A few years ago, while doing research for a grant application for HIV prevention programming with inmates in the Texas prison system, I came across a list of executed inmates that the Texas Department of Criminal Justice maintains on their website. It is surprisingly well maintained, with up-to-date information on the executions and a profile of each inmate on death row - including each person's last statement.
A part of me was fascinated by this information and, instead of continuing with my research, I spent the entire afternoon reading about the men and women that had passed through death row. I went through each person's online file: demographic information (the bulk of the offenders were Hispanic or Black and young), the official 4 or 5 sentence description of the crime committed, dates the inmate was admitted and executed, and two photos - one straight shot and one profile.
Once I had a bit of background about the crime, I would read each person's last statement. Most involved God, many insisted they were innocent and were being injustly committed of a crime, some asked for forgiveness, some asked for peace, and others simply stated "Warden, I'm ready."
There was one last statement, however, that hit me in the guts and made me cry. It was this statement that, seemingly out of the blue, I remembered this morning and felt compelled to share.
Napoleon Beazley, a Black man from Houston, was arrested at age 18 for shooting an elderly man in the forehead while attempting to steal his car. Seven years later, at the age of 25, Napoleon was given a lethal injection by the State of Texas. These were his last words on May 28, 2002:
"The act I committed to put me here was not just heinous, it was senseless. But the person that committed that act is no longer here - I am.
I'm not going to struggle physically against any restraints. I'm not going to shout, use profanity or make idle threats. Understand though that I'm not only upset, but I'm saddened by what is happening here tonight. I'm not only saddened, but disappointed that a system that is supposed to protect and uphold what is just and right can be so much like me when I made the same shameful mistake.
If someone tried to dispose of everyone here for participating in this killing, I'd scream a resounding, "No." I'd tell them to give them all the gift that they would not give me...and that's to give them all a second chance.
I'm sorry that I am here. I'm sorry that you're all here. I'm sorry that John Luttig died. And I'm sorry that it was something in me that caused all of this to happen to begin with.
Tonight we tell the world that there are no second chances in the eyes of justice...Tonight, we tell our children that in some instances, in some cases, killing is right.
This conflict hurts us all, there are no SIDES. The people who support this proceeding think this is justice. The people that think that I should live think that is justice. As difficult as it ma seem, this is a clash of ideals, with both parties committed to what they feel is right. But who's wrong if in the end we're all victims?
In my heart, I have to believe that there is a peaceful compromise to our ideals. I don't mind if there are none for me, as long as there are for those who are yet to come. There are a lot of men like me on death row - good men - who fell to the same misguided emotions, but may not have recovered as I have.
Give those men a chance to do what's right. Give them a chance to undo their wrongs. A lot of them want to fix the mess they stated, but don't know ho. The problem is not in that people aren't willing to help them find out, but in the system telling them it won't matter anyway. No one wins tonight. No one gets closure. No one walks away victorious."
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
The Glasses Lost to Joburg
I loved to wear these glasses to the beach. Here I am on a sunny afternoon in Rio enjoying the sun with my friend Maura. Doesn't she have the most fabulous smile? 
Showing off the glasses once again, this time on the shores of Chicamba Real dam near Chimoio. Rico and I seem to have a lot of photos together just like this one, taken at arm's length and wearing sunglasses. If it weren't for my memory, I'd never know where each one was taken.
Sunday Scribblings: With Baggage
Every time I travel through Johannesburg, no matter how sturdy the lock, my baggage has been tampered with.
To date I have lost two good-quality padlocks, one of them the original Swiss Army lock that came with the bright blue suitcase of the same brand that my dad bought me several years ago. That lock was a warrior and had held up against perilous travel conditions and pilfering hands in bus stations and sleazy hotels all over the world. Until Johannesburg.
The first time was on the way back from our holiday visit to Brasil. I had managed to misplace the padlock that was on my suitcase and Ricardo and I, fully aware of Johannesburg’s bad reputation, made a special effort to buy a new lock in the São Paulo airport before catching our flight. Not surprisingly we were ripped off at the airport shop and ended up paying $14 for a small combination lock. At least with 4 number wheels we thought the thing would be impossible to crack open. But we were wrong. Arriving in Maputo the shiny gold lock was noticeably missing, and I made a small scene verifying the contents of my suitcase right there on the baggage claim floor. Satisfied that my leather jacket and favorite high heels were still in place, we headed home and wondered how the lock had possibly disappeared.
“Did you not close it properly?” I asked Rico somewhat accusingly.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I even scrambled the numbers.”
“Do you think someone cut it off?”
“Maybe...”
Ricardo then told me about a report he’d seen on Carte Blanche, the South African equivalent of 20/20, where they had exposed a crime ring in Johannesburg airport. Apparently some crooked baggage handlers were paying street boys a few pennies each to sit in the airport basement and try their luck cracking the codes on the combination locks guarding the suitcases that sat idle during international layovers. An idle boy with nothing better to do has a pretty good chance at guessing the combination of at least two or three locks a day. When the boys weren’t able to open the locks, the baggage handlers would sometimes take lock cutters to the suitcases that oozed wealth – the Louis Vuitton sets and monogrammed matching safari bags.
Apparently the reporters from Carte Blanche had used hidden cameras to catch the baggage handlers and street boys in all their lock-busting and thieving ways. When the head of Johannesburg airport security was confronted with the footage, his response was that only 15% of passengers complained about missing articles in their luggage and that, for him, was an acceptable rate. No need to do anything more about the problem.
