Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 457

My Karmic Connection with Cambodia

Cambodia has been on my mind for the last six months, pretty much all the time, but it’s hard to say why. This interest-turned-passion developed within a few hours and has stayed on since. It started with a book called “Survival in the Killing Fields”, written by a Khmer Rouge Survivor, Dr Haing Ngor. Dr Ngor went on to star in the movie “The Killing Fields” which is why you may have heard of him. I had not, and I was not aware of the movie or its story. This book changed all of that.

But then I thought about why I, of all people, should be so affected by a book to the extent that for a few months, it was all I was talking about to anyone who cared to read or listen. I thought about the authors I’ve been reading and how they are related to Cambodia, I thought about what I’ve read and I thought about Cambodia as a country and its people and culture. Most authors or film makers who have produced anything related to Cambodia bear some relation to the country or its culture in some way. Random people like me exist, but are rare and no one takes them seriously anyway.

“What is my reason?”, I am asked. I am Indian. I live in Malaysia and work as a Doctor. Till just five months ago I had no plans of even visiting Cambodia apart from a “bucket list” desire to see AngkorWat. I had never heard of anyone related to Cambodia. I am 38 years old and I knew nothing about a country that was the victim of a genocide that must surely rank alongside The Holocaust in many ways and in many others, stand apart in its brutality and near-destruction of an entire country and its identifying tenets of civilization-family, religion and way of life. It was a sledgehammer discovery, to put it mildly.

Cambodia took a hold on me. It led me to visiting Phnom Penh, an experience that comes once in a lifetime. I met people whose memories will always linger and and I felt peace and a sense of utter spiritual calm where in fact, I had gone to see places known for brutality and murder of historic proportions.

Cambodia, I realize now, is personal. The story stays with me, the images and memories-of old Cambodia, of the photographs of the S21 victims hanging there, of the evacuation of Phnom Penh, of the “Killing Tree of Choeung Ek”, of the rare footage from the Khmer Rouge labour camps-they haunt me. I am awe-struck at how a people subject to such complete and utter subjugation, terror and destruction can be so welcoming, so warm, so genuine. I despair at the problems that currently face Cambodia but I am grateful that there is a Cambodia at all.

Sadly, for a country that has a rich heritage and a glorious past, it is The Khmer Rouge genocide of 1975-1979 that defines Cambodia’s history now-everything since is judged in its context- but although Haing Ngor introduced me to the Khmer Rouge and their atrocities, he also weaved in aspects of Cambodia’s culture and customs that impacted his life-respect for elders, the value of family, traditional Asian values-a culture that unsurprisingly is very close to my own Indian upbringing. These values were shattered by the Khmer Rouge, the country’s very fabric was torn to shreds and the threads that bind the cloth now are tenuous but they are there. I read about the country’s geography and people-the vast green rice fields, the poor but happy farming community working for themselves, the old world charm of Phnom Penh, the arts and dance heritage of Cambodia, the beautifully peaceful countryside dotted with sugar palms and ringed with hills and mountain ranges. The scenes I describe above are familiar to me-they could have been from anywhere in India or indeed, in South East Asia. Cambodia feels like home and in my recent visit there, I felt I was at home too.

Modern life has undoubtedly changed much of the scenery and that is to be expected but the Cambodia of today has risen from the Stone Age, quite literally. How can that not be inspiring?.

By all rights, Cambodia should be extinct. But of course, it’s not. Go and see for yourself what a miracle means.

I am of course, no expert in this field and maybe that is a good thing. I cannot look at Cambodia with academic detachment and I am grateful for that. Now, if I am still asked “Why Cambodia”, I tell them that in a previous life I was Cambodian.

Karmic connection. That is what it is.

That is why I love this little piece of heaven.

About the Author: Nishikanta Verma: I am an Indian doctor currently residing in Malaysia. I am passionate about all things related to Cambodia and also have current interests in World History, Buddhism and Quantum Physics. I am married with one daughter and another on the way. Twitter: @jipmerdays.

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Costa Rica: Sustainable Tourism? Sustainable Spouse?

We have left Panama for Costa Rica and are very excited to soon meet the father of eco-tourism, Michael Kaye who is also the founder of Costa Rica Expeditions.

He offered to share his story from the Huffington Post: What Do Being Sustainable and Being Faithful to Your Spouse Have in Common?

