Passport Fall 2012

A BOOKWORM

IN SPAIN

THE FLOWERS OF KARABAKH

SOCCER,

NOT SLAVERY

THE INTERNET COMES TO GHANA

TRAVELING

ACROSS TANZANIA Volume 16 Fall 2012

EDITOR’S NOTE The amygdala is my favorite region of the brain. In pop culture, the amygdala is the center for love control, though this definition is more false than true. In actuality, the amygdala activates in response to stimuli crucial for survival, emotional learning, and memory.

Nice, friendly stimuli don’t activate the amygdala as much as strange, fearful, and potentially threatening ones. The initial purpose of the amygdala is to signal for survival, which subsequently modulates memory by consolidating the event’s emotional significance.

I like to think that passion stems from the amygdala’s role in longterm memory. Be it passion for service or travel, there is something wildly exciting yet daunting about being abroad. Meeting strangers, wandering unknown roads, immersing yourself in the dulcet sounds of a foreign tongue—these are all novel experiences, frightening in their unfamiliarity, forcing their way into your memory. They alert you to your surroundings and make you conscious of the effects your presence can have. The unknown is embedded into your memory, and with every mention of anything related comes the recollection of that experience’s emotional significance.

This issue is filled with courageous testaments of taking the unknown and making it familiar while retaining the magic of that initial amygdala activation. From the spiraling roads of Madrid to the lingering scent of coffee beans in Mexico, from a single vibrant wildf lower in Armenia to the Internet in Ghana, the seemingly exotic can register a familiar tone. Yet its placement in context is what drives that activation and the significance of that memory. In the sixteenth issue of Passport, I hope that our team can take you to that edge bridging the familiar and the foreign. In turn, I hope these experiences encourage you to passionately dive into the unknown and make your own journeys equally emotionally significant.

editor-in-chief Jennifer Hong graphics editors Lauren Jackson Anh Pham senior editors Becky Chao Caitlin Tutterow Yueran Zhang

Jennifer Hong

graphics Victoria Chang Eric Emery Kathy Huang Roshni Prakash editors Victoria Chang Daniel Luker writers Ada Aka Eric Emery Nadia-Estelle Fiat Judith Leng Daniel Luker Risa Pieters Annie Piotrowski Gayle Powell Caitlin Tutterow Julia Tuttle Yvette Vasquez

Passport magazine is a member publication authorized by the Undergraduate Publications Board and sponsored by the International House. The views expressed in this publication are the author’s own and do not reflect the opinions of the magazine.

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fall 2012

photo by Peggy2012CREATIVELENZ@Flickr

cover photo by Mark Fischer@Flickr

CONTENTS Booking It to Hyderabad

by Yvette Vasquez World Wide Web

by Julia Tuttle Laos and Cambodia

by Gayle Powell Take Off

by Judith Leng Wildflowers in Armenia

by Caitlin Tutterow Heads or Tails

by Eric Emery A Bookworm Abroad

by Annie Piotrowski Coffee: A Journey

by Daniel Luker Chalta Hai

Anything Goes

by Nadia-Estelle Fiat Datca

Where I Learned to Be a Child

by Ada Aka

Something Old, Something New

by Caitlin Tutterow Give Me a Soccer Ball, Not a Price Tag

by Risa Pieters Games World Wide Senior Staff

photo by np&djjewell@Flickr

3 5 7 9 10 13 15 18 21 23 25 27 29

memoir

Hyderabad, India

booking it to HYDERABAD

by Yvette Vasquez

I

do not find myself reflecting on my time in India very often. It’s been about half a year since I came back to the United States, yet I am still asked about my time there. These brief inquiries are made by people whom I know only through passing and are normally polite gestures rather than expressions of sincere curiosity. When I first returned home, my close friends and family found it peculiar that I seldom spoke of my time in India.

I did live there for an entire five months, after all. “Didn’t you enjoy your time?” I suppose I evade such curiosities for fear of admitting my reasons for going. I am always struck with a pang of guilt because the many responses I have formulated to answer this question have yet to truly encapsulate the simultaneous complexity and simplicity those five months meant to me.

The truth is I loved India.

When I allow my thoughts to travel thousands of miles to the heart of Hyderabad, I feel as though I have returned home. I can feel the south Indian sun on my skin. My ears ring with the melodic intonations of Telegu surrounding me. My tongue can still taste the silky chai making

its way down my throat on a late afternoon.

Yes, I feel as though I am home.

At the same time, however, I am also reminded of a deep sense of somehow falling short. The truth is never simple.

I’d committed to five months abroad when I was a freshman. In many ways, it was an act of desperation. One and a half semesters into college, I found myself drowning in a sea of the unknown. I was a freshman not just in the sense of who I was on campus, but also in the sense of who I wanted to be. Surrounded by a student body in which everyone was presomething, my apparent lack of direction frightened me. It was then that I decided to book it to Hyderabad. I was on a mission to find my something.

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It’s not often that I find on Duke’s campus a platform where the open acknowledgement of the unknown is encouraged. It’s as if this reality is a creature that must remain suppressed, even though we are all aware of its ever-pervading existence.

My personal struggle was only complicated by the very major I had chosen to study: cultural anthropology, the purpose of which is to immerse oneself in a culture in order to understand its structure and forms of agency. How, then, was I supposed to harness the courage necessary to understand a new culture if courage was precisely what I lacked in facing the structures of the very society I was running away from? So in many ways, I landed in India as a broken person.

I arrived at the close of the monsoon season. The rains visited each day and

People walk through the streets in Chennai towards an intricatelydesigned temple to pray.

kept me inside. The gloom outside my window reflected how I felt inside: trapped.

As the days went on, the sun began to shine, if only in preparation for the approaching winter. The light was appreciated, and I began to explore outside. Yet, even while it remained sunny, I feared a return of gloom with my program’s upcoming winter travels. Hyderabad would remain in its beautiful warmth, but I was heading north.

When we finally went, the unrelenting cold made me bundle up in scarves. I turned within myself once more, but this time was different. The frigid air of the Punjab enveloped me in all of its striking cold. Yet somehow, I felt protected. I could finally admit all that I hoped to become—all that I hoped to be. I was ready to grow. As the winter drew to a close, I headed back south once more. At last, I felt the sun on my skin. At last, my warmth began to emerge from within.

My time in India was captured by the shifting of the seasons, the spice of the biryani, and the warmth of my professors.

India showed me an acceptance I was not prepared to embrace upon first arriving.

However, with patience, I began to let all of its beauty in. I soon learned that what this unique beauty offered reached far deeper than a shallow first impression.

The beauty was revealed through the

all photos by author

I soon learned that what this unique beauty had to offer reached far deeper than a shallow first impression.

subtle gestures of everyday life: the gentle pressure of the mother’s hand as she squeezed mine; her eyes, expressing thanks, have remained with me. I had been stopped in my tracks, and her contact confirmed for me the personal fulfillment that I had been searching for. I can still see

the smiling children I worked with at the migrant school, Aksharavani. The name, voted on by the parents, derives its parts from Sanskrit: Akshar meaning “letter or symbol” and vani meaning “voice.” In a great sense, the school offered all of the parents, teachers, and students not only a collective voice, but more importantly, a medium to share their voices. As humbling as it was to hold hands with the mother, in the end it was I who needed to give thanks.

These experiences gave me the “something” that I had been seeking. It was not that I had uncovered some form of philanthropic drive. I realized that to grow is not to hold definite answers to life’s complexities, neither for myself nor for anyone else. Rather, to grow, I must be as open to listening and learning as much as I am to teaching. For all that I received, I am forever left with a feeling of not having given enough in return. Something tells me that there is no destination to reach where I will feel like I have offered back enough. Something also tells me that that is the point. Next summer, I will return to India. While I may not hold answers, I will be in possession of something far more valuable: a deep willingness for discourse, both within myself and with all whom I encounter.

booking it to hyderabad

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op-ed

Ofaakor, Ghana

world wide

by Julia Tuttle

F

OR A FRESHMAN ON A NEW college campus, it’s not surprising to open Facebook and see a new friend request. For me, it’s no more surprising if that request is from someone in Ofaakor, Ghana, over five thousand miles away.