After losing my lock on the way back from Brasil, I still had some doubt in my mind as to whether we had failed to close the thing properly or if my bag had really been the victim of a South African airport crime ring. My doubts came to an end when, on our way to Botswana last month to go on safari, my Swiss Army lock was busted. I didn’t notice it was missing until Ricardo and I were already squared away in our tent at Seba Camp. I went to get my pair of wool socks out of my suitcase and noticed the lock was gone.
“Rico, did you open my suitcase?”
“No, why”
“Well, my lock is missing.”
“You didn’t take it off already?”
“No. They must have broken into my bag in Johannesburg.”
I pouted and started going through the contents of my suitcase to see if anything was missing. Everything essential I’d brought along was still apparently in its proper place. I put the missing lock out of my mind for the duration of our safari.
For the trip back to Maputo, Ricardo and I managed to condense all of our valuable items into one suitcase and secure it with his lock (although the notion that our belongings were safe because of a padlock was quickly vanishing). Upon arriving home, were pleasantly surprised that our bags hadn’t been further tampered with during our layover in Johannesburg.
The next day we unpacked and got back into the rhythm of normal life. We piled our dirty clothes into the washer and did a load of laundry. We made an appointment with the vet to come give our kittens their next series of shots. And we realized that a trip to the local grocery store was urgent given that the only food left in our kitchen was a pack of instant chicken soup, some mushy potatoes, and a plastic bottle of vegetable oil. We usually walk to Mohamed and Bros., a small Indian-run market a few blocks away. As the morning sun was already quite strong, I went to grab my Dior sunglasses as I can’t stand strong light in my eyes. I searched and searched, and for the life of me couldn’t find the huge white case where I always keep my non-prescription sunglasses.
After about 10 minutes of searching, it hit me. I’d taken my Dior sunglasses to Botswana. I usually wear glasses and prescription sunglasses, but I’d brought along a pair of contact lenses and my non-prescription sunglasses as a backup just in case I managed to somehow squash my regular glasses on safari. Since no bad luck had befallen my regular glasses on the trip, I hadn’t even realized that my Dior sunglasses were missing when I searched through my suitcase at Seba Camp. I felt my face flush with anger. The stupid baggage handlers and their gaggle of lock-busting street boys had ripped off my sunglasses!
Granted, I got these sunglasses at a huge discount on Overstock.com over a year ago ($30 for a $200 pair of glasses!). Granted, I usually wear my boring old prescription sunglasses. Granted, I don’t really need 2 pairs of shades. But sometimes I like to look glamorous, or simply crave the convenience of not carrying around two pairs of glasses and their respective cases no matter where I go. And now my chic Dior plastic frames were gone, off to a better life with some suburban Joburg madame who had likely purchased them from some street corner hawker while waiting in her Audi for the light to turn green.
I have always looked down on people that get their luggage plastic-wrapped in the airport as total suckers. But now, after my experiences with not one but two busted locks in Johannesburg, I think I will be first in line for that service next time I travel. At this point it seems to be the only solution that will ensure that I arrive at my destination not only with my baggage, but with all of my valuables as well.
For more stories about baggage, click here.
To date I have lost two good-quality padlocks, one of them the original Swiss Army lock that came with the bright blue suitcase of the same brand that my dad bought me several years ago. That lock was a warrior and had held up against perilous travel conditions and pilfering hands in bus stations and sleazy hotels all over the world. Until Johannesburg.
The first time was on the way back from our holiday visit to Brasil. I had managed to misplace the padlock that was on my suitcase and Ricardo and I, fully aware of Johannesburg’s bad reputation, made a special effort to buy a new lock in the São Paulo airport before catching our flight. Not surprisingly we were ripped off at the airport shop and ended up paying $14 for a small combination lock. At least with 4 number wheels we thought the thing would be impossible to crack open. But we were wrong. Arriving in Maputo the shiny gold lock was noticeably missing, and I made a small scene verifying the contents of my suitcase right there on the baggage claim floor. Satisfied that my leather jacket and favorite high heels were still in place, we headed home and wondered how the lock had possibly disappeared.
“Did you not close it properly?” I asked Rico somewhat accusingly.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I even scrambled the numbers.”
“Do you think someone cut it off?”
“Maybe...”
Ricardo then told me about a report he’d seen on Carte Blanche, the South African equivalent of 20/20, where they had exposed a crime ring in Johannesburg airport. Apparently some crooked baggage handlers were paying street boys a few pennies each to sit in the airport basement and try their luck cracking the codes on the combination locks guarding the suitcases that sat idle during international layovers. An idle boy with nothing better to do has a pretty good chance at guessing the combination of at least two or three locks a day. When the boys weren’t able to open the locks, the baggage handlers would sometimes take lock cutters to the suitcases that oozed wealth – the Louis Vuitton sets and monogrammed matching safari bags.
Apparently the reporters from Carte Blanche had used hidden cameras to catch the baggage handlers and street boys in all their lock-busting and thieving ways. When the head of Johannesburg airport security was confronted with the footage, his response was that only 15% of passengers complained about missing articles in their luggage and that, for him, was an acceptable rate. No need to do anything more about the problem.
After losing my lock on the way back from Brasil, I still had some doubt in my mind as to whether we had failed to close the thing properly or if my bag had really been the victim of a South African airport crime ring. My doubts came to an end when, on our way to Botswana last month to go on safari, my Swiss Army lock was busted. I didn’t notice it was missing until Ricardo and I were already squared away in our tent at Seba Camp. I went to get my pair of wool socks out of my suitcase and noticed the lock was gone.
“Rico, did you open my suitcase?”
“No, why”
“Well, my lock is missing.”
“You didn’t take it off already?”
“No. They must have broken into my bag in Johannesburg.”
I pouted and started going through the contents of my suitcase to see if anything was missing. Everything essential I’d brought along was still apparently in its proper place. I put the missing lock out of my mind for the duration of our safari.