They are both worthwhile, they are both difficult, and they are both routinely lied about.

This post is about sustainability and lies.

I got inspired to write about this topic by the sign below that I saw in a hotel bathroom the weekend before last.

Next to the toilet, there was one of those pretty little covered metal garbage cans that I always knock over when I try to use the foot pedal that opens the cover. Presumably the feminine hygiene products, etc. were to be deposited in it.

After reading the sign, I got to wondering whether the way the feminine hygiene products, etc. were disposed of after they were deposited in the garbage can was any kinder to the environment than flushing them down the toilet. No one at the hotel knew.

It turns out that the real reason the hotel did not want feminine hygiene products, etc. put in the toilet is that they blocked the septic system and caused flooding. That seemed to me to be necessary and sufficient reason to not put feminine hygiene products, etc. in the toilets without having to mention the much-invoked environment.

This kind of increasingly ubiquitous lie about sustainability is usually more thoughtless than intentional. Since everybody else does it, we reflexively cite the environment as a reason to do things. In many cases our purpose is much more to show the world that we are environmental good guys than to actually influence behavior.

Take, “Please consider the environment before printing this email.” Has anyone ever forgone a hard copy that they really needed for environmental considerations? If you don’t really need a hard copy, aren’t there more compelling reasons for not bothering to print it than the environment.

There is another kind of being sustainable lie that is much more damaging — the lie that being sustainable is good marketing. I am most familiar with this lie in travel, but I have seen it crop up in many other fields as well.

This second type of sustainability lie is particularly insidious because initially being sustainable can be good marketing, but (read this slowly) marketing through sustainability is not sustainable.

It’s not as complicated as it sounds. Here’s how it works:

The real market for sustainability is the media, not the ultimate consumer.
The media loves interesting stories about sustainability.
Businesses that are able to create these types of stories get in the media.
Businesses that get positive stories in the media get customers.
The fact that some sustainable businesses have lots of customers creates the illusion that the customers are choosing theses business because they are sustainable, when they are actually choosing them because they are in the media.
These businesses are held up as poster children for sustainability is good marketing.
This induces other businesses to adopt sustainable practices to get more customers only to find that the media has no interest in the second businesses who are doing the same things that they (the media) already featured.
To get ink you have to come up with a new sexy way to be sustainable.
Before long new sexy ways to be sustainable are more expensive to implement than the benefits from the media exposure.
This inflationary sustainability spiral leads to lying about sustainable practice, AKA green washing.
At least for a while the media, hungry for feel good sustainability stories is not inclined to delve too deeply.
Then, when the media loses interest in feel good sustainability stories, because they’ve, “been done,” they turn to green-washing exposés, which give sustainability a bad name.

And that’s why marketing sustainability is not sustainable.

This brings me to the other thing that being faithful to your spouse and being sustainable have in common: The more you do them and the less you talk about them the better.

If you talk about being faithful to your spouse, people will think of John Edwards and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

If you talk about being sustainable, people will wonder what kind of car you drive.

Where to find Michael Kaye:
http://www.costaricaexpeditions.com

http://www.tortugalodge.com
http://www.monteverdelodge.com

Blog:http://www.vacationtimeisprecious.com

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Japan: Learning to Fly

Mount Fuji was stunning in its symmetry. I stood across the gulf, on a dock in Shizuoka, enveloped by a mesh of white cottontail plants bending with the breeze. Black sand spread before me, coarse grains eroded from the basaltic rock carried ashore from Mount Fuji, Japan. Debris had accumulated in the brush – cardboard, aluminum cans, chunks of Styrofoam coolers – debris from fishing trips past, debris neatly consolidated and tucked away by small Japanese fishermen. They said hello as they passed with their tall boots and their lines, quiet men and women welcoming two foreigners into their hometown.

After nearly a year in Japan, Shizuoka felt more familiar than foreign, from the clipped Japanese chatter wafting over from the parking lot to the miniature vans and trucks packed to the brim with fishing gear. Every few minutes, a faint roar erupted, carried in from the little league baseball game I had passed on the road on the walk in. Far away from the cement and concrete grayness of Nagoya, Shizuoka’s miles of green houses, colorful flowers, and wide open fields were a (literal) breath of fresh air. From the opposite direction – perhaps a distant school or soccer field – came a cadence of bongo drums and brass instruments, the tinny voices of children wafting across the plains.

