Feet Shield

25 May 2008: Day-tripping in Akaroa with Annie.

Happy Brown Commencement!

image from: jackie

Buildering

13 May 2008: Today I had my first outdoor climb - scaling the university library.

Phillipe was there for moral support, and other members of the UC Climbing club were in fancy dress. Some in no dress at all...

Afterwards, I ate a celebratory sausage with my strong, sausage sized fingers.

Please check out the local news coverage video and pictures.

image from: jackie

Hail

3 May 2008: Last night was my first New Zealand hail storm.

My first was as a kid in the hills of Los Angeles. My sisters and I ran outside to catch the frozen beads in our soup bowls. As I recall, it was less like hail and more like stinging rain. My second hail was at home again. This time I was a big kid - and danced in it - eyes closed, mouth open.

Yesterday's hail smeared across the city streets right in the middle of my 10 km bike ride home. It was thrilling! I arrived home with numb fingers, but still floating on the rush.

image from: jackie

Found

13 February 2008:

Greetings from Whangamata, Coromandel, North Island, New Zealand. Or more precisely: Paradise.

My first night in Whangamata I enjoyed the Nauti Girls angling competion, hence Nauti(al). I drank beer with sunburned kiwi women dressed as team lipstick, camouflage, or shark attack costumes and men in t-shirts reading "nauti bouy" and women's versions with "prawn star".

I met a hilarious local out in a boat from 6.30 AM to 5.00 PM. She caught 2 fish in the first 2 hours, got sea-sick, slept, got up to smoke a cigarette, and slept some more.

Such a wonderfully laid back, humorous, clean fun country. Come visit!

Here the mountains grip the sea, forest reserves lead to isolated waterfalls, and the surf stretches across a sandy beach. [Hm, reminds me of Malibu in LA...nevermind!]

I heart NZ!

images from: jackie

Crackpot

27 December 2007: I'm lying on my pack, in the rain, at dusk, clutching my injured knee on the bouldered banks of the Wanganui River Valley and this guy is talking to me about lemons.

Lemons are what you don't want to add up - the gambling equivalent of hitting all cherries or 7's - winning you the outdoor disaster jackpot. My knee is no slot machine, but I did hear it bling, ring, and pop!

Now faced with the decision of turning back or seeking shelter, I recalled a quote by the great philosopher, Yogi Berra, who said: If you come to a fork in the road, take it.

So, that night, I chose to continue on - though the rain, darkness, and swollen rivers to Hunters Hut.

Many hours and a few more lemons later, Andy (Colorado, Astronomy PhD candidate) and I bivouacked before an impassable river crossing. Maybe tomorrow, we'll get to the hut and make lemonade.

Image from: jackie (bivouac shelter)

Piece

1 December 2007: Kate's blog entry on our bike ride for peace through East Timor. Enjoy.

Flashback: Maubisse to Dili Roadrace

Talking with my sister via Skype I realized that I never told to story of the bike race, and that my family have only heard bits and pieces, primarily that I fell off. It was much more glorious than that, so some retroactive blogging is in order:

My friend Boatshoe and I were brought together because of three things, rugby, prom dresses (or more accurately, rugby in prom dresses) and bikes. When it turned out that she would be coming though Timor-Leste en route to New Zealand (via Japan, Cambodia, India, UK, Spain, Indonesia no sst.), and I realized that I could offer neither polyester or a pitch, bikes it was.

The race was organized to promote peace. Banners up around Dili featured a leggy, peddling dove and slogans about racial harmony and national unity. This is has been one of a series of public events aimed at rebuilding community cohesion and organized with the support of the Office of the President. The walk and concert on Saturday (22/12) are the next on the list.



With Boatshoe and L onboard, and Vulgar agreeing to be our support man/menu advisor/pit crew boss, we headed out to Maubisse. I packed myself into the back of the ute with the bikes, turned up the Stones, and counted the up- and down-hills with growing comprehension of my total lack of preparedness.

