /><br />Shortly after I arrived in Africa, my friend Sally (who was in the Peace Corps in Guinea Bissau) wrote me an email and mentioned that the best tasting thing, after spending some time in the African heat, is an ice cold bottle of Fanta.<br /><br />After reading that, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. And, after about a week in the village, it started to become a small (okay, large) obsession. A soda I never drink in the States was something that I now craved almost as much as air conditioning. If Fanta ever wants to increase their sales, they should put their entire target market into an African village for a week. I can guarantee that sales would skyrocket. I cannot, however, guarantee a good cost/benefit ratio.<br /><br />Anyway, after about a week in the village, we were finally going into the nearest big town (Bandiagara) to go to the market, stock up on food - and I was going to get my Fanta.<br /><br />But, that brings me to the subject of Malian transportation. First, here are some things you should know about traveling in Mali. </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><strong>Things To Know About Malian Transport</strong><br /><br />- There is no air conditioning on public transport. If you are lucky, a door will be left open or there will be no windows on the vehicle.<br /><br />- If the driver decides to play music, it will be loud and the speakers will lack anything that resembles bass.<br /><br />- Livestock rides with people, or in the luggage compartment below the bus, or on the roof. People also ride on the roof - sometimes on top of luggage. Luggage rides with people, or on the roof, or appropriately enough, in the actual luggage compartment (but next to the livestock).<br /><br />- Buses will stop often and seemingly for no apparent reason.</div><div align="left"><br />- There are no bathrooms on the buses. However, when the bus does make a random stop, any area around the bus is fair game for bathroom going.<br /><br />- And, finally, whatever the maximum vehicle load is, take that number, double it and then throw it completely out the window because you will never be able to imagine how many people and how much stuff Malians will fit into a vehicle. You know those pictures that you sometimes see of a bunch of people filled to the brim of a phone booth trying to break a Guiness World Record or something? Well, picture a bunch of those crammed phone booths driving around Mali with goats and some sacks of grain on top of them and you’ve pretty much got what it’s like to travel here.<br /><br />Also, while I’m on the topic and dragging this out, one of the most common forms of Malian transport is a little van which looks like it was designed by the same guys who created Scooby Doo’s Mystery Machine. Here’s a pic of one and you can decide for yourself. </div><div align="left"><br /><br /></div><div align="left"><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105193927209764562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiixtligj6AfMWTw_jr9XxSD6yG83kCritJ8KkvP-3dNg6Dab4L7pt2fDHxkbkwhylkajoD3f6AYdMZUjQixc5aomUOS-mzTLmwvcR2VzPL9n813DRBsaUV1c4ukikUmcXsVDtb9A/s400/CIMG0044.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><br /><strong>I Lamely Try to Get Back to My Original Point</strong><br /><br />Anyway, if you’ve made it this far, you’ve probably noticed that I’ve made a serious digression from my original story. If you will recall, I was talking about getting a Fanta and you were getting sleepy and considering clicking over to the streaming webcam of a pitch black room because even that would be more interesting than this. But, I will continue on and if you do switch over to the pitch black room, let me know if anything’s happening over there.<br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105194146253096674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_URIylX_Zfg6BxozdVF6msN3mkNRvg0DKWVmP4624vxuQRe8fVwsiR1V-gKzVxI5YutdsGT1jlOhJkozRHqVbamyR5HjrG8Wf9RRhWJDFiXOjx1BkkPfjfrLld6KHnSIcExv4g/s400/CIMG0035.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />Here I am, on the road to Bandiagara, waiting for the bus. I’m very, very excited to be getting a Fanta.<br /></p><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105194485555513074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_t3QHGoYgoBbMHBF7tSuFYpBb2UsiIukfOs0S5Jbu-qNv4-Lhohv_w2Jdw3lQyrp3e7xcNz44n6dWpPA-GSoSs4qN0a4yvJzPg9b45_n_UlHIuVa4SLhcYmVH1A58iKN2aKfYA/s400/CIMG2065.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p align="center">This is the flatbed truck that took us to Bandiagara. It wasn’t overly packed - maybe about 38 people in the back with almost enough water jugs and sacks of grain for everyone to sit on. They even stopped to put all the live stock (except for the chickens) on the roof. And, that’s where this life lesson begins.<br /><br /><strong>I Finally Get To The Point </strong></p>If there are goats on the roof of your vehicle and one of them has to pee, and if your arm is hanging outside of the truck, there is a chance you’re going to get peed on. Keep this in mind. And also keep in mind that this was way worse than me spitting on myself in Doolin.<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105194627289433858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg62Bk1qaH7eSioVxRFCoGnxRmx_MJbo_HGmgWuogcu1qakYR_HPP3qXJW6sScU-_ltwL2352bWUEBul2WfDy8GiNtpLaAHh3tDaIXgXqGAO3Rmk57BjGrnuslTp9WgZJwK5MUafA/s400/CIMG2068.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center">In Bandiagara<br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105195241469757202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ69Ky7W68Deyls5WyFZEeyu2qEIj93_sVQk2N2FIc20AgUahCxB-Bd9jQ-pez_Yaj-8SiRf26ymiiZXjg5NAksPrSFU5bFi1wFvGs14LBNdvK3P3UbZoFkiufNtLrCA-w9Zjakg/s400/CIMG0030.JPG" border="0" /><br />The market at Bandiagara. It’s a lot like Findlay Market. Except with more buckets of rotting fish scattered about. </p><p><br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105195503462762274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEuqawudvmlGw7MkoD-RL-1kqWiWhq_nwbeJGco1IAATFZGA4qzLaUs8aCRTb_x7-e-Q3YIAOUBt7CP_cHTqQwO4YlYW-mXWZ7cVkkTHOT70D-xKNXcr94zuM4e-S-3aYzs-Ym4g/s400/IMG_0037alt.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><br />Fanta-tastic! </p><p align="center"><br />Coming back from getting my Fanta-On, I was rained and hailed on while hanging half-out of a jam packed flat-bed truck.<br /><br />It was totally worth it.<br /><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-79077263733977471452007-08-16T06:50:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:40:53.431-05:00<div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><strong>If It’s Mali, It’s Mandoli</strong><br /><br />Mandoli is the name of Heather’s village and this is the tagline I came up with for the village in hopes of increasing its tourist activity (current tourist activity – me). So far, it hasn’t caught on like I’d hoped. Perhaps because it’s in English. Or, perhaps because it’s really bad.