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Adventures in Snorkeling-Costa Rica
Something Like Rain - Dublin
Silence is Golden - Budapest
Israel
Planning Your First South America Vacation
Fiji
Malawi, Africa
Great Barrier Reef


Adventures in Snorkeling - Costa Rica
Brian and I were snorkeling in Cahuita, a beach town on the Caribbean of Costa Rica. I was enjoying the fish and clear blue water, until it became so shallow that I feared for my life. We were 10 inches above fire coral. I panicked. In the midst of trying to get to deeper water, I accidentally swatted my hand on a big, black, sea urchin. I immediately felt a sharp pain in my fingers.

My hand was paralyzed with a numbing sensation, as if 20 wasps dug into my skin. I was yelling for help, but all I could do is swim with one hand to our boat.

I made it to the boat in near tears. Ulyses, our guide, looked at my hand and said "Ohh no...Sooo many urchins in the fingas!"

Brian then asked, "Is it poisonous?" I hit him with my good hand, and told him to shut up. I don't want to know if I'm dying, I just want to make the pain go away.

Ulyses shared a secret remedy with us that day...urine. I had to pee on my hand. "Gross," I thought, but I'll do it!

We pulled the boat over in order to do my thing. However, I was still in shock. I couldn't even get a drop of pee out, so Brian, the good boyfriend that he is, took charge.

"I'll do it!" Brian exclaimed. "I got you in this mess, I'll get you out!" Families were all around when the debacle happened, but I wasn't too worried about the audience. Parents held their kids back in dismay as I put my hand in his swimming trunks. As Brian peed, the throbbing in my fingers subsided. I was beyond elated. "It worked!" I screamed.

We returned to the boat. I told the tour guide we shouldn't stop snorkeling on account of me. Everyone nodded their heads. So we found another spot, somewhere far away from the last place.

A half hour later I mustered up the courage to put on my snorkeling gear and get back in the water. I was terrified. I was doing fine, until I saw a sea urchin. I immediately swam back to the boat, like a little baby. That was enough adventure for one day.

Maybe I'll try snorkeling next year. Actually, maybe I'll just find another activity.

Dina Karkar,
Timonium, MD

Something Like Rain - Dublin
It rained for three days straight. That is what I remember. We shivered under murky skies, huddled under building overhangs. Overprotective TV mom voices hummed in my head You'll catch cold, going out in that. It was the sort of air that should have made us unhappy tourists dissatisfied guests but the gray sky and I got along from the beginning. It was not a latent sadness or a billowing storm that I saw reflected, from my crouch under the city awnings; rather, I looked into the slumping rain clouds and felt a dizzy recognition. It was as though we had known each other for years.

I came to Dublin as a part of a long tour of Europe as a part of a long friendship. In the friendship, we'd whispered and wished and fantasized of our grand adventure: of the people we'd meet, the parties we'd make, the places we'd find. And always the whispers culminated in Ireland and Dublin, with hopes recklessly pinned on craic and famous Irish company, and the fantastic accents, to string our trip into something meaningful, or enviable, or fun.

My friend, Lindsey, was the best friend I'd had in my years through college. A slender, wisp of a person who looked small only when she slept. Awake, Lindsey made you forget that the world around existed, which was perhaps both her greatest attraction and fault. Standing next to her was standing in a private world, where what we ate for dinner was a major decision and where we would sleep that night, what we would do when we returned home, broke, was inconsequential. She belonged against the streets of Ireland, though she may not have known it, with red hair that looked better after it had been rained on and a laugh that perfectly reflected the Irish sense of adventure and carefreeness.

It was my first semester away at university that Lindsey and I met. For most of high school I had been arrogant and soaked in my own importance, although I was by no means cool or popular. My last high school semester squeezed the pride out of me, and I began college as a shadow of the Person From Before. But as I came to know Lindsey, worries became jokes, jokes became pillars of import, and the shadow switched places with the person it'd cradled. In a silly, childish world, Lindsey and I learned to be grown-ups together. We d grown out of dorms and crushes, into apartments and one-night-stands. We'd outlasted four years of college and graduation. And we'd ventured onto our backpacking tour of Europe.

