Top 5 spots to say 'YES' to the Big D in Rwanda and the Eastern DRC

The Top 5 spots to say 'YES' to the Big D in Rwanda and the Eastern DRC

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5. Discover Rwanda, Kigali, Rwanda

View from the patio of the semi-private room just twenty steps away from where you will spend the night (the shared bathroom down the hall)...

Coming in at number 5 is the Discover Rwanda Hostel in Kigali.  Dorms where everyone acts like it's college anyway?  Or, for those prestigious couples, a mediocre room with a shared, college-style bathroom?  Yes, please.  Everyone knows that when you are stuck on a toilet in fear of your hydration levels the one thing that comforts you is the thought of people having normal bowel movements in the stalls beside you and brushing their teeth trying to get rid of the blueberry vodka taste in the communal taps in front of you.  A sense of security comes from the fact that when too many loose-bowel-movement sounds escape the not-so-private stall you are stationed in, the drunk Dutch couple brushing their teeth will first sound disgusted but will ultimately ask you if you are OK and will recommend going to the public hospital a few kilometers down the road after confirming that yes, you look sick.  It's always good to have company, especially when you are in a sweaty, dehydrated state with terror running through your intestines and toilet bowl germs covering every inch of your body and you can only muster up enough energy to stumble back to bed after the unmentionable happens (and happens again, and again, and again, until finally you bring your pillow to the bathroom and call it a night).  Well, look no further, Discover Rwanda Kigali is your ultimate destination as our #5 pick.

4. ULK Stadium, Kigali, Rwanda (venue of the October 2015 Stromae concert)

Imagine a night out where both you and your bowels are free to enjoy a little action...

Concerts are special.  A concert is the one event where anything you do is acceptable because you are there for the music, man.  Did that bruh just grope your buttocks with both hands and then make a licking gesture when you turned around to punch him the face?  Calm down you prude, loosen up.  This is a concert, and plus, aren't you actually a little bit complimented by it anyway?! I mean he wouldn't have grabbed it if it wasn't nice.  Anyways, this Burning Man-like mentality often found at concerts makes having a bout of the Big D at a concert, by principle, pretty acceptable.  The ULK Stadium made it to #4 on the list due to destiny, not chance.  To start with, let's talk about the security system to get into the stadium.  It takes minimum two hours to pass through, so you just have to assume it's pretty f*cking safe.  Worried about getting mugged on l'toilet?  Fat chance - this place is decked with two old-school metal security frames that each and every person (all 15-20,000 of them) must walk through to enter the stadium.  A safer poop you'll probably never have.  What's more, this stadium doesn't sell water, so you have the perfect excuse for being on the toilet so long - "there's no water!" you mumble as you sip warm beer from a plastic cup in the loo, hoping that the minimal water content will keep you alive through this bout of unpredictable D. For the party animal in you that wants to get out there and have some fun, but is worried about whether there will be toilet options to accommodate your prolonged case of African runny tummy, a concert or sporting event at ULK Stadium is your go-to!


3. Thaijazz Beach Restaurant, Gisenyi, Rwanda

Imagine a romantic dinner in this couch-dining-area with a private toilet escape nearby...

Coming in luke-warm at #3 is Thaijazz Beach Restuarant in Gisenyi, a sleepy town on Lake Kivu that sits on the Rwandan border with Eastern Congo.  This little gem is a dream for the D-struck among us.  First of all, let's talk about that view.  It makes everything a little better, even if you are rushing off to the toilet every 5 minutes and remember more about how the bathroom door doesn't shut all the way unless you strategically fandangle it closed by leaning on it with all your weight than you do about the view. It's easy to talk about lifelong dreams as you stare into the eyes of your Prince/ss Charming in this open air resto setting and pretend that the last 5 minutes in the bathroom didn't just happen.  Second, let's talk about the tea.  Being a Thai restaurant, this little sanctuary has the strongest green tea you could ask for.  As everyone knows, it is best to drink green tea when you are already wrestling with a bout of Big D because then if it gives you diarrhea you are already prepared for it, and good thing, because this tea comes in a party-size teapot. Third, the bathrooms are a nice little stroll from the couch-dining-area in a private room adorned with beaded doorways, so you don't have to worry about anyone giving you curious looks after your 5th trip to the loo.  On the downside, if it's raining, this is not a great destination, as the trek to the toilet will leave you soaked and then everyone will know just how many times you've been to the loo in the past 30 minutes.  Last tip to enjoy this little paradise - bring an extra roll of toilet paper with you and soak it all in - the view that is.  And depending how adventurous you are, if you don't find yourself tousling with a bout of the Big D and want to shake things up a bit, order yourself a pot of green tea and prepare for the most unpredictable 4 hours of your life. ;)