Mount Fuji, or Fuji-san, has long been a sacred mountain. The native Ainu revered the great peak. Shintoists consider the peak sacred to the goddess Sengen-Sama, who embodies nature. The Fujiko sect believes the mountain is a being with a soul. Japanese Buddhists believe the mountain is the gateway to a different world. It is the most climbed mountain in the world; over 100,000 people trek to its summit each year.

I had come not to hike the mountain but to take in its beauty, to absorb the panoramic view hikers are not able to capture as they traverse it. Though Fuji-san’s peaks were snow-less the sky was clear, allowing onlookers to absorb the mountain in all of its glorious symmetry.

I made my way down the beach, weaving around waves and fishing lines. High above the water, a tiny plane cut through the sky. White with red stripes, the plane whizzed as it passed, a steady trail of smoke snaking behind it. It flew with a wobbled, frenetic energy, as if eager to get to its destination.

It took a few minutes to register the plane was a toy, a stunning replica of a small passenger plane, controlled by someone I had no sight of. I watched, awestruck, as the engine choked and the plane spiraled, nose-first, toward the water. It wailed and sputtered and, mere inches above the waves, pulled its nose up to the sky, showing off in a series of loop-the-loops before shooting off down the coast.

I thought immediately of my grandfather, my paternal grandfather, now a decade deceased. My grandfather had an affinity for planes, for helicopters, for things that flew. As a kid he had fashioned a makeshift parachute to his back and jumped off the roof, to the horror of my great-grandmother. As a young man he flew planes to train for the war, but ultimately spent Christmas of ’44 on the ground, driving tanks, as the battle bulged onward. As a father of four and a grandfather of seven, he flew small planes recreationally, occasionally taking one of the kids up for a ride, to the horror of my grandmother. Whenever she scolded my grandfather for his antics, he would smile sweetly, tip his head to the side, and say “I love you, dear!”.

My grandfather was interested in physics, in the way things rose and fell, the way they found their way back. His thirst for knowledge was never satiated, his curiosity without bounds, his desire to push the limits tempered only by his obligations as a husband, a father, a grandfather. Sundays I would tear through the side door, yell hello to my grandmother and make my way downstairs to find Grandpa. I could picture the scene before I saw it: Grandpa standing in his small workshop off the basement bathroom, talk radio chattering in the background. I would see his back first, his head bent over the wings and tiny parts of the model planes he crafted from balsa wood, the planes we would later chase through the field. Planes that – if you threw them correctly, with just the right speed and just the right arc – landed smoothly, quietly, in the shin-high grass.

 

He had long dreamed of hang-gliding. As a kid, I pictured him soaring off a cliff in northern Michigan, a stunning blaze of brightly colored sails against the reddening sky. But by the time activities like hang-gliding and sky-diving went mainstream – meaning, they were administered by professionals and deemed, for the most part, “safe” – grandpa was a tad too old. He was mentally and physically solid, sound as an ox, but his wildest times were behind him.

In honor of my grandfather’s seventieth we found the next best thing: a hot air balloon ride. I was eight at the time and too light to accompany him. I stood close to the basket as the crew removed the stakes from the ground, as the ropes wriggled free. I waved, heart pounding, as propane blasted up into the balloon, as the long nylon gores filled with air. When the basket left the earth, shifting westward with the wind, I ran alongside it. I must have run a half mile through that field, watching as my grandfather, beaming from ear to ear, became smaller and smaller, watching until he became a speck high above the treetops, the vibrant red balloon a cape carrying him, finally, onward and upward.

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England: The Lost World of Arkwright

The Lost World of Arkwright

The stillness is unnerving in this dark, dank, virile valley. Nature is out of control here: Ivy, moss and lichen are choking stone and tree, swallowing the stream even.

This place was once very different. I catch glimpses of the past through snaking roots and shrubbery: a gable here, an empty window there, a missing door, a roofless ruin, a right angle of walls instead of a rectangle, a pile of rubble. Further up, there’s the curved wall of an empty paint vat, a single surviving flue and a wheel pit with an empty linchpin. In an archway, there is the worn-away convex curve of stone where a millstone once ground.