<br /><br />Heather has been living here for almost 2.5 years. She loves it and they clearly love her. Mandoli is actually made up of 7 small villages in close proximity to each other – each village is made up of about 100 people.<br /><br />Mandoli welcomed me with great warmth and even gave me a new name – Liaree Arema. Arema is the last name of the entire village, so now when I travel around Mali, people know what region I’m from based on my last name. Anyway, they have made me feel like a part of the village. And, with your permission, I’d love to give you a quick tour.<br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105186711664706898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJd1izMvP83pKB4210Q-NNI7RjDVrPGdS1HDX1mA5yyrVSLcKOWdrcUkAqmS0DwMeXGxIMvGe3n39O5fr1lvyDINmqOi50C8wnVfingNZjnMNEZfds55_tXm3QG90SoTMkInXHw/s400/CIMG0032.JPG" border="0" /><br />This is Heather’s kitchen. She is an amazing chef and is like Emeril with her two-burner camp stove.<br /><br />There is no electricity in the village. Heather is the only house in Mandoli to have a camping stove and she is one of the very few to have a car battery that will power a lamp for a few hours. I asked her if it would also power a video iPod with surround sound speakers but she told me that I was missing the point of village living. I’m still not sure what she meant.<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105186879168431458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMysULC3zdmnhQ6H4b5SVX-L0fNDZi8OJq-_gdgDPSAjdXWpSMh2KnA_4gxsp9sdne1zFIJHq3JzbIRlUPOvIadpSntgUQNTSro_Ixpi-_G8dDlF_pDAgBcNR13bLtfdI8ejCh1g/s400/CIMG0033.JPG" border="0" /><br />Heather’s dining room and lounge.<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105187012312417650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-LL5J9rHr98h8SASqnL-8GbbMuJQWgB06kE9Dh0Ytk4J_tN6Oz4X28Mqcurk7jqMqT8htoNcrXoYAdYM75gd4dclTCua_FPs8sCsRt4dSaFT18KJF2Zze6StVpsPoLSffmiPMlw/s400/CIMG0010.JPG" border="0" /><br />This is the shower. It’s oddly refreshing to shower outside - and you’ve always got a great view.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105191053876643474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4x7NVS5kD6fpg9vcbMs3y876qH38hwG4hxHjnAU7Xn0OOl4RGx6a27uL82Ce4KG6XXnw_Ybg8eZcekGnHEYSi2HFmKpHHVK0YcCvkml7mub6f-uwF9uQPP5FG-TV7HTdhFr6szw/s400/CIMG0036.JPG" border="0" /><br />The view from the shower.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105187321550062994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fmi1vdA5fe1Sqjr21t4dKS3bgYRhxnLezP69kab3yY23gh_3IX1jEIRVyJrtMariDZZSyuk0BGS0aT2YhnF3UFckAstxLaVEtx_5MzAYWaPv7O4l9Z0VPR9tLQobgijOonDM2w/s400/CIMG0034.JPG" border="0" /><br />The bathroom. Or naygen as it’s called here. I was a little worried about the naygen. One, because it was new form of bathroom going. And, two, because I have the balance of a drunk, one-legged baby. And, since I can’t even walk through a room without careening into various items (the door frame, a table, etc.), the idea of squatting while going to the bathroom was starting to sound like an Olympic event. And, in fact, when I first tried it out, I was like a Weeble Wobble™. But, I’ve since gotten better and now am like a heavier Weeble Wobble™ with a wider base. I’m still wobbling but it’s much less likely that I’m going to roll backwards. Also, I’ve realized that these things are much more sanitary, and therefore, more enjoyable to use than almost any gas station bathroom I’ve ever been in back in the States.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105187484758820258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5F22eYTOPybd6sK1VJzApXQaF1J8SxqRpvPXDzL-vK-Xu7JXPq48KKYxc_CzD2ztd_Q4CM5FWuz0VEOXseNu3z0C7CA49Q-0BK43CGPc3DgBx8fh4wXghSCWHu3Cn3lgAayBlw/s400/CIMG0001.JPG" border="0" /><br />This is the view from Heather’s bathroom. Quite beautiful. Unless someone is in the tree. Then it’s quite disturbing.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105187630787708338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeS3ownEYghFPocCxYnxAAOllz6Zd_jxObxvwoi6cKbN5c06EJ7fTFlsZWm8e9UqAKua_czje7KillCyb_W0J3ZLGXJdnrQiqVvaWEiKRPNyhcFggGbITtiGCCz-QPnXxeEvOEug/s400/CIMG0013.JPG" border="0" /><br />If you walk out Heather’s front door and look to the left, this is what you see.<br /><br /><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105187849831040450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKPRC37_h0aoVazwNo4-mAFu81CUIFMUcMFJEly_LtpbRslhJcr-0MuPL__spVDskluOwY6YAFSefGsdqz_kZTsyun2FX1_4hbKsqrr20sGRURZIo29QYqUnhaogPRRHAYUZolQ/s400/CIMG2059.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />This is Binta. She’s Heather’s neighbor and one of her closest friends. The boy with her is her son. He is named Sali Fu which is one of the greatest names ever. I love saying it. Sali-Fu! You should try it. It’s awesome.</div><div align="center"><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105188223493195234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn32s66CjZhgipdbwJauViDmcQoVZvWaTMx3wXc9u0kQYvzKORy2VMd7gHfTupRHarYumx-708qr7208OSB26QbVsIx5mJzFSc01WGSCD7yM3Lg_csiF-GcMhqWUb6YbXdOCtkkg/s400/CIMG0022.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />Some women from Heather’s village. They are usually smiling and laughing but Malians take pictures very seriously and more often than not usually look very serious in them.<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105188373817050610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKCAL4BEQW8ZzXZLxpOyiX-7ZJnjQnI58JXwtcyyvDbBg8HNgi072Vwj_P-AB7pgFy-xiZvErLTjZXIqt86Y0GaWJpUABeFBvBpmlAScwGIdcn5rjP3EatkMAK358cpTWFumMVvQ/s400/CIMG0038.JPG" border="0" /><br />This is the beginning of the path to the spring. Right around the house in the center of the picture is the only place that I can get cell reception. It’s got a great view but not very comfortable seating.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105188532730840578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFH60JL944mB2fJNApeZ6esmJKEWnp4GeAh2pAQveKFzx3tIlMVdsXOYe7ZzNG5oBvcY7TyLz5cDl3xw96tQvNDgIBflLdETsdcw_QiyA-nddeMNg0omVdodY9rfOaijLvIjvdw/s400/CIMG0041.JPG" border="0" /><br />This is the path up from the spring. The women and children do this several times daily. And, the women usually carry back 3-4 gallon jugs or buckets of water on their head each time. This picture doesn’t really do a great job of capturing it, but it is really steep and watching this is just amazing.