Upon the cliffs, deep within a georgic land of the Alpilles they met their madness. Okay… one certainly more severe than the other, but to a degree they’re both equal. It was Les Baux, a hill town (actually “cliff-town”) set in the Middle Ages. Today, upon a limestone plateau, it is still nestled beneath an imposing decay of rocks, walls and towers which is known as its defining chateau. This fortified village lying within the region of Provence has a population below 500, but the presence of past inhabitants pervades and leaves questionable the future of those present. As we arrived [View Full Entry]

---

---

You love travel. You love the senses of your adventure to lose their bounds amidst the revelations of new things. You love to bask in minority, in the ages of time passed. You love to hear everything, yet understand as little as possible, finding yourself alone, but surrounded by culture. You love to feel a part of it, yet somehow divided from it. You love to travel, yet you seek that isolated experience distinct from the connotations drawn upon like a child’s coloring book of the common tourist. So how do you do it? How do you travel and find your [View Full Entry]

---

---

Day 5. We met the sun that morning on a bed of clouds. An orange searing red flame; the day's orb caught between the gossamer tails of passing sky. All of us, peace-walkers in heart, felt the surrealism of reality, its magic and its unbelievability. It was a bridge, a long bridge, crossing the Mahi River which divided two districts of Gujarat. And it was Day 5, day five out of seventeen, on the Dandhi Yatra, a peace walk retracing the steps of Mahatma Gandhi's Salt March. Here, on this bridge we witnessed another morning begin. And together with the passing [View Full Entry]

---

---

Like a crack to a stone, frozen in a high mountain clime, warmed by a sudden release; Tashi, then Loti, and then Shampa came back into my life, as I their's. We met on the streets, upon the steep hills of McLeod Ganj, spontaneously, by the will of what is. It started with an early arrival on the 5th. 5:30 AM, freezing, a small pack and the British Airways blanket cloaked as a shawl. Kicked off the bus at its final destination, I wandered down familiar paths toward Tashi and Gyathar's home. I arrived, half numb, and waited outside with the [View Full Entry]

---

---

"Oshi, please. Uncle is waiting for us." I am sitting in a renovated immigration hall with too much time on my hands. "Oshi, please!" The lines are getting smaller, but I look forward to the arrival of 747s from Frankfurt and Hong Kong. A woman beside me shoos her young daughter away. She is kneeling on white marble, resembling the Taj Mahal, and scribes in black letters the details of her arrival card. She's finished. Mother and daughter leave for an awaiting Uncle. I am in India again. India; an India that seems little compared to the journey with Global Citizen [View Full Entry]

---

---

Warri to Lagos, passing chaos alongside the road. Through the marks of civilization, wooden frames empty and others filled with various dallies of cheap Chinese junk, together sheltered with the tatters of canvas stretched overhead. They were empty, so empty it's worth mentioning again: They were empty, derelict, dry like a Mojave ghost-town with their rotting planks of siding. Further, deeper into society; structure-free, a ranting behavior. Markets line the uneven curbs, congregating near potholes a foot and a half deep. Traffic slows to an imbalanced creep. One tire falls in, a jolt, a sway; the whole cabin lilting, rocking back [View Full Entry]

---

---

Today, a second Peace Pole in the morning after a hot sweat throughout the night. Peace Pole panels for Mandagho, and then breakfast and photos, before more WAWA (West Africa Wins Again) with tardy boat drivers and their resistance to the idea of traveling to an Itsekiri village. Finally, we hopped on the early boat to such place with the supplies for the pole. Quickly, within the ghost-town of Mandagho, we erected the partner pole with the help of locals. Peter and I stood back and watched. Two hours later, left alone, two Americans in Mandagho to construct a Peace Pole [View Full Entry]

---

---

An idea, the design, research on the Peace Pole Project, a new design—and then the chainsaw; a three and a half foot blade warped in a tooth of gnawing metal. We were supposed to have the materials, and the paints, but there were none. So we improvised, Peter Titcomb and I, finding resources, scouring the bush. And with the help of three large muscular black men of the Ijaw tribe in the Niger Delta, the engine hummed, filling a quiet room of books and cataloging. Wood split, poles shaved, materials produced. The Niger Delta Friendship Library Peace Pole of Oporoza within [View Full Entry]

---

---

Rain, thunder, and lightning showered our Thanksgiving feast, blessing the coming together of Nigerians and Americans. "God has accepted our meeting." Nicholas Ijabor explains the significance of the storm as evening showers poured onto an above tarp. Earlier in the day, rains persisted and brought native talk among the locals. They fidgeted in their plastic chairs. Together, we were at a town meeting exploring the methods to preserve the library, and this inviting phenomenon seemed to enliven our purpose. "We have been blessed many this day," Nicky said over the roar of water. As the library project nears the day of [View Full Entry]

---

---

The crowds continued to thicken on the day of our arrival in Oporoza. We felt welcomed, and may I add slightly overwhelmed. The festivals were abundant and the attention we received was immense. We were Kings and Queens, white stones upon a shore of black sand. More simply, we were a group of American and Nigerian delegates come to a small riverine village within the Niger Delta of Nigeria. We were there to help build a library and understand the issues they, and the whole region, faced. But for our arrival, it was purely entertainment. Dancing, singing, receptions, more culture, more [View Full Entry]

---

---