For the trip back to Maputo, Ricardo and I managed to condense all of our valuable items into one suitcase and secure it with his lock (although the notion that our belongings were safe because of a padlock was quickly vanishing). Upon arriving home, were pleasantly surprised that our bags hadn’t been further tampered with during our layover in Johannesburg.
The next day we unpacked and got back into the rhythm of normal life. We piled our dirty clothes into the washer and did a load of laundry. We made an appointment with the vet to come give our kittens their next series of shots. And we realized that a trip to the local grocery store was urgent given that the only food left in our kitchen was a pack of instant chicken soup, some mushy potatoes, and a plastic bottle of vegetable oil. We usually walk to Mohamed and Bros., a small Indian-run market a few blocks away. As the morning sun was already quite strong, I went to grab my Dior sunglasses as I can’t stand strong light in my eyes. I searched and searched, and for the life of me couldn’t find the huge white case where I always keep my non-prescription sunglasses.
After about 10 minutes of searching, it hit me. I’d taken my Dior sunglasses to Botswana. I usually wear glasses and prescription sunglasses, but I’d brought along a pair of contact lenses and my non-prescription sunglasses as a backup just in case I managed to somehow squash my regular glasses on safari. Since no bad luck had befallen my regular glasses on the trip, I hadn’t even realized that my Dior sunglasses were missing when I searched through my suitcase at Seba Camp. I felt my face flush with anger. The stupid baggage handlers and their gaggle of lock-busting street boys had ripped off my sunglasses!
Granted, I got these sunglasses at a huge discount on Overstock.com over a year ago ($30 for a $200 pair of glasses!). Granted, I usually wear my boring old prescription sunglasses. Granted, I don’t really need 2 pairs of shades. But sometimes I like to look glamorous, or simply crave the convenience of not carrying around two pairs of glasses and their respective cases no matter where I go. And now my chic Dior plastic frames were gone, off to a better life with some suburban Joburg madame who had likely purchased them from some street corner hawker while waiting in her Audi for the light to turn green.
I have always looked down on people that get their luggage plastic-wrapped in the airport as total suckers. But now, after my experiences with not one but two busted locks in Johannesburg, I think I will be first in line for that service next time I travel. At this point it seems to be the only solution that will ensure that I arrive at my destination not only with my baggage, but with all of my valuables as well.
For more stories about baggage, click here.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Two Big, Lazy Cats
Well, blogger will only let me upload these two photos for now, so I guess this will be a lion story in three or four parts.
Here you can see the two male lions wrestling and horsing around with each other in the grass. As we watched them playing, Ricardo (who is new to the world of cats - both domestic and wild) marveled at how similar the lions' behavior was to that of our kittens, Pria and Parceiro.
After a good tumble, the lions lay down to rest and wait for the ladies to arrive with food. They have such a regal presence, truly beautiful animals.
What was amazing to me was how safe I felt in their presence. I mean, these guys were not 3 or 4 meters from our open-sided safari vehicle. If the lions had wanted to, it would have been ridiculously easy to hop in the Land Cruiser with us. But the vehicle gave me a tremendous and false sense of security. If I had been on foot, my heart would have been beating wildly and my palms beading up with sweat.
Actually, I think I'd really like to do a walking safari if I ever get the chance. Being in the vehicle is conveninent and you really do feel safe. But part of the experience also feels fake. I don't really know how to describe it...
Thursday, July 13, 2006
New Template!!
I am loving my new look! I think this funky template just about sums up what this blog is all about.
Many thanks to my new friend, the multi-talented Boho, for creating this perfect image.
Many thanks to my new friend, the multi-talented Boho, for creating this perfect image.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Lions!
It was the 4th day of our safari in Botswana and we had not yet seen any of the big cats. Everything up to that point had been wonderful - lots of animals, delicious food, and the sweet company of family not seen in ages. I think we all tried not to concentrate on the disappointment that would come if we didn't come across a lion or leopard.
Our guide at Savuti Safari Lodge was a Botswanan guy named Energy. When we asked if Energy was his real name he said no, that his real name was at least 4 blocks long and very complicated. To make it easier on the tourists, his colleagues had baptized him Energy, because he tirelessly went through the duties of each day, motivating the others and setting an example of youth and vigor.
Energy, true to his name, became intent on finding us a big cat. Each morning we'd set out before dawn in hope of tracking down a lion or leopard. After all, the Chobe National Park is famous for its large populations of feline predators. Energy would stick his head out the side of the Land Crusier and stare intently at the sand path, looking for telltale tracks of a lion stalking its prey or a leopard retreating into the bush after a long night's hunt.
The last morning we were at Savuti Safari Lodge, Energy was hot on the trail of a lion. We followed these tracks for at least an hour, periodically stopping for the guide to get out of the vehicle and have a close-up look at the prints in the sand, trying to determine which way the lion had gone.
We drove for what seemed like centuries. We were tired and cold and frustrated. Until suddenly Energy became very quiet and intense and told us in a whisper, "The lions are here. Just here. Very close." We drove around a curve and came across a sun lit field with the following magnificent sight right not 3 meters from our vehicle.
A beautiful male lion, basking in the morning light and waiting for his lady to kill something tasty for breakfast. Male lions are notoriously lazy, leaving all the stalking and hunting to the females.
We watched in awe as he gave a good yawn and then slowly sauntered over to his friend.
Yes, we were in the presence of not one but two big male lions!
...whose photos you will have to see in another post because Blogger won't let me upload anymore onto this one!
Sunday Scribblings: Hotel Stories
I have many stories about both wonderful and terrible things that have happened in hotels. So many, in fact, that I felt overwhelmed by this prompt and the many directions I could take in my writing... But I've finally settled on one - a terrible one, but part of my story nonetheless.