On a good day, the trip from Accra, the capital of Ghana, to Ofaakor takes about two hours on a three-lane road overflowing with four or more lanes of traffic. Over the past five years the landscape has changed dramatically. There are now buildings with glass and European signage, breaking above the one-story shacks. There are (usually) lights and a new overpass named after George W. Bush built with money from the Millennium Fund. These things familiar to me as an American somehow seem out of place in Ghana. However, as you turn off the main road and head toward Ofaakor, these signs of globalization become more and more sparse. Yet even this small, unheard of town is experiencing the effects of metropolitan sprawl.

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Five years ago my family and I started vol- alarming was how poor their spelling had unteering in Ofaakor. This past summer was become. Many of the children had made the first time I had Internet access in Ofaa- Facebook accounts to keep in contact with kor for 80 pesewas1 per hour. An Internet café previous volunteers, and over the course of had finally found its way to the semi-rural these correspondences, they had started to town and situated itself among a mosque, a think that it was okay to write “u” instead Church, and an altar to local gods. I was ex- of “you.” They had grown to believe that cited that children from the orphanage now it was acceptable to use slang in letters to had access to the incredible opportunities donors and in formal essays, and had to that computers and the Internet could of- be constantly reminded that there was a fer, and that they had also learned to use the correct way to spell and use grammar. They Internet to communicate across the ocean. I picked up much more than these language wanted to teach them to master Microsoft Word Beyond these startling, humorous, and Excel, to have these and sometimes ridiculous observations, I saw technological skills to put the Internet being taken as absolute truth. on a résumé which would hopefully improve their future. These are all details. For the first time, many of the boys things that I worked to bring to Ofaakor this were sagging their pants, imitating the style summer, and will continue to work on. What they saw in YouTube videos. The girls’ attire was perhaps more interesting, however, were had changed so much that some who hadn’t the things that were naturally “exported” believed women in the United States could to this little village without anyone actively wear shorts now wanted tighter clothes. teaching them.

Soon, jeggings were just as prevalent as long, traditional Ghanaian skirts.

I saw the details change, like kids saying, With this new worldview came envy. These “Hey,” “Yo,” and other slang phrases. More kids now saw the discrepancies between

passport

fall 2012

photo by Francisco Anzola

web Beyond these startling, humorous, and sometimes ridiculous observations, I saw the Internet being taken as absolute truth.

For example, a YouTube video expressing racist beliefs against President Obama influenced their view of the United States.

It was shocking for me to hear this because several visits prior, every Ghanaian I’d met was beaming with pride at welcoming the United States’ first black president to their country. I didn’t understand how their minds had changed so quickly. However, I soon realized that the children had never learned to question the credibility of what was on the Internet, so they took the words of a hateful video as truth.

life at home creeping into the world in Ofaakor. It truly is amazing and exciting that information can now be shared like never before. Because of the nature of our time, everyone with the global connection that the Internet provides should be conscientious about his or her interactions with the world. Have you ever thought about the breadth of impact you might be having?

It’s not just international organizations From my experience in Ofaakor, intro- that are reaching remote villages around ducing computerized technology to these the world anymore. You and I are too, but communities to help people does not just most of us have never thought about the mean giving them computers—it means consequences of the things we say and giving them the resources and knowledge post on the Internet. In Ofaakor, children talk about Duke University they need to be successWith computer and say “Google it” and ful. The Internet provides education, we must “Facebook it.” What is an enormous range of provide the context happening on our campus opportunities, but it is so to understand that has somehow become a vast that the information we live in an everrelevant example to the it holds will not always be changing, complex people in this village. It accurate. Aid organizaworld. is important to remember tions interested in bringthat although you may not ing technology to previously isolated communities shouldn’t just bring know it, you are connected to Ofaakor and computers and then leave gaps in teaching many other places. Think about this next its utility. We have to be conscientious and time you participate on the Internet or thorough, as with all interventions. With post something online: the knowledge you computer education, we must provide the share, or don’t share, makes a difference context to understand that we live in an beyond you. ever-changing, complex world.

I’m not writing this to criticize the spread of the Internet into other cultures, or to say that Western culture is affecting other cultures negatively. I am merely surprised

With globalization, aid organizations aren’t the only ones with a new, important responsibility. Many times, I had the distinct feeling of watching the ways of

their small town and the rest of the world— they saw and wanted what they didn’t have.

They would ask me and other volunteers for things they might have never otherwise known about.

and cautious of what was successfully “exported” from the West to Ofaakor. I cannot say what the spread of Internet access will bring, especially with more and more people in various countries now exposed to the enormity of what is online.

What I do know is that it is time for us to give a second look at the way our world is developing.

photo by author

1. 80 Ghana pesewas at the time was equivalent to about 40 cents.

world wide web

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photo essay

Laos and Cambodia

D

epression. De s p e ration.

Desolation. These are the first words that came to mind when I first saw the rural landscapes of Laos and Cambodia. Beginning in Laos, I drove for three hours from Vientiane, the capital, on a tractor down winding dirt paths. After a very bumpy ride, I arrived in the rural village of Houay Poung. As the tractor chugged into the village, young kids, naked and covered in dirt, ran into the “street� to see what the commotion was about. After a moment of initial confusion, their mud-caked faces transformed with sweet smiles. They surrounded our tractor, a few grabbing my hand as I stepped off the vehicle into the mud. I was mind-blown. I was in such a rudimentary and impoverished village, yet the beauty of my surroundings was truly magnificent. These people had nothing. The conditions they lived in were horrendous.

Despite this, they were the most welcoming, joyous people I have met to date.

I worked day after day to repair the school house, teach the villagers English and basic health care techniques, harvest rice in the fields, renovate the Buddhist temple, and much more. Every moment was incredibly gratifying. My favorite moments, though, were those with the children. I learned all of their favorite games. I gave manicures and pedicures incessantly. We made pipe cleaner hats, colored, and laughed. It was truly magical to see happiness in the face of such abject poverty.

Laos and

by Gayle Powell

A

fter my time in Laos I had to leave my new friends and move onward to Cambodia. The country is in rough shape, still recovering from the devastating effects of the mass genocide of the Pol Pot regime. I worked in cooperation with a local grassroots project at an orphanage that provides care for 60 children ages five to sixteen.

The first day, a young boy grabbed my hand, looked into my eyes, and called me “sister.� His name was Hey. I don’t remember his hand leaving mine for the entirety of my stay. Attached, we did everything together; he became my little brother. Leaving Hey was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I was thoroughly humbled by his joyful spirit. Never had I felt so loved before, so needed. Without family, material goods, or any sense of a future, he persevered, constantly smiling and enjoying the little things in life like badminton, hand games, and hugs.

So while the majority of United States citizens may think of Southeast Asia as a foreign and scary place, I now regard it as a second home. It is a place where people are resilient in the face of disaster and genuinely vivacious in the presence of destitution.

The three words that I left with were very different from the ones that had marked my first impression. Happiness. Harmony.

Hospitality.

all photos by author

cambodia

identity

Hong Kong

A

Take-Off

nother plane took off.

lthough the vacuum glass

muffled most of the noise, I could imagine the roar of the engines. I used my forefinger to follow the plane’s path, as if to paint pictures in the sky.

I looked at my watch: it was finally time to say goodbye. Since the beginning of senior year at high school, I’d heard that “time flies” so many times that it now sounded cliché to me.

There I was, carrying two incredibly heavy suitcases, waiting with the crowd at the airport and worrying about what I should do if their weights exceeded the limit. The moment approached. I heard the rhythm in my mom’s pace quicken as I made the final steps towards the departure gate. I turned around and saw her open her mouth slightly, but “Good luck” was all she could utter, accompanied by a hug.

Only then did I realize that time does fly…

But this time, I was flying with time.

I had pictured myself entering college, growing up and maturing, but it was not until I had to leave everything I knew behind that I found the reality so overwhelming.

Could I turn around and go back? But it seemed like there wasn’t time for nostalgia because boarding began sooner than I had expected. I pulled my suitcase near and walked toward the crew.

As the plane left the ground, I couldn’t ignore the anxiety, inexorably combined 9

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with the excitement about the unknown.