The Derwent Valley Mills in Derbyshire, England is a World Heritage Site. They are great monuments to the Industrial Revolution, and to one of its founding father, Richard Arkwright. Just off the main Derwent trail is Lumsdale, a forgotten wooded gorge close to the town of Matlock. Few venture here yet it’s a place of strange decaying beauty. The first mill was built here in the 1600s. By the height of the Industrial Revolution, there were at least 7 mills crammed into this narrow dale.

I close my eyes and breathe in the faint smell of water hitting cool air, rock and fern. The rotting vegetation from last winter still pervades the air, mingled with the scent of fresh shoots and buds. I try to imagine what it would have been like here centuries ago when the mills were still operating. And I swear I can smell the pungent aroma of ground minerals, the crunched bone of animal, the chaff of the wheat and the woven cotton. I listen. Through the sound of cascading water, I’m sure I can hear the grating millstone and the voices of mill workers hanging in heavy, dust-filled air. This place is full of ghosts.

I open my eyes again and continue the climb. “Hello.” An elderly lady calls to me. She’s carrying sheets of typed paper. “Would you be interested in my guided tour of the Lumsdale Arkwright Mills?” Her small eyes are bright with excitement. She makes her way over, her feet nimble, her body light. She trips over her words with a distinctive Scottish lilt. I don’t recognise her face but I remember her voice.

“We’ve met before,” I exclaim, “when I came up here last winter in the snow”. She has come to life with the spring and the excitement of her project. Back then, the winter snow had taken its toll as she had walked down the icy lane above the dale, hunched over, frail and vulnerable. Spring has a way of renewing life.

“I promise I will come,” I shout as I leave.

High above the dale, I look down at the waterfall that spills a hundred feet. Transparent pebbles of water bounce into the air. Below, the stream is bracken- brown. At the water’s edge, great green and russet slabs of stone sculpt the valley, like heavy, angular Russian monuments.

At the top, I sit by the last surviving mill pond of three. A black Labrador breaks the glassy surface of the water with his snout. The inverted landscape trembles. Mallards fly out of yellowed reeds. A flock of ravens rise up on the hillside in an echo.

Lumsdale. It’s a place that calls to me over and over.

About the Author: Helen Moat spent her childhood squished between siblings in her Dad’s Morris Minor, travelling the length and breadth of Ireland. She’s still wandering. She blogs at: http://moathouse-moathouseblogspotcom.blogspot.co.uk/

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Confessions: Teacher or Traveler?

Thank you to the Huffington Post for sharing my story: Why So Many of America’s Teachers Are Leaving The Profession

John Owens in his book, Confessions of a Bad Teacher, shares that “America’s public school teachers are being loudly and unfairly blamed for the failure of our nation’s public schools.” As a 2012 nominee for the Presidential Award for Excellence in Math and Science Teaching and a veteran of public and private schools for the last twenty years, I have to agree but I was glad to hear someone else say it in print.

The vast majority of teachers are working overtime without the tools or budget to manage the plethora of issues inside and outside the classroom. On top of that, administrators who only compound the situation by micromanaging the wrong things make the lives of teachers completely untenable with their lack of support.

Most teaching preparation programs including the one Mr. Owens attended do not adequately prepare anyone for life in the classroom. For many beginning teachers, “It was as though I had just joined the circus as an apprentice clown and was immediately required to juggle plates, bowling pins, butcher’s knives, and axes all day long while walking along a tightrope in midair.” Teachers make more decisions per hour than any other job including what to do with a student who falls behind, manage students with learning or emotional problems, tailor each lesson every day to up to 125 students or more who are somewhere between illiterate and highly gifted.

Sadly some administrators, students and parents instead of partnering with teachers, blame “teachers which is easier than doing a massive system overhaul.”

CLICK HERE TO READ THE FULL ARTICLE ON THE HUFFINGTON POST (and read the comments!)

The article ends:

In Los Angeles, new teachers and old can find mentorship and engaging lessons with the Los Angeles Science Teachers Network. In response to an overwhelming situation in 2009, I created this network for professional development, support and camaraderie. Administrators cannot do everything and we all must participate to improve learning for the children. Do not listen to the blame. Do something about it. We are each responsible to do what we can. Write a blog, start a network, help a child and find a way to feel supported in the classroom. America needs you.

About the Author: Lisa Niver Rajna was a 2012 nominee for the Presidential Award for Excellence in Math and Science Teaching. She was the first teacher to appear on Career Day. She and her husband George are on a career break sharing their world adventures on We Said Go Travel.