The rain continued to collapse onto town, spattering us even in the dry patch next to a converted opera house-theater. Tiny cars, the kind Europeans are proud of, sputtered by and umbrella-protected locals carried on, unperturbed, their wellies cheerily slapping the sidewalk like the rhythmic claps of an indiepop band.

I am so cold, Lindsey whimpered.

I agreed. The bite of cold in June smacked of bitterness to girls accustomed to heavy Texas heat.

We could watch a movie, Lindsey suggested, smiling through her frown. We had watched three movies in three days at the opera house-theater to keep dry. But Dublin had secrets to tell us yet, and I'd spent the morning idling the hours on the internet, waiting, while Lindsey slept in. An old tourist bus splashed through the street rolled to a stop in front of us. I lifted an eyebrow at my friend, and we clambered aboard.

It was not the way I preferred to befriend the city: aboard a bus of distanced tourists, hearing embellished tales from a driver/guide who was called Patty and dressed more like a leprechaun than could possibly be coincidence. But at least I could see the City, learn his angles and creases, study his movements from afar. I would know how to treat him someday when I returned on my own because I could already see that he would call to me.

Under the slick of rain, he moved with delicacy and force, like a fighter jet in slow motion. There was history, yes, evident in the high spires of lonely old churches, the fat-bricked castle, the post-office marred by bullet holes. But as dandelions spring over graves, around the history, life had grown. Pubs bustling with people cornered every block. Bookshops, coffee shops, and hi-tech stores seemed to creep from every nook. And pedestrians were everywhere.

I wondered vaguely about those pedestrians. Where were they headed? Where were they coming from? Were they originally Irish, or passersthrough like me? It was my mind's love affair with strangers that never ceased reaching out to caress them even as they slipped away in silence. Next to me, Lindsey talked about cheese sandwiches and grape juice. She missed her American food.

Five years before, at sixteen, I had traveled alone to Costa Rica, to live there for a summer with a host family. My host mom, a Hispanic Ashley Judd with the personality of a prom queen, had been hosted by another family in the States twenty years before that. In America, I took so many pictures, she told me, I always had my Kodak out snap, snap, snap, she said, her fingers framed around an invisible camera. And I met my family, and my mom was there, and I went up to her right away, and I say Mom! She threw her arms into a hugging motion, and I could imagine her, jumping forward, stealing this stranger into her arms claiming her as her own. I envied her: the immediate recognition, the unquestioning sense of possession.

I could never behave as my host mom did. Not with people, not even with cities. No, people, cities, and I came to know one another with a fluttering uncertainty that brightened and dimmed almost imperceptibly as the winds shifted, as the weather changed. In Dublin, the wind and I grew closer, and in its brightening breeze, or something like rain, a friendship went out.

A. Lauren Nelsen
Houston, TX

Silence is Golden - Budapest
My sister and I recently visited a famous castle in Budapest, Hungary. The place was crawling with vendors calling out to tourists to buy their wares. We were exhausted from the journey up the hill to the castle and were resting in a particularly picturesque area. An elderly gentleman in a suit and top hat offered to take our picture. I politely declined, but he continued unfazed, in broken English. "No picture? It okay. I take you behind castle, no one go. It cost little okay?" Perhaps it was the heat, or our exhaustion, but we just stared at the man, thinking of a way to gently let him down. He, in response, muttered, "Forget! You no speak English!" and angrily walked away. We stood there, of course, speechless.