Around ten in the morning, all the blinds were shut to help us adjust to the time difference. Listening to random songs, I closed my eyes and forced myself to sleep.

Nevertheless, my internal clock reminded me that I should be productive: get something done, anything.

A movie was playing in the back of my mind, all the details of the past flooding out. I saw the whole grade standing in lines as a photograph was taken. I could see everyone in my class moved to tears by our choir’s last performance, bidding a mutual farewell that lasted nearly half an hour. It felt like yesterday when the college entrance exam officially added an end mark to high school and I found myself tasting the painful ambivalence more than ever.

A sharp ring reminded me of the roaring reality of the flight. There was turbulence.

I was reminded of when we’d flown past a tornado on a trip to Hong Kong once. The plane had jolted up and down and shaken in a terrifying way. Later, when I’d heard that the plane had been at a thirty-degree angle, I’d been terrified…

I shivered slightly when the warning bell rang. Not this time, I whispered to myself.

Looking around at the unfamiliar faces, I knew I had to face the world all on my own. On that thought, I closed my eyes and managed to fall asleep.

The next time I opened my eyes, we were told to open the shield again. The sunlight came in, warming the cabin for a second. fall 2012

By: Judith Leng

After a twelve-hour flight from Beijing, it was early in the morning again. A new city smiled at me with a welcoming gesture.

I gazed back for a couple of seconds, and then returned the smile. I heard a voice echoing in my head.

Go. Go on and try…

Coming to a foreign country for college is by far the boldest choice I have ever made. People often compare life to a journey, the beauty of which lies in the possibilities. For me, that journey was a flight.

Sometimes you go straight up; sometimes you fall down. You may get stuck at the airport due to bad weather—there will be clouds, wind, rain, even lightning and thunder, but there will also be sunshine. The sky always clears, and you may even get a rainbow. You can hardly predict the path you are covering; you never know what will happen next, so you need to have faith in yourself and be willing to take a chance.

There is going to be a huge transition, but I feel less afraid when I see the quote on the wall of my new dorm:

“Be not afraid of growing slowly.

Be afraid only of standing still.”

It’s time to take off for tomorrow.

take off

photo by author

memoir

Karabakh, Armenia

WILDFLOWERS

ARMENIA

by Caitlin Tutterow

W

hen I first arrived in Armenia I was awestruck by the landscape: mountains, open skies, and field after field of wildflowers that filled the valleys and climbed the slopes. Coming from the forested hills of North Carolina’s Piedmont, I was used to smelling pine and honeysuckle and tasting the random wild blackberry dangling from a vine. Never before had I seen wildflower-covered plains seemingly jut into mountains much higher than my dear Appalachians. My hills have long been tamed into sectioned reserves and carefully cultivated parks. What I found in Armenia was an untamed Eden.

Eden might not be too far from the truth; Armenia is an ancient nation with a rich past. Whenever I travel to a new country, I love to discover the history of the land I am entering. The Bible cites Mt. Ararat, a part of ancient Armenia, as where Noah’s Ark landed after the Great Flood.1 Archeologists have even found cuneiform inscriptions in Yerevan (the capital of modern day Armenia) in 782 B.C., making Yerevan the world’s oldest city with documentation of the exact date of its foundation.2 The Kingdom of Armenia was established around 600 B.C. and extended to parts of modern day Turkey, Syria, Iran, Azerbaijan, and Georgia.3 Among other firsts, Armenia became the first official Christian nation in 301 B.C., thirty-six years before Constantine the Great was baptized and ten years before the Roman Empire embraced Christianity.4 Since its establishment, Armenia has been conquered and passed into foreign hands time after time, but again and again the country has reemerged, wildflowers in armenia

10

Like a wildflower that brightens the field stretching toward the horizon, the people I met and formed relationships with in Armenia colored my experience.

even surviving monolithic civilizations such as the Roman and Ottoman Empires.

Even the name Armenia itself has historical significance: “Ar” stands for “life, light, and God,” and thus the name Armenia literally means “people of God.”5 However, the past hundred years have not been kind to Armenia. From the Armenian genocide in the early 20th century, to the 7.1 magnitude earthquake in 1980 that leveled the country and killed 25,000, to the Soviet invasion, and most recently, to the war with Azerbaijan over the contested land, Karabakh, the Armenian people understand suffering. This understanding seeps into their day-to-day lives, living in small oft said comments: all Russian products (and there are a lot) are referred to as “Russian trash”; despite being located in Turkey Mt. Ararat is referred as “our Ararat”; and always “Karabakh is a part of Armenia.”

While suffering might sound out in the base note, the heart note of Armenia is certainly

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the people. Tried and true, their abundant generosity knows no bounds.

Although I began my journey in Yerevan, Armenia, I actually spent most of my time outside of Armenia proper, in NagornoKarabakh, an area of contention between Armenia and Azerbaijan since the Soviet expulsion in the early 1990s. From 1988 to 1994, this region of the world was shellshocked with land mines, bombs, and gunshots, leaving more ruins than functional buildings. The town I was in, Berdzor, was so destroyed by the war that it had been easier to move the city center than to clear the rubble that remained. Even today, almost twenty years later, the area still has more bombed buildings than not. Landlocked and surrounded by closed borders with Turkey, Iran, and Azerbaijan, the nascent nation has more problems than just the ruins it lives in.

Throughout Karabakh, the people only have water for fifteen minutes every two days.

Even in the modern city of Yerevan, only

fifty to sixty percent of the people have water throughout the day. Although the water shortage is an important issue, the people also lack the financial power to rebuild their communities, as the average income of male workers in Karabakh is only hundred dollars a month.

During my time in Armenia and Karabakh, I served with Project Agape, the only aid organization with international connections that serves the Karabakh region.

Due to political tensions between Karabakh and Azerbaijan, most international aid organizations refuse to work in Karabakh, lest they risk their relationship with Azerbaijan. Through Project Agape, I mostly did construction work (reroofing houses) but I also had the opportunity to do arts and crafts with kids at the orphanage

fall 2012

all photos by JP McGuire

Project Agape sponsors, and visit some of the potential houses in the community that Project Agape might work on in the future.

On my trip, I was able to interact with the local people and what struck me the most was their generosity. Despite their economic situations, every family we visited wouldn’t let us leave without a sampling of fruit, cookies, or coffee. Although every instance of generosity left me awestruck, there was one experience in particular that will remain with me. Several people who came with me to Armenia this past summer also went last fall, so we visited some of the

When we finished the tour of her tworoom house, she brought out a beautiful crocheted scarf and walked over to Cailyn (another girl on the trip) and me. Although neither of us had worked on her house, Anosh wanted to express her appreciation by giving us the scarf. Since there were two of us and only one scarf, Anosh gave the scarf to Cailyn but immediately walked over to a vase at the side of the room and pulled out a wildflower to hand to me. Although short on water, Armenia is not deficient in terms of the varieties or numbers of wildflowers that dot the countryside. I had seen countless

“May your life be like a wildflower growing freely in the beauty and joy of each day.” - Native American proverb houses they had worked on the previous year.

One of the houses we visited belonged to an elderly woman named Anosh, who lived there with her children and grandchildren.

Before construction, her house had been little more than crumbling rocks and mortar with a tattered roof. However, once the team completed the construction work, the house had new mortar, a roof, and floorboards. I had heard that the previous year Anosh had looked so downfallen, it was as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I had expected to see a woman scarred from life but instead, I was immediately greeted with a bright toothless smile and a warm hug. She ushered us quickly into the house, giving us snacks and water, smiling and pointing all around the room at the decorations she had added.

wildflowers on my journey already, but this wildflower had special meaning to me. It was a gift given freely, reminding me of the Native American proverb that states, “May your life be like a wildflower growing freely in the beauty and joy of each day.”6 At the end of our visit, we left Anosh smiling at the door standing tall with her feet firmly planted, determinedly holding onto her family’s new life.

After I received the wildflower, I quietly filed away the memory of Anosh and focused once more on working. Yet the day before we left Berdzor to return to Yerevan, Anosh walked through the gates of Project Agape, with a small bag in hand. I went up to greet her and she pulled me aside. She couldn’t speak English and I could only speak a little conversational Armenian, but from

the determined look in her eyes, I could tell she had come to do something important.