<br /><br />One of Heather’s priorities is to increase the village’s access to water. She has already built a well in the women’s garden and is close to completing a second one. She is also trying to get an old pump restored which would give the village easy access to bacteria-free water.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105189009472210450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmM0NnLJHn5eBmNfpVOheKS0-VxM_0TjfcGV-WXqo9TeAHk74IMghd4AfRtE4ewrjqhq_W3RIwyyTCMt-jp53hFrhyphenhyphenyyBecpr_8WFwpuLLNo206aJw9HgHkLUgrKdDzhWRXSnXw/s400/IMG_0007.JPG" border="0" /><br />Some of the younger kids in the village. They are so fun you wouldn’t even believe it.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105189228515542562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrFz1sZAVPPzJZ9DsS0V-0zYKxro-0m4Q6rAc4_iqE5JDTmI4uo_NpGs6jI7Gn5FWzclqHT6vzwkeGzBGdpoLpow4Bp5JHgkXtnT9JnrcHVdZGrgLS2ioSrcsTNvRrnZlrYJVLA/s400/CIMG0008.JPG" border="0" /><br />This is Sali. Her favorite move is to head butt your legs and then immediately hug you. It’s tough love and I totally fall for it.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105189396019267122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHkugsC9l6NaiHl46OONjEgEUK7l8MtaAFD7Xbbqm9xeaig7k4W5cUySB0s4lRQhdYSCisMekCiWylYFVUMqE-dm5zl_etSAwlcuadhAFC0fIv0SGb14TzB5lAN8p5cAiwpZwb4w/s400/CIMG0012.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><br />Got Millet Cream? </p><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105189572112926274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4GUl7G3RD4cm7mZWNH3fxOmR85AQuf3uQfQkZsPEOdUg8UfbJEwzZjWt7GtGXbxoGhsdxiiub24GAKKZ6GAbRGIcQgEjIMHoXkOgQL3JNC-Es39DC6BCE8swqUOehfSNGOoL8g/s400/CIMG0024.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />The buildings with the pointy roofs are where the Mandoli villagers store their millet. In the three-month rainy season, they need to grow enough millet to last them for the entire year. It’s one of the reasons that global warming is such a concern here. As the growing season shrinks, they won’t have enough crops to feed their families. </p><p><br /><br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105189748206585426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvBPzCbaKaULQY4eibJTwE-fC1-Vt27uGOvINwYWRdDfpM0UkvbRjzcgZYIci4ziWF0gBcvoOYO2ianojmMXxBb0k1NtNQzQESpVZ2-3QhewJmBgFhyfwVWCDNpDNjIpuiVcYmRw/s400/CIMG0014.JPG" border="0" /><br />Here I am working in the women’s garden – which was one of Heather’s projects. My basic work plan was to plant something and then go sit in the shade for 20-30 minutes. It was actually pretty similar to my process for writing headlines. </p><p><br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105189932890179170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCjod-P7D5LoV0pzIsLiUY7FMmTZ1qD5teaNXArxHZep1d6FhAqFhifCFRucwsHrLzRzQKfw8BLeyw-pIkvPnk1pO04PPqgMN5rNkOSZ0I4LcGyH5FBCxKVmnZd1k6II5c93Jomw/s400/CIMG0028.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />When the kids are old enough and considered responsible, but not old enough to work in the fields, (usually 7-9) it is common for them to start herding the family livestock. They usually spend the entire day out in the plains and you won’t see them coming back to village until dusk.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105190181998282354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0sfViuyYJiEjeV186JEtBBJNMQRpWyxlEKA5qLWNc6u10Rp9He__F5uXCqHso2JjRKY6Wd8lse5jfKjy20LM_EQtcPkRADBQVFuq_Esfwx7uOXZsslYAi7Pul1xt_HPjyz45Eg/s400/CIMG2187.JPG" border="0" /><br />More young herders and an angry looking bull that is seriously giving me the evil eye. Luckily, as you can see, the kids were carrying very small twigs to help stop the bull if things got out of hand. </p><p><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105190469761091202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb6vR8Wj8TwC8PyUKiaFjiKZbYb5zcSV0OPR-35ml6Ny9pujVeFjFntaDHvA5SCluHCWgCW63PVNaIax9OXvSX9OpvRXJpVo0tMfk2gusTO5QNkNXuom5aabnQKPALOIy58lKdyg/s400/CIMG0027.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />And, finally, here is a much more fun pic of some of the kids taking a break from herding for a quick dip. It’s hard work, but they do take time to have fun and they are also very proud of their responsibility to help their family.<br /><br /><br />So, that’s my tour. It was probably longer than it should have been. But, I hope it gives you a little idea of what village life is like. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-59552812718578735012007-08-12T11:40:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:44:05.286-05:00<div align="center"><strong>I Arrive in the Land Where Civilization Began and Finally Start to Get My Tan Back</strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center">I apologize now for these posts. I have a feeling they are going to be rambling and disjointed. Now, you may be wondering how this is different from any of my previous posts. I don't have a good answer for you. But, as I sit here, I'm realizing that my pictures and my notes and my thoughts are all over the place. So, I'll take a stab at capturing a bit of my trip so far and I'll thank you again, as always, for taking the time to read a bit about it.<br /></div><div align="center">Upon arriving to Bamako, my friend Heather (<a href="http://www.heatherleach.com/">http://www.heatherleach.com/</a>), who is a Peace Corps volunteer, met me at the airport. We spent the next day in Bamako, and then travelled to Segou where we spent a couple of days and then moved on to Sevare for a night. And then on to her village, which is called Mandoli and is near a town named Bandiagara.<br /></div><div align="center">Mali is beautiful and the people have been incredibly welcoming, friendly and gracious. Mali is also very, very hot. I mean almost Cincinnati hot.<br /></div><div align="center">Here are some photos of the trip to her village. </div><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimFfDd_ZpLkhkc1y_nP4n_EYLGvr2_HtVNHjMa7taXlx-swdg7_70u6-RKr7_QuvzNIw2t0nMSGdPj-3f_jH4fM2Uqk6_ZBoZfR8n-Mh3vKWuvocrnVzI324CpmxeYpbCMbqehpA/s1600-h/CIMG0018.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103406413360776290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimFfDd_ZpLkhkc1y_nP4n_EYLGvr2_HtVNHjMa7taXlx-swdg7_70u6-RKr7_QuvzNIw2t0nMSGdPj-3f_jH4fM2Uqk6_ZBoZfR8n-Mh3vKWuvocrnVzI324CpmxeYpbCMbqehpA/s400/CIMG0018.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><em>This is Segou. And, gives a pretty good idea of what a larger town in Mali looks like. Except, in your imagination, you should probably add a bunch of motor scooters, some donkeys and a goat or two. Actually, maybe this isn't a good representation of a Malian town. </em></div><br /><br /><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103409840744678514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrOzXsAvNCmxTvIw9JO6ndcdIkw_4kWj3u0sJyVMyNnUzPn5gE5SsjeXBYNB4K8s5GbNdlU2F4brbIkW7E0K6UY3_W8ygglhHgrtZ6bhi_uUbmTVehDjbLjROrNTtktdIA_TyLFw/s400/CIMG0014.