Souvenirs | 2014-'15 by Souvenirs

SOUVENIRS A COLLECTION OF INTERNATIONAL EXPERIENCES | 2014-2015

Souvenirs Staff

Editor's Note

Editor in Chief

My mind has never been as restless as it was when my plane was on the brink of lifting off the runway, launching me into six months of studying abroad in Brisbane, Australia. Would I be so painfully homesick that I’d have to go home? Would I fit in at school? Would I get lost somewhere in the outback and be eaten by a dingo? My trip Down Under during the spring of 2013 wasn’t short on challenges—I was stranded in the Sydney airport when a flight was canceled unexpectedly; a 14-hour time difference stood in the way of communicating with my family and friends; and I got food poisoning on a boat in the middle of the Great Barrier Reef (note to self: be wary of curry served at dive bars). However, it was also the most surreal, sublime time of my life: I skydived along the Gold Coast at sunset with my Aussie roommates; I swam with sharks in Fiji; I saw one of my favorite artists at the Sydney Opera House; and I scaled a glacier in New Zealand. Most importantly, I was free to explore the world on my own terms. If you have been abroad, I hope Souvenirs helps you relive your own time overseas. If you have qualms about travelling halfway across the world—or if you have never even thought about it—I hope Souvenirs inspires you to just hop on a plane and go.

Haley Henschel Editors

Paige Costakos Meghan Eustice Lindsey Gapen Design Directors

Esta Pratt-Kielley Alicia Suguitan-Morrow Social Media Manager

Lindsey Bliefernicht Webmaster

Ashley Berg Wisconsin Union Directorate Publications Committee Director

Bon voyage,

Katie Van Dam Wisconsin Union Directorate Publications Committee Advisor

Jim Rogers

COVER PHOTO BY JANE THOMPSON (URUGUAY) BACK COVER PHOTO BY NICK MONFELI (DENMARK)

EVAN PETKOV (VIETNAM)

photo by Evan Petkov (Vietnam)

NICK MONFELI (NORWAY)

NORTH AND CENTRAL AMERICA

IN THIS ISSUE Eric Obscherning 7 Jacob Raether 7 Lindsey Bliefernicht

SOUTH AMERICA

Mason Purtell 12 Brian Brito 14

AFRICA

Megan Waibel 19

EUROPE

Jackie Bannon 24 Euan Findlater 25

ASIA AND OCEANIA

Laine Moger

30, 34

Ben Sullender 33

EVAN PETKOV (USA)

NORTH & CENTRAL AMERICA

Planting Plátanos in Jaibon, Dominican Republic By Eric Obscherning A man with his face half-soaked with shade from a straw sombrero balances his wheelbarrow as he bolts down the heightened aisles of earth, lifting a load full to the brim with plátanos tree cuttings. Now pauses, picks one & places it into a cradle of soil, tucking it in & kissing it like it was his own son, while beads of sweat dive off the curl in his mustache, falling & fertilizing the fruit of his labors.

Yucateca Wilting By Jacob Raether (Mexico) I find myself, again, in this untouchable meadow but today she surrendered one of her own Her stem, petals, and thorns fit so comfortably in the curves and wrinkles of my hand for whatever reason, I had to care and even though She was wilting in front of me to go unloved, no, we were meant to be shared She contained this warmth that blanketed my chill and soothed my ache I’ve always been an island but She didn’t seem to mind being lost at sea what was it that made my body grow closer and tighter so that it could protect Hers or how Her sun was setting, yet She stayed in my arms until it was time -Your blossom was real -Your blossom was mine alone again. sentenced to solitude, though forever there is our memory where briefly our lips met and I found wholeness a wholeness, which I do not have yet. EVAN PETKOV (USA)

-For Olivia

~ Un Ano Nuevo By Lindsey Bliefernicht (Costa Rica) Top photo by Cong Mu, bottom photo by Sara Easa (Costa Rica)