She pulled out of her bag a beautiful pink crocheted scarf along with some chocolate.

Unsatisfied without giving both of us girls a token of appreciation from her own hands, she had knitted another scarf in only a few days to give to me. Anosh’s gratefulness and generosity, so present in the Armenian people I had interacted with, have inspired me to be more grateful for all I have been given and to give more generously with my time and money to others around me.

After traveling to Armenia, one question remains with me: what is it that attracts us to serve our neighbor and to give with abundant generosity? The closest comparison I can find is that of a wildflower that grows unintentionally and unbidden, just as our service and generosity must be to our neighbors if we want to see our labors come to fruition. From my research prior to arrival, I had already marveled at the historical tapestry that was woven into the land, but what I experienced gave dimension and color to the vision I had created in my mind. Like a wildflower that brightens the field stretching toward the horizon, the people I met and formed relationships with in Armenia colored my time there, forming something more beautiful and genuine than I could have imagined.

1. Embassy of Armenia to the United States of America, “Discover Armenia.” Accessed November 16, 2012. http://www.armeniaemb.org/DiscoverArmenia/ History/History.htm.

2. Tourism Armenia, “Armenian History.” Accessed November 16, 2012. http://www.tourismarmenia. net/about-armenia/history.

3. Armeniapedia, “Armenian History.” Accessed November 16, 2012. http://www.armeniapedia.org/ index.php?title=Armenian_History.

4. Wikipedia, “Armenia.” Accessed November 16, 2012. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Armenia.

5. Wikipedia, “Armenian Mythology.” Accessed November 16, 2012. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Armenian_mythology.

6. Proverbatim, Accessed November 16, 2012. http:// www.proverbatim.com/native-american/nativeamerican-may-your-life-be-like-a-wildflower.html.

wildflowers in armenia

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travel

Tanzania

Heads B

efore my first trip to Africa, I did not know which stereotypical generalization I was supposed to believe. In the next nine weeks I discovered both the unbelievable sights and sounds of Tanzania in the animals and the people, as well as in the economically impoverished conditions of a large portion of the nation.

I went as a volunteer medical student at a small urban, government-funded hospital in Arusha, Tanzania, but I was able to take trips throughout my nine-week volunteering experience.

At this point, I should mention that I am an adventurous person. I open to anything involving my surroundings and the people that are with me. So after only three days in the country, a group of fellow volunteers invited me on a safari. Almost immediately, I was immersed in the flourishing business of tourism in East Africa. For seventyfive dollars each, we went on a day trip in the National Park in Arusha to see giraffes, zebras, and baboons, lunch included. While this was a great experience after only being in the country for three days, it was by far the least interactive.

n Area.

Ngorongoro Conservatioting acacia trees. e ea A male and female giraff

My next “touristy” experience was climbing the third tallest mountain in Tanzania, Mt. Meru. At 4,566 meters (approximately 15,000 feet), Mt. Meru is known for its steep slopes and difficult terrain. At a third the price of climbing the famous Mt. Kilimanjaro, this climb takes three to four days, depending on how much you want to sleep. I went with four other volunteers from my program, our cook Zablon, and seven porters who carried extra backpacks, food, or cooking utensils up the mountain. The Zanzibar. charges we paid covered warm A beautiful sunset over the waters at Kendwa. clothes, transportation, and all other food supplies. Given that this climb was my favorite and most difficult excursion during my entire the ability to observe exceptional animals nine-week stay, I viewed the hike as an ac- in their natural habitat, which requires nothcomplishment rather than a paid experi- ing on the part of the tourist except money for food and gas. ence.

However, my next trip was quite different.

Safaris are a staple of the tourism business in Tanzania and East Africa. Approximately two hours west of Arusha, the Serengeti National Park is one of the world’s most visited wildlife parks, known for its hundreds of thousands of wildebeest and zebra. With a total area of 14,763 km2 (5,700 mi2)1, the Serengeti National Park is included in the Serengeti region. This massive expanse of land also includes the Ngorongoro Conservation Area and several game reserves2.

Similar to my first trip, this excursion occurred almost entirely in a car. As “super tourists”, my friends and I stood in the car to take as many photos as possible, attempting to capture the essence of the vast beauty that is the Serengeti. Countless numbers of tourists come to areas within the Serengeti to catch a glimpse of incredible animals with the hope that they will see something as rare as a rhinoceros.

What makes this business so popular is

On my last trip in Tanzania, the two-day, thirteen-hour bus to ferry ride to Zanzibar was well worth it. Off the coast of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania’s capital, Zanzibar is known for its white beaches and clear waters. Three fellow volunteers and I stayed at a place called Kendwa, located on the northern tip of the island. While there, we relaxed and soaked in the beaming sun, occasionally cooling ourselves down in the temperate waters.

However, each day our idyllic paradise was interrupted by locals asking whether we would like to purchase paintings, carvings, coconuts, or even snorkeling trips. While the sunsets were unforgettable, so were the countless businessmen attempting to survive in this tourism-driven economy. Even though the currency exchange was greatly imbalanced, we, as tourists, enjoyed a once-in-alifetime experience while they, as independent employees, collected a daily income.

or

Tails

by Eric Emery

P

overty. This was the theme of my typical week, as opposed to the expedition-filled weekends. As mentioned before, I went to volunteer in a government-funded hospital in Arusha called Mt. Meru Government Hospital. When I wasn’t taking weekend trips across northern Tanzania, I was working five to six hour shifts in one of the many departments at Mt. Meru. Due to its status as a government funded hospital, Mt. Meru struggles to find adequate amounts of materials necessary to perform necessary medical procedures, from stitching to hip surgery.

Arusha.

Wood and mud houses in my neighborhood.

While there, I saw a patient with a shattered ankle whose surgery had to be postponed for three days because there were no sanitized surgical blankets for the operating room. In the casualty department, fellow volunteer nursing students had to scavenge

or bring their own clean gloves, sutures, and forceps. The lack of medical supplies was only the start, as doctors and nurses would leave without warning or not help a newly admitted patient.

Poor conditions were not only seen in the urban environment of Mt. Meru Hospital.

A medical outreach allowed me to experience the Maasai in a rural setting. The Maasai are a local tribe that populates the northern areas of Tanzania and southwestern parts of Kenya.

This medical outreach happened on my second weekend in Tanzania. I went with a group of about thirteen volunteers all crammed tightly into a small bus—called a dala dala—for a two-hour drive to reach a local Maasai village. The local doctor we brought diagnosed certain symptoms and allocated proper doses of medication. This basic medication brought by our organization was the only form of treatment that these people had for disorders or diseases such as severe arthritis, which is common in rural Tanzania due to large amounts of walking.

My most impromptu experience that made me aware of poverty came through a friendship formed at the local market. At the Maasai Market, I met a young man named Isaac with a welcoming smile.

Unlike other store vendors, Isaac ended up spending an hour with me talking about the condition of the country in relation to more developed countries, such as the United States—and I didn’t even buy anything!

We had a serious talk about issues with standard of living, monthly and yearly incomes, and the currency exchange rate. However, I did not completely comprehend the situation until he told me the average yearly salary of some people living in the city: close to 2,000 US dollars a year (a bit over 3,000,000 Tanzanian schillings). I could not believe the difference in what is conright photo by Mike Carr all other photos by author

sidered fiscally average for a family per year. Over my stay in Arusha, we continued to have talks about problems in the country and how real these are for the citizens, while many citizens in the more powerful countries are too removed to know what is happening.

All these experiences have pushed me to realize something about traveling abroad: there are always two sides to a story, a people, or a place. Regardless of the situation, as conscious travelers, it is important to remember to not judge a book by its cover, or a country by its tourism. There’s a much deeper meaning in human interaction that does not stem from business transactions.

As foreign travelers, we must remember those who do not have the resources to do the activities we might take for granted.

While I am not discouraging traveling as a vacation, we must allot time to give back to the global community.

1. “Tanzania National Parks.” The Official Site of the Tanzania National Parks - Serengeti National Park. Tanzania National Parks, n.d.

Web. 12 Nov. 2012.