Swetha Kowsik
Fremont, CA

Israel
The alarm went off at 4:30 am.  “Where am I?” I wondered.  I sat up and surveyed the room, quickly remembering that I was in the Negev desert, lying on a rather uncomfortable cot in a hotel room with two strangers.  This was the beginning of my twelve day adventure in Israel.  I was on a trip funded by the Israeli government, the Jewish Federation, and private philanthropists, with 39 other Jewish Americans, ages 22-27.  I couldn’t remember the name of the girl lying in the cot next to mine, but she reminded me that we had to get up.  And she was right – we were on our way to Mount Masada, the site of ancient palaces and forts on the top of a rock plateau overlooking the Dead Sea.  If we were to summit by sunrise, we had to get moving!

Watching the sun rise from the top of Masada, the last stronghold for Jewish Zealots against the Romans over 2000 years ago, gave me chills.  A group of Argentinean Jews raised an Israeli flag and sang the national anthem.  Then we sat in silence, marveling at the rich history of the site.  After cautiously descending down the windy Snake Path, our group reconvened for bagels and fresh squeezed orange juice.

Our next stop was the Dead Sea, the lowest point on earth.  As we approached the sea, excited to float effortlessly and treat ourselves to mud facials, a few Americans warned us not to let the extremely salty water get in our eyes or ears.  “Well that’s pretty obvious,” we scoffed.  But soon we realized just how dire their warning was.  The tide was stronger than expected, and my eyes were stinging within minutes.  I closed them tight to avoid the burning sensation.  As soon as I grew accustomed to the agony of the salty water, I was able to enjoy my homemade mud facial.  Then I looked down and realized that I was floating without even trying!  Eventually, the pain was too much to bear, and I struggled against the current to return to shore.  After a cold shower, a few of my new friends joined me for a cafeteria lunch of hummus, pita, and falafel, foods that would soon become staples of our diet.

Exhausted and, despite our best efforts, still reeking of salt, we piled onto the bus thinking that we were finished with the day’s activities.  Oh how wrong we were.  After several hours of scenic driving through the desert, we arrived at the Bedouin village where we were to spend the rest of the evening. 

Little did we know that awaiting us at the village was another group…of camels!  Since camels tend to go to sleep at dusk, our late arrival did not bode well for our next adventure.  We clumsily climbed onto the camels and took a spin around the desert.  What I thought was going to be a gentle zoo-like stroll became a fast-paced gallop.  The camel behind me approached from the side and started sniffing me.  Caught up in the moment, I let out a yelp and hoped that our tour would end quickly.  Fortunately it did.  Unfortunately, however, the dismount was tougher than I had anticipated.  It felt like my camel’s legs buckled, and she fell suddenly to the ground, landing with a big thud. What could possibly happen next?  “Ahh,” I thought, “it must be time for dinner.”

Ravenous after the day’s events, we were delighted to be treated to a lavish meal.  We sat on the floor and were served a silver platter’s worth of food.  My group ate everything in site, using the pita to soak up every last drop of hummus, as we listened to tales of Bedouin folklore.

After dinner, the Bedouins taught us traditional drum patterns.  Then we started a bonfire and drank hot tea before retiring to bed.  The next morning, I woke up to the sound of roosters crowing.  This time I was surrounded by the whole group, as we all spent the night under one large tent.  While it still took me a few minutes to orient myself, I was no longer surrounded by strangers.  It only took one day, albeit a very long one, to feel at home.

Over the next eleven days, we worked our way north to Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Jaffa, and Haifa.  We sat in Independence Hall where David Ben-Gurion proclaimed Israeli Independence in 1948, shopped in open air markets, visited Rabin Square, site of the 1995 assassination of the Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, wrote letters at the Western Wall, and toured Yad Vashem, Israel's national memorial to the Holocaust.  Never before did I feel so proud of my Jewish heritage.  I befriended Israeli soldiers, met Arab Israeli citizens, and discovered the rich, beautiful, and oftentimes complex history of this country which embraced me with open arms.  I have returned with a renewed interest in my culture, a desire to learn more about current affairs, a need to share my experience with others, and a simple wish for peace.  I am indebted to Birthright for granting me this unique opportunity and am honored to be one of over 100,000 Jews to have visited Israel through the program.  It was my first time visiting Israel and hopefully not my last.  If this trip has taught me anything, it is that there is so much left to uncover.