“Tranquila.” At that moment, my host mom Ana’s voice echoed in my head. Americans are always on the go, but here in the tropical paradise that is Costa Rica, life is all about placidity. I surprise myself by just how tranquil I actually feel. Here I am in a place completely opposite of how I had imagined my normal New Year’s Eve. In fact, I could picture it now: my parents and sister, all asleep, having barely made it to 10:45 p.m. We always joked about how we were clearly the life of the party. To say the least, New Year’s was just another television program back at my home in Wisconsin. Yet here I am in Manuel Antonio, soaking up the wonders of a moonlit night on the beach. Many people asked us why we would go to the beach for New Year’s Eve, as most of the parties occur in the nearby town of Quepos. Despite this, I knew we made the right decision: When my friend Maddy told us that she always had the tradition back home of ringing in the New Year on the beach with her loved ones, we realized that was exactly what we wanted to do. She said it had brought her family luck, and I am nothing if not partial to superstition. So when we arrive to see the reasons why tourists rave about this beach, we are not disappointed. Prior to this night, I had never seen an ocean… never truly felt the rush of water against my feet racing towards me, then ever

so slowly regressing back to the sparkling abyss. There was hardly a cloud in the sky that night and the moon cast its glow upon the horizon, lighting up what would otherwise be an opaque cove. I dig my toes into the sand, thankful for its silky feel. The ever-present roar of the waves, despite its newness, is comforting. “Why would anyone go to the beach during the day?” I wondered. The nights spent at a beach are simply unparalleled. I hadn’t expected the evening to become any more extraordinary than it already was, but then midnight starts to draw near. There are very few tourists, as they all went to the city for the party. We are surrounded by local families who, one by one, light floating lanterns. We watch as they peacefully float into the sky, lit with the hopes of a prosperous year to come. A rogue firework. Screams. Giggles. Merriment. Tres. Dos. Uno. ¡Feliz año nuevo! Fireworks whir and pop as I glance around at my companions. I don’t recall a time that I have been so blissfully happy, especially in a place so foreign. I miss my family, but the hurt subsides as I look up at the moon and remember that it is the very same one I can see in Wisconsin. I close my eyes and sigh, soaking in the felicity that surrounds me. “¡Ahhh, que tranquila!”

JANE THOMPSON (ARGENTINA)

SOUTH AMERICA

Toque Toque Pequeno By Mason Purtell (Brazil) E, ali, o mundo se ajoelhava a meus pĂŠs trapped on that Beach free to the World sol i Splashed, we Splashed And, there, the world knelt at my feet

photos by Jane Thompson (Argentina)

PHOTOS BY JANE THOMPSON (ARGENTINA)

Day 27 - Eye of the Beholder By Brian Brito (Ecuador) June 20, 2014 – Tiputini Biodiversity Station The rainforest strives for balance. An intricate equilibrium of its biomass is always distributed amongst various life forms. Each entity waits for the chance to use another’s energy to build itself. This is the law of the rainforest. I find myself unable to comprehend the concept of beauty. It is a word reserved for something truly majestic, something that takes your breath away, something that appeals to your senses and touches your soul. Many people use this word to describe the tropical rainforest surrounding me: the Amazon. The sights and sounds of the rainforest and all of its ecological intricacies exist nearly untouched by human hands. The true power of nature is present here. But, unlike my peers, I haven’t found much of this experience to be beautiful; I sit and wonder how that could even be possible. I am in one of the few places in the world where I can observe such biodiversity. All the information in the textbooks that I have read comes forth from this very ground I stand on, this very forest I am swallowed in. Each day, I witness everyone frantically pulling out their cameras and binoculars to record the rarest species of whatever, as I stand there wondering why I would even want to look in the first place. People could write novels on the levels of beauty they have been exposed to during their stays, but I have yet to see that beauty. I keep wondering if there is something wrong with me, if I am the black sheep of the flock, turning a blind eye to the obvious or too stubborn to admit what is right in front of me. I start to wonder what kind of things I find beautiful. I find that secrets can be beautiful. A bond of knowledge between two people, exclusive only