2. Mikeno Lodge, Virunga National Park, Democratic Republic of the Congo

Lush forest outside our fantasy suite in the African jungle...complete with a fireplace...

This #2 spot is your fantasy African vacation destination, complete with private chalets in the middle of a monkey-filled jungle with gunshots from rebel groups ringing in the not-so-far-off distance to bring you the authentic rush of adrenaline that comes from being so close to a war zone yet so privileged that you can pretend it's not real.  It is serene and truly luxurious, with perfectly landscaped pathways leading you to your chalet where you can whisper sweet nothings to your dream partner by the fireplace in plush leather chairs in between bouts of D which have you rushing to the comfort of an above-par toilet. The bed is a massive cloud of white comforter on white pillows on white sheets, so when you have finally taken enough Imodium to allow you to catch a few hours of sleep uninterrupted by the Big D, you will also go uninterrupted by your partner's jerky movements on the other side of the bed - a good two metres away.  The expansive oasis which is the bathroom provides you ample long, hot baths to dream about as you stare at the tub longingly from your default throne, and the rain panel shower has you imagining how refreshing it would be if only you could muster enough energy to stand up for more than 10 minutes at a time.  The three-course dinner gives you a perfect excuse to be the feminine debutante your grandmother always hoped you would be, as you will manage to spoon down the soup, but will politely decline the second two courses with no further explanation other than "Oh, I really shouldn't," and you will mean it.  As if I need to say more, there is also a quaint gorilla orphanage that you can imagine visiting as a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity if only you didn't have an unknown illness that could be so easily transmitted to the gorillas themselves.  Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Mikeno Lodge, our #2 spot to make you say 'YES' to the Big D.


1.  Nyiragongo Volcano, Virunga National Park, Democratic Republic of the Congo

This place will have you saying 'YES' all night long...or until you run out of energy to say anything any more...

Here's what we've all been waiting for, the #1 spot. I'm sure you're wondering what qualities are necessary to earn the top spot on such a prestigious list.  Well first off, we like our #1 spot to say 'YES' to the Big D to come with a challenge.  Don't just hand us an expensive toilet that looks cush for our tush and think you have won the way to the top of our toilet rankings.  What do we prefer?  A 6-8 hour hike.  Nearly vertical incline.  Hiking up lava rock remains that constantly move under your feet as your thigh muscles frantically urge them to stay the f*ck still so you don't slide all the way back down and have to hike up it yet again.  A destination won't be #1 unless it puts you through continued hours of heavy thunderstorms and at least 1 hour of actual hail beating down on you as you question what your boyfriend's underlying intentions were when he convinced you to do this trip.  This destination will have you panting for breath and actually seeing stars and you hang onto unusually strong vines that almost throw you back down the mountain as push your way through this dense vegetation to the top of the volcano.  This destination has you breaking up your Cliff bar into tiny, inhalable pieces to give you the energy to hang onto your boyfriend's backpack as he paves the way in front of you and crushing Imodium pills into your Gatorade so you can make it the entirety of the hike without leaving a trace.  Let's be honest, this is the only destination where you are actually welcoming the thought of the upcoming bowel movement so that you can sit down for a prolonged period of time and not have to forcibly put one foot in front of the other as you pray that your walking stick can hold all of your body weight [which at this point, is not that much].   This destination is also #1 because of another hugely important aspect in our lives.  Can you say automatic weight loss?!?  The lbs will be flying off of you like bullets out of a rebel rifle [which is the reason for the heavily armed park rangers accompanying you on this adrenaline-bursting trek].   On top of the 10 lbs you will be losing from experiencing a week straight of non-stop Big D, you will lose another 3 lbs on top of that due to the strenuous nature of this hike.  Don't worry, the exercise aspect of this destination doesn't stop once you get to the top.  The engineers of this loo clearly knew the weight-loss inducing power of this toilet was high priority and put it a steep hike down (and then back up) from the actual camp at the top of the volcano.  Depending on how many times you have to visit this quaint little bathroom shelter, that could be an additional 5 lbs you shed before you show up back home looking super skinny, or as I like to call it, African skinny.  Last but not least, this loo doubles as a meditation sanctuary.  As you spend hours staring out over the grassy highlands and mountain ranges, you find yourself pondering life and it's many wondrous intricacies, including what the actual f*ck you ate that made you so very, very frighteningly ill.  So as we wind down this list at, truly, the only place that will have you saying 'YES' to the Big D, we want to give a nod to the qualities that got it the #1 spot on this list - some prolonged self-questioning, moderate to extreme weight loss, and an especially good chase [in this case up a volcano].  Welcome to #1, welcome to Nyiragongo Volcano.