The darkest moment in my life, the one that my girl-cat Azul helped me gut out, happened in a hotel in Copacabana. I'd fled our beautiful Casa Rosa in a taxi that afternoon, convinced that I was being pursued by an obsessed neighbor who I'd been told had a gun and had come knocking on our gate looking for me while I was out. Not knowing where to go, and not feeling safe at home or with friends, I fled to a familiar hotel on the beach- the Olinda Othon.
Years before, my mom and I had stayed in this same hotel when she came to visit me in Brasil during my exchange year. There was something comforting about being in a place where I'd spent time with my mom, almost as if residual parts of her being were mixed in with the dust on the marble windowsill of the hotel room, ready to protect me and give me strength.
In the height of my paranoia, I purchased a room using a fake name and paid in cash. Before even going up to the room, I sat at a computer in the hotel's internet café and promptly changed all the passwords for my e-mail accounts and internet banking. I'd been tipped off (by the same person that told me I was being stalked and had to leave the Casa Rosa immediately) that my neighbor, an IT genius, had hacked into my accounts and gotten access to all of my personal information. When I finally got everything changed, I went up to my hotel room, shoved a heavy wooden chair under the doorknob and took the phone off the hook. Then I started to cry.
I wasn't alone on this day in the Olinda Othon. Along with me, and not understanding anything that was going on, was my boyfriend at the time. He'd flow to Brasil to have a vacation with me before we were supposed to move to Austin together. It was supposed to be the most romantic trip ever, but it turned out horribly. He sat looking at me with wide eyes, urging me to call the police or the American Consulate, or my laywer to take care of the situation. I refused. There's nothing like feeling guilty and ashamed to make all logical thoughts get stuck in the mud, especially when you know deep down that you are to blame for the whole mess. We sat for hours on the 1940's style beds until I worked up enough courage to tell my story, the sequence of events that ended up with us in this hotel room, scared to death and confused, facing the end of our relationship.
Once my story was out, the anger came, then the pain, then more tears, then the feeling that all was lost in this world. It was a horrible night, most of which I spent perched on the edge of the blue-tiled bathtub feeling numb and wishing I could go back in time.
I made it through to the next morning, and we set out in a black car with black tinted windows to go to the airport. We'd changed our trip plans the night before were booked on the first flight back to the US. We had separate seats, at his request. I felt for the first time what it is like to have caused someone so much disappointment and grief that they literally can't stand to be in yoru presence. I flew home with a horrible feeling in my stomach, genuinely afraid that I'd single-handedly ruined my life and that I'd never again be happy.
It took a while, and the images and words from that night in the Olinda Othon still haunt me on occasion, but I'm healed and happier than I ever thought possible...
For more hotel stories, click here.
EDITED slightly about 2 hours after posting, when I realized that certain small but critical details were either missing or unclear.
The darkest moment in my life, the one that my girl-cat Azul helped me gut out, happened in a hotel in Copacabana. I'd fled our beautiful Casa Rosa in a taxi that afternoon, convinced that I was being pursued by an obsessed neighbor who I'd been told had a gun and had come knocking on our gate looking for me while I was out. Not knowing where to go, and not feeling safe at home or with friends, I fled to a familiar hotel on the beach- the Olinda Othon.
Years before, my mom and I had stayed in this same hotel when she came to visit me in Brasil during my exchange year. There was something comforting about being in a place where I'd spent time with my mom, almost as if residual parts of her being were mixed in with the dust on the marble windowsill of the hotel room, ready to protect me and give me strength.In the height of my paranoia, I purchased a room using a fake name and paid in cash. Before even going up to the room, I sat at a computer in the hotel's internet café and promptly changed all the passwords for my e-mail accounts and internet banking. I'd been tipped off (by the same person that told me I was being stalked and had to leave the Casa Rosa immediately) that my neighbor, an IT genius, had hacked into my accounts and gotten access to all of my personal information. When I finally got everything changed, I went up to my hotel room, shoved a heavy wooden chair under the doorknob and took the phone off the hook. Then I started to cry.
I wasn't alone on this day in the Olinda Othon. Along with me, and not understanding anything that was going on, was my boyfriend at the time. He'd flow to Brasil to have a vacation with me before we were supposed to move to Austin together. It was supposed to be the most romantic trip ever, but it turned out horribly. He sat looking at me with wide eyes, urging me to call the police or the American Consulate, or my laywer to take care of the situation. I refused. There's nothing like feeling guilty and ashamed to make all logical thoughts get stuck in the mud, especially when you know deep down that you are to blame for the whole mess. We sat for hours on the 1940's style beds until I worked up enough courage to tell my story, the sequence of events that ended up with us in this hotel room, scared to death and confused, facing the end of our relationship.
Once my story was out, the anger came, then the pain, then more tears, then the feeling that all was lost in this world. It was a horrible night, most of which I spent perched on the edge of the blue-tiled bathtub feeling numb and wishing I could go back in time.
I made it through to the next morning, and we set out in a black car with black tinted windows to go to the airport. We'd changed our trip plans the night before were booked on the first flight back to the US. We had separate seats, at his request. I felt for the first time what it is like to have caused someone so much disappointment and grief that they literally can't stand to be in yoru presence. I flew home with a horrible feeling in my stomach, genuinely afraid that I'd single-handedly ruined my life and that I'd never again be happy.
It took a while, and the images and words from that night in the Olinda Othon still haunt me on occasion, but I'm healed and happier than I ever thought possible...
For more hotel stories, click here.