to the keepers. Or a secret from the world—information that has yet to be discovered about a scientific process within the laws of nature; or an author that has discovered a hidden emotion unknown to the spectrum. Maybe a secret location that transcends the planes of time and space, existing outside the bounds of reality. Keeping a part of this world as your personal secret allows you to take ownership of the place or moment or thought, and gives you the satisfaction that you are one of the few people who know about it. I find faith to be beautiful—faith in oneself, in another or in an otherworldly being; trusting someone so much that there is no doubt associated with them; believing so wholeheartedly, and building reliability in turn. You create this connection knowing that standards might not be met, that expectations may be unfufilled, and that in your time of need you might be completely alone, but you chose to believe anyway. That level of knowing is difficult to achieve. A level worthy of every effort. I find beauty in the short-lived moments: The fading sun. A stolen glance. A conquered feat. The moments where it feels like the world around you has stopped, and you can do nothing else but enjoy life because in the next second, it will be all over. These are the moments you never forget. But what I find most beautiful is justice. A morally right action is in alignment with what is beautiful. To me, justice is the most important beauty because it ties together all that I find beautiful. A secret employed against people to deceive or manipulate holds no ground in the territory of beauty. A steadfast belief in the inability of a person to accomplish a task, or doubting a being’s genuine efforts, holds no place in my heart. And the short-lived moment only goes so far

as to how much beauty it can contain. There are moments of endless sadness, raw terror and the loss of something special that exist as well. At first, they cause only pain and destruction, but you can use them to try to grow. Justice works to provide an equal opportunity for life. And that is why it is so beautiful. The rainforest does not have any individual beauty. Life in the wet, tropical forest is a series of competitions between and within species for food, water and space: Leaves are the main source of photosynthesis for plants, but they also provide dietary nutrition for insects and monkeys. Insects are a reliable source of protein for birds and frogs. And these predators fall into the web of energy flow that establishes a relationship between the creatures of the forest: Death is required to provide life for another here. The cycle continues. Humans utilize the oxygen the Amazon produces, as well as the living forest’s oil, timber and farmland. Although the Amazon doesn’t enforce individual justice within its boundaries, to destroy the productivity of a system that contains so much life would be unjust. Nothing goes unused in the Amazon. The Amazon itself is a living, breathing organism. Each individual life within contributes to the functionality of the whole. Even if I cannot enjoy the rainforest at this moment, I can understand the sanctity of it and mankind’s need for its existence. I should be describing the unstable terrain of the Guacamayo Ridge Trail, all of its muddy waters and slippery slopes, or our close encounter with pygmy marmosets and owl monkeys, or even our fortune of sighting sloths in the trees. But I have discovered what I consider to be the secret of the forest, and I have rationalized my own interpretation of its beauty. I can now join my peers in declaring the beauty of nature.

I find beauty in the short-lived moments. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Brian

JANE THOMPSON (CHILE)

Brito

TOM BOYDEN (SOUTH AFRICA)

AFRICA

Let Us Give Life By Megan Waibel (Uganda)

I could tell you endless stories about poverty and destitution in Uganda. But you know most of that. Or you assume. And your assumptions are right. Children are orphaned daily because of disease, and people scrape by on $2 per day in the slums of Kampala. But I want to tell you what you do not know and what you may not have the courage to act upon.

Pharmacy and the Ugandan health care system As a pre-pharmacy student at University of Wisconsin-Madison, I focused on health care and drug availability during my three-week excursion to Uganda. Uganda’s health care system contains Health Center levels I, II, III and IV, in addition to district hospitals. Each level has better facilities and more educated clinicians than the former. In a country where malaria, HIV/AIDS and tuberculosis ravage the population, prescription medications are a necessity, but the medicinal supply never meets the high demand. The centers have extremely limited budgets— one Health Center IV has an annual drug budget of $33,000 for the entire district. This money funds prescription medications, but consequently leads to a shortage of over-the-counter medicines we take for granted, such as ibuprofen, Imodium, Midol and aspirin. So what happens to a dehydrated boy with diarrhea? What happens to a teenage girl, bedridden every month from the pain of menstruation? What happens to a mother incapacitated by migraines? I was dumbfounded by people’s lack of access to medicine, transportation, drinking water, and other necessities. It was exhausting to keep up with everything they did not have.