Mapoots: A saga of avoiding trash holes and getting told you are fat

Place: Maputo [Mapoots], Mozambique

First things first: Apologies all around for being a big huge slacker in posting on my blog.  I now have reliable internet, so I will try to catch up and post an almost-annoying amount of blog posts for you in the next few weeks.  This one is just a sweet little reminisce on my time spent in Maputo, Mozambique.

As many of you know, I spent the first three months of my fellowship in Maputo, Mozambique.  Maputo, despite the sweltering heat and inability to get anything done quickly, has a strange way of drawing you in.  Due to the quickly growing economy, there is a large amount of foreign companies starting operations in the city, with expats in business suits frequenting the many sidewalks, made up of broken pieces of cement, dirt, and the deceptively lurking trash holes.

Typical sidewalk in Maputo, complete with an old Coca Cola container-turned-food stand.

Trash holes - I don't know what they were meant to be, but now they are deep holes in the sidewalks where people put trash [and I assume some break a leg or two].  This one looks particularly full, but some of them are up to 8 feet deep.

One of the best parts of Maputo is enjoying a beer on the sidewalk that runs along the harbor.  There, you can find whatever your heart desires, whether it be car chargers, new socks, pineapples, or chips.  And lots of chips.  Many teenage boys walking around with boxes selling chips.  If you don't want chips, you better be prepared to have a good answer as to why - when we declined chips from the 4th vendor passing by, we were asked quite a tough question, "Well, what do you want then?"  It was a fair question, but all we knew is that we didn't want chips.

2M - National beer of Mozambique...great for sunrises, sunsets, or midday.  

Another fun part of hanging out on the harbor sidewalk drinking beers is getting told you weigh more than you actually do.   There is a young vendor who walks around with a scale and lets people weigh themselves for a couple bucks.  He stopped right in front of us and asked if I wanted to weigh myself.  No, I did not, but thank you.  Then, he decided to make things interesting and after unabashedly looking me up and down, said "I bet you weigh 57 kilos."  I had just weighed myself the week before, and I weighed 54 kilos (roughly a 6 pound difference).  "No, actually I don't - I weigh 54 kilos."  He looked me up and down again, as if that was key to his assumption.  "Ok, why don't you weigh yourself on my scale and if you weigh less than 57 kilos, then you don't have to pay anything.  If you weigh 57 kilos, then you pay."  I didn't know why he was so adamant about me weighing 57 kilos, but I love a good challenge, so I took the wager.  I stepped on the scale and as he so innocently predicted, it stopped exactly at 57 kilos.  Moral of the story - his scale was rigged and this is how he earns money from girls who weigh 54 kilos.  He got me. He got me good.  Don't believe Mozambicans who tell you that you weigh 57 kilos - it's all a scheme.

Sunset view from Dhow Cafe, overlooking the harbor.