Maubisse sits high in the center of Timor-Leste, and really, that is still all I know about it. We arrived at the posada after dark, just as the rains came. And the scene was Timor-strange: I have never seen so many people carrying large weapons* next to so many people jumping around in bike helmets. At night. In the rain. The perpetually/prematurely be-helmed we dubbed “Team Helmet.”**

At about four in the morning Team Hemet was up running a lap around the posada. The toilet that we were sleeping behind was coming to life, and the Australian ISF started breaking down their metal cots; there was no going back to sleep. Boatshoes shook the president’s hand, and then it was time to make a move for Dili.



The race started with a slow and steady climb, then a series of long down-hills looking over a river valley patched with rice fields.

Through Aileu (doing fine…) and Bam! I took a turn too wide, braked to avoid the motorbike (and a cow), and bit the pavement. I got back on, amidst fortifying shouts of “Motor salah!” (“It’s the motorbike’s fault”) and tootled down the rest of the hill before assessing the damage. My back wheel was potato-chipped, and I had a few minor scrapes. Some bike swaps later, the three of us were on the road and securely in the back of the pack.

In the rear, with Team Helmet long gone, the stragglers – malae hotu-hotu – moaned our way up the hills. Boatshoe, with nothing to prove, joined Vulgar, and as we rolled by they’d serenade us with harmonica duets of Queen’s “Bicycle, Bicycle” from the bed of the Hilux.

Sixty-five kilometers, and four-plus hours later, L and I pulled in at the Indonesian-era gates welcoming people to descend to Dili. I passed my bike off to Boatshoe, ostensibly to let her glide gamely into the capital – a gesture she easily understood as coming from my exhaustion of being absolutely terrified on the steep hairpin turns.

To her unending credit, Boatshoe completed the worst uphill and the nastiest down-hill sections of the race. She was also the race’s only cyclist to wear flip-flops. Kudos, kudos.

Back in Dili the PA system was being packed away at the Palacio and the fanfare over the winner, who had made it in 2.5 hours – on par with a car – had probably already showered and watched the evening news. Kudos, kudos.

I want to do it again. To do it on my bike, to do it knowing what to expect, to do it after a good night’s sleep and a few weeks of sensible training. But that would be to ride it well, to make good time. What we did was truly a peace ride: at peace with taking up the rear, at peace with hurting for a week after, and accepting that sometimes the only thing to do is drop into the lowest gear and keep creeping forward, hoping things will get easier around the next bend.



* The large police contingent was in part due to the presence of the president at the posada,

** The majority of Timorese riders had matching bikes and helmets, suggesting significant and admirable sponsorship. These was also some great justice to it all, as it was finally the malaes who were stuck at the back dealing with equipment malfunctions.

Photos: Heading out from Dili. Bottom - Vulgar and Boatshoe before starting the race.

Lights

7 November 2007: First night of Diwali - Festival of Lights - and I celebrate with lights, camera, action as a Bollywood extra.

We're not talking Bollywood blockbuster - the show is a popular TV series, Kaajjal. There's no Aamir Khan, Salman Khan, nor Shahrukh Khan (each superstars of the Khan trio), but I would like to introduce my Bollywood stage name: A. Mary Khan.

The scene is a dance party in Goa. I am typecast as a tourist. I could complain to my agent, but he doesn't speak English.

Basically, I sit on the edge of the dance floor with Craig (American Bollywood extra, Carolinas USA). His blog, American Mumbaiker, details his work for a month now. We entertain ourselves watching belly dancers do basic steps while the director tells us to cheer or jump right into the dance.

The night shot was long, so I was happy to sit instead of do the tourist twist to Jennifer Lopez's If You Had My Love from 5PM to 5 AM.

A particular scene I enjoyed involved the main guy working his way through the tables, bar, front stage, and dance floor, as shimmying women blocked his view from his woman in waiting. Waiters also pass through and one comes up to my table to deliver a drink.