JACOB RAETHER (GHANA)

What we have to learn from Uganda I could not pity the Ugandan people, because their unfaltering joy captivated me. Instead, I reflected on my own life and pitied myself. As a white, middleclass woman from the Western world, I have received everything I have ever needed. I have experienced hardship and sorrow, but I have never worried about money, food, or finishing school because of something as silly as menstruation. I realized along this journey what many travelers do: Ugandans have full, beautiful lives despite their hardships. Furthermore, and this is the crux of my realization, our lives are no fuller. Technology, media, success and wealth do not fulfill us, but rather distract us from what truly gives us life. For me, these fulfilling things are music, deep relationships and Jesus Christ, none of which require paychecks, perfect health or Instagram photos with thousands of likes. I do not belittle the hardships Ugandans face. Clean water, education and health care are essential for everyone. But I implore you to stop handing out pity as charity long enough to take action toward attaining what truly gives life. What is actually important unites us across all borders, because we are all the same in the end. The United States has tried to distinguish itself from the rest of the world as the fastest, richest, most advanced, and most democratic society. Perhaps we should set aside our definition of success, and get down in the dirt with our global brothers and sisters to truly discover whatever life is together. We are not identical, but we are all human, and it is time we understood that.

TOM BOYDEN (MOROCCO) The above photo was shot in Taghazout, Morocco during the Muslim celebration Eid. The local boys put on the freshly slaughtered goat hides, adorn themselves with masks and masquerade about the villages asking for money, threatening a quick bash with their goat hoof bludgeon if you don't comply.

HANNAH VANDERLAAN (TANZANIA)

JACOB RAETHER (GHANA)

ERIKA RABAS (ZIMBABWE) TOM BOYDEN (SOUTH AFRICA)

CHLOE KARASKIEWICZ (NORWAY)

EUROPE

LONDON'S LITTLE THINGS By Jackie Bannon, photo by Annamaria Grinis (England) Peak hour on the Tube in London is the time when masses of men in black and gray suits race for a spot on the crowded subway train. Standing shoulder to shoulder like carefully packaged sardines, everyone is unnaturally serious. It’s an unspoken rule to avoid eye contact at all costs, and no one would dare to strike up a conversation with a fellow commuter. But the other day, there was a spark of joy to break this dreariness. Two middle-aged women stood in the middle of the Tube car, sharing earphones, shamelessly belting an upbeat Spanish song and using each other’s fists as mock microphones. These two women were so unconditionally happy that they couldn’t even contain it inside themselves. I couldn’t believe that the majority of the suited men just stared, grunted and looked away. Unlike them, I chuckled and wished I was dancing alongside the joyful women. Even in the midst of a big city, it’s these things that I live for: the little things. I often need reminding of this. Being in Europe, I find myself thinking solely about the big things. It’s easy

to believe that studying abroad is all about these momentous and article-worthy experiences. With this mindset, I’ve found myself thinking, “Maybe if I go see every European country, I will find fulfillment in life.” However, this mindset overlooks life’s simplicities. It’s not like I hopped off the plane—and boom! My life changed just like that. There’s no way I could have possibly planned for a life-changing experience, so I’m focusing on London’s small treasures: liberal art galleries, food markets, antique markets, flower markets, three-year-old children with better fashion senses than me, an aisle in the grocery store dedicated solely to biscuits for dipping into tea... Just last week, I was able to experience one of London’s best traditions: high tea. Late in the day when you’re just starting to feel the afternoon blues, you can indulge in delicious teas made with herbs I have never heard of, miniature sandwiches, champagne and a tower of desserts. Literally, a tower. To me, this sounded like a dream come true, so I tried to pretend I was “posh” for a day. However, it turns out I’m not that charming. Somehow, seven minutes before I was supposed to be sitting down for my high tea reservation, I found myself lost and half an hour away from the fancy tea room. Terrified of being shunned from this experience, I decided to race down the street in my dress, tights, riding boots, winter coat and heavy backpack. My high school cross country training didn’t fail me: I made it in good time. But as soon as I sat down at the table full of silver and glass dishes resting on a white tablecloth, I found myself flustered, red-faced and awfully