Don't let all the beautiful sunsets and charming street vendors fool you - there are hustlers in this city as well.  As a woman, beware of chapa drivers [chapas are mini buses that are the main form of transportation] trying to steal your meticais by professing their love to you.  One evening, when coming back from a sweaty day of field work in Boane, a village that is 45 minutes away from Maputo, an attempted hustle went down.  I was crammed in the back seat of a chapa, smashed between two other young woman going home.  After 40 minutes in the chapa, we were asked to pay the fare, which was 9 meticais.  I passed my 10 cent piece forward and waited for my change, which never came.  The girl beside me also noticed that I was missing one metical, and told the fare collector that he owed me.  "I already told her, I will give it to her when she gets off! What, do I need to speak in English or something..or Chinese?!" he said mockingly in Portuguese for the whole chapa to hear.  He never said any such thing, so I gave him the most scathing look I could muster [for those of you who have seen this look, it is pretty scathing indeed] and quietly contained my wrath.  When I got off at my stop, I approached the fare collector and politely asked "Can I have my metical?"  "Hold on, hold on..." and he ignored me for a few seconds while pretending to be busy with something else.  Then he turned to me and continued the hustling, "You know you are the most beautiful person I have ever seen...I am so in love with you...are you Portuguese?  What is your name?"  My patience got thinner and thinner [especially after being labeled as Portuguese - I get extremely patriotic when abroad].  "My name is 'Give me my metical or I will get it myself'," I said, edging closer to the pile of change sitting on the dashboard.  "But, beautiful, I am so in love with you...it's one metical...come on, just let me have it."  At this point, laser beams of wrath were coming out of my entire being, as such blunt sexism-based hustling is not necessarily my cup of tea.  As he made eye contact with me, one of my laser beams etched fear into his soul.  "Okay, okay, here is your metical."  He reluctantly gave me my change.  It is important to point out that 1 metical is less than $.05 USD - it wasn't the metical I was so worried about.  It was the hustlin that got me flustered.  Moral of the story - when you are super sweaty and covered in mosquito bites and dirt, don't believe the fare collectors when they profess their love for you.  Get your change and go take a shower before you see someone you know.

Avenida 25 de Septembro - one of the main streets running through the business district of the city.

Despite all the hustlin and insulting vendors, Mapoots is full of friendly people, adorable children who wave at you and make it hard for you not to take them home, and some lovely cafes.  Although you are hard-pressed to find a regular coffee made from coffee beans [even though it might be on the menu], you can find espresso and beer, both of which are great beverages to drink while relaxing at a cafe with a great view.  A good 2M and beautiful sunset makes it easy to forget how inefficient your work day was.  The broken sidewalks are full of history, as are the many abandoned buildings sitting listlessly throughout the city, whispering secrets of the colonial past.  Poverty is still wide-spread [which makes my wrath toward hustlers a little bit less scathing] but happiness is even wider-spread, and complete strangers will help you make your way to where you are trying to go with a smile.  You can find live jazz music spread in many venues throughout the city - the perfect place to feel the vibrancy of the local culture and enjoy the Moz vibe.  There may be a few petty hustlers, but for the most part, the city is very safe and a peaceful place in southern Africa to call home.  Mapoots may be a little rough around the edges, but it draws you in, trash holes and all, and left me with some amazing memories which I hope to be lucky enough to relive one day.  

Traveler's Tip #5:  Know how much you weigh at all times and be confident in this knowledge, lest you get challenged by a street vendor with a scale.

Pooping in broken toilets and other unfortunate events.

Place: Maputo area, Mozambique

I want to preface this blog post by saying that this is not all about poop, but the title was simply meant to weed out those who are averse to this topic as it is indeed mentioned.  Então ta.

On Monday, February 10th, 2014, I started officially working as a Kiva Fellow with my field partner in Mozambique, who has 8 branches spread out around the Maputo area.  My field partner colleagues drove to the city from Bela Vista, a village where the main branch office is located, and picked me up bright and early on Monday morning. We headed out to the nearest office, which is about 45 minutes away from the city in a town called Boane.  They were very welcoming and very accommodating – I even got to sit in the air conditioned office when we arrived.  After making awkward, first-day small talk with shy colleagues around the office, the executive director suggested that I go to Bela Vista with them on Monday evening, and stay until Wednesday when they would bring me back to Maputo.  It sounded like a good idea, so I said vamos. 

The view from Bela Vista, the town where my partner micro-finance organization has its headquarters.