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><p align="center"><em>This is the Niger River. As you can see, some people like to fish on it. I prefer to drink a beer next to it. To each their own.</em></p><br /><p align="center"><em></em></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103411752005125250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmVZJNNGi7cmPa5VmKm9k2cCPPu2cUCd9ozhYOfsb9ZNF43x0LFRLDycA0NvMhSdfOBBS1cuL3DyBTk1fCuWf48ZJDgQAvP-10L1kZfyaMIswgEV7THyLfFgnFCh2b_8T_j81kKQ/s400/CIMG0017.JPG" border="0" /> <em>These vases were beatiful. Unfortunately, my shopping advisors were not around to help me pick one out. Cherlyn, Errica, Court, Cathy, Theresa, Carey - we're going to have to come back here so I can get a vase.</em><br /><br /><p align="left"></p><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103414328985502866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdK5h3R0o2HIkEA7JBLnqDsWZ7N_buco7VJ-n_gnuQd-MHXNa5rjHvtjS1vyGwlzW8cSy4dsxex8N-ZtFsfyH-pGaF-vzy8__geEL-5jOG8wYPLNjwYce3ZJNX65aTbhUkA2RVCg/s400/CIMG1899.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em>This from the window of the bus on the way to Sevare. The bus was incredibly hot, as no public transport has air conditioning. People were sitting everywhere including in the aisles. The driver was blasting music and I was kind of tired. But, the view made me forget everything. It looked like a beautiful, constantly changing picture. Or, like a really cool screensaver. </em></p><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105184667260273938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEier3TpR-il9hDRgdy2uPU8H60pFOPjPac7OsUdOrWXUrAw0kvaLzKKRkxO9nTXA1m8KjyLzok79oN3D3pFUrEDsibE7rxlVr3RSZNngjtLYeLDu3AopL65PbOe767K0qhOQc-CmQ/s400/CIMG0002.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />While in Segou, we visited a craftsman co-op. Here, artisans are making traditional Dogon cloths. The dye is actually made by boiling the bark of a tree and the ink they are using is a special kind of mud found by the Niger.<br /><br /></p><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105184864828769570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF8UZ7mmbq_pFNCgaSDNsXeNkb237Q_RQafqHuCcVVYKUs8IPfWT0tuoMhglZ86jpwK6mCI0XHR_3OwBXJvN70bTuNFn1xTgYTwrX-SIwgLJNKA6jjPb4s4h1M9L5EcjqdbXDRdQ/s400/CIMG0019.JPG" border="0" /><br />It’s rainy season here. Which wreaks some serious havoc. Two main roads have been washed out. And, even regular roads have some pretty impassible puddles.<br /></p><p align="center"></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105185126821774642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbl166b5w68U7A9kalzcoDy6ydW2MwmDG52GJLaYwNb8K_n4TpFsAEjcJbomeGhJWhCnEclnfxOM40QVLzq7x-PzUpKV1dDPNcsImyJ28B-mi9IfhuoWCGve3izZmdui_l_e9Rsg/s400/CIMG0003.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><p align="center">While in Segou, we went out to listen to some music. It was really great. One, because the music and instruments were so fun and interesting (they have a xylophone that is made out of gourds) and two, because it was so similar to going out in an Irish pub.<br />It was the same feeling in a completely different setting. </p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105185307210401090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKHBPQCx4nUiVhnV8OPkesr1l64zTcjWo-382fh6iMmH4vOOjXSp5T_ayQ8KAHTL4jhD5b3GMKXv6toODbBtSaYr144lbGn6-4DJAznrj7eM27Tyh-cmyr5WH4xmGgrNy3l8aSnQ/s400/CIMG2348.JPG" border="0" /><br />The bus station in Segou. If you’re wondering, the chickens tied by their feet to the handlebars of that motorcycle were still alive. And not very happy.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:0;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-81667543294831805652007-08-10T05:43:00.000-04:002007-08-27T12:19:16.781-04:00<strong>Im In Africa. More To Come.</strong> <div>(If you can stand any more.)</div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098118864161606866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_To2BKKBEbOB1NdBixyVxPNZOA0gRg57uYxhVDYiABbnvks9nYQUlhvoxeK1Y7skFBuqHLiUYsvSbKviQ4d07ln2d1oMiwsWndUFO9nzcls55oKGNLF7rIUfPjZ1Lf9eh921cQw/s400/CIMG1815.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-87216111785887317332007-08-07T05:06:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:45:24.973-05:00<div align="center"><strong>I reveal the main reason, apart, of course, from the wedding, that I came to Ireland.</strong><br /><br /></div><div><div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098112988646345778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWjbdV3CmmZofY96bknZ__z75Zd_H7RlZB_oAZysigJhtLBMp54j6XMszb3txcB1IBthyphenhyphenT5k6Tf-ZkTiiosZiZa-QXjmel8OTnwBgOebCUcMeEhWznNv4FoAZhVzbeUUb_wpYEQ/s400/CIMG1636.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />So, after all of that talk about Supermarket Meals, let’s take a moment to talk about Supervalue Meals. One of Ireland’s best-kept secrets is called Supermac’s. It’s the Irish version of McDonald’s and it’s delicious. Kevin has a theory that Irish meat and potatoes taste better because the animals and plants are raised (or grown) more organically and with better quality feed. (Basically, their feed is all the grass I’ve taken so many pictures of.) I can’t speak to his theory but I can tell you that the Mighty Mac™ is delicious! I had Supermac’s the only other time I was in Ireland and I never forgot it. So, I was pretty excited when I made it back to Ireland and got to have it again.<br /><br />Before and after my incredible (and arguably cultural) Mighty Mac™ experience, I spent most of today running errands (including getting even another shot for Africa), while also trying to get a little taste of Dublin. Here, in pics, is a little bit of that day and of Dublin.<br /></p><div><br /></div><p></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098113456797781058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5K6YBueSjX1r_PiMQaTEE0OoV1940zNGiVSDPhnMqOfERWFLa4lAG45YmUYOFFyfC9u3_PKs76z83vVCv1e1MqipYPNZxsnGIifCldhCF0w0Ze0yTqHZd_or-UZaoNTR-m8FCyA/s400/CIMG1637.JPG" border="0" /><br />The Mighty Mac™ talks a little smack about the Big Mac™. As for me, I just don’t know why anyone would want to compare the two. It’s like trying to compare McDonald’s and Burger King. They’re both amazing – just in their own special ways. </div><div><br /><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098114440345291874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8LPISlnN0dj4uwHk4hG61ijxHbas_9irHZOQ6IxlrZJqPzV_l2nvy7_X3Tfl6TQikspgAN8iPPo4ST4_lliJXmOJ73nIPcLfO8omzPULaYFs8ZP3GyGVrh3jBdk0Zs9pU0E4UsQ/s400/CIMG1635.JPG" border="0" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Designwise, the Supermac bathroom has nothing on the French airport bathrooms. However, they could still hold the record for best sink. With these, all you do is put your hands in them. Then, soap automatically squirts on them. Then warm water comes out for about 20 seconds. Then, an air drier comes on. You don’t have to move a muscle. Or, better yet, touch a thing.