2. “Serengeti National ParkMap.” Map of Serengeti National Park. Safari Mappers, n.d.

Web. 12 Nov. 2012. <http://www.safarimappers.com/area.aspx?lngareaid=27>.

Namanga.

A local market with hundreds of sho es made from old, unused car tires.

heads or tails

14

memoir

Madrid, Spain

There are approximately 5,000 languages in the modern world,

A

bo o kworm abroad A

by Annie Piotrowski

s humans buy bread in Portuguese, bury the dead in Hindi, and toast to the new couple in Swedish, I muddle through life in mostly English, wistful for the morphemes and conjunctions I’ve never met. Though English is my pathway to everything from Romantic poetry to my mom’s emails, my reliance on it has become a barrier, turning

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fall 2012

the everyday lives of six billion others into mysteries. This lack of understanding frustrates me, especially since I love language and the places it can take me.

As an indiscriminate bookworm, any combination of words on paper, Cheerio boxes, in-flight safety manuals, or Paradise Lost, demands my immediate attention.

This is why I sent in the application last winter, posed for the unflattering passport photo a few months ago, and now attempt to swivel my over-packed suitcase through the Madrid airport. I plan to return home from studying abroad with a new language and a few tacky souvenirs. However, as I escape Terminal B’s plastic-scented air for Madrid’s sun-drenched skyline and trade

the clatter of suitcases on linoleum for the feel of cobblestones under my sneakers, I am overwhelmed by unfamiliarity. I’d peppered my study abroad application with phrases like “reading Cervantes in Madrid’s coffee shops.” Now, as I scan billboards for familiar words and blunder through my new street address, I hesitate.

I am a wordless English major, and so, for the first time in my life, I raise my eyes from the fine print and soak in the universe.

Luckily, Madrid’s meandering streets are sentences, and its circular plazas periods. History and culture are fossilized in plaza fountains and narrow cobblestone streets, but come alive in shop owners’ smiles and the babble of voices from outdoor cafes. A wealth of information awaits any open-minded tourist armed with comfortable shoes and a foldout map.

Languages are hidden in life’s everyday fabric and, as my class crisscrosses Spain, images and experiences replace my security blanket of words. I learn how to read cathedrals as minarets, frescoes, and

all photos by author

gold-leafed chandeliers. My professors explain that early Spanish churches were books for illiterate worshippers; through frescos and stained glass windows, images replaced the Mass’s undecipherable Latin.

As medieval monks slumped over their desks and strained to decode the small text of illuminated scripture, peasants scanned the heavens for signs of the divine, and were rewarded with storybook ceilings from Genesis to Leviticus. Therefore, as the tour guides explain stonemasonry and Renaissance architecture in rapid-fire Spanish, I crane my head back and lose myself in familiar Bible stories. Rather than thumbing through tissue-thin pages, I read the brushstrokes of a thirteenthcentury painter and feel at peace.

Language not only dwells in cathedrals’ soaring heights, but also at eye-level.

Spanish court painting is a language of carefully orchestrated mistakes: a portrait’s rumpled sleeve or flattened nose signaled an artist’s refusal to transform a failing, decadent monarch into a living god. Once in on the joke, I’m equally likely to snort under my breath as I stare thoughtfully at Velazquez’s and Goya’s renderings of the royal family. Though I could lose myself in the Prado Museum’s winding corridors for hours, Spain offers more than the visual language of oil canvases and Renaissance painters. The proportion of cumin to red pepper in gazpacho, the sharp sounds of flamenco, and even the names of metro stations are syllables in the grand sentences

4,998 of which never activate my neurons. a bookworm abroad

16

... in the midst of cathedrals and cobblestones, I yearn for words.

of history and culture. An inflexible grammar dominates the language of cafés and tapas, where I tiptoe around questions of etiquette to buy my morning coffee.

After I unwittingly microwave a bowl of gazpacho, the traditional Spanish cold soup, my host family despairs and tries to explain the intricacies of Spanish food.

There are rules upon rules: drink orange juice for dessert; leave peanut butter as a strange substance for Americans; eat churros in Madrid, paella in Barcelona, and ham for every meal across Spain.

Nevertheless, in the midst of cathedrals and cobblestones, I yearn for words.

Within the bookstore of Juan Rulfo, there are young mothers buying storybooks and scruffy grad students searching for experimental poetry. I envy their white paper shopping bags filled with crisp new novels. Within the crazy, boundarybreaking world of Spanish literature, there is Gabriel Garcia Lorca, Juan Ramon de

la Cruz, and countless others pushing typewriter keys in the heat of Madrid’s afternoons. Furthermore, I am a student, not merely an observer, and my professor has assigned a stack of short novels. I can translate the books, but I cannot read them. While I sit on park benches and squint at white pages in the sunlight, I feel as though I am reading the dense and dull instruction manual for an IKEA bookcase.

Flipping between postmodern novels and my battered student dictionary isn’t the road to the clarity and inspiration. I miss crucial details: is she the protagonist’s mother or sister? Is the author pro-Franco or a resolute Socialist?

Yet, five misunderstood works of genius later, I sit in my temporary apartment and find myself at home in Spanish literature.

I crack the spine of the day’s assigned reading, David Barba’s Agosto, Octubre, and settle in for the next two hours. The novel is about a boy’s summer vacation,

After I flip the last page, I feel strangely at peace.

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fall 2012

which fortunately or unfortunately, segues into adulthood. In Agosto, Octubre, summer is weird, violent, and chaotic, a season best avoided by those who prefer the quiet life. I learn words that I should never say in public and carefully jot them down in my notebook to avoid confusion. It is not the Spanish novel I had expected to read, but after I flip to the last page, I feel strangely at peace. The battle is won.

Spanish novels are no longer 150-page long strings of vocabulary words. Instead, their pages contain living literature.

Imagine you are eight years old again, sprawled underneath your tent fort with a stack of books while your family watches the first season of “Survivor” in the living room. You mouth the words and struggle for fluency because you know something valuable awaits you at the end of the quest.

Reading is a battle to turn syllables into a magical, three-dimensional paradise, and you are a Knight of Phonics, ready to manipulate all the permutations of A, B, C, and so forth. However, after countless hours of discovery, the challenge and glamour are lost. I return to my younger self’s favorite books and whiz through them, as if a leisurely bike ride has become a Maglev train commute. This is why I continue to throw myself at Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the opinion section of El País.

It’s not because I want the information.

It’s because I crave that same old magic.

memoir

Mexico

Coffee:

A JOURNEY

by Daniel Luker

18

His stare gets lost in the distance as he relates the journey of coffee...

It is a Tuesday morning,

and I am still recovering from a late night homework session and only a few hours of sleep. As my mind wanders off to think about the comfort of getting more than six hours of sleep, I remember that there are still problem sets and projects to complete. It is then that I recur to students’ most popular method to beat sleepiness. I sip on a cup of hot coffee and involuntarily, my brain reacts to the caffeine: my eyes seem to open a bit more, my thoughts become less blurry, and I slowly regain the life that college studies are taking from me.

As I continue to sip on the coffee and breathe in the distinctive aroma of the roasted beans, my mind wanders off again, though this time, I distinctly remember another cup of coffee I enjoyed, somewhere far away…

We sit in dilapidated plastic chairs.

The relentless sun, high above the horizon, looks over the fields, as we enjoy the shade of the asbestos sheets that make the roof of the cabin.

The wind blows in, still carrying the scent of the sea, and dries the sweat that has accumulated on my forehead, alleviating the heat I’m not accustomed to. Don Enrique sits beside me, and looks over his fields. As he blows out a puff from an unfiltered cigarette, he remarks about the weather.

His tired expression doesn’t change despite the humming of mosquitoes or of the temperature that must reach above ninetyfive degrees Fahrenheit. The wrinkles on his brow tell their own story.

“This isn’t good for the coffee.”

His comment seems to remove a great weight from his back. His quiet and 19

passport

thoughtful manner fades as he turns around and realizes that the pot is boiling.

After eighty-two years of coffee making, he doesn’t need to examine the pot. “El café ya está.” The coffee’s ready. We stand up.