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Mountain Travel Sobek: Adventure Talk with the Rajnas!

Thank you to Mountain Travel Sobek for interviewing us for Adventure Talk! We are honored to be included in their adventure series!

Avid travelers and entrepreneurs, Lisa and George fell in love while exploring the world, and have continued to strengthen their bond while reaching out to inspire others to live their dreams.  They are two educators with a passion for globetrotting, and their adventures have brewed their creation of We Said Go Travel, a site that has developed into a global community, where over 300 people have come to share their story. We had the chance to interview Lisa and George and uncover some of their story below:

 

1. When did you fall in love with travel?

George: I first fell in love with travel when I traveled with my parents as a young child on a road trip in Mexico, and during family trips to Israel and the Bahamas. I eventually truly fell in love with travel on my own when I traveled to Europe for the first time. I knew it was something I wanted to continue to do.

Lisa: My parents took my sister and I on a cruise to the Mediterranean when I was twelve. I loved being at sea and waking up each day in a new port. The waiter gave us huge bags of fruit to take on the bus to the pyramids; he was worried we wouldn’t find anything to eat. Riding a camel that day was an experience I have never forgotten, and I am still hungry for more adventures!

 

4. Tell us about your book, Traveling in Sin…would you describe it as your and George’s love story?

George: Yes. It is a memoir about our relationship and how it evolved during our year-long journey traveling, primarily in Asia from Indonesia to Mongolia.

Lisa: Our book starts with the actual emails we sent when we met online. From our first contact to spending 24/7 together on the road, we share the good, the bad and my tears on our journey. There are humorous moments and colorful characters.

Read the full interview: CLICK HERE

WATCH: video book trailer of Traveling in Sin:

 

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Spain and Illinois: Home and back again

Some people would say that I live in vacationland. Sunny Spain…where the climate rarely disappoints you with a rainy day. History and culture, sun and sand or wine and tapas are your short list of free-time activities. Europe awaits out the back door. If I had unlimited “me” time and equally endless funds, I’d be touring my way across the continent, checking off one more country after each trip. And I would own a little place back home where I grew up.

Home. Sometimes a difficult concept to explain. I do feel comfortable calling Madrid my home. Last summer before departing on our separate vacations, a friend and I joined the terrace crowds downing cold beers and nibbling on delicacies like jamón Ibérico and Manchego cheese. A little kiss of Spanish flavors to linger with us as we traveled to parts of the world filled with a different set of customs and pleasures.

I was making a quick trip to the US to visit my cousin who was recovering from hip replacement surgery. My vacation wouldn’t be an exploration of new countries; it was an opportunity to revisit the core of who I am — my family and my hometown.

The rush of nostalgia I get seeing certain landmarks is as satisfying as the wonder I experience when sightseeing in a foreign land. Joliet, Illinois might not mean much to the world at large, but I walk into Dan’s Homemade Candies and I smell the autumns of my childhood celebrated with caramel apples or the arrival of spring marked by cream-filled, chocolate-covered Easter eggs. A dinner at Syl’s, just down the road in Rockdale, lets me wallow in local foodie delights. Their classic menu offers a variety of steaks, Ditka-style pork chops, poorboy sandwiches, frog legs, fried chicken livers and a plate of Adam & Eve (ribs and chicken) for the indecisive. Chicago’s famous stockyards may be long gone, but some Midwestern customs are not so easily abandoned.

Infamous Chicago legend Al Capone often took a break from the windy city to enjoy a show at Joliet’s Rialto Square Theater, a beautiful building of Greek, Roman and Byzantine architecture that opened in 1926. On the national register of historic places, the Rialto was saved from demolition when it underwent a six-million-dollar restoration back in the early 80s. And I am grateful. The jewel of Joliet continues to occupy its place in history.

Timeless, imposing structures built from Joliet limestone are scattered across the city. Joliet Township High School, nicknamed “The Castle,” is a favorite, and one of my dearest keepsakes is my mother’s senior yearbook from 1946. If I were to play armchair psychologist, I’d conclude that the strength and permanence represented by this early 20th century architecture give me hope that I will always have a hometown to come back to.