To get there, we crossed the Maputo Bay on a ferry, and then sped down dirt roads for 45 minutes listening to a disco-club remix of Robin Thicke's latest hit while eating the dust that poured in through the open windows.  I must admit, it's hard not to feel bad-ass in moments like these (though this small jump in bad-ass levels may have led to my later demise.)  I stayed the night in a beautiful hotel next to the “Bela Vista” that the village is named after, and the next day, the executive director suggested we make a "short trip" to another one of their offices in Ponta do Ouro, a town in southern Mozambique close to the border.  It sounded like a good idea, so I said vamos.  This route was more like a jeep tour than a casual drive, and monkeys, bulls, wild bores, and goats made for some interesting road blocks.  After three bone-rattling hours, we reached the office in Ponta do Ouro, a town known for its world-renowned beaches. 

The crystal clear waters of the Indian Ocean off the coast of Ponta do Ouro.

This is when the complications began.  As is well known, when traveling, one’s digestive system takes plenty of time to get over its own jet lag.  For whatever reason, the exact moment that we arrived in Ponta do Ouro was when my digestive system remembered why it exists.  I was ecstatic, and headed straight to the office bathroom, pleased to find a toilet that appeared to be in good condition.  As I whistled a victory tune and went to flush the toilet, the thought of “What if this toilet doesn’t flush?” flickered across my mind.  Maybe if I had stayed positive, there would have been a different outcome.  Alas, when I hopefully yet fearfully attempted to flush the toilet, only four small drops of water seeped out, and my fears were confirmed: I pooped in a broken toilet…on my 2^nd day of work with a new organization in a different country where they have a different culture (I don’t know if pooping at work is culturally acceptable) and speak a different language.  I was in despair for roughly 15 seconds, until I thought back to the days of using squat toilets in Indonesia, where I learned that with a 5 gallon bucket of water, you can manually flush almost anything down a toilet.  And what was sitting in the corner of the bathroom?  Yes, it was a bucket.  It was a small bucket, but with my expert plumbing skills and just the right amount of muscle, I made that toilet flush.  I basically felt like super-woman in this moment, even though I probably looked like Zach Galifinakis in that meme that has been going around the internet for while, the one where he looks all sweaty and defeated.  However, I exited the bathroom with ample dignity, and we worked there for two hours - one hour attempting to connect to the internet, and another hour working offline after accepting defeat. 

This view in Ponta do Ouro definitely makes up for any and all unfortunate events.

After this, we grabbed a (much needed) beer on the beach, and started our off-roading adventure back to Bela Vista.  I stayed one more night in Bela Vista, and the next day proceeded to visit the 4^th and 5^th branch offices in Catembe and Moamba, where my linguistic limitations led people to believe I wanted to take a shower at work, and where we also got a flat tire during rush hour on the way home – other unfortunate events that were referenced in the title.  However, I have loved every minute of my adventure, and I will continue to make new shy conversation with colleagues and pretend to know nothing of pooping in broken toilets. 

Traveler's Tip #4: Always make sure the toilet flushes before going to the bathroom, unless you are a natural MacGyver who thrives in such situations as described above.

What not to wear to an Indonesian circumcision party.

Place: Tulungagung, East Java, Indonesia

Background:  One weekend during my stay with my host family in Malang, East Java, Indonesia, my host mom told me that we would be taking a trip to the village where her mother lives, Tulungagung.  Having never heard of this place, I was intrigued at the very least and excited to see somewhere new. This is the story of my adventures in Tulungagung.  Don't let the word "village" fool you, for this is the place where normal is nowhere to be found.

Tulungagung, the beautiful village I visited in East Java, Indonesia.  Photo courtesy of Catherine, fellow exchange student.

Upon hearing that we would be making a weekend trip to Tulungagung, my first thoughts were "What should I wear?"  This had become my main mindset after having been to several different places in East Java where my wardrobe was scarily off-target.  But I was white, give me a break. (Which they did all too readily.)  I decided to take a lap and scope out the wardrobe of my host family to get a better idea.  I started my research. 