Take two: When the waiter sets the drink at my place again, I flip a coin onto his tray. He sets back and laughs. The scene continues and he returns my coin, teasing me it's a mere one Rupee. Serves him right, I wanted beer, not orange Fanta.

Dwo

6 November 2007: I met my former Brown housemate, Mandar (Solid Mechanics Professor, India), and his sister for dinner.

Unfortunately I won't be able to join their houshold for Diwali. Mandar's family continues to deliver wedding invitations for the December 2nd event and his mother has fallen ill.

Regardless, it was a pleasure to spend time with Mandar and get to know his sister. She was quite the helpful tutor. Now I can read Hindi numbers in order to catch the right bus.

Image from: Mandar (L-R: sister, bride, groom, mother, father)

what Colombia has on India....

5 November 2007: Linda's email update on life in Colombia. Enjoy.

Guerrilla takeovers of isolated towns, like the one I was just in!

The following is a true story that transpired about 2 hours ago in a small pueblo called Salento in the zona cafetera de Colombia...

It went something like this. I´d gotten back from a trip to the Parque Nacional de Cafe (too Disneyland for me, but no matter) and spent an hour or so window shopping in the adorable storefronts that make up the Calle Real. I had taken all my stuff with me, in preparation to head to the nearby vereda Boquia later in the evening. At some point I decided I was hungry and headed to a restaurant on the plaza.

I walked in and noticed that the only customers were a couple finishing their meal, despite that fact that the place was huge and had a 6 or 7 person staff. No matter, I was hungry. I ordered bandeja paisa and a beer, and sat down to wait.

As the waiter brought me the beer, a waitress screamed something about guerrillas and ran to the front windows to close the large, wooden shutters... there were a few seconds when everyone seemed to be watching her and in awe. Then, everyone was running around agitated and talking on cell phones. Occasionally someone would glance out the window or door and comment on the people running through the plaza. The people who worked there, presumably from the area, seemed terrified and confused about what to do... there was discussion about whether we should stay locked up in the restaurant with all the shades closed pretending that the place was closed for the night, or if we should all go home. Several people seemed to think it was very dangerous to go out into the street and especially into the plaza.

Presumably the cellphone conversations revealed that the guerrilla was poised on the Mirador on the edge of town and seemed to be advancing (when I asked how this info came to us, no one would give me an answer.. one guy said, ¨Everybody knows.¨ You´ve got to wonder how this scene would have played out before the age of cell phones.) After a panicked 5 minutes with everyone huddled around the kitchen, a consensus emerged that we should all leave the building and get the hell away from the plaza.

Here arose a slightly sticky situation for your dear Lindahop... that being, 1 I had no where to go since I´d left my hostel and there were likely no more rooms available, 2 there was no way I was going to wait around indefinitely in the plaza for the bus, as I´d planned, 3 the hostel where I´d stayed was in the direction of the advancing guerrilla...

So, I asked one of the waiters where to go, and he said to wait for the bus with a frightened huddle on one side of the plaza. Thinking of the US passport in my bag, I immediately rejected this advice and knocked on the window of the car of another waiter as it was pulling out of its parking space... ¨Can you drop me off at a hostel, anywhere, pleeeease?¨ I begged, and to good effect. The guy and his friend brought me to a town about 20 minutes away...en route, he talked on his cell to someone still in the town. It seems that the guerrilla is advancing, although this person hadn´t yet seen them.

The waiters told me the guerrilla is based close-ish to Salento, but doesn´t come by town much these days, given the strong military presence in the area. Tonight´s case is special because the guerrilla´s preferred candidate lost in last Sunday´s elections, and presumably the guerrilla wants to teach the town a lesson.

The waiters were afraid of bombs more than anything else, though they nodded in agreement when I expressed my concern about being kidnapped.......

Exciting stuff, no? Much as I´m glad I got away so fast--and happy to see I can keep my presence of mind in a tense situation--the journalist in me is dying to be back there to see what this looks like....

Love,
Your favorite escape artist