The city has changed over the years, and now casinos and raceways bring in the revenue once generated by limestone and steel. My eyes register the differences, but my heart allows me to conjure up the past that lingers. My father’s workplace disappeared when the stadium was built in 2002; however, the cheers of baseball fans don’t reach my ears. I still hear the rapid click of a little girl’s shoes on a cement floor as she runs helter skelter out of the sunlight into the noisy, dim interior of an auto repair shop to surprise her Dad.

Although my parents have passed on, many relatives and friends live nearby. Each face represents a page in my life. Every relationship helped form a part of me that has kept me grounded or pushed me towards adventure. I am running errands for my cousin and the familiar hum of the car’s tires as I cross a drawbridge over the Des Plaines river welcomes me. Memories rise up like mist off the water, and I think I hear my mother’s voice telling me stories of her youth while we are stuck waiting for barges to pass and the bridge to come down. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shadow of a daring would-be suitor who used to dive off the bridge to attract my Mom’s attention. Her past. My present. The spire of the church where I was baptized comes into view. My mind clicks like a Nikon, storing each vignette to take back home again.

About the Author: Born and raised in Joliet, Andrea Isiminger inherited a love of travel from her father who took the family on two trips behind the Iron Curtain in the 70s to seek out relatives. She has lived in Argentina and currently resides in Spain.

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A Vietnamese Wedding

They told us the wedding was Sunday at six.

Later on, we found out that was 6 a.m., meaning not-so-bright and early in the morning. But from the looks of things, it was a big deal. The son of our hostel owner was getting married and all week, the staff had been setting up with decorations, an archway in the entrance and firecracker lights. Waking up with the roosters wouldn’t usually be my preference. And weddings don’t normally interest me. But the groom invited us and it was going to be held right there at the hostel and I didn’t know when I’d get the chance to see another Vietnamese wedding, so I went ahead and set my alarm clock for the crack of dawn.

I woke up at around 4:30 a.m. Asia stayed up later than I did last night, so I was on my own. I got dressed and went downstairs. Hardly anybody was there. It was raining outside and I wondered if the wedding would be canceled. Thirty minutes went by. The crowds started coming in, all dressed up in suits and gowns. But no bride. I was told that, as is tradition, the groom’s family goes to the bride’s house to give gifts to her family and pick her up. I watched from the side of the alley as they filed out, stepping around the mud puddles, and climbed into a row of taxis. I stayed behind and went back to the room.

An hour later, the phone rang. “The bride is coming now,” Trang, the receptionist, told me. As I headed back downstairs, everybody was going upstairs. I followed them to the roof, where tables were arranged with cans of lemon-flavored Iced Tea, muffins and dried watermelon seeds.

Around that time is when I found out that I wasn’t allowed to see the ceremony. I wasn’t alone. Nobody except for the immediate family was allowed in the rooftop Buddhist temple where the ceremony was taking place. That wasn’t a problem. The father invited me to sit down at one of the tables and eat with the families.

One of the bride’s cousins spoke English well enough and was able to answer questions I had. He told me the wedding date is chosen specifically based on “lucky days” on the Chinese lunar calendar. The morning, he said, has more positive energy than evening so traditional wedding ceremonies take place before noon.

Marriages were arranged in the past, so proposing wasn’t in the picture. But that’s changing. Younger generations, he said, are starting to propose now because they like how it’s done in the West.

“They see it in the movies,” he said.

It was around 10 or so when the wedding ended. Everybody left to go to a family restaurant near Le Loi Street for the reception. I went to the room. Asia was out of bed at that point. I used her dressing time for a moment to rest and then we went downstairs to get breakfast.

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Honolulu: Meet Mia Coffin of One Please

Meet Mia Coffin at Park Restaurant 

2885 Kalakaua Ave

at Lotus Honolulu

Thursday November 7

5pm-7pm

Mia Coffin is a waitress, a world traveler, and would-be anthropologist. Coming from a large family in a small town in California she continually escapes her normal life in search of distant shores and adventure. Being an experienced traveler, Mia knows if things can go wrong they surely will––just how wrong, Mia recounts as she travels solo through Indonesia, Lebanon, Africa and New Zealand.

Mia is charged by an angry elephant, kidnapped by a Hezbollah drug lord, and gets caught up in a in a baby smuggling ring––all the while keeping her wicked sense of humor and never forgetting to email her worried mom back home. She fumbles with strange cultures, unfamiliar languages and unforgettable characters and realizes just how precious her home and family are to her. Invariably, Mia steps up to each ticket counter throughout her travels and requests––One, please!

