EEEtheWorld

I feel so unhealthy. It's time to head home. Most of the day I said to myself... 2 days of India left. Then Mohamed Ali's voice rang in my head exclaiming, "don't count the days, make the days count!" Which is worthy. I surely made the most of the day and I'm especially proud of myself for making it to vinyasa this morning when I felt like crap. I opened my mentality to feeling good all day. Yet the cockroach crawling up my purple shirt over break set me back. I never wanted to be that girl who startles easily at bugs- but this very well could have been a rat. Not joking. When a creepy crawly prehistoric brown beetle is clawing at your belly it's frightening. I screamed. I almost struck out at flicking this horrifying creature off me. I could feel it's weight under the pen as I bat it across the room. My stomach lurched, exactly the opposite of what I needed; It took me a good two minutes to calm. This made me very eager to be at home where the invaders are cute furry mice, not rodent sized insects. And that lurching: now I'm perched on the toilet for what seems to be the gazillionth time during this trip. I followed the rules- all rice and chipati and lots of water- yet there is clear yellowish beige burning liquid exploding from my asshole. This time I can barely leave the throne. I guarantee you there is a ring the shape of the toilet seat curved into my derrière like facial pillow prints from a good nights sleep. And usually diarreah does not burn like this. Grrrr this bacteria or virus or demonic Delhi belli is knocking us out like flies. I thought I'd be a survivor and make it two more days. Thinking about the 4 hours of yoga I have to lead over the next 48hours, in front of the entire class makes my insides hurt. Maybe I'll wear a diaper and lay in shavasana praying for prana to heal my digestive tract. Maybe ol faithful will erupt from my downward dog. Maybe I'll teach "shit karma" instead of the purification technique of shat karma. Ahmph. Alright the war with my rear is at a ceasefire so I'll attempt to fall asleep before the brown blaze burdens my buttocks again. Goodnight. 2 more days.

Be a better traveler than your food

Michael polan chapter thirteen the market one the average meal travels over 1500 miles and is usual better traveled than its eater

of food on an American’s plate travels some fifteen hundred miles to get there, and is frequently better traveled and more worldly than its eater.

A chicken— or steak, or ham, or carton of eggs— can find its way from Polyface Farm to an eater’s plate by five possible routes: direct sales at the farm store, farmer’s markets, metropolitan buying clubs, a handful of small shops in Staunton, and Joel’s brother Art’s panel truck, which makes deliveries to area restaurants every Thursday. Each of these outlets seems quite modest in itself, yet taken together they comprise the arteries of a burgeoning local food economy that Joel believes is indispensable to the survival of his kind of agriculture (and community), not to mention to the reform of the entire global food system.

markets in the Washington, D.C., area. On the drive, Joel and I talk about the growing local- food movement, the challenges it faces, and the whole sticky issue of price. I asked Joel how he answers the charge that because food like his is more expensive it is inherently elitist. “I don’t accept the premise. First off, those weren’t any elitists you met on the farm this morning. We sell to all kinds of people. Second, whenever I hear people say clean food is expensive, I tell them it’s actually the cheapest food you can buy. That always gets their attention. Then I explain that with our food all of the costs are figured into the price. Society is not bearing the cost of water pollution, of antibiotic resistance, of food- borne illnesses, of crop subsidies, of subsidized oil and water— of all the hidden costs to the environment and the taxpayer that make cheap food seem cheap. No thinking person will tell you they don’t care about all that. I tell them the choice is simple: You can buy honestly priced food or you can buy irresponsibly priced food."

All those things— all those pastoral values— globalization proposes to sacrifice in the name of efficiency and economic growth.

Joel Salatin and his customers want to be somewhere that that juggernaut can’t go, and it may be that by elevating local above organic, they have found exactly that place. By definition local is a hard thing to sell in a global marketplace. Local food, as opposed to organic, implies a new economy as well as a new agriculture— new social and economic relationships as well as new ecological ones. It’s a lot more complicated.

“We don’t have to beat them," Joel patiently explained. “I’m not even sure we should try. We don’t need a law against McDonald’s or a law against slaughterhouse abuse— we ask for too much salvation by legislation. All we need to do is empower individuals with the right philosophy and the right information to opt out en masse.

The unexpected lessons of yoga school - trust!? Your intuition? Your guru? Your God!?

- you need a break from discipline (yoga)

- meditation in moderation

- curiosity may have killed the cat, but not me

- nature nature nature cannot get enough

- hello honest . Ergo your ego

A day exploring the riverbanks of the Ganges gives me an exuberant feeling- a well of tears that fails to spill but keeps swirling inside out of sheer happiness. Psychologists have refred to this as "flow" when you loose all track of time and any cares of the world are defeated by momentary bliss. I'm attending to build an empire around this feeling of ebullience, excitement, wanderlust, a bit of fear even. We call this EEE.