Lauren Pearlman
Austin, TX

Planning Your First South America Vacation
South America presents a beautiful world with a wide range of unique landscapes. Choosing a place to visit is quite difficult with highlights like Machu Picchu, the Perito Moreno Glacier, regions like Patagonia, Pantanal and Amazon and cities like Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires. This article is written to serve as an introduction to some of the best places to visit in South America and how to combine the best highlights in one trip.

Each of the thirteen South American countries has its own unique culture, people, and natural highlights. Argentina has Buenos Aires, with its vibrant nightlife, tango, tree-lined avenues, and outdoor cafes. It also features the stunning Iguazu Falls, one of the most dramatic series of waterfalls in the world, and the rugged terrain of Patagonia. Brazil is also a popular destination, especially Rio de Janeiro, which is considered one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Nestled between mountains and on the coast, Rio boasts one of the most lively beach cultures around, some of which have made the city famous. The gateway to the lost cities of the Incas can be found in Peru, in the heart of the Andes Mountains. Situated on the Pacific coast and on the edge of the Andean Mountains, Chile's natural landscape is equally breathtaking. View snow-capped peaks from the pristine lakes of the Puerto Montt Lake District, and the stunning Torres del Paine mountain range in southern Patagonia. And last but certainly not least, is Ecuador, the smallest country in South America, but with an incredibly diverse landscape, including volcanic snow-capped peaks of the Andes, beautiful, palm-fringed beaches on the Pacific, and the subtropical rainforests of the Amazon Basin.

The rest of South America is less visited by tourists, but still offers amazing natural beauty and untouched terrain. Go off the beaten path in Venezuela and see Angel Falls, one of the highest waterfalls in the world. You'll also find long stretches of pristine coastline, the rainforests of the Amazon, and the majestic Andean peaks. Uruguay is also worth visiting, with its tranquil Atlantic coastline, quaint seaside villages, and the capital Montevideo. For even more remoteness, Paraguay is also interesting. Here you'll find a large agricultural region of rolling hills, grasslands, and subtropical rainforests. Bolivia also offers a memorable experience for adventure-seekers. From glacial peaks to the high-altitude deserts of the Andes, to the steamy subtropical rainforests of the Amazon, this largely undiscovered country is also home to a large population of indigenous people. Although it is known more for its violence and drug trade, Colombia has no shortage of stunning landscapes either, with its untouched Caribbean and Pacific coastline and the Andes Mountains in the west. Ecotourism is also becoming increasingly popular in the Guianas, which offer visitors excellent wildlife spotting, trekking, and rustic camping near large areas of virgin rainforests.

The best way to combine a trip to Brazil and Argentina is via Igauzu Falls, since it borders both countries. The Falls provide a great base to cross over into Brazil or Argentina while giving you the chance to explore this natural wonder, a wonder considered one of the most breath-taking spots in the world. There are many daily flights from Buenos Aires to Iguazu that are quite easy to arrange. A good itinerary for this trip is to begin in Buenos Aires and after spending a few days getting acquainted with this lively city, taking a short flight to Iguazu Falls. After exploring both sides of the falls, travel to Rio de Janeiro and see the most beautiful city in Brazil.

It is also quite easy to combine a trip to Bolivia and Peru, the lands of the Incas, for an amazing tour of the ancient cities and cultures. Bolivia's unofficial capital, La Paz, is a great starting point for a trip to see the ancient civilizations. From this interesting capital you can reach the Titicaca Region and the Isla del Sol, the beautiful Andean paradise and the birthplace of the Inca Empire. In close proximity is Cusco, Peru, with the nearby Inca Trail as well as the mysterious and majestic Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Incas.