sweaty—certainly not a condition that matched the proper occasion. Regardless, I was still able to consume all the baby sandwiches followed by seven different types of desserts. Another time, I was wandering around Brick Lane, a neighborhood of London that’s known for its authentic curry, vintage shops and eccentric street art. My friend and I were sitting at a table after splitting a dish of famous Brick Lane curry when her jaw actually dropped. She tried to spit out my name, but she couldn’t even form words. After about twenty seconds of recovery, she announced that Russell Brand had just walked past our table. I could’ve stuck out my arm and touched him if I had known he was there. Despite a close encounter of something spectacular, nothing could’ve beaten that bite of naan I still dream about today. And to finish with something sweet, let’s talk chocolate. Back in Madison, I devoured pints of Babcock ice cream almost daily. In London, it’s the smooth, rich chocolate that gets me. I’ve actually become so genuinely worried that I’m becoming addicted to Galaxy chocolate bars that I have four of them locked in my safe right now. There’s no money or anything in there—just European chocolate. I will always live for these small moments. There is comfort in the fact that they’re constantly surrounding us, every day, all around the world. Throughout my time abroad, I will seize every possible opportunity, the big and the small, and find something to love each second of every day. If you ever find yourself in the shadow of Big Ben, listen for the bagpipe that plays over the Thames and find joy in London’s simple treasures.

TOM BOYDEN (GREECE)

Scotland, O Scotland By Euan Findlater Scotland, O Scotland, I mourn the loss of thee, for never shall I see, thy sweet serenity. I miss thee dearly, O bonnie glens of the thistle, that is color of spirit shall be mends. Scotland, O Scotland, the home of the brave, they stood against him unto their grave. Thy land so pretty, and people so gritty. You shall never be forgotten and I shall never be broken, thanks to ye, O Bonnie Scotland, my heart shall never be dampened. Through my blood and through my hand, I find confidence to write for thee. For my love and for my soul, my pages shall reflect thy beauty, inside and out. Scotland, O Scotland, the blood of thee shall flow through my thoughts like a river through thy highlands. My words will praise thee, my thoughts will describe thee, though never can one fully understand, my love and devotion for thee. NICK MONFELI (NORWAY)

NICK MONFELI (CZECH REPUBLIC) SAMANTHA BROWN (BOSNIA & HERZEGOVINA) This image is of a small section of the Srebrenica-PotoÄ?ari Memorial and Cemetery to Genocide Victims. It memorialized the genocide that happened from July 11 to July 13, 1995, when over 8,000 Bosniaks, primarily boys and men, died in and around the Bosnian town of Srebrenica. The memorial is not yet finished, as bodies are continually being discovered, and the latest large burial was of 775 victims in 2010. Although the scale of the massacre is horrendous and terrifying, the most difficult aspect of visiting it was actually seeing the victimsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; birthdays and how young so many of them were.

Read more about Samantha's time in Bosnia and Herzegovina on souvenirsmadison.com.

ANNAMARIA GRINIS (HUNGARY)

INK ILLUSTRATIONS BY FINN CURRY (GERMANY)

During World War II, the Freiburg M端nster (cathedral) withstood an aerial bombing that destroyed most of the surrounding old city; damages to the M端nster included the collapse of the tiled roof and broken windows. The people of Freiburg (mostly women and children, who were not off fighting) repaired the building with donated tiles and saved the interior from exposure to the elements. I was inspired to explore the symbolic and emotional nature of this story when living in Freiburg last year.

NICK MONFELI (PORTUGAL)

ALYSSA ALHEID (SWEDEN)

RUSTY HUE

(WADI RUM, JORDAN)

By Laine Moger Amidst the rippled motley grain sandy whispers skim and twirl, while flecks of stubborn green laugh, as they pierce the rusty hue. The marbled faces that guard gathering dunes, bear chiselled wrinkles, reminiscent of an age of watching.