Entering the kitchen I stumbled upon my host brother.  "Halo, Mas!..." as I thoroughly inspected his clothing of choice.  Short sleeve t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops.  Seemed pretty low-key, but I wasn't satisfied.  I moved on to the living room where I ran into my host sister.  Another jeans and t-shirt situation.  I suppose it could work.  Walking back through the kitchen to my room, I decided it was integral to ask how long the car ride would be, which my host brother informed me was around 5 hours.  FIVE HOURS!  That seemed a bit lengthy of a ride to be sporting jeans on.  (I am that person who would wear yoga pants 24/7 if it was socially acceptable.)  As I turned to walk from the kitchen to my room, I saw my host mom walking up.  It was as if she was the answer to my frantic mind, searching for an escape from the jeans that were about to envelop my body for the next five hours.  First I saw her long-sleeve neon green t-shirt.  At this point I established that a regular ole t-shirt would be my top of choice.  And then, it happened.  YOGA PANTS.  Black, stretchy yoga pants.  I gave a much more excited than usual, "Selamat siang, Ibu!!" and ran to my room to don my less-than-mediocre garb for the trip to Tulungagung. 

However, upon analyzing my clothing situation, I realized that my own yoga pants were in mid-wash process.  Moving on, I settled on a pair of parachute, polyester athletic pants.  The kind that announced your presence before you actually walked up with the "swoosh, swoosh, swoosh" of the pant legs rubbing together.  I topped this with a UB40 t-shirt and felt that I was moving in the right direction.  Deciding the shoes to wear was a bit more difficult.  I always enjoyed my rainbows, but I didn't want them to get ruined. (Who knows what to expect in a village.)  I settled on the alternative:  rubber croc sandals.  (Crocs are my guilty pleasure.  I admit to them looking atrocious.)  It was settled then.

We set out on our trip.  My host brother driving, with me and my host sister sitting in the back.  Getting through town was fine.  Obviously it was much crazier than driving through your average American city, but I was already used to the city driving of Malang.  However, after we got out of town, things got real.  There were no freeways, although people chose to drive the same speed that they would on an American freeway.  The next few hours were filled with ample swerving, passing cars with head-on traffic quickly approaching, and ample cursing due to all the "stupid people" on the road.  During this five hour car drive, I went through at least five stages of emotion:  unsure, frantic, terrified, hysterically unsure, and finally, at peace with the thought of death.  However, not only did this car ride challenge my mental sanity, it also gave me the worse bought of carsickness I have ever imagined.  I sat curled up in a ball, moaning, going from being at peace with the thought of death to welcoming it.  Finally, we were almost there.  We survived?  It was an eerily miraculous thought.  "This is the road!" I heard as we made a turn onto a grassy lane, no more than 8 feet wide, surrounded on either side with deep trenches of water.  The joke was on me, I had spoken too soon.  After determining that the lane we were tight-walking on was, indeed, too narrow for comfort, we reversed off the lane and went the alternative route.  I had never been so grateful for my cramped, bloated body to touch the ground. 

A quiet cobblestone street in Tulungagung.  Photo courtesy of Catherine.

Throughout the trip I had heard the word "sunatan" thrown around quite loosely although emphatically.  Every time I questioned my host mom about the meaning of the word she made a scissor motion with her fingers.  I decided to turn to my handy pocket dictionary.  Ah, now I understood.  CIRCUMCISION.  So confused.  No question could clear this up.  I decided to just be at peace with my confusion. 

Immediately upon arriving, I was told we were going straight to the circumcision party.  I begged my host mom to let me change, but she assured me it didn't matter what I was wearing.  Since she was attending in her t-shirt and yoga pants, she convinced me she meant it.  All my host aunts and uncles were in attendance as well, but my host mom and I were the only ones wearing athletic gear.  We walked to the circumcision party, where I discovered the entire population of the village in attendance.  In their best attire.  Well, there was no turning back.  Another exchange student, Catherine, was staying with my host mom's sister, so she was there with me as well.  She was wearing jeans though, so she couldn't much sympathize in the situation.  I decided to stick by my host mom.  At least we matched.  Walking in, everyone turned to stare at the "bulehs," the Indonesian term for gringos.  I smiled as if I liked what I was wearing.  Assuming we were Australian, the DJ thanked us for coming all the way from Australia to honor the boy who had recently been circumcised.  (This was a relief, at least they would pin this wardrobe disaster on the Australians, and not associate it with Americans.)

After having various cameras shoved in my face, I felt confident in my ability to mask my complete humiliation brought on by my wardrobe.  We were then informed that the main musical performer of the evening, who appeared to be a beautiful woman, was actually a transvestite.  I laid down my pride and approached her for a picture.  Parachute pants and all, it was worth it.  Also, it should be noted that she had one of the most beautiful singing voices I have ever heard.