Combining a trip to Argentina and Chile is also very easy to arrange, since there are many ways to cross over between the two countries. A popular itinerary for nature lovers is to travel from Buenos Aires to southern Argentina's El Calafate, the glacier capital of the country. Often called the White Patagonia, the nearby Los Glacier National Park features 47 majestic glaciers. Also close by is the Chilean border where you can cross over to explore the Torres del Paine National Park. Here you will be immersed in the typical Patagonia landscape of glaciers, alpine forests, and magnificent mountaintops.

With its wide variety of dramatic landscapes, untouched terrain, and ancient ruins, South America is an excellent vacation spot for all types of travelers. A combination of vibrant cities and natural wonders will make for a memorable, once in a lifetime vacation, and will keep you coming back to discover more for years to come.

For more information about traveling South America visit www.AllAboutSouthAmericaTravel.com

Michael Zurakhinsky
Yonkers, NY

Fiji
The days have begun unfolding in similar patterns. I wake up around 6:00 a.m., before any of the other guests, wash my face, do some calisthenics and watch the sun rise. Then it is time to get in some journal writing, eat breakfast, engage in a morning activity (fishing, swimming, snorkeling, etc.) and head back to camp for lunch. Yesterday’s pre-noon engagement involved a summit walk with Gülin, a lady from Turkey who is on an around-the-world trip, during which she said that Americans invented cancer with all of our preservatives. That one hurt. I can handle her barbs about McDonald’s, George W. maybe even Ricki Lake, but saying we’re responsible for cancer? No, wait, Ricki Lake is actually worse than cancer. We walked to the Blue Lagoon along a sinusoidally undulating footpath through tall soft grasses that waved like the sea, and everywhere we turned was another postcard perfect view. It reminded me a bit of the battle scene in “A Thin Red Line.” At the beach I tested out the strength of my SPF 50 (it held up fine – that stuff is bulletproof), but Gülin forgot her swimsuit (how do you do that on a trip to the beach?) and had to walk back to get it. Lunch was served on the beach to facilitate those leaving to help them catch the transfer boat. We had coleslaw sandwiches, fruit, juice and chips that one of the English guests described as “gorgeous.” Then I had to say goodbye to another boatload of people – Simon, Pippa, Pippa’s friend (in two days I never got her name), Gülin and busty Irish Lindsay. When I started to mumble something about how sad it all was, Lindsay said, “The more you travel, the more your heart becomes hardened to these farewells.” Self-defense, I reckon.

Ryan Edmonson,
New York City

Bolero : Malawi, Africa
I am sitting on a grass mat on the ground in Bolero with 19 Malawian villagers while we eat boiled corn from a bowl. The Chairman has just arrived, wearing golf shoes, a cable-knit sweater and huge men's sunglasses from the 1970s. He takes one of the two chairs, next to my colleague Faith. Some of the other men are delayed because they are around the side of the house pressing tobacco leaves into bales. The hand-crank takes three men to turn.

This is the village of Bolero in northern Malawi. I am here with my Malawian colleagues Joyce and Faith to visit one of Story Workshop's radio listening clubs. Radio listening clubs are groups of villagers that have been organized to listen to Story Workshop radio programs, provide feedback on what they are learning from the programs, and offer stories from their own lives as fodder for upcoming shows. We will spend a day talking with them, asking them questions about their health, families and food situation – the most important factor influencing their lives.

To begin, the Chairman gives a speech of what I assume (because I only understand the clapping) is of rousing interest. Then the oldest woman stands up and, as we all bow our heads, gives a prayer.

The men perch on rocks or benches; the women and girls sit gathered around the feet of Faith and the Chairman. I, like the other women, am wearing a chitenje, a colorful wrap around skirt. I am thankful that Faith and Joyce saved me from my own dress code this morning when they discovered, in horror, that I was planning to wear pants. I am even grateful that they marched me to the market and instructed me to buy safety pins to pin my trousers up underneath my skirt. I'm all for bucking the system, but simply looking stupid is not my idea of an admirable rebel.