All I did was walk. I placed one foot in front of the other not even knowing where I was headed, just taking everything in. Open hearted and mind aware, I felt the shimmering sun shine through the ancient trees casting dancing shadows upon the dirt path. I marched alongside Indian families, the women clad in colorful saris, holding babies, exchanging friendly glances. At one point along the route, one woman with a gigantic pleading smile even handed me her baby and the rest of the family crowded in before I could object to the flash of a photo. But I would never object- this was as fascinating to me as it was to them. I was the odd exquisiteness from a far away place. They thanked me profusely and I just chuckled, and namaste'd and bowed and thanked them too. Luckily, I was prepared the next time a family inquired about taking a photo with I their baby.

How you spend your money, and more importantly, your time, revolves around priorities. Figuring out what your priorities are, is the trick. Although this took me 3 cities, 4 corporate jobs, several happy hours and most of my twenties to figure out, I'm grateful to report I finally have my priorities in order (for now). First step, I commit corporate suicide, said sianara to my comfortable corner cubical overlooking Michigan ave, and left my everything to travel Southeast Asia to figure out!

On that rare occasion where you self awake sans alarms with motivations thoughts in your head after a restful night's sleep. That's where I am at this morning. I am also in Thailand. My love for this country is like a new Friend you bond instantly with, but feel you've known each other forever, and have confidence in fact you will.

Thailand is like luxury compared to Cambodia. And please do not get me wrong, Cambodia has its own fragile essence and allure, but there is a certain zen felt in Thailand that is difficult to feel anywhere else in the world, and has absolutely not been felt in Thailand. I don't like comparing the two countries but it brings so much depth to how I experience these two countries. So I am just going to write how I feel. Sometimes this blogging thing is difficult for me because I have to feel like my writing is perfect and my opinions are acceptable and won't hurt anybody or any country for that matter- won't hurt their feelings. That's one of the things I've been trying to let go of on this trip though, caring too much about people's opinions of me.

Anyway, each country has its positives and negatives and everything in your life stems from your own frame of reference. One of my favorite quotes from http://quoteinvestigator.com/2014/03/09/as-we-are/ from Anais Nin's 1961 Seduction of the Minotaur

Ok I will continue these thoughts. The older I get the more I realize how important peaceful mornings are to me to set my own intentions for the day and just have some me time to be creative! So I try to take advantage of it when I can. It's difficult when you are traveling with someone who wakes up and is extremely caring but extremely social and wants to know everything about your bowel movements the night before. Asking about my poop on vacation is a sure way to slice the creativity out of me, however, it is comical. Brain switch, today we are headed on a seven islands adventure and we hope to find a group to go with! Breakfast time!

Phnom Penh has been a tormented and tantalizing melange of emotions over the past two weeks yet I feel ready to bid adieu. One week was required to "warm up" to this place, despite the actual temperature reaching being freakishly hot degrees. The following week arrested my soul and I fell in love with the people, the smiles, the attentive students, the Tuk Tuk ride to school, my rooftop workout routine the riverfront, and even our charming little rue in the ghetto.

That's right, we were in the ghetto.

In my experience, it's quite universal that neighborhoods next to airports seem to be more run down than other parts of town. I guess when one has a choice to live where planes landing rattles your entire Home and explodes your eardrums, or to live where planes soar soundlessly 200000m above the rooftops, most would chose the latter. In phnomn penh however, choice barely exists. The people go where they need to go in order to survive.

We did live in the ghetto. Smack dab in an oasis of nicer, newly built narrow complexes. We were living on a small island where a couple other young families where making a go in their new condos in this developing neighborhood. In the daytime it was hot and dusty like the rest of phonomenal penh with mocking birds chirping, listless tots playing in the street, and the coconut men swinging by our door at 10am for our morning post class snack. But there was no questioning why we had a stict 10 pm curfew every night. We were on island in a sea of KTVs. Three streets down to the south and to the west, which I could see in plain sight form our rooftop, rested the sex trafficking hub of Southeast Asia. It's no wonder Tuk Tuk drivers would question, "why you live here?" KTVs are Kareoke joints where men can go to drink cheap beer and get attention from the young, country girl who needs fast cash to feed her family.