EDITED slightly about 2 hours after posting, when I realized that certain small but critical details were either missing or unclear.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Being Ali la Loca
According to this fabulous personality test, I am a Dynamic Creator. Seems to be in line with my Myers-Briggs results, where I am a strong ENTP.
What type are you?
What type are you?
Friday, July 07, 2006
My Roots
Nothin' Like a Deadline
...to force a decision, and quickly!
Soon after I found out I couldn't use my Continental miles to upgrade on Air France, my travel agent informed me that I had until the end of business today to purchase my ticket or else I'd lose my reservation and "super cheap" fare of $1900.
Depressingly, $1900 to fly round trip from Johannesburg to Albuquerque is actually a good deal. So I jumped. I talked to my dad, confirmed the dates, made payment arrangements, and told the agent to ticket the darn thing.
The bright side of all this, aside from the fact that I'm going to see my family and hang out with Ricardo in my hometown, is that I will have an ungodly layover in Paris. Bloggie friends that live in or near Paris - I want to meet you!!!!!!!!! This, certainly, will add a bright side to my long and torturous flights. E-mail me if you are interested / available between 3pm and 9:30pm on September 20th.
Soon after I found out I couldn't use my Continental miles to upgrade on Air France, my travel agent informed me that I had until the end of business today to purchase my ticket or else I'd lose my reservation and "super cheap" fare of $1900.
Depressingly, $1900 to fly round trip from Johannesburg to Albuquerque is actually a good deal. So I jumped. I talked to my dad, confirmed the dates, made payment arrangements, and told the agent to ticket the darn thing.
The bright side of all this, aside from the fact that I'm going to see my family and hang out with Ricardo in my hometown, is that I will have an ungodly layover in Paris. Bloggie friends that live in or near Paris - I want to meet you!!!!!!!!! This, certainly, will add a bright side to my long and torturous flights. E-mail me if you are interested / available between 3pm and 9:30pm on September 20th.
Not Fair
This just in: I HATE CONTINENTAL AIRLINES and their bullshit policies.
Apparently you can accrue Continental OnePass miles when traveling on Air France flights, one of the airline's codeshare partners. Great news. I'll earn a bunch of extra miles
However...
You are not eligible to USE your accumulated Continental OnePass miles (of which I already have a ton) for upgrades on Air France flights. In other words, I will be stuck in economy class for the entire 458 hours this trip will take.
This little detail just threw my entire plan into a tailspin. I'm once again considering traveling through Brasil (but not stopping for a visit). At least that way Rico and I could travel together fore part of the trip, and I wouldn't be faced with a 9-hour layover all by myself in Paris. Ugh.
Reconsidering all my plans starting NOW.
Apparently you can accrue Continental OnePass miles when traveling on Air France flights, one of the airline's codeshare partners. Great news. I'll earn a bunch of extra miles
However...
You are not eligible to USE your accumulated Continental OnePass miles (of which I already have a ton) for upgrades on Air France flights. In other words, I will be stuck in economy class for the entire 458 hours this trip will take.
This little detail just threw my entire plan into a tailspin. I'm once again considering traveling through Brasil (but not stopping for a visit). At least that way Rico and I could travel together fore part of the trip, and I wouldn't be faced with a 9-hour layover all by myself in Paris. Ugh.
Reconsidering all my plans starting NOW.
Like a Broken Record
I just realized I wrote about the exact same thing in two consecutive posts. While I was writing, the fact that I was being repetitive wasn't at all apparent. It felt like I was saying something new or at least clarifying all the geographical confusion from the first post. Now, reading back over everything, I realize I've just said the same darn thing in two slightly different ways.
I guess some part of me needed to hash this all out again before shelling out (or asking that someone else shell out) lots of hard-earned money on plane tickets.
I guess some part of me needed to hash this all out again before shelling out (or asking that someone else shell out) lots of hard-earned money on plane tickets.
Maputo to Burque, Rio to the Bay
So the verdict is in. I will be flying the following route at the end of next month:
Maputo / Johannseburg / Paris / Houston / Albuquerque
I am tired just looking at all the cities I will have to pass through to arrive in New Mexico. I am waiting for my final itinerary so that I can count up the total hours of travel and complain here using concrete numbers. The good news is that I have enough miles on Continental that I'll be able to upgrade on at least one of the long-ass international flights on Air France.
By the way, I have never been to France. Not even to CDG airport. I am excited about this first trip to the country, even though I will likely not make it much beyond the transit area. I think there is a lot to be said about observing a country and its people via airports, and I am looking forward to some quality layover hours having a look at who is passing through Paris, what they are eating, what they are wearing, and what it feels like to communicate in below-elementary level French.
I realized in my obsessive re-reading of my own blog that my post from last night isn't very coherent. Let me sum it up...
Ricardo will be in Rio from late July to early December taking care of some stuff. He will stay part of the time in the Casa Rosa, the funky pink house my mom and I picked up back in 2001.
The Casa Rosa is one of the places I love most in this world, but there are also a series of obligations - not so fun ones - that I feel in association with the house and the people that help us take care of it. It's hard to manage a house in another country, and I feel like each time I stay in the Casa Rosa I have to use every possible minute to "fix things." I talk to workmen, assess any new leaks in the roof, look over the bills that have been paid, try and do some basic accounting, buy furniture, arrange to have whatever pump or light fixture or telephone wiring is on the fritz, deal with the housekeeper... So for me to even feel like I'm getting a vacation and enjoy the many good parts of the Casa Rosa, I need to be there for a minimum of 2 weeks.