Clutching a handmade clay mug, I approach

the large pot sitting on a clay stand over a small fire. The smell of cinnamon and sugar and most of all, the strong aroma of roasted coffee beans fill the small hut as I fill my cup with the dark liquid. Don Enrique’s subdued expression dissipates as we sit around the table, making it clear that he had been waiting for the coffee before beginning our conversation.

“The hurricane has tumbled most of the papayas, which provided shade to the fall 2012

beans. My cafetales will all dry up, but at least the land higher up in the mountains wasn’t affected.” Don Enrique’s family has produced coffee for over a hundred years, and although he is the sole owner of over five thousand hectares of land, which altogether produce more than two thousand tons of coffee, his wardrobe contains only a handful of discolored and worn-out shirts.

“Do you want to go into the finca?1 We can go by horse so it’s not too far.”

As we ride into the cultivated land through trails made by Don Enrique and the growers, the terrain becomes muddier and the humidity increases. Our way grows darker, and led by Don Enrique, we drive deeper into the mountains. We enter the cultivated land, and I recognize the green beans on their branches, the coffee that isn’t ripe yet. I ask Don Enrique how much he sells the coffee for. “It’s sixty pesos per kilogram of raw beans, but if you buy a ton, I’ll give them to you at fifty pesos.2 Toasted and ground, it’s eighty pesos.

The people deep in the sierra can sell it for forty per kilogram, but they don’t care about their workers. My people work hard, and I can’t send them back home without anything for their wives. I pay them more, and they can take coffee home, so at least they can always have a cup of café ralo. But the coffee exporters, they don’t care. They buy the coffee from the lowest bidder, so I end up paying my people with coffee, and they sell it themselves, but it’s not right to have to work more.”

The process of coffee making is long.

Don Enrique explains to me the

photos by author

“You can taste it when somebody collected the beans by hand.”

long process through which the coffee reaches your cup. His stare gets lost in the distance as he relates the journey of the coffee. For eighty years he has grown coffee, and every step of the process is still done by hand on his farm. He feels pride in telling me how there is someone collecting, drying, roasting and grinding the coffee. He looks up and sighs. The sigh is melancholic, as if he yearns for the time when his process was the norm. “You can taste it when somebody collected the beans by hand.”

The process is long and causes the price of coffee to inflate. A kilogram of coffee equates to about twenty liters of drinkable coffee, which, using Don Enrique’s pricing, would set the price of each cup at about ninety five centavos per cup, or about seven cents. A large coffee at Au Bon Pain™ costs $1.99, and contains

two cups of coffee, which means that a cup of Au Bon Pain coffee is 25 times more expensive than coffee purchased in southern Mexico. 3 That makes coffee production and importation a very good business, especially in the United States, where more than half of Americans over eighteen drink coffee every day.4 After the ride through some of Don Enrique’s fields, we rode back to the cabin, from where I would catch a ride back to town. I asked him why, at his old age and having grown coffee all his life, he didn’t stop working. “Ask an old sea turtle why, after many years of life, it doesn’t stop swimming.” I understood him. He liked what he did. Coffee had always been in his life, and he would die with coffee still intertwined with it. We rode in silence for the rest of the way, amongst innumerable green coffee beans, waiting for their time

in the mug.

Back at Duke, I finish sipping my coffee, and I contemplate about how little thought we give to our favorite hot drink.

How far has this coffee traveled, and how many people are behind it?

I see the last few drops of coffee at the bottom of the cup. I put it aside and continue with my work.

left photo by Oxfam International @ Flickr

right photo by Roots & Wings @ Flickr

coffee: a journey

1. Finca: farm in Spanish 2. 50 pesos is equivalent to about 4 USD. 3. Au Bon Pain, “Au Bon Pain Menu.” Last modified 2012. Accessed November 12, 2012. http:// www.aubonpain.com/menu/food.aspx?s=cafe_ beverages&f=251.

4. Harvard School of Public Health, “Coffee by the Numbers: Statistics.” Last modified 2009. Accessed November 12, 2012. http://www.hsph.harvard.edu/ multimedia/flash/2010/coffee/facts.html.

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culture

Bombay, India

Chalta Hai

anything goes

by Nadia-Estelle Fiat

O

n my week long vacation to Bombay last month, I was asked three times, “How do you like the city?” All three times, I couldn’t give more than a polite, “I like it very much.”

The problem wasn’t that I didn’t like the city—I’d known instantly that I would come to love Bombay, from the crowds at the Queen’s Necklace to the distinct salty smell of the Colaba district. I was drawn to this city. I admired it for what it was, a blend of great national presence with a trace of an unforgettable European past, and yet, I struggled to understand it. I felt the modernity of the place: the skyscrapers that lined Bombay’s affluent Pedder Road, the Ivy League graduates next door, and the Ambani residence just a few doors down.

As an outsider, I observed a city on the brink of superpower development, held back by a force I couldn’t describe. I wanted to find out more. I wasn’t satisfied with a mere repetition of Western newspaper headlines and political explanations of corruption and inequality. Every country

suffers from these predicaments to a certain extent, but what exactly is India’s story?

Walking around South Bombay, I realized the potential of the city—or perhaps it’s better to say, the “unused” potential. I saw beautiful but abandoned Victorian buildings, simply left behind to deteriorate, ready to be given another purpose. On another day, I drove through traffic so hectic I feared for my life. The cause of this was the delay in construction

of a major roadway that should have been completed in 2010. And what was the cause of my Bombay run? Restaurants grand

and small with sanitation reduced to the minimum, making Bombay runs, or food poisoning, common occurrences. And people tell me South Bombay is the better half. I know these are just the observations of a firang1 but I believe they shed light nonetheless. While it was disheartening to see such untapped potential, what surprised me most was the extent to which people were content with their current standards. I couldn’t understand this.

A million questions came to mind. Why is it that India, so rich and powerful, is still held back by such dilemmas? I couldn’t come to terms with the coexistence of both extremes: from incredible growth to complete stagnation. How could it so well embrace both ends of the developmental spectrum? What is the “real” India, and why have its people—from the highest minister to the poorest farmer—incorporated these obstacles into their lifestyles? Could these obstacles be overcome without hindering the charm and uniqueness of India?

I asked a friend of mine, a native of

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fall 2012

photo by author

passport

I admired it for what it was, a blend of great national presence with a trace of an unforgettable European past, and yet, I struggled to understand it.

Bombay, these same questions, and he more relaxed, carefree society? A version pointed out a very interesting concept, of sustainability perhaps? Yet in a society one that I still haven’t fully digested. He where “anything goes,” people are trapped said that in India, there exists an attitude under a stagnated, regressive umbrella, known as chalta hai, which translates to where one is protected yet clouded by “anything goes.” He explained further truth. Chalta hai acts as both a perpetrator that the Indian people are in a constant and scapegoat for India’s obstacles, serving state of satisfaction with as an excuse for all their surroundings, an is unprogressive.

Chalta hai acts as both that attitude similar to que This leads to a a perpetrator and sera sera (perhaps Sonia vicious, never-ending Gandhi had more of straying from scapegoat for India’s cycle an influence than we progression. If this obstacles, serving as attitude dominates thought). Upon hearing this, many events in society, then an excuse for all that is Indian the past few days came finding the will to unprogressive. to mind. I had been in change will prove to Chennai the week before be very difficult. As and had experienced an hour-long power long as people are satisfied with the status cut my first day there. Surprised, I’d then quo, then their full potential can never be asked a friend I was staying with if this reached. was a common occurrence. In a rather All this time though, I have an inkling nonchalant tone, she’d responded that this that I’m looking at chalta hai from the happened every day. This sudden, hour- wrong angle, an angle confined by my long power cut had become a way of life personal experiences and for her, a societal norm. In fact, there was shaped by my foreign even an online schedule for these power perspective. What if my cuts in the Hindustan Times! I couldn’t indoctrinated interprebelieve this. I was torn between fighting tation of development is to undo what I thought were completely completely off? Here, we unacceptable norms and keeping quiet for measure development fear of making cultural judgments. What primarily through one’s I’ve seen in India has led me to believe that advancement and success.