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><p></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098113955013987410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy46LQIC9HAKwWUusmnoeibBtdPrebxypwyGbLa8Z9GXQHG1Z2MY5_QlkAxRYOLDBVafTPkOiBAOAvJCopMfMMQUK__BecIj5kPm6_9KrNWhcab-bnkxfT7w1PAkyXNY1zQvoEnQ/s400/CIMG1711.JPG" border="0" /><br />I pretend to study so I can blend in at Trinity College. If you’re curious, I’m pretending to study Economics.<br /><p></p><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098115097475288178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXL0iErn4BmF4z_V9VqfUks-K7nP6Gf0MnOXK-qpr5kqJ8MDlo-SMKBBqrjJRzYoPl-u9jvK7IMy9JsMzDh_WuO3MiysxHGFnIZ3-S3r8b6Q1286wqp01XbBZqw3Py-AUuz25Pg/s400/CIMG1712.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><p>Dublin is quite beautiful. Until it rains. And then it is quite wet.<br /><br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098115453957573762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-HcsiPI3MvNhQtGRnkMVljzo8UtV0573r9ga21s8BPqgaPGfJ-3R8_AUF4MTFBSRfS5IudKnIL2MnTs7ymJwEDoZJUvjWe2zcrD6cKFREDBhDLxY2JxEE60WTKDN8R-csDBAo2w/s400/CIMG1710.JPG" border="0" /><br />If you’re anything like me, you’re wondering why this majestic spire is cutting through the city. And, if you find out, will you let me know?<br /></p><br /><br /><p></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098117365218020530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIPyiV0savLPHSbwddBVH7lytAMUwZRd7PzZvetE4t9JGdwcnk7WCiwRcvtRE8AJeqCSSOx7U-h0_iYvgM7AvI-ANR6Dk5HT8JFeps517fcOdssiiA8V-R-S_UpBj_Xs9EVUTdg/s400/CIMG1682.JPG" border="0" /><br />In Ireland, elevators that go to underground levels use negative numbers. So, if you’re on the ground floor and you go up 1, it’s 1. And, if you go down a floor to the parking garage, it’s –1. This makes much more sense to me when compared to the American system where you have memorize a complex combination of colors, numbers and, occasionally, fruits. In Ireland, you might be on Parking Level –3. But, in the US you would be on Parking Level ‘Yellow 2D Lime.’<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098117777534880962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1U8fNOHucgx3Fbrt4nn3SezvRAOocN07ryOfQT1IeVBQtm-cPNNrgvsjalcSJ1mcsk0Q6QrPF62wDRwcht449oZ6LNdzMAtE85MXBY0CwlY7C_Gbb9_9y9cBdc7x_nFrduOImQ/s400/CIMG1633.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p>Because Dublin is growing at such an incredible rate, the traffic situation has gotten incredibly bad.<br /><br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098115999418420370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Z06x3auAJQ04WGjCHaKw9t3G-1U8nudmHrhqQc_KtkqBrZvoTEXeqcV5FXHn3J5KCudyS-nDReB9T4EoC2jtYdjnh9hR7pa0ia9yApnUb3CL8tkkS0rCXbPG4H7bGit4qZ-GEQ/s400/CIMG1680.JPG" border="0" /></p>Quick, when you’re about to cross the street, which way do you look first? <div>After two weeks, I finally got used to looking right instead of left. I have a feeling this is going to cause me some trouble when I get back to the US. </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-77409995023960676172007-08-06T21:14:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:49:58.616-05:00<strong>Why I Should Have Paid More Attention in Economics Class. At Least I Think This Concerns Economics. I'm Not Exactly Sure Because, As Mentioned Above, I Was Clearly Not Paying Enough Attention</strong><br /><div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096832229398678562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMYCj2wlg13_cW3Y8fht9KzjslAeasCsHod1w8a_Yn1d6lbTp87iF5riDcmcidEFIIhFXgY0fX8TBJMNJ35H1HCvTyI8cHoq2giZegyuvKpe7VguAl2fHA-F9Ix1kP_mKuIXjRA/s400/CIMG1704.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div>Here I am enjoying a supermarket meal. As you'd guess, a supermarket meal consists of items you can buy at your local grocery and consume shortly after in whatever scenic location (or bus bench) you would like. In this case, and in most cases, my supermarket meals consist of bread, yogurt, apples, and cheese (sadly, no Velveeta - but I find The Laughing Cow to be a fine substitute). </div><div>The nice part is that it's usually a healthy meal, and, after a thorough hand-scrubbing with sani-wipes there's no need for utensils, as you can use the bread as a spoon. It's fun to eat like a kid again. Or, at least, to eat like you're out of clean dishes again. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>But, even with all of those great features, the best part of the supermarket meal is that they're inexpensive. This is especially important as I learn about this thing they call the exchange rate. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Right now the dollar is as weak as it has ever been compared to the Euro. Which means two things. First, a can of Coke in Ireland costs roughly $38 and second, financially I've clearly chosen the worst time possible to travel around the world. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>While I may have exaggerated a bit about the Coke cost, the point remains. For a real example, a pint of beer is about 5 euro. That's $7.50 And, that's for a regular beer in a very small village pub. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Also of note, a pack of cigarettes costs $10. But that's in part due to high cigarette taxes leveraged by the government. Also, instead of finely worded messages from the Surgeon General, cigarette packs here have a large band around the bottom with simple and direct messages such as SMOKING KILLS in big black letters. Or, </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096831550793845762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="245" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNycK2e7anJAJxpNZgJPf48MfJa3kZiXevuMnHdk7zHaitSsX-XSu05savBEgWVncz2lew-UXP8RyFHL9RwNeNtaeikD0D7wDqp0iUc0Hzv0c1B83myyOcItT9QoIR0Jbm7jlIWQ/s400/CIMG1629.JPG" width="335" border="0" /></div><div></div><div align="center">Or, </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096831924456000530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 334px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="267" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv39hLac26FuuOCBiQHjmuxlFTLasagjtCjKiWlp-uanfNdkhaWWZV1Sx9PEWM7AISk6f79ePeK2BV6z0VbyXp9oYhW0nPKExYYMDM5k0WoOLR3VU10ZRsRjS7lPQfu6IBSp6Ahg/s400/CIMG1678.JPG" width="351" border="0" /></div><div></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">In Ireland, even the cigarette boxes take a stand.