Obviously, with Ricardo soon to be in Rio, I would really love to stop by Brasil on the way to the US for my step-sister's wedding. We'd hang out together in Rio for a week, fly to the US and visit my dad and then my mom, fly back, and spend another week in the Casa Rosa before I'd catch the plane back to Africa. This had been our plan up until the point last night when I actually started to work out the details...lots of lost time in layovers, questionable opportunities for quality time with anyone, expensive tickets, jet-lag, and the impossible to ignore feeling that if I'm going to fly so freaking far and spend so much money (although a good part will be contributed by my parents), having only 5 days with my mom and 5 days with my dad is INSANE AND UNJUSTIFIABLE! Especially when I'd be away from Maputo for nearly a month - away from my responsibilities with our consulting company, away from the kittens. It's just too much...
So I bit the bullet and made the decision that inner voice of mine knew I was wanting to make the entire time: skip Brasil, spend more time with my family. Life is short, health is not guaranteed, money runs out. I would be crazy not to take advantage of the opportunity and spend an extra 10 days in the US. The way it stands now, Rico will fly from Rio and I will fly in from Maputo, we will be in the wedding and hang out in NM for a few days, fly to California to visit my mom, then Ricardo will return to Brasil and I'll spend a couple extra days with my dad.
I'm a bit bummed that my decision to postpone Brasil until December means I will miss out on a few things, namely Rico's mom's birthday, extra time with Rico, the chance to catch up with my carioca girlfriends, and the opportunity to be in the Casa Rosa for a few days...but so it goes. I feel solid with my decision, and know from the bottom of my heart that it is one that I won't regret - even if it does entail a torturous flight across the world all by my lonesome.
Family is worth it. And damn do I miss mine.
Maputo / Johannseburg / Paris / Houston / Albuquerque
I am tired just looking at all the cities I will have to pass through to arrive in New Mexico. I am waiting for my final itinerary so that I can count up the total hours of travel and complain here using concrete numbers. The good news is that I have enough miles on Continental that I'll be able to upgrade on at least one of the long-ass international flights on Air France.
By the way, I have never been to France. Not even to CDG airport. I am excited about this first trip to the country, even though I will likely not make it much beyond the transit area. I think there is a lot to be said about observing a country and its people via airports, and I am looking forward to some quality layover hours having a look at who is passing through Paris, what they are eating, what they are wearing, and what it feels like to communicate in below-elementary level French.
I realized in my obsessive re-reading of my own blog that my post from last night isn't very coherent. Let me sum it up...
Ricardo will be in Rio from late July to early December taking care of some stuff. He will stay part of the time in the Casa Rosa, the funky pink house my mom and I picked up back in 2001.
The Casa Rosa is one of the places I love most in this world, but there are also a series of obligations - not so fun ones - that I feel in association with the house and the people that help us take care of it. It's hard to manage a house in another country, and I feel like each time I stay in the Casa Rosa I have to use every possible minute to "fix things." I talk to workmen, assess any new leaks in the roof, look over the bills that have been paid, try and do some basic accounting, buy furniture, arrange to have whatever pump or light fixture or telephone wiring is on the fritz, deal with the housekeeper... So for me to even feel like I'm getting a vacation and enjoy the many good parts of the Casa Rosa, I need to be there for a minimum of 2 weeks.
Obviously, with Ricardo soon to be in Rio, I would really love to stop by Brasil on the way to the US for my step-sister's wedding. We'd hang out together in Rio for a week, fly to the US and visit my dad and then my mom, fly back, and spend another week in the Casa Rosa before I'd catch the plane back to Africa. This had been our plan up until the point last night when I actually started to work out the details...lots of lost time in layovers, questionable opportunities for quality time with anyone, expensive tickets, jet-lag, and the impossible to ignore feeling that if I'm going to fly so freaking far and spend so much money (although a good part will be contributed by my parents), having only 5 days with my mom and 5 days with my dad is INSANE AND UNJUSTIFIABLE! Especially when I'd be away from Maputo for nearly a month - away from my responsibilities with our consulting company, away from the kittens. It's just too much...
So I bit the bullet and made the decision that inner voice of mine knew I was wanting to make the entire time: skip Brasil, spend more time with my family. Life is short, health is not guaranteed, money runs out. I would be crazy not to take advantage of the opportunity and spend an extra 10 days in the US. The way it stands now, Rico will fly from Rio and I will fly in from Maputo, we will be in the wedding and hang out in NM for a few days, fly to California to visit my mom, then Ricardo will return to Brasil and I'll spend a couple extra days with my dad.
I'm a bit bummed that my decision to postpone Brasil until December means I will miss out on a few things, namely Rico's mom's birthday, extra time with Rico, the chance to catch up with my carioca girlfriends, and the opportunity to be in the Casa Rosa for a few days...but so it goes. I feel solid with my decision, and know from the bottom of my heart that it is one that I won't regret - even if it does entail a torturous flight across the world all by my lonesome.
Family is worth it. And damn do I miss mine.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Distance is a Bitch
Ricardo and I are planning a trip to the US in September because my step-sister Ann, the girl on the right in the photo below, is getting married in Bernalillo, New Mexico!! Exciting news that definitely warrants a trip home to celebrate together.
In addition to the good excuse that we will be in the wedding, it's high time for me to pay a visit to my dad and step-mom, pictured below. I haven't been back to New Mexico since I left the US in April 2005, and I will gladly admit that I am homesick and can't wait to spend some quality time with that part of the family (and eat as much green chile as is humanly possible in 10 days).
I must also pay a visit to these fabulous girls, my friends Tara and Marlene. I miss having friends. As pathetic as it sounds, I haven't made any friends here in Mozambique. I have some acquaintances, and know a girl that I hope will with time become a good friend, but I can't really say I have anybody right now that I can call up to go out for a coffee, or sit at home and make jewelry together, or go out to a movie and gossip with. I miss my friends, especially my girls back in 'Burque.