The women around me range from about 2 years to 60. They all have thick working, weathered hands and bare feet (I am strangely satisfied, though, to note that, thanks to my dim-witted habit of not wearing socks in triathlons, my calluses are tougher than theirs). One of the women wears a San Francisco knit wool cap over long braids that run down her back. She has a gap between her two front teeth that, instead of being unattractive, gives her a charming, gangster look when she smiles. One of the women breastfeeds her 2 year old and another.

A 5 year old named Lozi in a dirty calico dress, decorated with teddy bears and trimmed with fake pearls now hanging by threads, sneaks up to touch my white skin and then runs off laughing. When we bring out the bread and coca colas, one of the younger women disappears with her ration, and my colleague Joyce whispers to me that the Chairman is her father-in-law. If he sees her eating, it would be showing disrespect.

Around us stretch miles of brown corn and tobacco fields. The hills behind were once forest but have been razed for charcoal. Now only a small tree stands here or there. Young girls with buckets gather around a hand pump across the track, laughing and splashing as they fill their buckets. Then they balance them on their heads and begin the walk home.

The conversation winds, and Joyce translates for me. First, there is a report on the afforestation activities of the group – also elegantly called the Village Natural Resource Management Committee. It occurs to me later, when I find out that most of the households in this village don't have enough food to last them until the next harvest, that this is an oddly long-term initiative. Few of these people will live to see any of these eucalyptus or sycamore grow. I wonder to myself whether, if I were hungry, would I have the gumption to plant trees?

Then the conversation turns to health. Joyce and Faith are doing a baseline survey on awareness of fistula, a childbirth injury that leaves women incontinent, ashamed and often excluded from their community. When Faith explains the condition, the women exclaim,

"We know of this. We thought it was from witchcraft!"

"We thought it was a curse," one says.

Another says, "I thought you got it when a man proposes to you and you refuse. Then he curses you"

When Faith says, "Now that you know: How could you convince someone to go to the hospital for this?" one of them men pipes up. "Promise her a Coca Cola," he says, and everyone laughs.

The woman sitting next to me is the ad hoc leader of the group. I can tell that she speaks with authority; when she talks, she squints her eyes, waves her hands, and everyone listens. Her nickname is Nyabudget.

In Tumbuka, the language of northern Malawi, the word for woman is "nya." "Budget" refers to the fact that she is known for rationing her food so carefully that you cannot show up to her house uninvited and expect to be fed. In return, she will not go to a neighbor's house uninvited. Prioritizing frugality over the Malawian value of generosity is unusual, I gather, but seems to be respected, at least in Nyabudget's case.

At one point, Nyabudget announces that she is HIV positive. She asks, "Can I have a baby who is negative?" As Faith explains the possibilities and dangers, everyone listens intently. My mind wanders to Googling, and how I take for granted the fact that if I want to know something, I can look it up and find out immediately. Here, only a few miles off the main road, there is no internet, no Google, and few channels but the radio for learning.

As the discussion turns to food, it also turns to stories. Many of the villagers have been experimenting with new farming techniques, like irrigation and applying manure. But they have problems, including the fact that the village chief's goats are eating their corn.

"They are spoiling everything," declares one of the men, "One night I came home from the field to find that a goat had eaten my nsima (the Malawian version of "grits") and was sleeping in my bed! I kept the goat to see if its owner would come, but it was the chief's goat and someone reported me to him. A few days later, I was detained for attempting to steal the chief's goat."

There is a roar of astonished laughter, and when Faith declares that the story should be featured on an upcoming episode of Zimachitika, the Story Workshop's radio soap opera, the whole group breaks out into a cheer.

****************************************************************************************

The next morning at 7am, I board a bus to begin the long trip back to Blantyre.

I didn't sleep well last night. We stayed in a rest house in Rhumpi, a small town in northern Malawi at the base of the Nyika Plateau. The Nyika Plateau is a one of the highest points in Malawi, and filled with animals, waterfalls and green hills, decidedly one of the most beautiful.