India has the potential to rid its people of But how do they measure these unnecessary hardships and establish it in India? Perhaps prothe basic needs and wants that we in the gression is not fueled by West take for granted. But how do we money, but by something inject this realization without hindering we cannot yet fathom. In their right to cultural sovereignty? a society in which we’re I’ve tried to think of the benefits of the constantly on the move mindset of chalta hai. Does it create for a and heralding efficiency, top left photo by author all other photos by babasteve@Flickr

we are losing sight of something essential in chalta hai, something that is key to shaping India. Could it be that India chose to adapt these “obstacles” into a lifestyle? If chalta hai were to be abandoned, perhaps the India we love would not continue on as it is, and the face of Indian culture would forever be subjected to immutable transformations.

I’m far from finding the answers. Maybe on my next trip to India I’ll come to better understand this foreign attitude, maybe even come to terms with it. There’s much more to be learned, much more to be understood, but for now, chalta hai.

1. Firang: outsider/foreigner in Hindi

chalta hai

22

memoir

Datca, Turkey

Datca S

Whe re I Learned to b e a C hi l d

â&#x20AC;&#x153;D a t c a A k t u r , a m a r i n e resort full of private summerhouses that

separate the bay from its long beach and tall pine trees...â&#x20AC;?

23

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outh of Turkey, where the Blue Flag-certified Mediterranean and Aegean seas meet, is Datca.1 Situated between the more-known holiday centers of the Greek islands Rhodes and Kos, Datca is best in early June to late September with its wonderful weather, crystal bright sea, and mouth-watering food. I spend my summers at Datca Aktur, a marine resort full of private summerhouses that separate the bay from its long beach and tall pine trees. It offers wonderful scenery for both amateur and professional photographers.

fall 2012

by Ada Aka

This paradise is rich with history. It is said that while Spanish pirates were passing by Datca around 2000 B.C., they decided to leave people with leprosy there to die. Surprisingly, because of the clear air, healthy food, and wonderful weather, none of the ill died and they became the first inhabitants of Old Datca. I remember driving to the center of Old Datca, where I was captivated by the architecture of the old houses made of stone. Datca has changed as time has passed, but Old Datca is essentially preserved. There is the house of deceased Turkish poet Can Yucel, whose satirical

all photos by author

“W e secret all of world

imagine we are on a boat going on a journey, like being on Noah’s Ark with those animals and sailing to an unknown until our mothers start to call us back home for lunch one by one.”

poems I read in Turkish Literature classes at school. As you walk through the streets, you feel like you are in a Cubist art painting of streets paved with symmetrical stones of gray.

Datca is the place I have been spending my summers since I was nineteen months old.

I experienced most of my first times here: I learned to ride a bicycle after multiple accidents when I was four; I found the best places in Datca Aktur where no one could find me during games of hide-and-seek in the streets with my friends; we ran and swam all day long until we were called back by our moms—all things that I haven’t been able to experience while living in a metropolis like Istanbul. In a sense, Datca is where I learned to be a child.

••• I meet my friends at the beach everyday.

We are talented sand castle makers. To us, they are not just cylindrical pile of sands, but unique architectures. We start by deciding on the shape—once a hexagonal castle with twelve windows. We then decorate with black and white stones, shiny and dull seashells, alive and blooming flowers of all kinds—whatever we find that day.

There is a raft in the middle of the sea. It is our favorite place. We swim there together, get on the small raft where we can talk and joke, dive into the sea, and play games like tag. We imagine we are on a boat going on a secret journey, like being on Noah’s Ark

with all of those animals and sailing to an unknown world until our mothers start to call us back home for lunch one by one.

One of the things we all love about Datca is the food. My mom makes the most delicious meals in Datca, not because her cooking skills improve during the summer, but because of the organic food that comes directly from farmers’ gardens to the local bazaars. There are fresh fruits and vegetables, sweet and sour spices, honey and almonds—everything naturally smells great at these bazaars. I didn’t know that almonds could have such a sharp bittersweet taste, or that honey comes in different flavors like soured or sugary, or from honeydew to blossom, until I tried them for the first time in Datca. There are also people selling local clothing, jewelry, handmade crafts, and souvenirs in the bazaars. The bazaar is one of my favorite places to go.

I bought a pair of earrings from a local designer here. They are still my favorites because whenever I wear them, they remind me of summers in Datca.

At the end of the day, we return to the beach.

Full moon is an exceptionally incredible time to be at the beach for an unforgettable night view. My family and friends bring tables to the beach where we have dinner and take photographs. It is amazing to lie on the cold sand, look to the sky, and see the full moon and its reflection. Its light chases me as I run across the beach, as if I am playing

a game of tag with the moon.

When I look back today, the best of my

••• memories were shaped back in Datca Aktur, full of youthful spirit, strong friendships, crystal clear sea, bright sun, bicycles, secret journeys, late night hide and seeks, finger-licking food, round full moons and much more. If one asked me what my heaven on Earth was, I would shout out without any hesitation,

“Datca!”

1. Blue Flag-certified beaches are certified in their eco-friendly standards and goal for sustainable development.

datca

24

photo essay

Poland

by Caitlin Tutterow

Something Old

SOMETHING NEW

W

hen my friends and family learned I was traveling to Poland, I was repeatedly told to travel to Kraków and not Warsaw. When I asked why, they explained to me that since Warsaw was almost completely rebuilt after WWII, it was not “authentic.” The word “authenticity” made me wonder: what exactly makes a city authentic? Is it the people and culture that makes a city authentic, or is it the history exuded by centuries old buildings? Warsaw and Kraków have an interesting relationship in terms of authenticity. Kraków has roots dating back to the 7th century and was the original capital of Poland. Warsaw, however, dates only back to the 14th century and it wasn’t until 1596 that the city became the new capital of Poland. Seven centuries older than Warsaw, Kraków is also often deemed more “authentic” because it emerged virtually unscathed from the bombings of WWII. On

the other hand, almost 85% of the buildings in Warsaw were razed to the ground towards the end of WWII. However, after WWII an initiative was formed to restore Warsaw’s Old Town (the 17th and 18th century city center) to its original condition. The results were so well done that United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) added Old Town to the World Heritage List.1 Today, when you walk across Old Town it is hard to believe that the building are actually less than fifty years old.

Can you tell what is old and what is new?

Guess which pictures were taken in Kraków and which were taken in Warsaw. Answers are given at the bottom of the right page.

1. Wilson, Neil, Tom Parkinson, and Richard Watkins.

Poland. China: Lonely Planet Publications Pty Ltd, 2005.

3

2

25

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all photos by author

4

5

6

7 8

something old, something new

26

Warsaw: 1,6,7,8 Krakow: 2,3,4,5

op-ed

Give Me A

Cambodia

S

CCER

Ball, Not a Price Tag

by Risa Pieters

Imagine a childhood stripped away Iby a life of slavery.

Y

from many opportunities they should be capable of pursuing. Growing up in such an environment, what could empower these girls to realize their own potential?

ou are a piece of property, owned by another person, living a life of fear, depression, and false hope. While other kids go to school every morning and play with friends, you are forced to do chores, work in a factory, or give up your body to a stranger to abuse.

The United Nations estimates that 700,000 to four million women and children are trafficked around the world for purposes of forced prostitution, labor and other forms of exploitation every year. Human trafficking is estimated to be a seven billion dollar annual business.1 In the beautiful country of Cambodia, girls who are the faces of the statistics may seem like they are in a different world, but people tend to forget they are just like everyone else: they want to go to school, spend time with friends, and have the ability to look forward to a bright future. A girl in the human-trafficking market is separated from her family and surrounded by people she cannot trust for years, people she fears will harm her daily, and they do. With a childhood robbed, girls lack the education and skills needed to restart their lives.

These girls are restrained and held back

After a scarred past like this, building trustworthy relationships is a challenge.

With very different pasts, languages, and cultures, twenty soccer players and I put these differences behind us and focused on what makes us the same as Cambodian girls. We found a common ground through a game known across the world: soccer. In Battambang, Cambodia, we had the opportunity to see the beauty of soccer and what it could offer these young girls.

We worked with an organization called the Soccer and Leadership Training (S.A.L.T.) Academy, playing in street tournaments and showcasing games to inspire young girls to come out and play soccer, which is typically depicted as a male-only sport.