One Please is available on Amazon.com in paperback and kindle.

 Park Restaurant: Park is a new Waikiki restaurant specializing in unique Mediterranean cuisine. Come visit us today at Park for the best in fresh new Waikiki Dining!

 

Lotus Honolulu: A Place to feel at HOME in Hawaii! from Lisa Niver Rajna

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Illegal English Lessons: Volunteering With Refugees

Only dust remained on the chalkboard, a wispy reminder of the lessons that covered it moments before. Outside, the motley assortment of sandals that lived on the front step were hurriedly dumped into the closet and the water basins cleared of dirty dishes.

Rickety wooden shutters were slammed closed; overhead lights were switched off; five Burmese refugees and one confused American teacher were rushed to the farthest bedroom and told to be silent.

This was not the way I expected to spend my final English class.

After three peaceful months volunteering with a group of ethnic Karenni Burmese women in Mae Hong Son province, Thailand, the kingdom’s Immigration officials were finally aware of our secret location.

The threat had always been present, poking around the front gate with our neighbor’s chickens or seated patiently inside the classroom. It’d been explicitly defined the moment I joined the Burma Volunteer Program.

“Do not enter the country on a volunteer visa, avoid conversations about what you’re here to do,” read the instructions on my acceptance letter.

For several years, the BVP has placed journalists, teachers, activists and passionate people with Burmese refugee organizations operating inside Thailand. When five new recruits – an eclectic mix of Americans, Aussies, Israelis and English – first circled the floor at a 2012 orientation, this threat was reiterated.

“If questioned about your host organization, explain that you are just a backpacker asking for directions, or looking for a temple. Play dumb, talk about how friendly the locals are, how much you love Thailand. As foreigners, you will likely be left alone.”

Those answers now seemed insufficient, should any government employee find me huddled in this room of anxious silence. Back pressed guardedly against the door, I felt more like a secret agent than an amateur educator.

Since the end of British colonialism, over 84,000 ethnic peoples have fled from Myanmar’s violent civil conflict to the relatively safe soils of its eastern neighbor. Yet because Thailand is not party to the 1951 UN Refugee Convention, the interim bamboo villages strung along the country’s border with Myanmar – or Burma, as my girls still called it – are technically illegal.

By law, no refugee can drive a vehicle, own property, seek employment or leave the camp without permission. Establishing and running a women’s rights group, which necessitated all these things, broke more rules than I cared to count.

What would happen to the staff and students now? Worries sidled up with the shadows, forcing nervous fingernails between my teeth.

I couldn’t tell if the girls were frightened or simply surprised by the sudden change in events. Most reclined on the wooden floor, peering curiously through the wall’s woven slats whenever a truck engine rumbled outside.

“Teacher OK?” Taw Le Pay asked every so often, concerned about the young woman who was protecting the entrance.

Because I was scared; scared and nervous and naive enough to hope that if I lied about my job here, a uniformed official would believe it.

If caught, the brave ladies beside me would be lucky to receive an unnaturally expensive fine. But debt was nothing compared to deportation. These beautiful girls were not freedom fighters or political activists, merely concerned young women suffering for events beyond their control.

“We can watch movie, teacher?” Rosie sat up and gestured toward the laptop I’d taken from the classroom. One of the girls giggled, another yawned.

“Do you think that’s ok?”

Originally, our curriculum had featured prepositions and questions words; to their delight, it soon transformed into fairy tales and chick flicks with upbeat plot lines. Now, watching them calmly accept the adversity of another unfair situation, I wondered which would help them more: one final English quiz, or the Western optimism that everything, always, turns out right.

“Ok, very quiet,” she whispered, smiling. Even when presented with the hardest of grammatical challenges, I’d never seen my students frown.

“What do you want to watch?”

They conferred in Karenni. “Magic movie, teacher,” she requested.

It was the first film we’d shared – Ella Enchanted – a whimsical story with handsome princes, ugly giants and a lot of magic.

So this was the way I spent my final English class: cheering for the damsel in distress, booing at the evil villain and applauding an imaginary world where only happy endings were possible.

Due to financial and political constraints, the Burma Volunteer Program no longer facilitates the placement of volunteers with Burmese refugee organizations in Thailand. Those wishing to volunteer with ethnic refugees are encouraged to communicate directly with grassroots refugee organizations via the BVP’s website.

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