My room in the Country Lodge Annex ("annex" as the operative word), however, was decidedly unbeautiful, though it was green. In the theme of country living, I guess, the concrete walls were painted a weirdly florescent lime. A bulb hung over my bed, which was next to a sink, which was next to a toilet missing its top. The window opened onto a bar filled with men who watched a preacher on the television at full blast until near midnight.

I read an article, from a liberal Catholic opinion magazine called Conscience, about poverty, in which different world leaders give their opinions about what poverty means. The magazine was glossy and has an address in Washington DC. Washington DC had seemed, last night, very far away.

The bus leaves, full of people, at 930am. It breaks down at 11. The brakes are smoking. Men put rocks under the tires and everyone gets off.

All the passengers take the opportunity to pee on the side of the road, including the rowdy group of teenagers who are drinking beer. They introduce themselves and want to know what music I am listening to. One of them, who has half of her hair in plaits and half in an afro rimming her head, says she has been to Missouri. Mu-zooo-ree. They are students at Mzuzu Polytechnic, studying marketing and business. These are the people, I think, who represent Malawi's tiny middle class. I ask one of the girls what music she likes, and she says, "I like R&B, hip hop and pop. In that order." She is wearing a bra with see-through plastic straps and a sexy blue shirt that wraps around her neck.

Back on the bus, we stop. And stop. And stop again. We let people off. We stop to buy French fries and sodas. We stop so the bus driver can run an errand.

All the stops give me good time to categorize the names of some of the many places on the way. They include:

God Bless Investments
Easy Come Easy Go Investments
Glory to God Restaurant
No Farming No Life Shop

But it's only funny for a while. A trip that had taken 3 1/2 hours in a car is now taking 8 hours. I am afraid I will miss my connecting bus as we approach the capital, Lilongwe. I decide to get off and try to flag a taxi to my bus.

Just as I am about to disembark, I get a call from a prospective funder. I don't want to let her off the line, as I have been waiting anxiously for her call. But the bus has stopped and my bag is stuck in the overhead bin. As I try desperately to yank it out, stepping on people's hands and bags and over their heads, I try to respond with authority (and loudly, over the bus' motor) to her questions about "best practices" and "learning objectives." When she asked me how much money we will need for the project and I find myself doing mental calculations while straddling the head of a man sitting in the aisle, I decide even I have dignity to uphold and tell her I will call her back.

I stumble down the stairs, and somehow there is a taxi waiting for me. I climb in, and as we sputter down the road, I laugh to myself at the absurdity that is my new life in Malawi.

Janie Hayes
An Austinite living in Malawi, Africa

For more on Story Workshop and their work in Malawi, please check out www.storyworkshop.org. To read more from Janie's adventures in Africa, visit her Web site at www.jimmyandjanie.com.

Diving with Sharks : Great Barrier Reef
I never intended to dive into shark-infested waters. The night dive was simply meant to be an exercise in diving, an "experiment" if you will. Before it even got dark, sharks began circling the back of the boat. They're attracted to light. And blood. I was inspected for open wounds before going in.

The ocean at night has a suffocating quality that it doesn't have during the day. Going under, I sucked oxygen from my tank and concentrated on the Darth Vader sound it made instead of the Jaws soundtrack playing in my head. Fully submerged, I calmed down a little. Sure, I swam faster to avoid being lost (taken?) at the back of the group, but I was able to enjoy the dive.

We saw a huge turtle hunkered down for the night, mackarel swimming in an overpopulated school and several predator fish using our meager flashlights as searchlights for prey. We stopped for five minutes at the end of the dive and held fast to the mooring line. I took a lingering look at the sharks circling the boat and felt like a peeping tom at a celebrity party. They were long, white and moved with ease. Simply put, they were beautiful. I turned to Shannon and while I couldn't see her mouth behind her respirator, her eyes mirrored mine. Smiling.

Rachel Stikeleather
Austin, TX