Waht many, a new dear friend, and courageous, intelligent, honest and good hearted Cambodian man explained to us is that most of the young girls that work at the KTVs actually aspire to be there. As country girls, they come from unimaginably poor families, who send them to the city for government factory work at a very young age. Sometimes as young as 15 even though the legal age is 18. So these innocent young "country chickens" as many referred to them, arrive in the city with little to no education, little to no exposure to life outside their conservative village, and are suddenly thrown into the wicked chicken coop where the pecking order is rough. The one thing they have going for them is their innocence. Just like chickens in the literal sense- meat from the fresh countryside is often preferred to the scrawny polluted city chicks- and this reigns true in the KTVs world too. The nights we did Tuk Tuk home nearing 10pm we witnessed police cars at the larger joints. Many explained to us this is not a raid against sex trafficking, but what most likely occurred is the police were called due to men brawling over the youngest, freshest most attentive country chick of their choice. Many made it pretty clear that these KTVs do not necessarily have rooms for sex, but the girls are lured by nice motorbikes and promises of big tips if they cross the street to the "hotel" next door.

So these young ladies either work nearly to death underage at the factories or get to sty up all night and sing and receive attention from men. There are promising rumors about rich men and huge tips that mask putting their body up for sale. And to us western girls this may seem unfathomable until we think about the fairytale stories we grew up with like pretty woman, where Prince Charming is just one lucky limo ride away.

The difference between us and them is we have so many more options. We have opportunity for education, there's at least a Denny's that needs third shift servers, or foodbanks with healthy options.

It was a surreal feeling when driving past lines and lines and lines of these women. What did we look like to them? To give you the magnitude of how many of these establishments surrounded our neighborhood next to the airport, I am not exaggerating that we drove down a bumpy poorly paved path for five minutes straight of its after Kts after kTv. Some are crowded some our not. Some have pool inside. Some you can hear the laughter and what seems to be fun ringing outside the walls. Some have 20 young girls done to the nines in their high high heals, short skirts, big necklaces, and white powder, sitting on couches jut outside the narrow walls, beckoning at any male counterpart that drives by on a moto. Some of these ktvs may not be much different than the stop clubs in America, where waitresses are just paid to entertain.

The girls who do earn cash in this way do not let their families know as most likely they'd be austiciizied.

We rode along that foreign street lined with Kareoke and drinks for long enough for me to start planning an escape route in my head, how do we get out of this Situation? Where are we? It's not like I felt like Our Tuk Tuk would be hijacked and we'd be drugged then repeatedly raped taken style, but it was not a place for two white girls to be late at night.

And how pitiful my selfishness of getting home safely seems when locking eyes passing by one of these little ladies.

Most of the girls grew up on farms that just could not produce enough to eanr wages enough to support a family. Their fathers may be prey to the deforestation industry huge corporations run incollaboration with thencambodian government. Often these laborer a are overworked to the point of death. It is extremely common to die on the job, with zero repercussions for the family. All they know is dad did not one home today and they cannot question in fear of being keilled themselves.

As many and amihcelle and I spoke of then trajedies of Cambodian culture there was a surreal feeling pitted deep inside me. I thought I imagined many's response to my question, what about the prime minister? "I cannot talk about it or I might be killed." But michelle later confirmed she heard him say this too. He also shared that several NGO workers wahoo have challenged thenroregstatioj and overwork practices have disappeared and no one knows if they are alive, I provisioned, or what happened.

So there is this tragic nonsensical side to cambodia that one is continaullynadjustingntoo. It also makes it easy and difficult to leave. I'm leaving after two weeks of teaching 11-15 year olds who come from improverished families. I can only pray they stay in school or somehow my two weeks of influence can remind them of their worth enough to continue studying or have opportunity to work anywhere but a kTv

Maybe in a past life I lived in Texas. Go big or go home tends to align with every goal I set. I dream big. As an eight year old into drama, I'd dress up in this olive green dress and practice my Oscar speech for best actress in the mirror. (Still working on this one) In high school I aspired to have the entire junior class attend the Halloween dance. (It wasn't the entire class, but it got so out of control they canceled it the following years ). In college I wanted to raise overs $100k for zta foundation's support of breast cancer education and awareness during BMOC, nearly a $10k increase from the following year (we raised $111K). And now I want to fund the entire sustainable agriculture program for SCCDO where I am teaching in cambodia to feed the school kids and give them proper nutrition, a $15k undertaking just to get started. Approx $885 dollars a month just for food.

The executive director of SCCDO, Piseth, visited us in the classrooms today and later sat us down in the hot box office to share his story. We choked back tears as his twisted childhood and loss of his father during Khmer Rouge made its way to our hearts. The history of the school quite inspirational. But the funds to keep this NGO dream living are dwindling. My heart sinks knowing the three teachers are working without a salary. It's the wetness in their eyes, and the selflessness of their souls that makes me want to drop everything in my life and help them in a big way.