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div></div><div>People still smoke though, of course. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>I might have started myself to try to be cool. Except that the cost of 2 cigarettes is roughly equivalent to my weekly food budget. And that, in a way, brings me back to my original point. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>This traveling business is expensive. All of the books I read about travel said you should cut what you pack in half and double your money. It looks like I should have listened to them. Or, at least, listened better in Economics class. </div></div><div></div><div><br /><div>At least I have my supermarket meals (and my love of processed cheese and supermarket french bread) to help get me through. I only wish they sold the UDF Bomb burrito at Irish supermarkets. Then everything would be perfect. </div><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-71651747399820065722007-08-05T18:51:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:50:09.672-05:00<strong>Cincinnati University - Making News Around the World</strong><br /><p>I was reading the Irish Metro paper and came across this little article. Cincinnati gets a shout-out. And, that is awesome.</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095354438526307314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIjr_XGBV1B6XMHiao0MYSs_0w7ZYXIy6WK5dINE6hfS7MncCyHD_3vhFIq-fovOIgVzDqwgP7MZnjcz2qPPeQpG6s9umTuuH3XEhzWrTJp4LIqigSV5jdAhDaEi_p2mcRaViNwQ/s400/CIMG1544.JPG" border="0" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-27522709941275869222007-08-05T16:24:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:50:49.579-05:00<strong>I Go Back to Abbeyleix and Learn A Little About Irish Politics. But, I'm Going to Talk About Pool.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />I headed back to Abbeyleix before going to Dublin, and I must say that it felt great to walk into a pub and be greeted by name. And, to go out with people that you know. I can't stress enough how Kevin's wonderful family and friends have really taken me in like family.<br /><br />After a quick bite in the pub, we went next door to another pub to play some pool. Or, I should say, I went next door to watch some pool. Irish pool is much different than American pool. The balls and pockets are smaller and there are no stripes and solids. Instead, there are two different solid colors, a black ball, and a smaller white ball. Maybe the smaller pockets force you to be a better shot but I've never seen pool played like that before. It was like watching ESPN. In duotone. Impressive.<br /><br />I also learned a great deal about Irish politics. While that was even more interesting than the pool, it's also a lot harder to capture here.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-9088825486568058692007-08-03T14:50:00.000-04:002007-08-05T17:02:14.058-04:00<strong>I Go to a Mini Mardi Gras. Er, I Mean Galway</strong><br /><br />I headed to Galway after Doolin. Little did I know that there was a large horse race going on and it is a holiday weekend in Ireland. Galway was beautiful but it was packed. It reminded me a little of Mardi Gras. Without the flashing. And, with more Irish music. That night I went out with a couple of Irish lads (that's the lingo) and had an interesting, and crowded hostel experience that I'll try to tell you about later. In the meantime, here's a quick Galway pic.<br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095291989701823426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLrynkIIW8_qwUTm145Dy1gtZxf4oezFYjYFZmS-EBRrLX4utsTupnWRtQ6ZxUSvvCR8x2gtIhCvGkAkM1xO2OPrRbZ1KmwF9FdwXIrj5Qk8oo7SdhmEGhASl37aCkgIPmCEa0yg/s400/CIMG1617.JPG" border="0" /></p><p align="center">And a couple more pics of Ireland from my travels.</p><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095292560932473810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DFtIs7X9wL_lvy9r1Nqy-fRgl3LuYuY6OsWFyXrhvrYqOIbXk0VCWgtxsJ8pbMFbKY2vahhnzUEyytHmSDzkuOrX_T8O9kJ94fejphBkxpTKTvhWGKSqwJo6DplZOJD9XsEibg/s400/CIMG1608.JPG" border="0" /></p><br /><p></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095292926004693986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7cK8qQxvVjV7aBf9dDWxwR7EC6B5PqJ99ifbM8mzpZFWrkm7yQRapzHO-BI2M2sYjZMdr5Hwoc9BTrEJs_MydPFmh5qdd-Q5M2aldzE5jh-GgPxgata9fJyOs7igcQ_5i2hDKbg/s400/CIMG1600.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p>I'm not saying these are good photos. It's just that every 4 feet in Ireland, you come across another photo opportunity. I think the easiest job here must be 'Postcard Maker' because all you'd have to do is set up shop, open up your back door, take a picture and go in and start printing. You'd only really have to worry about keeping enough green ink on hand. </p><p>Conversely, I think one of the hardest jobs would be trying to keep up with all the lawn mowing.</p><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-34225174784015505462007-08-03T11:50:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:51:15.194-05:00<strong>A Bit of Bad News</strong><br /><br />My laptop died. And, it died hard. Even Oleg couldn't bring it back to life again. Worse, when it died, it took with it pictures, video, music, my personal journal, and all of my blog entries to date. Including the last blog entry that I had yet to post. Now that no one will ever read it, I can assure you that it was the best entry ever. Way better than anything else you'll read here.<br /><br />Anyway, given the no laptop situation, I must apologize because the already questionable quality of my blog entries is surely going to suffer. On the bright side, though, my bag just got a little less heavy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-40800026487637515492007-08-02T14:30:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:51:49.924-05:00<div align="center"><strong>I Ponder The World and Learn an Important Life Lesson</strong><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8i13zAs4nvWQq0gdQfRi5x2ddDTceu0sLau-0ajZqNItbKoOL3FKqfS52ZxU7PjdoxvYAMSLS01jYbq8EGrWSGOt54KcOhjiSeGfkTuI8gtdoitgiAWY3KD6csJisE-k9GqnSQ/s1600-h/CIMG1609.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095286243035581346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8i13zAs4nvWQq0gdQfRi5x2ddDTceu0sLau-0ajZqNItbKoOL3FKqfS52ZxU7PjdoxvYAMSLS01jYbq8EGrWSGOt54KcOhjiSeGfkTuI8gtdoitgiAWY3KD6csJisE-k9GqnSQ/s400/CIMG1609.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The day I was leaving Doolin, I took a moment to think about life while gazing out at the Atlantic Ocean next to the Cliffs of Moher. And, I learned the following - if you feel the need to spit, don't spit into the wind or you will end up with a wet shirt. Believe me, I learned the hard way. Don't make the same mistake as me.