And of course my friend Tomas. He and I have been buddies since middle school, through good times and bad. This photo was taken the last time I was in New Mexico, back in September of 2004 (God, I just realized what a long time it's been!!! Is this right, or am I forgetting a trip somewhere in there?)
So here's the catch: Mozambique is, like, the most impossibly far away and impractical place from which to travel to New Mexico. Even more so that South African Airways did away with their direct service between Johannesburg and Atlanta. The easiest (and, coincidentally also the cheapest) way for me to get to the US from here is to fly first to Brasil, overnight in São Paulo, then head to Albuquerque via Dallas the next day.
The only problem is that every time I go to Brasil I want (and feel obligated for many different reasons) to spend at least a week, ideally two. And of course, since I haven't seen my dad in ages and always love spending time with my mom in California, I want to stay at least two weeks in the US as well. We also need to spend enough time for my dad and Ricardo to bond, as it will be the first time they meet. :)
So when I stopped to work out the details of our trip to the US, it became apparent that I would be away from Maputo for at least three, probably four weeks. Yikes! That's a really long time to be away from a girl that is supposed to be holding down the fort business-wise, and who also has two kittens that will need to be looked after by a cat sitter.
I'm realizing now that there are a couple of crucial details regarding the upcoming months that I haven't shared yet with the blog world. The first and most relevant for matters of the heart, the business, and our upcoming trip is that Ricardo will be leaving for Brasil in about 20 days. He will be in Rio from late July through early December to take care of some pending matters and personal business. (Was that vague enough for you? Good. It was supposed to be...) So basically I will be alone here in Maputo, keeping everything running and in control with our business, and hanging out with the kitties.
I feel sad and excited and grateful and relieved and confused and worried and lonely and happy all at once about what this time apart will bring. But it's not in this post that I will muse about the implications of temporary geographical separation. For now I'll just moan about how it makes planning oh-so-difficult.
Ricardo will go from Rio to Albuquerque. My original plan was to fly to Brasil, meet Ricardo and hang out for a few days, then fly together to the US for the wedding. Then I would fly back to Africa via Brasil after a nice vacation with Rico and the fam in the US. Then I realized exactly how much time this would all entail, and that I would be tired and probably stressed at the end of it all, and questioned whether or not I'd be able to get anything done or spend any quality time with my friends and family in a trip where I'd spend about 5 days in each city/state/country.
I thought for a bit and made a decision. I will not be flying via Brasil. I will wait until December to go to Rio and accept the fact that - in large part thanks to the fact that Ricardo will be staying part of the time at our Casa Rosa in Santa Teresa - things will not completely fall apart if I don't go to Brasil next month. I will dedicate the days I would have spent in transit and in Brasil to spending more time with my family and friends, and Ricardo and I will simply meet up in the US for our vacation. This is a decision I know I will not regret, hard as it was to make for some reason.
So now the big question is the following: what is the easiest and cheapest way to get from Maputo to Albuquerque? Right now the deck is stacked in favor of flying Lufthansa via Johannesburg, Frankfurt and Denver. Ugh.
I'm afraid to count how many hours of flying time this trip will entail, but rest assured at some point I will tally it all up and complain righteously in a future post.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Lazy Day
Three cheers for Ali la Loca spending the *entire* day doing nothing useful.
Okay, nothing job-related and useful. I did manage to cook wild rice and chicken and salad for lunch, homemade tomato sauce with pasta for dinner, and I even made up a recipe for banana cake for dessert.
And then, of course, there was the last semi-final of the world cup tonight between France and Portugal. I think with all the virtual discussions lately with new bloggie friends about Portugal - in sports and in politics and in history - have managed to create a soft spot in me that didn't exist prior to last week or so. So while I was thrilled with the results of last night's game, I was pretty lukewarm about France's win. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they knocked Brasil out of the competition...
So tomorrow I will get back in gear in terms of work. I will also abstain from making Italian food until next week, even though our cupboards are bare and the only real food left in the house at the moment is - you guessed it - lasagna noodles!
Okay, nothing job-related and useful. I did manage to cook wild rice and chicken and salad for lunch, homemade tomato sauce with pasta for dinner, and I even made up a recipe for banana cake for dessert.
And then, of course, there was the last semi-final of the world cup tonight between France and Portugal. I think with all the virtual discussions lately with new bloggie friends about Portugal - in sports and in politics and in history - have managed to create a soft spot in me that didn't exist prior to last week or so. So while I was thrilled with the results of last night's game, I was pretty lukewarm about France's win. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they knocked Brasil out of the competition...
So tomorrow I will get back in gear in terms of work. I will also abstain from making Italian food until next week, even though our cupboards are bare and the only real food left in the house at the moment is - you guessed it - lasagna noodles!
Monday, July 03, 2006
Work Work Work
work work work work work work work work work work work!
Aaaaaaah!!!!
Looking forward to getting through our big meeting this afternoon and meeting up for drinks with a new friend who is here for a visit and just may be moving to Maputo!
Aaaaaaah!!!!
Looking forward to getting through our big meeting this afternoon and meeting up for drinks with a new friend who is here for a visit and just may be moving to Maputo!
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Sunday Scribblings: Two Peas in a Pod
Azul and Ali, Ali and Azul. Two girl-cat peas in a pod.
In November 2002 I adopted this beautiful burmese at the Humane Society in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She was scared, starved to the bone, and craving attention. The first time we saw each other Azul lept out of her cage into my arms and started rubbing her face all over mine. In that moment I knew that this cat was special. "I don't think I have a choice," I told the volunteer at the shelter. "I think this one will be coming home with me."
I nursed Azul back to health and we became great friends. We kept each other company on lonely nights, slept together huddled under blankets in my tall single bed, and spent hours sitting in my armchair, me knitting and Azul draped around the back of my neck purring.