We also organized soccer camps for girls to step on the field and play with their peers, promoting teamwork and friendship. We played with them and built relationships with them as a team, not as separate coaches and players. In doing so, we hoped

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passport

We found a common ground through a game known across the world: soccer.

to empower these young girls to recover from a childhood of being enslaved and give them hope for their futures. Building relationships through a soccer ball and a smile helped us break down the language and cultural barriers.

Working with Sam Schweingruber, the founder of S.A.L.T. Academy, we encouraged girls rescued from slavery to start playing soccer and join a team.

Through S.A.L.T. Academy, girls who were committed on a soccer team had the opportunity to attend classes to learn English, math, science, art, hygiene, and

leadership skills. Through soccer, girls who were isolated because of an enslaved childhood had a team they belonged to, giving them a sense of family. For these girls, soccer gave them hope for a brighter future through access to education, a support system, physical exercise, and housing. They learned to look forward to their future instead of back to the past.

“After joining soccer, I feel like I belonged to something bigger; I am not a lost girl.” - Nypha During my first trip to Cambodia, I had the chance to meet Nypha Chheun, a victim of slavery from Thailand. She was one of the first girls to join the newly formed women’s soccer team in Cambodia and is now the model many younger Cambodian girls aspire to be. I asked her why she liked playing soccer and she said, “After joining soccer, I felt like I belonged to something bigger; I am not a lost girl.”

Many girls who leave slavery are lonely, lost, and restricted by lack of education, support, and resources. This often leads to their return to slavery because they have no other choice. Nypha told me, “When I feel bad for my hungry mom and brothers, I want to go back to Thailand, but I know I will make you sad and my soccer girls all photos by author

sad, so I do not go.” Nypha has now grown to be a powerful and strong woman who plays for the FIFA Cambodia Women’s National Team and coaches a team of younger girls. She also has earned the opportunity to travel to Scotland to earn her coaching license and be exposed to a new experience rarely tangible to girls in Cambodia. Soccer has tapped into Nypha’s potential as she transformed her life from a girl in slavery to a role model for the younger generation of girls in Cambodia.

Witnessing soccer giving hope, opening opportunities, and changing the lives of girls who have endured a less privileged childhood was incredible; I never knew a game I loved playing so much here in America could have so much power in a country like Cambodia and completely transform the lives of girls like Nypha.

These girls never deserve to have a price tagged to their bodies.

Not only is it inspiring to see soccer change lives for the original group of girls who decided to play, but there is a great amount of hope that perpetuates through generations. Older girls pass on the empowerment of soccer and education to younger girls, who can in turn inspire

the generation after them. These girls never deserve to have a price tagged to their bodies and always have the right to a brighter and more opportunistic future. When we first arrived in Cambodia in 2009, not a single girl dared to be seen on the soccer field. Now in 2012, only three years later, we are ecstatic to see over 2,000 girls enrolled in soccer teams and education programs. While we differ in culture, beliefs, and language, we will always have a connection through the global game of soccer. Soccer provides hope and inspiration for the future of women empowerment.

Kids will be kids, and kids deserve to be kids. So give them a soccer ball, not a price tag.

1.

The Protection Project. “Human Trafficking: Facts & Figures.” Human Trafficking: Facts & Figures. The World Revolution & The Protection Project, 2010. Web. 06 Sept. 2012. <http://www. teamwmi.org/educational-information/ human-trafficking-facts-figures/>.

give me a soccer ball

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Games WORLD staff corner

WIDE

Settlers of

CATAN The Settlers of Catan is multiplayer board game that involves strategy, luck, and a few hours of your time (at minimum, two). It was designed by Klaus Teuber and first distributed in Germany in 1995.

Though the game may seem complicated, it doesn’t take long before things get intense.

The players are settlers who try to build colonies on the island of Catan, which consists of randomly placed hexagonal tiles. The tiles represent a variety of land types that produce different resources (brick, lumber, wool, grain, and ore). As the players roll the dice, the numbers rolled determine which tiles produce resources, and the players spend the resources to build roads, settlements, and cities. It’s relatively civil until the first seven is rolled and players start stealing cards, breaking alliances, cutting each other off, and refusing to trade resources. The goal of the game is to be the first to acquire ten victory points: each settlement is worth one point, a city is worth two, and various victory points are acquired through achievements like acquiring the longest road or largest army of knights. Be prepared for a heated game in which players turn against each other and compete for the most successful colony in a few fun hours.

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Mahjong

Among all the games that are still widely played today, Mahjong is a strong candidate for “the game with the longest history.” It is said that Confucius, the most influential Chinese philosopher, invented the first version of Mahjong in about 500 B.C. The game is usually played with four people using a set of 136 tiles based on Chinese characters and symbols. Its specific rules are impossible to explain in two paragraphs, but here is

fall 2012

a very brief description: each player starts with thirteen tiles at hand, and through repetitive drawing and discarding, the one who first manages to collect a required set of tiles wins the game.

Mahjong is a combination of skill, strategy, psychological wars, and fortune.

Maybe this multidimensionality is the reason why the game engages such a great and diverse population in China, Korea and Japan, regardless of differences in genders, ages, occupations, classes, and education levels. Mahjong can be played any place and any time. It is both a means of killing time and a major entertainment during parties or family gatherings.

Having enjoyed centuries of popularity, Mahjong doesn’t see its prevalence waning at all, even when people today have access to a greater diversity of entertainment than centuries ago.

all images illustrated by Lauren Jackson

AFRICAN

ONE CARD

Dwarf

TOSSING

“Nobody tosses a dwarf!”

Sorry, Gimli, it seems like that’s not always the case. Dwarf throwing is a pub sport that originated in either the United Kingdom or Australia, and is still played in some choice countries. The goal of the game is simple: throw a (willing!) dwarf as far as possible across a mattress. The person who throws the farthest wins the game. There is a strict set of safety rules, but the sport is banned in England, France, and the United States for obvious reasons.

All the same, one could potentially play the game at home with little brothers in tow.

(Passport International Magazine is not El Calafate, Argentina responsible for any damages incurred.)

Ever played Uno? In case you just didn’t have a childhood, it’s a game of matching very brightly colored cards until your hand is finished. It’s a unique card game that seemingly requires its own deck of cards. This article quite possibly might put the official Uno game out of business— figuratively, of course. If you ever find yourself Uno-cardless, all you need is a regular deck of playing cards and you’ve got yourself a classic. There are two different sets of rules for One Card, but both are very easy to learn. Like Uno, the point of the game is to get rid of your cards before all other opponents by a combination of skill and luck. First, start left of the dealer and go in a clockwise direction. You can only put a card down that matches either the number or the suit of the previous card (e.g. seven on seven or diamonds on diamonds). Certain numbers have unique advantages. For example, all twos are considered skips, sevens are reverses, tens are draw-twos, and aces are wild cards.

Additionally, if you have two or more of the same number, you can play both in one turn. If you have the same number of the card played before your turn, you can also play it and push the card onto the next person, even if it is a draw-two or skip.

Regardless of how you play it, this game is a perfect representation of the Uno that we all know and love, with a regular deck and a little twist.

FERRET

LEGGING

Yorkshire, England: a luscious green countryside of stone hamlets, abbey towns, fairytale castles, and men who stick ferrets down their pants. Ferret legging, also known as “put ‘em down” and “ferret-down-thetrousers” consists of male contestants who must secure their trousers at the ankles and waist to prevent two ferrets from escaping the confines of their pants. Contestants then stand in front of the judges for as long as possible; the champion is the last one with toothy carnivores in his pants. (Underwear is not allowed, and tight pants are frowned upon.)

Although ferret legging is centuries old, its initial surge in popularity occurred in the 1970s among coal miners in Yorkshire, England. For the first decade, world records were measured in seconds and minutes.

However, in 1981, Reg Mellor from South Yorkshire set the world record at five hours and 26 minutes. Despite the enraged animal activists, ferret legging has become increasingly popular in the past fifteen years. It has now even spread to Richmond, Virginia’s Celtic festival as an event that has been featured annually since 2003.

As Richmond is only a three-hour drive from Durham and the Celtic Festival is in October, even Duke students can try their pants at ferret legging.

staff corner

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let go

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