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095290233060199346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnjZEwfm9Ffc429qIvizMIYZ1nUt7U4gVoR3RnTfvTHrY65MCqkw2HYCMeyV_W5w9y7hFIU4tTE4yCmvlGN_oWKvbMgKY2avkhQtfY4XtS6eglfo-TP4ygA-ddja4zv-iNsLe2Q/s400/CIMG1612.JPG" border="0" /><br />Downtown Doolin get surprisingly hopping. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-85589077532572111602007-08-02T12:01:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:52:47.336-05:00<div align="center"><strong>I Travel West and Climb to the Top of the Cliffs of Moher</strong>('s visitor center)<br /><br />So, since my last post, I left Abbeyleix and made my way to a little village called Doolin (named, I think, after Jess Boone's cat). Doolin is smaller than Abbeyleix and is known for its traditional music scene. It's also a popular destination because of its proximity to the Cliffs of Moher.<br /><br />The Cliffs of Moher, as the name implies, are stunning cliffs along the west coast of Ireland. They are known for their rugged beauty and for the strong winds that constantly blow along the top of them. I mean, just check out my hair in the pic below. That is some serious wind action.</div><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095279508526861170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCG8nW-Vk80fA5QDFoe_BlAT_7_XpX49Uxi41q-ASu0dJ0Z-T1L4qE2MjARZAN3lYD50kVZvwSEEQ6pbYp763UPVPzKwvGzguhWIOTXd0iDt_Z5LYIY79p76Q9syWoC80JF0mGQ/s400/CIMG1605.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>I take a much deserved drink of water (and embarrass the poor stranger that took this picture) after climbing the 30 steps up from the visitor center. </em></span><br /><br />Every year, visitors climb around the protective railing near the edge of the cliffs and go to the very edge of the cliff. And, every year, a few of them get blown over the side. Fulfilling my role as a dumb American tourist, I carefully and slowly climbed around the railing and joined the dumb Italian and Irish tourists who were already next to the cliff's edge. Then, after getting a quick picture of myself on the edge of the Cliffs, I glanced down and then hurtled back over to the safe side of the railing. I would share the photo with you. But, upon careful review, I've found that, in Ireland, the only thing bigger than the Cliffs of Moher is my belly.</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095283172133964674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NsFR0P9GyoQ2y9SestiVKIrYUOUUtc0FQZRkeHkuekf2724DqnbFxmrSqUpMBjFniEjWRV76tQiMUoODPm9O9cnXWPB8OtPXUTxZbRVrvw2jniJZoRDYO9JHa2juvGC31S6IIw/s400/CIMG1601.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">The Cliffs of Moher look way more impressive when I'm not in the way.</span></em></p><br /><p align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-83326484500203697542007-07-31T18:36:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:53:39.782-05:00<strong>An Italian goes to an Irish-Indian Wedding in an Irish castle. </strong><strong>And then, after talking a seriously big game, utterly fails to outdrink the Irish.</strong> <div align="left"><br />Unfortunately, I don't have a lot of time for this post. So, I'll post a few pictures and then bore you with some further stories and details at a later date.<br /><br /></div><div align="center"></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093495108529162994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiCGY9YO_oq0anWK5xB0IWrj7csu3qlo5a5thACvK6JJ9-_QnKKRD_zKYeiJFLQQB1xmneVkmhNnthQcSiSlQBT4i-pV9l-ilfLjM4_lyYtYmUuS3RbMkWpFYM2ihURXoIzeESQ/s400/CIMG1123.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Here I am, eating chips while walking in the Irish Countryside. This picture makes it abundantly clear that I should be doing a bit more walking and a lot less chip eating.</span> </em><br /></p><p align="center"><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093495104234195682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnCeETLqSKFfJZFhInl-DS73G5yc_pPWahtL1BeoaVv2lPJ-sebWKVAc9U9eslJiZWb_KgilIMsnr9N7uwaYFbcMGnP4-3qVXTUSlOzCejvfcqo1CsNnL8w1OM_bHwiv2552RXRg/s400/CIMG1097.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;">This is where the wedding was held. It's called Kinnitty Castle. </span></em><br /><br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093495104234195666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5HiwFqV2XC-AzQTXHDyRTio_hQdVjjc7NVbt6qyDwNqdYwM_JWGYqam-DaHhyATK4Fj3gV0rPz3hi0DAfYoDPucDU8OQl1MXfkTRtUxsV9sXUyi3e01lzF_3646aKHbykS8LuiA/s400/CIMG1089.JPG" border="0" /></p><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">A close-up of the castle. A sign on the way up to the castle announces that it has been, "Accepting Visitors since 1208." According to the Discovery Channel, who may or may not be the expert on such matters, it is the most haunted castle in Ireland. Fortunately, after trying to outdrink the Irish, I had other concerns come bed time.</span></em><br /></p><br /><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">As an aside, the Irish usually celebrate weddings until breakfast the next day. So, while I passed out at 4 am with my suit on and a half-full pint next to my bed. The drinking continued until 6:30 am.</span></em><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093497646854834946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghX1ug8ez-kJVktlSxOpTwcjqWtvhLf7XFZYQ-ei7rW_fR7WB6gLUwHeDqkGnLOFlTiXmsH6qEppsbAzD9MlF9C9mHE75Nb-NxGsroBhXK6cQa6wVn5JjybwVVm_VwIyiUnhqQ9Q/s400/CIMG1196.JPG" border="0" /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">The ceremony was performed by the bride's friend Monica in the courtyard. </span></em><br /></p><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093497805768624914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirLxsqBckF3ytMiqCVWj9-cS_jiEZQ_wJsKgsH5_Ry7pHXOYvu-EJFpgTlz1EjXcjay_BK1T4zeKgwf5f9G-m1FClVefkETUqVWNrosfQKd6CImtkYFOkt-SZjAUIFaaRqWAkl3A/s400/CIMG1215.JPG" border="0" /><br /><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Congrats to Kevin and Vaishali.</span></em></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093497977567316770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4srncNZO6z_vuDeAr-N6NH_yZi7tjrLM_XOKvkOh6Bw0IZTVtMrqxJSfnMsDSkXJS7FZsAge9qgWFViVsyek4UXMKlMzP3jgt0l8GrLQLK4k0NmVJRhMVRY2cn4NiTZUxxjxWfQ/s400/CIMG1256.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">My dinner salad consisted of a smattering of lettuce, some applesauce, a big slice of bread and an entire wheel of goat cheese. It was the greatest salad I have ever seen. </span></em><br /><br /><br /></p><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093506477307595602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEoskW019noilc0QAl_2nPa_Kn0ODB5Fa97Oszmjk_A2A6Cz6S5Jhpvov4DzB9cqCy6NC1W5DdOB1_LXS0gDZhrb9nmpNOrL40twT6RrKKQl-Pr33kiOmsReHGpArXsRE82GbMg/s400/CIMG1434.