Less than a year after I rescued her, Azul returned the favor and saved my life. I mean it. I don't know what would have happened that night in July 2003 had I not had the image of my sweet Azul to think of and get me through the toughest, most painful moment I've ever endured. This is a story for another day, but my girl-cat most certainly was what got me through to the next morning without doing anything stupid.
Now Azul lives in California with my mom and 2 big Australian Shepherds. She has grown, become a brave little thing, reigning supreme in a house previously dominated by canines. My mom's husband built an enclosed area on the deck of their house where Azul can go soak up the sunshine, chase birds, and keep my mom company as she does her morning reading and has a cup of tea.
I miss Azul more than I can stand sometimes, but it's comforting to know that she's in good hands. And I quite like the idea that she and my mom are together, the two girl-cats that I love so much, halfway around the world waiting for the day when I will come for a visit.
For more peas in a pod click here.
Bad Luck
Note to self:
Don't make lasagne until the world cup is over.
I'm going back to my roots, although given my track record as of late I will not mention by name the team I am now cheering for in this sad competition.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Burnt Beans and Skewed Alleigances
Dinner was a bit of a disaster tonight. I put a pot of black beans on to boil, went into our office to use the internet, got distracted, and proceeded to burn the crap out of the beans. Now that I have a "developing world" mindset about food, we ate them anyway with rice and fried eggs. Keep in mind that we have our fellow consultants as houseguests. Before moving to Mozambique I wouldn't have dreamt of serving burnt food for dinner when there was company. Now I really don't mind. Sometimes things don't come out too tasty, or they are burnt, or too salty. My consolation is that I've had much worse food in restaurants here in Mozambique and I'm certain our houseguests have as well. We adapt, we accept, and that's that.
Portugal just won the match against England. The moment the game was over, people started driving around the streets of Maputo honking their horns, whistling and shouting. I find it unbelievably strange that so many people here are cheering for Portugal, the ex-colonial power that basically viewed this country as a source of cheap labour for the South African mines and not much else. Maybe the Mozambicans are among the world's most forgiving populations, but I just can't get it through my head how one can feel allegiance towards a former opressor.
Curious about how it is in other former colonies, I asked one of our fellow consultants who is Zimbabwean which team people in his country were supporting. He said that it was a mix, but that people were most certainly not supporting England like the Mozambicans support Portugal.
On a related note, a short lesson in linguistics. Mozambicans that speak Portuguese as a second language have a peculiar way of adding an 'e' to the end of most words. Fazer (to do) becomes fazer-e. Mil (thousand) becomes mil-e. Ricardo and I had a good laugh when, true to form, a crowd of people in the street below our building showed their enthusiasm for the game by repeatedly yelling "Portugaaaaaaallllleee-Portugaaaaaallllleee-Portugaaaaaaaalllllllleee!"
Given that England's defeat confirms a trend that the teams I cheer for in the World Cup seem to lose (i.e. Angola, Ivory Coast, Mexico, Croatia, Ghana) I'm beginning to feel a bit nervous about the Brasil vs. France match coming up in about an hour. And as if my apparent bad cheering luck weren't enough, the superstitious part of me also thinks that the fact that I burned the beans tonight (something I never do) is a bad, bad omen for Brasil.
Baobab Trees
I just love myself a fat Baobab tree! The first time I saw these giants was when Ricardo and I drove from Chimoio to the little town of Espungabera where the tea project we raised $600,000 for will eventually be located. Both Chimoio and Espungabera are in Mozambique, but the roads in that part of the country are so bad that it was easier to cross the border to Zimbabwe and drive some 150km out of our way just so that we could be on tar roads and drive over 70 km/hr. It was driving through the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe that I first saw a Baobab. I was amazed at how large they were, big fat stumpy things jutting out of the dusty landscape, but somehow beautiful and majestic at the same time. Unfortunately, I never got a photo of a Baobab on the multiple trips to Zimbabwe we took last year.
I was grateful to have my camera charged and ready when we came across a few Baobabs in Botswana. This gigantic tree was at Seba Camp, and what I managed to capture in the photo is actually only one half of the entire tree.
To put things in perspective, here is the entire trunk of the Baobab with my family, Ricardo, our guide Max and I lined up in front of the tree for a portrait. This thing would put the redwoods in California to shame! Max told us that this particular Baobab is more than 2,000 years old.
Ricardo and I decided to stretch our arms as far out as we possibly could in this photo. Even so, we were totally dwarfed by the thickness of the Baobab.
In another part of Seba Camp, we came across a slightly smaller Baobab whose trunk looked as if it had been attacked by an industrial shredder. Max informed us that the damage was caused by elephants, who have a habit of stripping the bark off trees in the bush to feed themselves. This causes a huge problem, because most trees can't regenerate their bark and once an elephant strips off the protective outer layer, the tree can't hold in moisture and eventually dies. Most of the dead trees you see in the bush are the result of elephants.
Baobabs, however, are a different story. They are one of the elephants' favorite trees because their bark and inner fibres are very fleshy, almost sponge-like. But no matter how much damage an elephant may cause, the Baobab is able to regenerate and form "scars" to heal the places where its bark and fibres have been stripped away. It's an amazing evolutionary trait, and the end result is these very cool, lumpy areas on the outside of the Baobabs. This tree has already regenerated a good part of the damage from the elephants, but even so it is in danger of toppling over should another feeding attack occur.
Here is a close-up of Rico inspecting the damage the elephants caused. You can see part of the trunk that has been regenerated from previous elephant feeding, just to the right of the torn up fibres.
This particular Baobab our guide estimated to be about 1,000 years old.
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