Kelebek
Jessica Weiss Joined: November 7th 2007
Logged in: March 22nd 2011
Logged in: March 22nd 2011
We may never really understand the worldview of those who live in the rainforest or the slums of Mumbai. But we can build upon the small conception we gather in books of the people who share our world, by traveling, expanding our sense of reality, and opening our minds. When we travel, we learn there is more than just one way to go about this process we call life. We see that we are products of our environment, our culture, and our society's set of agreements. And we see that others develop differently, according to their nature and nurture. But perhaps most importantly of all, we see there are not only varieties, but also things we share, bonds common to the human experience. And perhaps it is then that we can truly begin to understand how we are all in this together.
Travel Blog Posts
Navasana
Embracing the Rhythm of Life: Yoga and Drumming in the Caribbean Life is a series of stories. As a story is in the business of stringing words together to create an idea or image, life is a string of moments, each one holding an instant of our past, a teaspoon of our future, some with sugar, some with spice, some with smelly things we’d rather not encounter at all. Together, these beads of moments create the story of our lives, which in turn create the collective story of human society, of our planet and its species; all of this folds into the story of the universe. Those who believe in a higher power - whether that be a God, an all pervasive spirit such as Atman, or simply an intelligent force working full time backstage - ... read more
Neither here not there
I have finally packed up my bags taken one last look around switched off the light and walked out of that monstrous lovable thing entangled now, forever in my heart and perceptions of the world. Leaving West Africa was the sound of velcro ripping apart, the smell of grease and smog more beautiful, the noise and grit of public and poor now a colorful and painless thorn in my side. The day I flew away, the golden red sun sat heavily over Accra's smoke, its lidless disc so flat against a blue cloudless sky. Fat ladies in bright color, their homes stacked on heads bobbed through the city dust to its unharmonious pulse. The static of chaos and public life crawled through the streets, inside and quiet only to sleep. A jet named Leonardo Da Vinci ... read more
I parted from Africa, after four months of traveling and volunteering, on a cloudless, swampy March morning in true Ghanaian style. That is, I waited in lines filled only with foreigners until we figured out that no one else was bothering with lines and order, only to be told three hours before the flight that it was "finished." Come back tomorrow, the pink-lipped Delta agents said. Stand by status is always a bit dodgy, but here at the Kotoka International Airport, identifying myself as a standby to the stodgy silhouette of a large lady in charge was more of a joke. She slapped her thigh and shook her head, clucking like a noisy chicken. "See dose people ova dere? Dey been waiting for a week!" I followed her long painted fingernail to the corner of the ... read more
The Farm: Buduburam Refugee Camp
"Ain't got no home, ain't got no shoes, ain't got no money, got no class.... Ain't got no mother, ain't got no culture, ain't got no friends, ain't got no schoolin'.... And what about god? Why am I alive anyway? Nobody can take away.... Got my hair, got my head, got my brains, got my smile, Got my arms, got my hands, got my fingers, got my legs, Got my heart, got my soul, got my blood, got myself... I've got life, I've got my freedom...I've got life! And I'm gonna keep it! " Nina Simone, Ain't got no...I got Life I met Morris on February 26th, 2008. Accra was melting under a haze of Harmattan winds. I had just returned from a 2 month tour of surrounding countries -- Mali, Burkina Faso, Benin, and ... read more
Misty Morning
The coastline of Benin is largely a spread of urban junk and trash piles, heavily concentrated around the unofficial capital and moped death trap of Cotonou, an unruly mess that dwindles to reasonable levels of pollution the further distanced you are from city centers. Here in the sleepy borders of high flying city life, small fishing villages give way to a few beach resorts, and life rolls along according to the powerful sway of the Atlantic. Indefatigable kids take recess along the sandy shores, heads and clothes covered in beach from afternoons spent rolling around in the fringes of waves, sitting beside their parents who toil over handmade fishing nets, and chasing wind currents with boxy kites tailed by tattered plastic garbage bags. As if to ward you away from the dangerous riptides of the ocean, ... read more
Mt. Agou's Fauna
Heading for the fairly large and bustling town of Kpalimé deep in the forests of Togo's cocoa and coffee country, I couldn't help but notice sign after sign for Ecotourism outings, childish paintings of pinked white people cruising along palm tree lined paths to cascading waterfalls. As our ancient and dying Peugot chugged along the paved highway to Kpalimé, I wondered about that word, ecotourism. It's one of those funny expressions, kind of like "lifetime warranty" or "freedom fighter"; the more closely you examine it, the less it makes sense. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the only way to be a true ecotourist is **to never travel again**. But convincing the world of that would be like trying to convince it to give up its TVs, cell phones, and ... read more
The Road to Timbuctu
The Road to Timbuktu The last dregs of Dogon country’s vast escarpment, two black sandstone towers, mark the turnoff to Timbuctu, once the world’s most remote outpost, now quite the glamorous prostitute for many a rich (but poor foolish) tourist who puts herself through motor vehicle misery just to say “I’ve been to Timbuctu and back again.” We were ostensibly going for the Festival Au Desert, a music festival and traditional gathering of the nomadic Tuareg tribe, but during our six hour, bucking bronco voyage sans shocks and AC, swerving between a clay, potholed road to another sand bank “road” next to it, I began to fully appreciate the actual journey aspect of this journey, giving a good 23 “praise Allahs” to hoist our chances of even getting there. The scenery is disheartening, void but veiled ... read more
I made the switch from veggie to vegan about two months before leaving for Africa. Go Figure. In a place with as limited of food choices as your local 7-11, I was going to skip out entirely on anything animal; no meat, eggs, fish, dairy. I, the incredibly dutiful subscriber to sustainability, good karma, and digestive functionality, would boldly go where no vegan dares to go; to the land of little else to eat but starchy bread and stringy goat. Regardless of all the quips my doubting, ye of little faith friends back home piled on me before I left, I was going to stick it out. I mean, visiting Africa pretty much means malnutrition anyway, so why not stick to my big green guns and go down in hippie land history in the meantime? I ... read more
Business Names in Ghana
The Christianity in Ghana gets in your face a little like you might imagine voodoo -- intense, loud, and sometimes downright freaky. Everywhere I go, locals ask me if I'm Christian. Even the stores signs ask, will you shop at the "God is Great Hair Salon" or Betty's Twists and Braids? Will it be Annointed Miracle Goat Soup or Nana's Fufu for lunch? And to drink or not to drink; that is the question the Sober Spot Bar so diminutively asks you. And if you're not Christian, then the ask, well what religion are you? My long winded attempts to explain my cherry-picking style of spirituality, that gives my crack at God a little flavah of everything, seem to pass right through their ears and out the other side. Not religious but spiritual? But what RELIGION ... read more
First few days in Africa.... I'm standing in the middle of a tro tro station (Ghanian buses cross-dressed like a beat up minivan and a VW van on lifts) listening to the market calls blabbering around me. "Puuuurh Waataaah!" or "Yaammmms" or simply "Hssssss" are all ringing around me, shouting this or that for sale, sometimes only the attention from a bruni (i.e. little white me) exchanged for a few peses. I feel almost guilty when ridiculously cheap prices have to reach my ears twice or three times before I, stupefied, hand over my few U.S. pennies for a: - whole pineapple - eight AA batteries - a 5 km cab ride - four small -- ICH! Somebody just spit on me while hssssing for attention! God I hope it was on accident. Most of the ... read more