CHLOE KARASKIEWICZ (INDIA)

Later, The weary sun pulls a haze of calm, and shadows drift lightly underfoot. Before the cloudless, cobalt closes to humble Beneath a river of stars

ASIA & OCEANIA

EVAN PETKOV (VIETNAM)

Disrepair and the Draw of Gunung Rinjani By Ben Sullender (Indonesia) For me, the combination of physical exhaustion and raw, natural beauty is captivating. I am rendered useless except to stare. Perhaps my groaning muscles rip all available energy from my mind. Perhaps the monotonous trudge drains my swirling brain of one thought after another; every step dispels a nagging worry, and every strain reveals a song that is stuck in my head. After enough footfalls, I’ve thought through all my thoughts. My mind is left deserted and defenseless. So I found myself awestruck (dumbstruck? Thunderstruck?) at Gunung Rinjani’s crater rim after a relentless four-hour, 5,000foot ascent that I began at dawn. Struggling to control rebellious quads, I stumbled to a particularly inviting patch of withered grass and dirt and took a quick breather for the next hour and a half. I was perched on the edge of a sixkilometer-wide caldera lake—a lake that forms in a volcano’s summit when it collapses once the magma inside has been disgorged. Apparently, Rinjani still isn’t ready to throw in the towel, as evident by a slightly smoking cinder cone in the middle of the caldera whose inside rim is colored by telltale yellow sulfur precipitates. This smaller peak is appropriately called

Gunung Baru—“Mount New”— and has blanketed a section of the lake with dusty, black-and-rust lava flows. Towering above Gunung Baru is the caldera’s crown of rim peaks, with Rinjani reigning as undisputed king. As I gradually recovered from my stupor, I wandered around the crater rim and noticed a disconcerting amount of trash. I saw metal shells of toilets with doors long since fallen off, leaving trekkers to dig holes at random (spelling trouble—or giardia—for the spring water still used in the lower campsites). Soiled toilet paper was stuck in branches of nearby shrubs (“tissue flowers,” as Ed Abbey says), and various aluminum and plastic wrappers littered the ground. Few people were motivated to use the disintegrating trash cans. It makes sense—generations of Sasak hikers accustomed to banana leaf wrapping were suddenly and unfortunately armed with the most resilient Western packaging. This is compounded by the inevitable dropoff in official interest and financial support as soon as a publicly visible project has been completed. It’s easy to raise money and justify spending when you know the park’s opening ceremonies will be front-page news, but it’s much

harder to find millions of rupiah to maintain facilities and collect trash. This means that you’ve got an impending environmental disaster in one of Indonesia’s most impressive national parks. In this case, tourist money is probably the most likely solution. With the government caught up in more immediate concerns, it’s up to the visitors who, like me, are both amazed and appalled by Gunung Rinjani National Park. The only problem is this puts the decision to “save” a place in the hands of ignorant (but curious and passionate) strangers, not with the communities who know a place’s true value. I met quite a few tourists who paused beach-driven Bali vacations to spend a few days scrambling around the volcano. Although their passion for the great outdoors might wane as the beachside beer buzz does, their entry fees are at least a small step in the right direction. Maybe a group will encourage their friends to visit. Maybe one or two will feel compelled to donate to the park. Maybe a particularly inspired traveler will carry out a few pieces of garbage. Maybe all of these maybes will add up, and maybe together we can keep Rinjani around for a few more generations.

CONOR MURPHY (HONG KONG)