Host cousin/fellow exchange student Catherine, the transvestite singer who had the most angelic voice I have ever heard, myself, and my polyester parachute pants.  Photo courtesy of Catherine.

After the circumcision party, we headed back to "grandmother's" house, where we ate various sweets and salties, swept the bugs off the walls, and called it a night.  I now treasure this experience as a night of bonding with my host family, my polyester parachute pants, and on some levels, with myself as well. 

Traveler's Tip #3:  When attending a circumcision party, leave your parachute pants at home.  They will only bring you shame and unwarranted humiliation.

How to distinguish your host mom from a can of sardines.

Place: Jales, São Paulo, Brasil

Background:  This story hails from my time spent abroad as a Rotary youth exchange student in Jales, a very small city in rural São Paulo of about 50,000 people.  After hearing my high school friend mention a pretty "cool" exchange program, I decided it would be fun to spend a year abroad at the age of 16.  There is no explanation for this.  After learning that I would be spending my year in Jales, I decided to buy a "Portuguese For Dummies" book, since I spoke no Portuguese.  (It was to no avail, since I only learned how to say "My name is Sophie" in Portuguese on the plane to Brazil.)  After landing in Brazil, I realized I should have done a little more reading. 

After arriving in Brazil, I was immediately overwhelmed.  I knew one person that spoke English, but the rest was all a blur of some foreign language and an intense invasion of personal space.  Since I am the type of person that feels awkward sitting in silence, I just kept repeating the only line I knew (which I had also learned on the plane ride over): "Qual é seu nome?" or "What is your name?".  It probably would have been better just to keep quiet, since repeating this over and over just made me look like I had some pretty in-depth mental issues trying to remember people's names.  However, despite my apparent mental issues and inexcusable wardrobe (I was right in the middle of my hippie stage during this time of my life), all the Brazilians I met were extremely welcoming and definitely tried to work with me on the whole me-not-speaking-their-language fiasco.  For the first two weeks, I visited a friend in a city not far from my official host city.  Although this helped, I was still basically illiterate when I arrived at the house of my host parents in Jales.

We pulled up to a beautiful house with a fence made out of exotic plants in rural Jales.  My host parents were very welcoming, with my host mom being of Japanese descent and my host dad a jolly out-going lover of Harleys.  I was bound to communicate with my new "parents."  First step, their names.  Nadilson and Alice Leonel.  Last name, done and done.  First name, Nadilson, I soon figured out was pronounced Nuh-jeel-son.  I was almost pro at this, but don't let the spelling of my host mom's name fool you.  She was not to be called good ole American "Alice."  I landed on Ah-leech-ee as the confirmed pronunciation of her name and patted myself on the back.  Baby steps.



Me with my wonderful host family, Monise, Nadilson, and Alice, and fellow exchange student Jaella at Foz do Iguaçu.

The first two weeks were definitely hard since my Alice and Nadilson didn't speak any English, (although my host dad is fluent in waking people up in English with his infamous "wakey uppey"), and I was still in the introduction section of "Portuguese for Dummies."  We got by though.  They would knock on the door while I was showering saying "Vamos almoçar." I would finish my shower, grab my pocket dictionary, learn that almoçar meant to have lunch and walk downstairs to make my fashionably late entrance to the dining table.  Most of my learning Portuguese went like this, although I felt confident in that at the very least, I could properly pronounce my host parents' names.

After the first two weeks, my host mom told me that one of their family friends wanted to come show me around the town.  Oh, and also HE SPOKE ENGLISH.  I was excited.  Juninho and three other friends came to pick me up and we went to a little restaurant and bar to hang out.  They were very friendly and made me feel right at home, especially since I could speak English with them.  After having a good time they went to drop me off since it was, after all, a school night.  Juninho walked with me to the gate, where I rang the buzzer.  (Yes, their house had a buzzer.)  Alice answered, "Halo?"  I replied with my pro "Ah-leech-ee, é a Sophie" or "Ah-leech-ee, it's Sophie."  Juninho immediately started laughing and asked me with a look of ridicule on his face, "Ah-leech-ee?"  "Well yeah," I replied, "that's my host mom's name," although at this point I was not so confident.   "Sophie, ah-leech-ee is the name of a fish.  Your host mom's name is Ah-leesee."  Back to square one.  Why did I ever stop with my signature phrase, "Qual é seu nome?"  I should have never let it go.  I was so embarrassed.  "Is it at least the name of a good fish, like Mahi-mahi or something?" I asked Juninho, grasping at anything to make me feel a little better about calling my host mom "fish" for the last two weeks.  "Aliche is much like sardines, Sophie."  Upon hearing this, I knew there was no coming back.  Not only did I call her "fish," I had basically been calling her a can of sardines.  I said goodnight to my new friends, (in English; I wasn't taking any chances), and walked inside to greet my host mom.  "Oi Ah-leesee."  My host mom, as sweet as can be, just laughed and replied with her jovial, "Oi, Sophie."  And never again did I call her a can of sardines.