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Darren, who I am staying with, took me out to a local castle that is about ten minutes from Abbeyleix. It was very cool.</em></span></p><p><br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093506107940408130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5AesO7QQp6gdTQmG_Q_uHjjDmjS0gPfCjL86yvs1OF5SyQaooCYpTf62X-J_xVhcTSvR1p7THbMNxlO9QNzk-MCKP8XE1e4sp5zmzs_2F0G98Q7yJ0AjqDR5foB3Pxb7BewlenA/s400/CIMG1418.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Ireland has some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever seen. And, some of the nicest and most welcoming people I have ever met. </span></em><br /></p><p><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><br /></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-30189042796253253492007-07-25T18:16:00.000-04:002007-11-04T21:57:45.597-05:00<strong>I fly to Dublin through JFK and Paris and Discover that Ham and Egg-salad Really Do Go Together.<br /></strong><br /><br /><br /><br />So, about 30 minutes into my layover at JFK, I walked into the women’s bathroom. Now, I didn’t know that I had walked into the women’s bathroom. I just walked into the bathroom and realized there were women in there. Then, I wondered why women were in the men’s bathroom. Then I wondered who had removed all the urinals. Then it struck me that I might not be in the men’s bathroom.<br /><br />Some may say that it does not that it does not bode well for a trip around the world if you can’t figure out which is the right bathroom when you're still in your own country. I would argue that I am just very eager to explore new places.<br /><br />And, by the way, if you’ve never been in a women’s bathroom, it is NOT as cool as they made it seem in The Office. Plus, the occupants of women’s bathrooms are far from welcoming and, in fact, are distinctly unfriendly.<br /><br />Anyway, after an uncomfortable flight to Paris, I packed up all the food from the breakfast tray they gave us on the flight in preparation for the long layover before my flight to Dublin. That's when I found out that my long haul flight granted me access to the Air France lounge.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093490280985922226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="194" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80q8S30oZderWOaa4FCiWYk8ErCWPTIbtI58R0csonaMXxs2ew-FkUBuyrEklb8yw5RyeQ0h-Up3-8-cbXE7SZOkbChZvSKuMPKTA9x1UZvWjXac-Wh1UyS7ilTtJOicG_WGbzg/s320/CIMG1073.JPG" width="266" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Charles De Gaul Airport. </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Apparently the French like glass.</span></em></div><br /><br /><strong>The Air France Lounge</strong><br /><br /><br />The Air France lounge is seriously crazy. It’s like the kitchen at Northlich multiplied by 100. There are croissants, water, juice, that crazy French yogurt that contains 110% fat and tastes better than a Dairy Queen Blizzard, bread, champagne, wine, vodka, other liquors (including Kentucky whiskey – holla Kentucky), little mini Cokes and Diet Cokes, mini beers and even Fanta.<br /><br />I briefly considered getting drunk just based on principle (the principle being that it was free), but I thought better of it. Instead, within the first 15 minutes, I had eaten two breakfasts and, a half an hour later, I had lunch – including, among other things, an egg salad-and-ham sandwich and a tuna-and-basil sandwich (the lounge is seriously giving Poppie's a run for it’s money on odd ingredient sandwiches). I also had some potato chips that, from what I could translate, were labeled Ancient Potato Chips (Chips a l’Ancienne? Anybody?) – I guess everything in Europe is really old.<br /><br />The lounge also had a small bathroom with cool urinals and a private toilet stall.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093490057647622818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="238" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhokdHp4uvsqeb5OSEV1gqRYVAGC00EvE6o6bVAZ-gEMyer0mbYuukP_HXSg6iZq29sFE7Ux36wlJ3v16jPPCcN6fDR9zsvZrO_i01JuaQIFekGNr3SOFU9VML4Pf7kTOlmpTQezw/s320/CIMG1069.JPG" width="188" border="0" /> <div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">The French Sense of Style Carries Over to the Bathroom</span></em></div><div align="center"><br />If you made it this far in my blog, please don't worry that it will only consist of detailed descriptions of airport lounges. It's just all I've experienced so far. Plus, I don’t think they will ever let me in one again. Which is too bad because I think the Air France lounge could be better than the Louvre.<br /><br />On a final note, and, to leave the lounge talk aside for a moment, I’d like to mention that, while foreigners may not really like America all that much at the moment, they certainly love the heck out of New York. In the terminal and on my flight, I have never seen so much ‘I heart New York’ gear, ever. Entire tour groups wearing identical, matching shirts with ‘I heart New York’ keychains dangling from their bags. It was actually really cool to see.<br /><br />But, I felt a little bad because Cincinnati was left out - anyway, I heart you Cincinnati. Big time. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29474687.post-2582160605534954572007-07-24T18:09:00.001-04:002008-02-14T16:50:49.508-05:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjciY2cPVqzSI1SCxu9Ujei6ZKe569vMnbP7jTIGzPJIOrjKtHnG8B3qGvqfWs3a6hZc7ftAPSd3o8WMV6TNzyORga2AqPZv7kRf_-oAnR6ZrUxV8TZ7dW-1xLNHJSPkF1OPWCh0g/s1600-h/CIMG1069.JPG"></a><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div>At the beginning of this little journal about my little trip, I have to say that I have had the best send-off any person could ask for. The generosity, kindness, gifts, picture cakes, parties, dinners, fanny packs and warm wishes made me as happy as anyone could imagine. I am incredibly lucky.<br /><br />Also, without Jen, I would have gotten on the plane with a garbage bag full of socks and underwear and nothing else. She did everything to help me get ready, including leading me through shopping for the essentials and packing my bag because, when I packed the bag myself, nothing would fit. She also kept me sane and made me laugh throughout the whole process. It was amazing. And, she is incredible. And, funny.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">We (Jen) fit all of my clothes in the lower third of this bag. The rest is entirely filled with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">handi</span>-wipes. Seriously.</span></em></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5