But reality and corruption and trust takes its toll on your mind. There is a lot of corruption in Cambodia and you wonder who and how to trust. Will you ever truly know where your money is going. One reassuring aspect is the construction impeding on our classrooms' attention span (walls are drilled and placed as we teach) is a direct action from the $2000 donation a volunteer gave last week. The couple from Norway, who are the most financially sound dinars of SCCDO, was also visiting the school to see its progress yesterday.

And then I tell myself just to focus small. Instead of trying to find an entire program, maybe just buy a sachel of rice to feed the kids for one week. Where is my line? How do I balance my compassion against reality? When do I take a step back and accept that just my time teaching is making a difference? At what point is my effort enough?

They are so grateful for anything. I am grateful to be here with the children and doing my best explaining composition and the differences between writing in first and third person just for today's lesson.

On breath, one small step at a time. I can dream big, but I have to just have patience and accept my efforts to get there. Think global act local is a good mantra for me. If day by day I am making a difference in myself, with a child, on a community, maybe it's that string of events that changes the world for the better.

Cheers,

Hallie

I do not even know how to begin. I guess with the physical weight I feel across my heart in first experiencing the Cambodian school I'm teaching at for the next two weeks. Why do I feel like erupting into tears? It's a similar feeling to that I had on the back of pi lak's motorbike. How can some have so much and be so miserable and some have so little and be so sweet? It's a fickle world we live in. This trodden feeling I have is helplessness maybe- where do I begin to help? And what will help!? Money, time, a voice? Luckily the universe has blessed me with all three so I feel perhaps a calling to act everyday to spread this wealth. I guess this aligns with my passion of education and exploration of the world. This is an enlightening EEE moment.

I am healthy, I am wealthy, I am well, I am wise. The universe aligns with my spiritual surmise.

The faces pierce me first. The smiles that burry contrite emotions of the one teacher and two administrative fellows who run the entire save children and communities development organization's south Phnom Penh school. We arrived via Tuk Tuk after classes had started for the morning, but in retrospect of the AM, I question, if we as volunteers aren't at the head of the classroom, who is?

Young was to my left, michelle to my right, seated on a wicker sofa across from these three men. Cara another teacher with CVF came in too holding pinaud's hand. We teach from 8-9 with a fifteen minute break then 9:15 to 10. To my understanding this am class then leaves for lunch and government school or work. We return to teach the pm kids 2-3' 3:15-4. I am not a formally trained teacher, but they did not even care. I speak English and have zero criminal background. That's it. That's how desperate they are to educate these children.

My teaching experience comes from Thailand with the mirror foundation and some volunteer work inner city in the states. These programs were filled with resources of flash cards and games and books and markers and beads. SCCDO now has walls and that is an accomplishment. This school has courage and volunteers and energetic, smiling, bright children who are so thankful for what they have. Yet, this school barely has a foundation. There's a tin roof and 4 10x10 areas separated by new thin plywood walls, and a whiteboard in each classroom. There are four whiteboard markers and one whiteboard eraser. So any time the board is filled and you need to erase, one of the students in the back has to pop over to whatever classroom had the eraser last. By the end of the hour, I had used my skirt to wipe the board and even a crumpled up piece of paper. I didn't even want to use the sheet of paper Tepy eagerly ripped from her Winnie the Pooh notebook, because each child only has one notebook. They share pens.

There are no books, not one single children's book on nonexistent shelves. I had asked the teachers... What do the students like and not like? Cheerfully Piro said, "They don't like to read because it difficult to pronounce English aloud." Embarrassed they laughed and we smiled. I thought oh, great, I will practice this, so I asked about any books, and that's when my heart sank- smiles remaining, but their eyes changing. There are no books. Zero books. Not one story in the entire school.

To think about the library in my elementary school, or snuggling up on my kindergarten teachers lap for a story, or even the multitude of workbooks for every subject and taking this for granted my entire life brings weight to my chest. But I cannot sit here and feel guilty. I will be creative in my teaching with one marker. The ten, "level three" kids I have are starting to be conversational and write sentences with tenses or change verbs into adverbs. I tell myself I will make a difference in the two weeks I have with them. And afterwards I vow to fill their school with books and resources to maximize their learning potential.

The gratefulness and joy and sincerity in their hearts fills mine.

I'm going to go plan out two weeks of lessons now, with just my brain, their attentiveness and a marker, wish me luck!