Aliche. Enough said.

Traveller's tip #2: Never underestimate the importance of asking "What is your name?" as many times as necessary. Even if people think you are mental.

Why you should always blow-dry your hair when in Indonesia.

Place: Universitas Negeri Malang, East Java, Indonesia

Background:  Indonesia is the most highly populated Muslim country in the world, with most of its population living on the island of Java.  You are probably thinking exotic island with tribes and chiefs running around scantily clad.  You are wrong (as was I before I went there.)  Being mostly Muslim, Indonesians are extremely conservative in dress and social stigmas.  Also contrary to my own island stereotype, Indonesians are quite technologically advanced.  They have malls and are the 2nd highest users of Facebook after Americans.  Boom.  Knowing these few vague details, enjoy the story below of how I single-handedly established my reputation as a sex feign in the conservative community of Malang, East Java, Indonesia, a place so close-knit that my neighbors knew what time I got out of bed on Saturdays.  (It's my day off people, chill out.)


As long as I have remembered, I have been challenged by promptness.  Surprisingly, this did not change when I moved half-way across the world to live with a host family in Indonesia.  In fact, it maybe even got a little worse.  It may have been worsened by the thought of trying to shave my legs in the cold shower I would have to endure upon getting out of bed, or the constant war I would be fighting with Asian mosquitoes (much more blood-hungry than its American counterpart) as soon as I got out from under the covers.  Either way, I was always running late, so normal beauty rituals were often times cut short.  (Don't worry, I probably still looked beautiful.) Knowing that I was living in an extremely conservative country, I always took extra time in the name of cultural sensitivity to cover up the three big ones: shoulders, knees, and toes.  (Sexy body parts vary from country to country, people.)  Upon donning a conservative outfit, I would then dab some foundation over my war-torn dotted face (damn mosquitoes), grab my sacred Ritz cheese crackers that would save me from fried gelatinous sweets during break time, and head out the door to walk the 8 minutes to class from my home stay.  Then, upon my late arrival to class, I would commence the finger-brushing of my wet hair, freshly washed from my bone-chilling shower.  This is how my typical day began. 

Me stealing photos with members of a wedding party in my typical conservative Indonesian wear: close-toed shoes, covered shoulders and baggy pants.  Luckily, my hair was dry when this photo was taken.

Months later, while continuing my research on cleanliness in Indonesian culture, I found myself talking with Pak Peter, the resident director of my study abroad program in Indonesia and coincidentally my Indonesian professor at ASU. (Go devils.)  After discussing some frustratingly confusing social norms about cleanliness habits in relation to intimacy (the entertaining topic of my research), Pak Peter proceeded to tell me that one specific religious rule in the Muslim community is to take a shower after having a sexual interaction with someone.  Having never heard this, I was extremely surprised which Pak Peter scoffed at, "Well ya, Mbak Sophie, why do you think people never go out in public with wet hair in Indonesia? It's because people will think you just got done having sex."  Reality hit.  All those close-toed shoes, all the times covering up my shoulders with cap-sleeved sweaters and shawls in the miserable humid heat, it was all for nothing.  All because I didn't have time to blow-dry my hair in the morning.  I should have just worn a t-shirt that said "I love Dolly," the most famous red-light district in Indonesia.  But as always, no regrets.  At least the lesson has been learned and I now know to never skip any steps in my morning beauty rituals, as people may very well consider me a slut if I do. 

Traveling tip #1: Never fore go drying your hair to make it somewhere on time while in Indonesia.