TEXTURED PERFECTION By Laine Moger (New Zealand) I was intrigued by the composition of a Jelly Tip ice block. Chocolate-coated, frozen jelly and ice cream on a stick—there seemed to be no end to the treats of New Zealand. The road I’d been following for the past hour had not ventured farther than a few meters off the majestic shoreline. The sublime mixture of glowing sun and gentle sea breezes made the surrounding cliffs blossom with eye-catching red flowers from native Pohutukawa trees. It was amazing I hadn’t driven into the sea out of distraction. I’d taken a break in the town of Tapu, my last stop on Highway 25, before cutting inland to Coroglen, and then finally to my destination, the town of Hahei, on the east coast of the Coromandel Peninsula. It was here in Tapu where I sat with my ice cream, giggling in disbelief at the total lack of roads on the North Island road map. The ones I’m used to looking at look more like the workings of a hyperactive spider’s web. There was no need for a GPS here. Signs were as technical as “North” and “South,” and the road I had to follow from Tapu to Coroglen was the Tapu-Coroglen Road. Not far from me on the shore banks, delightful squeals came from a group of young children digging for shellfish in the sand, their parents watching silently from the balconies of their baches. Life here was simply simple, and I loved it. Later that afternoon I entered the town of Hahei. It certainly didn’t look like it deserved its “world famous” accreditation. For the most part, it was just a tiny, sleepy, seaside village. Or, as the locals put it, “A blink-and-you-miss-it type job-ie.” Determined to sleep like a Kiwi, I booked a campsite at the Hahei Holiday Resort and proudly managing to set up the tent with only one blackened fingernail to show for it. The aroma of charring meat was rampant throughout the camp, and my stomach groaned in envy. I wasn’t that organized, so I hoped I wasn’t too late for the local café; the “Open till we’ve closed” sign hanging above the entrance wasn’t exactly time-specific. I went to sleep early in preparation for a predawn hike I’d planned to the famous Cathedral Cove. I wanted to get there before the droves of families arrived, laden with picnic baskets and canoes. However, my enthusiasm had diminished substantially when my alarm bleeped at 5 a.m. The weather seemed to be sharing my bad temper, spitting moody rain drops on my jumper. “So much for a hot, New Zealand summer,” the beast

inside me grumbled, sizzling like the embers of last night’s barbecues. I parked the car at the top of Grange Road, as the rest of the way would have to be taken by foot. A 45-minute walk, I read with dismay, looking down at the open-toed sandals I’d put on that morning. The dirt track that wound around the cliffs was never-ending. It was hard to be in awe of the lush greenery when it was whipping me in the face at every other turn. Surprisingly, I wasn’t the only one up so early: I passed quite a few hikers on their way back already. You had to admire their energy. “Morning, mate,” they chimed through annoyingly cheery smiles. In my insatiable impatience, I kept trying to steal a look at Cathedral Cove along the way, but it wasn’t having any of it. It was a well-kept secret, and you had to earn the privilege of seeing it. Finally, my feet touched sand. Rounding a gnarly Pohutukawa branch—like a drawing curtain—Cathedral Cove was revealed. An opulent arch, organically chiseled out of the vast rock face, was the centerpiece to this idyllic cove. The sand was churned in a patchwork of footprints, the remnants of a lifetime’s memories echoing happily in the air. I started shooting photos with gusto. I couldn’t have asked for a better setting; everything laid before me in textured perfection. What my camera couldn’t capture, however, was the hypnotic dancing of the foamy waves and the salty breeze caressing my skin and whispering in my ears—that was just for me. I felt myself moving slower and with more conscious grace. I was aware of every resonance, every movement, and every grain of sand that squished between my toes. A spell had been cast. As I returned along the ridge, the rain came back, this time with a vengeance. But it didn’t bother me. Locked on my face was the same smile that had irritated me earlier on the faces of others. Squelching into the café, the waitress handed me a warming cup of Milo, barely able to stifle her laughter as she asked me, “Did you get a bit wet, then?” I couldn’t help but laugh with her. I must admit, it wasn’t exactly a brochure-like scene—water dripping from my nose, a semi-typhoon raging outside. But I’d learned that you didn’t come here just for the beach, or for the ice cream. The way of life here is as alluring as its scenery. The way the locals see it, the sun will come out, sooner or later. It always does.

MULTIMEDIA ILLUSTRATION BY LANA SCHOLTZ (CAMBODIA) This piece was inspired by my recent adventures in Cambodia. During winter break I traveled to Southeast Asia with a student organization. Our trip was two weeks long and we spent most of our time in Cambodia, visiting all the major sights in Phnom Penh and Siem Reap. It was impossible not to romanticize life in this colorful country. Each place we visited was saturated with culture, tradition and a history both grand and tragic. I hope to return to Cambodia soon, and I urge anyone who is given the opportunity to behold its beauty. CHLOE KARASKIEWICZ (INDIA)

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